Sienna Shaw continued to mingle and dance, the club's ambiance shifting into the late-night hours. The crowd grew wilder, the music louder, and the atmosphere more charged. Sienna, with her warrior angel costume still gleaming under the flashing lights, was the center of attention. Each step she took, every sway of her body, was a reminder of the torture you were enduring beneath her sandal.
Eventually, the alcohol began to take its toll. Sienna's movements became slightly unsteady, and she excused herself from the crowd, making her way to the restroom. The journey was a new ordeal; every step she took caused her sandal to compress and shift, making the glue pull and tug at your skin.
In the restroom, the fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows on the pristine tiles. Sienna entered a stall, locking the door behind her with a metallic click. She sat on the closed toilet seat, and for a moment, the pressure eased. But this was just the calm before the storm.
With deliberate slowness, Sienna began to unfasten the straps of her gladiator sandal. Each leather strap, worn and supple, creaked as she undid it, revealing more of her smooth, slightly sweaty skin. The scent of leather and sweat intensified, mingling with the sterile smell of the restroom.
When the last strap was undone, Sienna's fingers deftly peeled the sandal from her foot, the glue stretching and pulling painfully as it relinquished its grip. The process was agonizingly slow, each tug feeling like it would tear you apart. Finally, with a last, painful yank, you were free from the glue but still stuck to the sandal's insole.
Sienna held the sandal above the toilet bowl, her eyes gleaming with a mix of satisfaction and cruelty. She flicked her wrist, and you were thrown into the bowl, the cold porcelain harsh against your skin. You landed with a splash, the water quickly soaking you and providing a brief moment of relief from the heat and pressure.
But Sienna wasn't done. She leaned over the bowl, her face pale and her expression one of discomfort. With a retch, she vomited into the toilet, the acrid, sour smell of bile filling the air. The warm, thick liquid splashed over you, adding a new layer of misery to your predicament. The vomit was chunky, filled with partially digested food and alcohol. Pieces of what looked like nachos and other club snacks floated in the mix, creating a nauseating sight. The smell was overpowering, a mix of sour stomach acid and the various foods she had consumed throughout the night.
Sienna remained leaning over the toilet for a moment, catching her breath. Then, with a smirk of cruel amusement, she stood up and turned around, lifting the hem of her costume. The cold porcelain of the toilet seat creaked under her weight as she sat down. You could hear the faint rustle of her costume as she adjusted herself, and then the sound of her breathing, steady and calm, as she prepared for the final act of your torment.
The pressure inside her built up, and she released a massive, heavy load. The warm, soft mass engulfed you, the weight and heat unbearable. The smell was overpowering, a mix of decay and digestive fluids. The sight was horrendous; large, thick logs of feces mixed with semi-solid waste and undigested food particles, all floating in the toilet water. The texture varied from soft and mushy to hard and firm, creating a chaotic and disgusting blend. The heat from the feces combined with the humidity of the restroom, intensifying the stench to an almost unbearable level.
Sienna let out a sigh of relief as she finished, the weight and warmth of her excrement pressing down on you, making it difficult to breathe. It was the final, ultimate degradation, a complete erasure of your existence under her bodily waste.
The relief she felt was palpable as she sat there for a moment longer, allowing her body to finish its work. Then, with a casual flick of her wrist, she reached for the flush lever. The water surged around you, carrying the mess down into the pipes and away, sealing your fate with a final, drowning rush.
Sienna stood up, refastened her sandal, and adjusted her costume, her expression one of serene satisfaction. She exited the stall, leaving behind only the faint echoes of your existence and the lingering smell of her dominance. The night outside still pulsed with life and music, but inside that restroom stall, your story had come to a grim and final end.
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
More by this author