Gardevoir's steady heartbeat booms like a god-sized drum. You feel it in the rubbery walls—pulsing in time with her heartbeat. But you also feel it in your bones. The ever-constant ba-thump, ba-thump that shakes your marrow and trembles your soul.
You reach and push against the moist tunnel, recoiling when you touch the foul fluid that lubricates the walls. Your eyes begin to adjust to the darkness—revealing the horrorscape that lurks beneath the shadows. The colon you're caged in undulates slightly as if it's breathing. The walls ahead of you are dirty: crap-streaked. The oppressive humidity and heat make everything worse. The hateful scents that have incubated in here make you want to tear off your nose and fling it into the darkness.
Time passes. How much? Who knows. You haven't a clue. Time means nothing at the moment. Only when the dirty walls squash in, guiding you feet-first to the exit, do you snap back to reality. Your toes are first to be free. Then you're out to your waist, the puckered muscled ring "chews" your midsection as it tries to expel you.
Then, you fall. Gardevoir's pale bottom consumes your field of view. The sun doesn't even greet you—for it's obscured by the Pokemon's white dress.
Your fall is broken by a gentle psychic grip. You float weightlessly before you're swifted from beneath the dress and brought before Gardevoir. Her pink-red eyes scan you with a squint. Afterwards, She beams a genuinely happy closed-eyed smile.
"Excellent! Your size hasn't affected your endurance one bit. Humans are so fascinating!" She doesn't seem bothered by your stench and grime-coated appearance.
You're so mentally exhausted you're unable to formulate a response before Gardevoir chirps up again. "Now!" She says. "I must test to see if there's a correlation between mass-loss and durability. ...Stay strong, tiny human! The second round of the experiment starts… now!"
You're just about to protest before the wind is knocked out of you. Gardevoir is… growing!? Then you notice the trees: they're growing too! By Arceus above, you're shrinking even more! At the end of it all, you've quartered in size: ¼ of an inch — 0.6 centimeters. Gardevoir is practically a planet to microscopic you.
History repeats itself. Gardevoir's telekinesis lifts her dress and flies you under. You're reunited with her pale moon-sized ass.
"W-wait!" You stammer before being inserted between her white cheeks. Your tiny voice carries nowhere. Gardevoir didn't hear you. And even if she did, she wouldn't stop. Science must be done!
Your slime and grime soaked body slips past her asshole with practically no resistance. You find yourself once more in the confines of her shitpipe. Yet, a horrifying realization makes things even worse.
You can't move! Gardevoir has yet to release you from her psychic grip. To make matters worse, you see yourself being moved deeper within. The filthy ribbed walls move past you as you fight and squirm. Gardevoir's voice resounds through the foul cavern.
"I knew I forgot a variable: proximity to the exit! Alright, my tiny test-subject: you're going on a cave-spelunking adventure!"
Her words are so horrifying in more ways than one. Someone needs to tell this Gardevoir about controlled variables…
...You really shouldn't be thinking about that right now!
Deeper you dive. The scents are growing ever fouler. The walls, grimier. Brown splotches grace the interior of the colon like a mosaic of scat. The fetor that poisons the air vies to liquefy your soul. With every inch you travel, an indescribable terror seizes your heart. You've gone around two bends—halfway through the intestines—before you see what you've been dreading to see. A large log of scat, half hidden by shadow, lies in wait ahead. Your struggles reach a fever-pitch before you're carried no further, floating in front of the evil mass of mud.
You're roughly and abruptly released and plummet to the floor. You land with a splat onto the squalid ground. Unmentionables clay your hair and smear against your skin.
You release a frustrated scream into the depths of Gardevoir's bowels. Nobody hears it except for you and the possible ghosts of her past meals.
You didn't think it could get any worse, but it somehow did. You hold your nose as you're exposed to a miasma that could never be described. Semi-solid shit decorate the walls like vile graffiti. The intestinal walls squash in as they contract, pushing the log forward with an awful sticky sound. The awful thing stops just short of you. You pray you find a way out of this mess before that thing gets any closer…
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