Chapter 17: Slip 'N Slide into Hell
The sticky, chalky paste on his face melted first. It didn’t dry; it liquefied, becoming a warm syrup that dripped from his chin. The stench of chlorine and mildew was violently overwritten by the saccharine blast of cotton candy and coconut sunscreen. The hard, wet tile beneath his cheek dissolved into a yielding, rubbery membrane.
Bob gasped, swallowing a mouthful of viscous, neon-green slime.
He was face-down, sprawled in a shallow, inflatable pool. The material beneath him was translucent vinyl, and through it, he could see the distorted, blinking colors of submerged party lights. The slime was lukewarm, thicker than water, and tasted of artificial melon and salt.
A shriek of laughter, high and razor-sharp, pierced the air.
“Omigod, look! The pool noodle is awake!”
Hands—slick, cold, and disturbingly pliable—grabbed him under the arms and hauled him upright. He sputtered, green slime dripping from his hair. The world resolved into a retina-searing nightmare.
He was in a cavernous studio, the ceiling lost in darkness save for a spinning disco ball that cast jagged, fragmented light. The pool was larger than he’d thought, filled not with water, but with the shimmering, sticky slime. And in it, surrounding him, were the women.
They were like living, breathing inflatables. Their skin had a glossy, plastic sheen. Breasts the size of beach balls bobbed with impossible buoyancy, nipples painted like cartoon targets. Hips flared out in wide, smooth arcs, and asses were perfectly spherical, each cheek a taut globe. They wore nothing but intricate body paint—zebra stripes, leopard spots, neon swirls—that was already streaked and running in the slime. Their faces were mask-like, with huge, lash-fringed eyes and wide, grinning mouths filled with perfect white teeth.
“He’s so scrawny!” one chirped, poking his ribs. Her finger left a dent that slowly filled back out. “Like a little bendy straw.”
“Perfect for the game,” another cooed. Her voice had a hollow, airy quality, as if she was actually filled with helium. “I call first bounce!”
Bob’s body, still throbbing from the internal violation of the gym, stood on autopilot. His pathetic erection, which had wilted in pain, now sprang back to life, ludicrously hard amidst the cartoonish spectacle. The slime coated it, making it gleam under the strobe lights.
The first woman, her body painted with pink and white swirls like a giant piece of bubblegum, pushed him backwards. He flailed, sinking into the slime until his back hit the sloped wall of the pool. She turned, presenting her vast, round posterior, which was painted with a winking smiley face. She lowered herself onto him with a soft, squeaking sound, like two latex balloons rubbing together.
She didn’t just sit. She bounced. Lightly at first, then with increasing, jaw-rattling vigor. Her inflatable body absorbed most of the impact, creating a bizarre, squelching rhythm. Each descent forced a grunt from Bob’s lungs, and a fresh wave of melon-scented slime over his chest.
“Wheee!” she screamed, her voice echoing. “Human pogo stick!”
Another woman, zebra-striped and just as massive, waded over. She had a long, thin inflatable pool noodle in her hands. With giggling efficiency, she looped it around Bob’s neck and his ankles, trussing him into a bent, vulnerable position beneath the bouncing pink woman.
“Gotta secure the toy!” Zebra-stripe giggled.
A third, whose leopard-spotted body seemed even more stretched, positioned herself over Bob’s face. She lowered herself, and his world became a canvas of running black paint and the overwhelming, plasticky scent of her crotch. She began to grind, not with the muscular intensity of the gym mommies, but with a steady, squeaky, rotational motion. The slime made everything slip and slide.
Then the noises changed. A low, gurgling sound, like a drowning fountain, arose from the leopard-spotted woman above him. Her body tensed.
“Ooo, I’m about to squirt!” she announced, as casually as someone noting a sneeze.
Bob had a half-second to panic before a jet of warm, fluorescent blue liquid shot from her with surprising force. It didn’t smell like urine; it smelled like blue raspberry Slurpee. It hit him directly in the mouth and nose, drowning his sputtered protests. He choked, swallowing the sweet, chemical liquid.
“My turn, my turn!” shrieked the zebra-striped woman. She scrambled, mouth open like a baby bird, underneath the leopard-spotted one. The blue stream arced gracefully, and Zebra-stripe drank it down with exaggerated gulps and moans of delight.
“So refreshing!” she cried, blue liquid dripping down her painted chin.
The bouncing on his cock intensified, becoming a frenzied, slamming tempo. The pink woman was shaking now, her entire body vibrating. Her squeaks became sharp, staccato pops. “I’m gonna— I’m gonna go dumb!” she wailed, and her huge eyes seemed to lose all focus, crossing slightly as her bouncing lost all rhythm and became a violent, shuddering collapse.
Bob felt his own release being ripped from him, a weak, pumping sensation utterly overshadowed by the sensory tsunami. His own contribution was just more off-white streaks on the already ruined canvas of her pink and white paint.
But it didn’t stop.
The women swapped places with practiced, chaotic efficiency. He was a fixture, a piece of playground equipment. One would ride his face, squirting orange or purple liquid into another’s waiting mouth, who would then spin around and immediately spit it back onto his chest. They’d then use his slippery body to slide against each other, their massive inflatable forms mashing together with wet, slapping sounds, moaning about “making waves.”
A new woman, painted entirely in glittery gold, mounted him. She didn’t bounce. She twerked. Her spherical ass, each cheek a perfect, gleaming orb, clapped against his hips with a force that felt like it would dislocate his thighs. The sound was a monstrous, rhythmic thwap-thwap-thwap that echoed in the studio, drowning out the tinny party music.
“Make this booty go dumb!” she chanted, her voice a monotone drone. “Go dumb, go dumb, go dumb…” Her eyes were vacant, locked on the spinning disco ball, as her body jiggled and slammed with mechanical precision.
Bob was beyond thought. He was a ragdoll submerged in slime, painted in cum and neon squirt, used as a connector in a circuit of endless, cartoonish gratification. The aching, torn feeling from the gym was still there, a deep, visceral memory, but it was being smothered under this new, glossy, squeaking insanity. His body jerked and twitched with autonomous, pathetic orgasms that meant nothing, solved nothing, only fueled the next rotation.
As the gold woman reached a shuddering peak, a shudder that seemed to deflate her slightly, the spinning disco ball above seemed to stutter. The lights flickered. For a split second, the squeaks and squirts were replaced by a distant, familiar groan—the sound of rusty weight-stack machinery.
Then it passed. The music swelled. A woman covered in silver paint, new to the fray, slithered towards him through the slime, her smile wide and empty.
“Pool’s still open, toy,” she breathed, her hollow voice full of static. “Time for the midnight swim.”
Bob closed his eyes. The melon-scented slime filled his ears. The bouncing began again.