TinyMart Takeover: Aisle of Ambition
Puny Pervert
chapter 19
by
Froakie
The world lurches again as Lauren moves towards Becky's voice. You hear the rustle of packaging as Becky presumably takes the box down.
"No, put those back," Lauren's voice says, tight with frustration. "Those are the deluxe models, fifty dollars a pop. We're getting the basic set, the same ones we had before. They're in this aisle, they should be right... here..."
As she speaks, she stretches up onto her tiptoes, craning her neck to scan the higher shelves. This simple, unconscious act has catastrophic consequences for you. The upward motion causes her shoulders to hunch and her pectoral muscles to tighten, which in turn forces her breasts to compress together with tremendous, unsuspecting force.
The fleshy walls of your prison slam together.
The air is violently expelled from your lungs in a silent, desperate gasp. The pressure is astronomical, far beyond anything you've experienced so far. It's not a soft, yielding squeeze anymore; it's a grinding, bone-crushing compacting force. You feel your ribs creak, your organs screaming under the load. The world dissolves into a kaleidoscope of pain and pressure, the scent of your mother's skin filling your nostrils as your face is mashed into the hot, sweaty flesh. You are about to be turned into a smear, a insignificant punctuation mark in her search for a bargain.
The pressure is absolute. It's a universe of crushing, suffocating flesh. Your bones groan under the strain, your vision tunnels into a pinpoint of light behind your closed eyelids. You swear that you can feel your own body flattening, your internal organs being compressed into a grotesque pulp. This is it. This is how you end—a forgotten, squashed speck in your mother's cleavage.
And then, just as you feel your consciousness begin to fray at the edges, the pressure vanishes.
Lauren drops back down from her tiptoes, her muscles relaxing. The fleshy walls spring apart, and you are left gasping in the sudden, merciful void. Air, hot and thick but nevertheless air, rushes back into your burning lungs. You lie limp and trembling, every nerve ending screaming in agony, a tiny, aching bug in the bottom of a deep, warm valley.
"They're not here," Lauren sighs, oblivious to the life-and-death struggle that just occurred within her own bosom. "Maybe they're in the electronics aisle. Come on."
She turns and begins to walk, her breasts once again settling into their gentle, rhythmic sway. The motion, once merely nauseating, is now excruciating. Every soft jostle sends fresh waves of agony through your battered frame.
The pain is a white-hot fire that consumes your every thought. You can't endure this journey. Another step, another jostle, and you're certain your battered body will finally give way. Survival instinct overrides everything—the shame, the fear, the humiliation. You have to get out.
With the last vestiges of your strength, you begin to struggle. You thrash and kick, your tiny limbs flailing against the soft, imprisoning walls. You try to bite, to scratch, anything to create a sensation that she'll notice. You pour all your pain and desperation into a frantic, silent plea for help.
Your efforts are not unnoticed. Deep within the warm flesh, Lauren feels a faint, irritating tickle. It's the kind of minor annoyance one might dismiss as a loose thread or an errant bead of sweat. Her reaction is not one of concern, but of mild, reflexive annoyance.
She subtly flexes her pectoral muscles, a small, almost unconscious adjustment designed to quell the irritation.
The effect on you is devastating.
The fleshy walls, which had relaxed to a merely soul-crushing pressure, suddenly clamp down again. It's not the bone-shattering compression from before, but it's a deliberate, sustained squeeze. The air is once again forced from your lungs, and the fresh agony that shoots through your already bruised body is blinding.