Chapter 6: The Double Burial
The hot water had been a baptism, sluicing the final remnants from his skin but not from his soul. The expansion under the spray had been a violent, bone-creaking return to a scale that now felt grotesque and unwieldy. Standing at his full height in Clara’s living room, Arthur felt like a ghost in his own body, hollowed out and repurposed.
Clara smoked a cigarette by the open window, the neon from the parking lot painting her profile in toxic pink. “Brenda’s on her way,” she said, exhaling a stream of smoke into the night. “We’re shooting the ‘Founding Member’ content tonight. The high-tier subscribers who funded the studio get exclusive access. They voted for a duo scene.”
Arthur nodded, tightening the belt on his cheap, clean sweatpants. “Brenda from accounting?”
“The same. She’s got a… capacity. And she thinks our indie film project is a ‘revolutionary feminist reclamation of the gaze.’” Clara smirked, crushing the cigarette on the windowsill. “She’s not wrong. She’s also got a colon like a freight train. Perfect for our needs.”
An hour later, the studio hummed with a different energy. The lights were on, blazing white. The camera was set not for POV, but for a wide, unflinching master shot. In the center of the concrete floor lay a large, clear plastic painter’s tarp, its edges taped down.
Brenda was a tall woman with a sharp bob and bright, inquisitive eyes that missed nothing. She wore a matching leather harness, a deliberate echo of Clara’s. She circled the tarp, sipping a kale smoothie. “So the metabolic accelerator worked a treat, Clara. I’m packed. I feel like a goddamn piñata.”
“Good,” Clara said, checking the camera’s feed on the laptop. She was already in her harness. “He’s the prize inside.”
Arthur stood shivering by the equipment table, already shrunken. The device lay beside him. The journey back to miniature was now a familiar plummet into vulnerability.
“He’s so tiny!” Brenda exclaimed, peering down. “I mean, you said, but seeing it… fuck. And he just… does what you say?”
“He built the technology to get this close,” Clara said, her voice devoid of sentiment. “He understands the terms of the agreement. Don’t you, Arthur?”
From his vantage point, the two women were titanic, leather-clad monuments. “Yes,” he called up, his voice thin.
“Positions,” Clara commanded, all business. She handed Brenda a small wireless microphone. “Clip it on the strap. We want the audio. Every grunt, every splash.”
Arthur walked onto the cold, crinkling plain of plastic. It stretched away in every direction, a vast, sterile field under the surgical lights. He stood alone in the center, naked and exposed.
Clara took her place first, standing over him, her legs planted wide. The view from below was dizzying: the dark thatch of her pubic hair, the heavier, intriguing shadows beneath. “Open your mouth, Arthur,” she instructed, her tone cool, instructional. “And don’t move.”
She began to bear down.
A low, visceral groan started in her chest, vibrating through the air. Her face, visible in his periphery, tightened with concentration. The tight pink star of her asshole, directly above him, began to dilate, softening from a pucker to a gaping, darkening circle.
The first turd began to emerge. It was thick, solid, and deeply brown, the product of the protein-heavy meal she’d detailed to him earlier. It stretched her open with a wet, popping sound the microphone captured with intimate clarity. The log extended, slowly, impossibly, gaining weight and gravity. A string of sticky mucus trailed from its tip.
Arthur stared, transfixed, his mouth agape as instructed.
It dropped.
It didn't fall with a splash, but with a dense, meaty thud that shook the plastic. It landed beside him, a warm, steaming mass that was longer than his entire body. The smell hit him immediately—a robust, acrid, deeply personal odor that was unmistakably Clara’s. Heat radiated from it.
Before he could process it, she was pushing again. Another groan, deeper, more guttural. A second, equally substantial log pushed out, this one landing with a softer plop partially on the first, creating a growing, malodorous mound. Her face was flushed with effort, her knuckles white where she gripped her own thighs. “Fuck, that’s a good one,” she gasped, then laughed breathlessly. “Your breakfast, baby.”
A third followed, shorter but thicker, rounding out the pile. She squatted lower, grinding her ass in a small circle, ensuring the last remnants smeared out over her hole and dripped down. A final, wet droplet landed on Arthur’s shoulder, burning like a brand.
She straightened up, breathing heavily, a sheen of sweat on her forehead. She looked at the camera, a wild, proud smile on her face. “Your turn, Brenda. Bury our foundation.”
Brenda stepped forward with an eager gleam in her eye. “My pleasure. Move over, little man.” She used the tip of her boot to nudge Arthur closer to Clara’s pile until he was standing at its base.
Brenda’s process was noisier, more vocal. “Oh, here it comes! Hold on, kiddo!” She braced, her face contorting. What emerged from her was different—a massive, coiled heap of softer, lumpier stool. It fell not in distinct logs, but in a cascading, porridge-like avalanche that rained down around Arthur with a series of wet, slapping sounds.
It covered his legs, then his waist, warm and heavy. The smell compounded, Brenda’s offering a sharper, more fermented counterpoint to Clara’s. He gasped, the air thick and foul.
“Again, again, I’m not empty!” Brenda cheered, bearing down once more. Another wave of semi-solid waste poured out, splattering over his chest and back, the weight pushing him down to his knees. The heat was suffocating, the substance clinging to every inch of his skin. He was up to his neck in a steaming, stinking bog of their creation.
Only his head remained free, a tiny island in a continent of shit. He panted, tears cutting clean lines through the filth on his cheeks.
“Perfect!” Clara hissed, her eyes locked on the camera monitor. “The framing is perfect. Now, the finale. Brenda, the last bit. Feed him.”
Brenda squatted low, her ass hovering just inches from his face. She was grinning, her teeth very white. “Open wide, founder!”
She strained, her face turning red. A final, dense, torpedo-like turd pushed from her hole. It didn’t drop. Guided by her hand, she aimed it.
It slid, hot and obscene, directly into Arthur’s waiting, obedient mouth.
It filled him, gagging him instantly. The taste was a horrific explosion—bitter, sour, overwhelmingly organic. He choked, his eyes bulging, but he did not close his mouth. He remembered the bathroom. This was the covenant.
“Swallow it!” Clara demanded, her voice cracking with excitement. “Swallow your founding partner’s contribution! Swallow it!”
With a convulsive, agonizing effort of his throat, he did. He felt the solid mass force its way down, a profound, violating invasion. His body shuddered violently. His eyes rolled back in his skull, showing white, a pure physiological submission.
The two women watched, rapt. Then Clara moved. She dropped to her knees on the clean plastic, her own dirty asshole hovering over Arthur’s buried face. “Clean me,” she growled. “Lick me clean. Right on camera.”
Brenda followed suit, kneeling opposite, presenting her smeared, used hole to his other side. “Me too, little pig. Show us your gratitude.”
Trapped, entombed, Arthur obeyed. He twisted his neck, straining against the weight holding his body. He extended his tongue and pressed it against Clara’s swollen, filthy pucker. He licked in slow, desperate strokes, cleaning the streaked residue, the taste a complex layer over the horror still in his mouth. He then turned and did the same for Brenda, who moaned appreciatively.
“God, his little tongue,” Brenda giggled, grinding gently against his face. “It’s like being licked by a desperate hamster.”
Clara was silent, her head thrown back, one hand working between her own legs as she ground her ass against Arthur’s ministrations. The camera saw it all: the two dominant women, using the shrunken, buried man as their live-action toilet and servant, their expressions a mix of cruel amusement and raw, unvarnished arousal.
After long minutes, Clara stood, her hole now glistening from his tongue. She looked down at Arthur, only his scrubbed-clean face visible in the mound of waste, his eyes glazed and distant. “Cut,” she said, her voice hoarse.
She walked to the camera and stopped the recording. The sudden silence was broken only by Brenda’s heavy breathing and the hum of the lights.
Brenda stood, wiping herself casually with a towel from their supply box. “That’s going to break the internet. Or at least their little corner of it. The raw authenticity… it’s fucking powerful.”
Clara nodded, staring at the footage on the laptop, rewatching the moment of ingestion. “It is.” She then looked at Arthur, a cold, evaluative light in her eyes. “Get the hose, Brenda. We need him presentable. The lawyer for ShrinkWrap Studios arrives in nine hours. Our CTO needs to sign the papers.”
Brenda fetched a garden hose connected to a utility sink in the corner. She turned it on, spraying a jet of cold water over the mound, dissolving it, revealing Arthur’s small, limp form. He lay curled on the plastic, clean water rinsing over him, his body in shock.
Clara approached and picked him up, his wet, tiny body cold in her palm. “You did well,” she said, her tone devoid of warmth but full of ownership. “The incorporation paperwork has a specific clause. Intellectual property assigned in perpetuity to the company. Your body, in all states of scale, is considered essential production equipment.” She carried him toward the towel Brenda held out. “You’re not just an employee, Arthur. You’re our primary asset. Our technology. Our content. Our fucking foundation.”
She wrapped him in the towel and placed him in a small, lined case on the equipment table, leaving the lid open. “Sleep. Big day tomorrow. We become a real company.”
As she and Brenda began to clean the studio, talking in low, excited tones about subscriber growth and merchandising, Arthur lay in the dark of the case. The smell of their waste was still in his sinuses, the taste welded to his tongue, the fullness in his stomach a permanent, vile anchor. He was no longer a man who loved a woman. He was a patented process. A documented phenomenon. The foundation of ShrinkWrap Studios was not poured concrete, but the compacted, digested proof of his total consumption. And in the humming dark, he finally understood the shape of his creation, and it understood him.
And in the humming dark, he finally understood the shape of his creation, and it understood him. The corporate paperwork was signed the next day in a bland office park suite, the lawyer’s manicured hand pointing to clauses that forever legally designated Arthur’s body as company equipment. He signed, his normal-sized fingers leaving clean prints on the line, feeling the ghost of silicone plug and the remembered weight of compacted waste.
A week later, Brenda was over at Clara’s apartment, reviewing subscriber metrics on the laptop. Arthur, shrunken and silent, sat on the kitchen counter inside a clear plastic habitat meant for large insects. “The numbers are insane, Clara. The ‘Founding Member’ clip? They want more. They’re begging for scale.”
Clara sipped her wine, eyes on Arthur’s tiny form. “Scale is our product.”
“Then let’s scale,” Brenda said, her voice bright with cruel inspiration. “We should have a party. Just have all of our big butt friends over. The ones from the gym, the dance crew. Prep them, a full day of fiber and protein. Line them up and let them just shit on Arthur. One after another. A production line. No clean-up between women. Just poop. See how deep we can bury him.”
Clara didn’t smile. She analyzed. She looked from Brenda’s excited face to Arthur in his enclosure. “A stress test of the asset’s operational tolerance. And premium content. We’ll call it a shareholder meeting.”
The party was convened three nights later. Clara’s living room furniture was pushed against the walls. The center of the room was a staged dungeon: the same clear plastic tarp, taped down over drop cloths, and a single, powerful overhead light creating a stark circle of glare. The air conditioner was cranked, but it couldn’t compete with the anticipatory heat of seven women, all friends of Brenda’s, all prepped and grinning with a nervous, predatory energy.
They were a varied ensemble—tall and short, muscular and soft, all united by the specific, giggling instructions they’d received. They wore robes or loose sweats, sipping mineral water and talking about their chosen methods: psyllium husk, magnesium citrate, double portions of black bean chili.
Arthur stood in the center of the plastic. He was shrunken smaller than usual, a decision Clara had made to increase the volumetric challenge. The women were colossi. Their laughter rained down on him like boulders.
“He’s so fucking little!” one of them, a redhead named Mara, shrieked. “I’m gonna crush him.”
“The brief said solid coils, Mara, not a slurry,” Brenda corrected,扮演着foreman. “We’re going for architectural mass. And he,” she pointed a long nail at Arthur, “has one job. You see that?” She pointed to his hands, which were trembling at his sides. “You keep playing with yourself. You keep that little dick hard while you’re buried. We want to see you enjoying your foundation. You stop, we start over.”
Clara, dressed in a severe black vinyl corset, gave the final instruction. “Order is by lot. No clean-up between participants. We document the cumulative load. Begin.”
The first woman, a powerlifter named Simone, stepped forward. She dropped her sweatpants, squatting without ceremony. Her grunt was a short, powerful explosion. What fell was a breathtaking, knotted coil of solid waste that hit the plastic with a sound like a wet sack of gravel. It landed beside Arthur, the impact vibrating up his legs. The smell, earthy and pungent, bloomed in the circle. Simone stood, flushed, and walked away grinning.
“Action, Arthur,” Clara’s voice cut from behind the camera she held.
Arthur’s fingers moved to his tiny, soft cock. He began to rub it, his eyes fixed on the mountainous, steaming deposit a few feet from him.
The second woman was Brenda. She delivered as promised: a prolific, steady output of formed logs that piled efficiently, one on top of the other, beginning the walls of his prison. The third, a woman named Chloe, added a softer, dense pile that began to fill the gaps, the warmth seeping toward Arthur’s ankles. He stroked himself, a pathetic, mechanical motion. A faint, traitorous tingling began in his groin, unrelated to desire, a mere physiological echo of his frantic nervous system.
By the fifth woman, he was knee-deep in a heterogeneous bog of waste. The heat was constant, the odor a solid, layered thing—each woman’s diet contributing a unique note to the overwhelming symphony of decay. He kept jerking his small, rigid cock, his mind a white noise of horror and base endurance.
The eighth woman, Mara, finally covered his legs completely, the heavy mound reaching his waist. “He’s still going!” she laughed, pointing at his moving hand, visible above the filth.
The tenth woman buried him to his chest. The eleventh covered his stroking arm, leaving only his head and his other hand, frantically working his shaft, exposed. He was a bust emerging from a foul, brown monument. The women cheered, their voices slurred by drink and arousal. Clara circled with the camera, capturing every angle, zooming in on his dirt-smeared face, his determined, jerking fist.
The twelfth woman, a quiet, curvaceous dancer named Lin, was the last. She squatted directly over his head. “Open,” she said softly.
He opened his mouth, eyes wide, his hand a blur between the mound and his body. She bore down, her face serene. A perfect, heavy, single log, thick as his own torso, slid out. It pressed against his forehead, then his nose, and then, as he strained his jaw wider, filled his mouth. He gagged violently, his body shuddering, but his hand never stopped. He swallowed convulsively, the mass forcing its way down as the women roared.
Lin stood. Arthur was now completely buried, a human-shaped lump beneath nearly a foot of accumulated excrement. Only his right hand remained above the surface, still desperately, automatically masturbating. The motion caused the mound to shift slightly.
A silence fell, broken only by heavy breathing.
“Is he… okay?” someone asked.
The mound twitched. The small, filthy hand continued its stroking motion. Then, a bump formed near the top. A tiny, shit-caked hand broke through, then an arm. Then Arthur’s head emerged, gasping, his mouth vomiting a stream of brown bile. He choked, sputtered, and drew in a huge, ragged breath. His other hand was still working relentlessly beneath the surface.
He wasn’t crushed. He wasn’t suffocated. He was covered in the waste of twelve women, buried alive in it, and he was physically intact. His body, in this shrunken state, had a resilience that defied physics, a tolerance that matched the depth of his submission.
The watching women stared, their playful cruelty shifting into something closer to awe. “Holy shit,” Brenda whispered. “He really can’t be hurt.”
Clara lowered the camera. Her eyes weren’t on Arthur’s survival, but on the unwavering, mechanical motion of his hand, even as he retched. The most valuable piece of corporate data had just been confirmed: their essential equipment was virtually indestructible under operational conditions. The possibilities for content, for extreme stress-testing, for pushing the asset to its absolute limit, expanded in her mind like a dark, blooming flower.
She looked at the circle of women, their faces splashed with relief and a new, hungrier curiosity. “Clean-up on aisle five,” Clara said, her voice flat. Then she smiled. “The next shareholder meeting will require a bigger venue. And a stricter prep schedule.” Arthur clawed his way fully out, collapsing onto the plastic, his body a small, violated engine, still running, still obediently hard. The foundation was stronger than anyone had imagined.