Take Your Mark Surviving on Short Notice chapter 7 by deleted_user

You hitch a ride on the starting block, heart hammering as the chaos of the swim meet explodes around you. The metal is slick with splashed water and sweat, vibrating under the thunder of cheering crowds and slamming feet. A girl from the navy-blue team—tall, athletic, maybe nineteen—plants her enormous bare foot right beside you on the block, toes splayed wide for balance. The sole alone is a ridged landscape the size of a city block, glistening with pool water and the faint sheen of nervous perspiration. You scramble back just as her weight shifts; the heel slams down inches away, sending a shockwave that knocks you flat. The heat radiating off her skin is like a furnace. She adjusts again—another near-miss, her pinky toe flexing so close you can see the tiny grains of dirt trapped in the whorls of her print.

Adrenaline overrides terror. If you stay on the block, you’re paste. The next time her foot lifts for the starting signal, you lunge, clawing up the damp curve of her arch and wedging yourself desperately between her second and third toes. The smell hits like a wall—sharp, vinegary, the concentrated funk of chlorine mixed with a full day of barefoot training and whatever lotion she used that morning. The flesh is soft, warm, slightly tacky; her toes clamp involuntarily as she tenses for the dive, squeezing you in a humid, pulsing prison. You can feel her pulse through the skin, hear the distant roar of the crowd muffled by meat and bone.
The buzzer blares. She explodes forward.

The world becomes pure violence. The dive slams you deeper into the crevice; water crashes over you in a roaring torrent as she surfaces and kicks into freestyle. Each powerful leg stroke catapults her through the pool, flinging you like a ragdoll. The toes flex and spread with every kick, grinding you against the slick webbing between them until—on the third stroke—you’re launched free. You tumble through churning bubbles, lungs burning, and break the surface for one glorious second of open air.
Then her hand comes slicing down for the next breath.
The palm catches you like a tidal wave, slapping you forward in a explosion of white foam. You shoot straight toward her open mouth as she turns her head to gulp air. For a split second you see the pink cavern rushing at you—glistening lips, white teeth the size of tombstones, the dark glistening tongue beyond. You hit the lower lip, slide across it, and tumble inside.
The heat is immediate and overwhelming. Her tongue—thick, muscular, coated in warm saliva—slams you against the ridged roof of her mouth as she seals her lips and breathes out through her nose. The world tilts violently; she’s still swimming, each stroke making her head roll. You’re rolled, crushed, tasted. Saliva floods over you in thick waves, salty-sweet with the faint tang of her sports drink. The tongue lolls you brutally from cheek to cheek, pressing you against molars that could pulp you in an instant, then drags you back toward the throat. You scream, but the sound is lost in the wet roar of her breathing and the muffled cheers from outside.
She takes one final gulp of air mid-stroke.

Gravity shifts. The tongue tips upward, and you slide helplessly with a rush of pool water straight into the tight, rippling tunnel of her esophagus. The muscular walls squeeze you downward in rhythmic, unstoppable contractions—hot, slick, pulsing. You tumble end over end, fighting for air that isn’t there, until the ring of muscle at the bottom opens and spits you into the churning cauldron of her stomach.

Darkness. Heat. The air is thick, acrid, filled with the gurgling of digestion and the distant thud of her heartbeat. The supple stomach walls ripple and contract around you, sloshing you in a mixture of half-digested energy gel, chlorine-tinged water, and rising gastric juices that already sting your skin like liquid fire. Every time she kicks or turns in the pool, the chamber heaves, tossing you against the folds. You claw at the slick lining, but it only yields and pulls you deeper.

Above you, somewhere in the giant world, the race continues. The crowd roars. Her body surges with victory as she touches the wall first—her stomach clenching in triumph, squeezing another wave of burning acid over your tiny, struggling form.
You’re inside her now. Alive, for the moment. But the supplements that once made you durable are fading fast, and the specialized gas Dr. Wright pumped into the vial is still working its slow, merciless magic. The walls seem to press a little closer with every second. Every gurgle sounds hungrier.

more accidental swallows of chlorinated water spray down from the esophagus above, you can feel the bile around you begin to burn your skin. You consider stimulating the walls of the stomach, maybe that could get you out of here?