Price Check Prophecy
Puny Pervert
chapter 20
by
Froakie
The sustained, punitive squeeze is a special kind of hell. It's a constant, grinding pressure that promises to slowly, methodically pulverize you. Your world is reduced to pain, heat, and the overwhelming scent of your mother's skin. You can't breathe, you can't think, you can only endure.
Through the muffled haze of your suffering, you hear new voices approach. One is Becky's, high and anxious. The other is a stranger's, a cheerful, professional female voice.
"...so sorry, ma'am," the stranger's voice says, filtered through layers of flesh and fabric. "We're completely out of stock of the ComTalk 1000 model. It's been discontinued, actually."
Lauren's sigh is a deep, weary rumble that vibrates through your entire prison. "Of course it has," she mutters. "So what am I supposed to do? My son needs a way to communicate."
"Well," the employee says brightly, "we do have the new ComTalk 2000 in stock! It's got twice the range and a built-in GPS locator. It's a bit more of an investment, of course."
"How much more?" Lauren asks, her voice tight.
"Fifty-nine ninety-nine," the employee chirps.
There's a long, heavy silence. You can practically picture the calculations warring behind your mother's eyes—the cost versus the convenience, the hassle versus the need.
The silence hangs in the air, thick with unspoken frustration. You remain locked in your fleshy tomb, the constant pressure a reminder of your mother's displeasure. Every second is an eternity of dull, aching agony.
"Fifty-nine ninety-nine," Lauren repeats, her voice a low growl of disbelief. "Unbelievable."
"Just get the other ones, Mom," Nikki's bored, muffled voice interjects from somewhere nearby. "I wanna go."
"The deluxe ones?" Becky asks, her voice full of hesitant surprise. "But they're so expensive."
"We're already here," Lauren says, her tone one of grim resignation. "And frankly, I'm too tired to argue about it or go anywhere else. Becky, get the deluxe ones. Let's just get this over with."
You hear the rustle of cardboard as Becky retrieves the box from the shelf. The decision is made. Your ordeal, which began because of a broken walkie-talkie, is ending with the purchase of a new, expensive one, all while you are being slowly crushed as punishment for wanting to be put in Becky's cleavage.
Lauren begins to walk towards the checkout counters. Each step is a renewed torture. The rhythmic sway of her breasts, once a simple discomfort, now feels like someone rhythmically punching your bruised and battered body. You are a prisoner in her frustration, a silent victim of her consumer compromise.
The journey to the checkout counter is a grueling marathon of pain. You focus on your breathing—or what passes for it in the constricted space—and try to go limp, letting your body move with the fleshy walls rather than fighting against them. It's a strategy born of pure exhaustion, and it barely works. Each step still sends a jolt of agony through you, but you manage to avoid being completely overwhelmed by the pressure.
You hear the beep of the scanner and the crinkle of plastic bags. "That'll be sixty-two forty-seven," the cashier's voice says, sounding young and disinterested.
"Of course it is," Lauren mutters under her breath. The sound of her card being inserted into the chip reader is followed by a triumphant *chime*.
"Rebecca!" Lauren's voice cuts through the air, sharp with irritation. "Now! We are leaving!"
You hear the rapid patter of Becky's sneakers as she hurries to catch up. "Sorry, Mom! They just had these new micro-scent diffusers, I thought they might help with Sammy's room..."
"I don't care," Lauren snaps, cutting her off. "Get in the car."
The family unit moves as one, a storm of frustration heading for the exit. The automatic doors slide open, and the blast of hot afternoon air is a welcome, if brief, change in temperature.