One Hell of a Workout Surviving on Short Notice chapter 6 by deleted_user

The dark metal cavern loomed like a forgotten warehouse. You sprinted across the last stretch of slick tile and slipped through the narrow gap at the bottom of the ajar door. Inside, the air was thicker, warmer, and far more intimate. The floor was littered with crumpled socks, a single abandoned sports bra, and the faint metallic tang of old sweat. But the real horror waited on the middle shelf: a black thong, carelessly tossed there after the previous workout, still damp and reeking.

You tried to skirt around it, but the fabric shifted. One careless step and your foot sank into the crotch panel—sodden, warm, and sticky with hours-old sweat. The material clung like wet glue. You pulled, but the elastic waistband had folded over, trapping your legs. Panic surged. You thrashed, but every movement only pressed you deeper into the soaked gusset. The smell was overwhelming: sharp, vinegary pussy sweat mixed with the deeper, earthy musk of an unwashed ass. The thong was still body-hot, the cotton saturated and glistening.

You were stuck.

Minutes passed in suffocating silence. Then the locker door rattled open with a metallic screech. A pair of enormous bare feet slapped down inches from the shelf—smooth, slightly tanned, toenails painted deep crimson. The woman’s voice hummed softly as she stripped off her towel. You caught a glimpse of her: early thirties, athletic build, long dark hair still damp from the shower, a faint sheen of fresh sweat already forming on her lower back from the humid locker room.
She reached in, plucked the thong from the shelf, and shook it once. The sudden motion flung you violently upward inside the fabric. For a split second you were airborne, tumbling through the dark folds. Then she stepped into the thong.

The world became a blur of heat and pressure. The waistband snapped into place around her hips. The soaked crotch panel slammed against her shaved pussy, pinning you flat against the warm, slick folds. But she wasn’t done. She bent forward to adjust the back, and the thong’s rear triangle slid upward—dragging you mercilessly between her massive, sweat-glistened ass cheeks.
The cheeks closed like twin fleshy walls, smothering you in humid darkness. Sweat immediately coated your body—thick, salty, and slightly acrid. The deeper you were shoved, the stronger the smell became: a heavy, primal reek of ass sweat, faint traces of shit, and the rubbery tang of skin that hadn’t been fully cleaned after her last session. Your face was pressed directly into the wrinkled, sweaty valley, the monstrous anus only inches away—dark, puckered, glistening with a thin film of moisture and flecked with tiny specks of filth. She straightened, and the cheeks clenched once, grinding you deeper.

The workout began.

First, the treadmill.

She stepped onto the machine. The moment the belt started moving, her ass began to sway and flex in a steady, rhythmic motion. Each stride slammed the cheeks together, crushing you between them. Sweat poured freely now—hot rivulets running down the crack, soaking you completely. The grinding was relentless: left cheek, right cheek, left, right, the slick skin sliding over your broken, gasping form. With every impact you were driven closer to the center. The anus loomed larger, its wrinkled ring pulsing slightly with each step, radiating heat and a thick, fecal musk that burned your lungs. You screamed, but the sound was swallowed by flesh.

Then came the squats.

She moved to the squat rack. The first descent was mercifully slow. Her ass cheeks spread wide as she lowered herself, pressing you directly against the sweaty, dirty anus. The ring flexed, smearing you with a slick coating of sweat and residue. The pressure was immense—your ribs creaked, your vision flashed white. She rose, and the cheeks slammed shut again, grinding you like a bug between two warm pillows.

The second squat was deeper. The anus kissed your face, the tight ring parting just enough to coat you in its filthy secretions. You tasted it—bitter, earthy, revolting. The third squat was brutal. Her glutes clenched hard on the way up, squeezing the air from your lungs. You felt something give—maybe a rib, maybe your arm. The fourth squat drove you forward. The anus yawned open for a terrifying instant as she hit the bottom of the rep, and the final, savage clench of her glutes shoved you head-first into the hot, pulsing tunnel.

There was no resistance. The sphincter simply swallowed you. She barely felt it—just a tiny, insignificant tickle deep inside that she dismissed as a muscle twitch.

Inside her rectum it was a living hell. The walls were slick, ridged, and unbearably hot. The air was thin, thick with the stench of shit and digestive gases. Every movement of her body—every step, every squat, every bounce on the treadmill—pushed you deeper. The muscular walls rippled and contracted, massaging you relentlessly downward. Sweat and mucus coated you, making every desperate crawl slippery and futile.

Your lungs burned. Oxygen dwindled. Delirium set in. The world narrowed to pulsing heat, crushing pressure, and the constant, wet sounds of her body working around you. You crawled blindly, hands slipping on the filthy lining, driven by animal panic. Deeper. Deeper. The tunnel grew narrower, hotter, darker.

Your final conscious thought was a silent scream of rage at Dr. Wright, at the pills, at the universe.

Then the rectum clenched one last time, and everything went black.
Subject 015 was gone—crushed, suffocated, and digested somewhere deep inside an oblivious woman who would finish her workout, shower, and never know she had just ended a human life between her cheeks.