Mom's Shock Therapy
by TheDonbai

You woke up one day, the digital glow of your phone screen being the first thing to pierce the groggy remnants of sleep, its insistent buzz vibrating against your nightstand. You groaned, rolling over and fumbling for the device.

A text from your mother.

Your heart gave a little flutter of apprehension, a conditioned response from the past few weeks since the mortifying discovery. The words on the screen swam into focus, and a cold, heavy dread settled deep in your gut, instantly chasing away any lingering drowsiness.

"Hey honey, I'll be home soon from brunch! Make sure you are ready! The therapist recommended we begin immediately to get the full effect from the treatment! See you soon!"

Treatment. Shock therapy. The therapist. The phrases looped in your mind, each one a hammer blow against your already fragile composure. It wasn't a nightmare. This was real. Your mother, your prim and proper Christian mother, was going to subject you to shock therapy for your disgusting fetishes, all on the advice of some hired quack.

For a little explanation, mom discovered your porn collection, one that's overflowing with scat, fart and incest porn. You weren't proud of it, but what can you do. But the therapist she hired recommended shock therapy, subjecting you to all the fetishes at once so you would be turned back "normal".

The sheer absurdity of it would have been laughable if it wasn't so terrifyingly real.

You imagined her at brunch, delicately sipping a mimosa while discussing the optimal way to overload your senses with shit and farts. The image was so surreal, so utterly bizarre, that a wave of nausea rolled through you.

You were trapped, a lab rat in your own home, and the experiment was about to begin.

Time seemed to warp and stretch after that, each tick of the clock on your wall echoing like a countdown in the crushing silence of the house. You remained frozen in your bed, the sheets twisted around your legs like bindings.

The command to be ready was the cruelest part. Ready for what? How does one prepare for a medically-sanctioned assault on their senses orchestrated by their own mother? Should you shower? Put on clean clothes? Or just lie there and await your fate?

Every distant sound from outside—a passing car, a dog barking, the cheerful laughter of neighbors—felt like a mockery of the horror building within these four walls. You stared at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the plaster as your mind raced, replaying the moment she found your collection.

The look on her face wasn't just anger; it was a profound, soul-deep disappointment and a bewildering incomprehension, as if she had discovered some alien parasite living in her child.

This treatment was her desperate, misguided attempt to excise it, to get her normal son back. The fear was a living thing inside you, a cold, writhing knot in your stomach that made it impossible to move, to think, to even breathe properly. You were paralyzed by the waiting, suspended in a state of pure, unadulterated dread.

Then came the sound. The low rumble of a car engine growing closer, the familiar crunch of tires on the gravel of the driveway. It was her. The sound of the engine cutting off plunged the world back into a deafening silence, a vacuum of anticipation that sucked the very air from your lungs.

Clink-jingle-jingle.

The faint sound of her house keys, a sound that once meant comfort and safety, now sounded like a jailer's ring. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence. You squeezed your eyes shut, as if not seeing would somehow make it not happen.

Click.

The sound of the key sliding into the front door lock was sharp, precise, and final.

Snick.

The lock turned. The heavy oak door opened with a soft

whoosh

of displaced air, and then closed with a solid, definitive

thump

She was inside. You were no longer alone in your fear. The source of it was now in the house with you.

"Darling? I'm home!"

Her voice, a melodic, cheerful call from the foyer, was a chilling counterpoint to the terror gripping you. It was her public voice, the one she used for guests, bright and untroubled. The complete lack of any anger or tension in her tone was somehow more frightening than if she had been screaming.

This wasn't a punishment enacted in a fit of rage; this was a calculated, pre-planned procedure.

You heard the soft rustle of her coat being hung up, the quiet clack of her purse being set on the entryway table.

Then, the footsteps.

Soft, measured steps on the hardwood floor, moving from the entryway toward the base of the stairs. Each step was a footfall of doom, bringing her closer. You pulled the covers up to your chin, a pathetic, childish shield against the inevitable. The first stair creaked under her weight.

She was coming. The therapy was about to begin.

"Darling? Are you awake?"

Her voice floated up the stairs, laced with that signature blend of motherly sweetness and an undercurrent of unyielding authority.

It was the voice she used when she was about to enforce a rule she knew you wouldn't like, but one she was absolutely committed to. There was no room for argument in that tone, only compliance.

You remained frozen, hoping that silence might somehow delay the inevitable, but you knew better. The soft creak of the bottom stair confirmed your fate. She was coming up. The sound of her ascent was slow, each step punctuated by the faint swish of her skirt against her legs.

The scent of her expensive floral perfume began to waft into your room, a prelude to the much less pleasant aroma you knew was to come.

"Oh, don't pretend you're still asleep, my little sweet pea. I know you saw my text."

The door to your bedroom swung open with a gentle

creeeak

There she stood, a vision of maternal elegance in her purple sweater and white skirt, her long, dark purple hair cascading over one shoulder.

Her face, however, held a look of profound disappointment mixed with a strange, clinical resolve. It was the look of a parent about to administer bitter medicine.

She held her phone in one hand, the screen still lit, as if to remind you of the message that had sealed your doom. Her eyes scanned your form, huddled under the covers, and a soft, pitying sigh escaped her lips. The look wasn't one of anger, but of a grim, loving duty.

"Now, now, there's no need for that defeated look. The therapist, Dr. Albright, was very clear. He said this is the most effective method for... recalibrating your proclivities. A sort of 'over-exposure' therapy. To confront the very things you've been hiding in the dark and bring them into the light, so they lose their power over you.

She walked over to the side of your bed, her presence looming over you. The scent of her was stronger now—the floral perfume mingling with the faint, musky scent of her body, a hint of the brunch she'd just come from, like coffee and expensive soap.

She reached down, her hand cool as she gently pulled the covers away from your face. Her gaze was soft, but her resolve was like steel. The air in the room felt thick with anticipation, the quiet hum of the house a stark backdrop to the impending storm of sensory overload she was about to unleash.

"He said we must begin with the primary fixation. The one you seem most… engrossed by."

Her voice dropped to an almost conspiratorial whisper, a hint of something that could almost be mistaken for embarrassment, if not for the unyielding set of her jaw. Her light brown eyes, usually so warm, now held a detached, therapeutic focus.

She took a small, deliberate step back from the bed, turning her body slightly. The movement was practiced, almost rehearsed. Her hand moved from your covers to the waistband of her pristine white skirt.

The gentle rustle of the fabric was deafening in the otherwise silent room as she began to lift it, the motion slow and purposeful. She was preparing the first stage of your treatment, presenting the very object of your disgusting fetish as the tool for your salvation.

"According to Dr. Albright's notes, we are to start with a complete sensory immersion. He believes that by overwhelming your mind with the reality of it, the fantasy will crumble."

Her skirt was now bunched up around her waist, revealing the entirety of her lower half. The light pink panties she wore were stretched taut across the magnificent, heavy globes of her backside.

The fabric, thin and slightly damp in places, did little to hide the sheer size and shape of her ass, the deep valley of her crack clearly delineated.

She turned fully, presenting her rear to you as if it were a specimen in a medical theater. The faint, stale, and undeniably raunchy scent that you had only ever imagined began to timidly drift from between her thighs, a foul harbinger of what was to come.

It was a complex aroma, a mix of old sweat, the cotton of her panties, and a uniquely funky, human musk that was all her own. It was the smell of a long day, of sitting, of a body simply existing, concentrated and now aimed directly at you.

"So, my dear."

she said, her voice still maintaining its gentle, motherly cadence, completely at odds with the obscene display she was making.

She began to slowly back up towards your face, still lying on the pillow. The two massive, pale cheeks of her ass grew larger and larger in your vision, eclipsing the rest of the room.

The stale smell intensified with every inch she closed the distance, becoming a thick, almost tangible presence in the air.

You could see the subtle texture of the pink cotton, the way it clung to the moist crease of her crack, a dark, damp shadow hinting at the swampy reality hidden beneath.

"The therapy begins now. Let's get you accustomed to your new reality."

A low, throaty chuckle rumbled from deep within your mother's chest, a sound that was far from the gentle, motherly laugh you were used to. It was husky, laced with a smug confidence that sent a shiver of pure dread down your spine.

The clinical, therapeutic pretense was already starting to crumble, revealing something much more primal and domineering beneath.

"Normalize it, huh?"

she muttered to herself, her voice a low purr.

"Yeah, I guess we're past that."

With a swift, careless motion, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her light pink panties. There was no delicacy in the movement; she just yanked them down her thick thighs and over her ankles, kicking the wadded-up piece of fabric into the corner of the room with a dismissive flick of her foot.

The last barrier was gone. The full, unadulterated stench of her unwashed backside hit you like a physical blow, a truly nauseating wave of foulness that made your eyes water instantly.

Without another word, Mom pivoted on the balls of her feet and squatted down directly over your head. The motion was fluid and practiced, like she'd done it a thousand times before.

Her massive, naked ass cheeks descended upon you, and for a terrifying second, they eclipsed your entire world.

SPLAT!

The heavy, moist flesh of her buttocks landed on your face with a wet, meaty clap, the impact forcing a choked gasp from your lungs.

The cheeks were so thick and heavy they completely enveloped the sides of your head, pressing hard against your own cheeks and sealing your nose and mouth into the deep, humid valley of her crack. The smell was overwhelming, a gag-inducing symphony of filth.

A potent, sulfurous aroma, exactly like rotten eggs left in the sun, assaulted your nostrils, a clear testament to the Huevos Rancheros she'd mentioned.

Underneath that was a deeper, more profound funk—a rank, cheesy stench of old, stale sweat that had caked in the dark recesses of her anus, now re-moistened by a fresh layer of slick, gooey perspiration.

It was the smell of a body that hadn't been properly cleaned, a truly raunchy and disgusting odor that coated the inside of your nose and the back of your throat.

Her entire weight settled onto your skull, pressing your head firmly into the pillow. You could feel the distinct, wrinkled texture of her anus grinding against your nose and lips with every slight shift of her body.

It was impossibly tight, a dark, puckered knot of flesh surrounded by the paler, softer skin of her inner cheeks. You could feel the damp, sticky heat radiating from her, a swampy humidity that made it hard to breathe.

Tilting her head, she glanced back over her shoulder, a wicked, triumphant smirk playing on her lips. She wasn't even trying to hide the pleasure she was taking in this; her light brown eyes sparkled with a cruel, playful light as she looked down at your trapped face.

"I hope you're hungry today, I had Huevos Rancheros for brunch! I could barely hold in my farts on the way home!"

she announced, her voice casual and utterly devoid of shame. Her tone suggested this was no different from discussing the weather, a horrifyingly normal delivery for such a degrading act.

She shifted her weight again, grinding her ass down harder onto your face, making you feel every single fold and crevice of her skin.

The cheesy, rotten-egg smell intensified, and you could practically taste the salty, foul flavor of her anal sweat on your tongue. It was a vile combination, like licking a forgotten corner of a public restroom mixed with the lingering taste of spoiled breakfast.

She let out another low chuckle, the vibration traveling directly from her ass cheeks into your skull.

While she held you captive, she casually reached over to your nightstand and picked up her phone, her other hand resting on her thigh as if she were simply sitting on a very comfortable, custom-made chair.

Her thumb swiped across the screen as she began scrolling through her emails, the bright light of the display illuminating the sheer absurdity of the situation.

You were her furniture, a breathing, living toilet for her to sit on while she caught up on her digital life.

"Alright, let's see what we've got here... junk, junk, a notice from the PTA..."

she murmured, completely absorbed in her phone. The hot, stale air trapped between her colossal cheeks was becoming thicker, each breath a struggle to pull in the foul, oxygen-deprived atmosphere. The sheer pressure of her anus was centered perfectly over your mouth.

She wiggled slightly, adjusting her position for comfort, which only served to mash her puckered hole more insistently against your lips.

The tacky sweat acted like a glue, sticking her skin to yours. A tiny, almost insignificant request slipped from her lips, spoken with the same nonchalant tone as her email-checking.

"You know, this is actually pretty comfy. Hey, be a dear and just... lick that little wrinkle right next to my hole. Mommy's got a bit of an itch there."

As your tongue hesitantly darted out, making contact with the salty, sweaty wrinkle of skin right beside her anus, a sudden, sharp tremor ran through your mother's entire body.

A deep, involuntary groan escaped her throat, a sound far too guttural and pleased to be part of any therapeutic act.

Her massive buttocks clenched spasmodically against your face, grinding her puckered hole against your lips with renewed force. The initial sensation of the lick seemed to have acted like a key in a lock, unlocking something deep within her bowels.

A low, ominous gurgle echoed from within her, a sound you felt as much as heard, the vibration traveling directly through the flesh pressed against your ears. Her face, which you could only imagine from the sounds she was making, must have contorted.

The casual, almost bored expression of someone checking their emails was gone, replaced by something far more intense and focused.

Mom abruptly tossed her phone onto the bed beside you, the device bouncing on the mattress with a soft thud. The pretense of multitasking was over. This therapy now required her full, undivided attention.

She braced her hands on your shoulders, her grip surprisingly strong, digging her fingers into you as she adjusted her weight.

The shift in her demeanor was palpable. The playful, casual cruelty had morphed into a focused, domineering intensity.

She was still your mother, but in this moment, she was also your tormentor, and a flicker of raw, undisguised pleasure danced in the depths of her voice when she spoke, even as she struggled to cloak it in the language of the therapist.

"Oh... oh my. See? Dr. Albright said this would happen."

she panted, her voice slightly strained.

"A... a strong physical reaction. We have to push through it. Overwhelm the stimulus. This is the only way to... to purge these disgusting thoughts from you.

The lie was paper-thin, a transparent excuse for the guttural satisfaction that was clearly building within her.

The gurgling in her gut intensified into a violent, churning roar. You could feel the pressure building inside her, a massive pocket of gas migrating south through her intestines with agonizing slowness.

Her ass cheeks, already heavy on your face, seemed to swell and grow tighter, the skin stretching taut as the impending eruption prepared to make its exit. The first fart was preceded by a powerful clenching of her sphincter, the tight knot of muscle squeezing shut for a moment before a tremor ran through her. Then, with a deafening, wet roar, the floodgates opened.

BRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWMPPPFFFTTTT!

It wasn't just a sound; it was a physical event. A hot, hurricane-force blast of air exploded directly into your mouth and nose, carrying with it a thick, humid mist of microscopic particles.

The stench was cataclysmic, a concentrated blast of sulfur and rotten eggs from the brunch, mixed with the deeply foul, cheesy aroma of her unwashed crevice.

The sheer force of it vibrated your entire skull, and the wetness of it left a slick, disgusting film on your lips and tongue.

She wasn't done. Before you could even process the first assault, another was already on its way. Her stomach churned violently again, and her ass cheeks convulsed.

"This is for your own good, baby."

she grunted, her voice thick with the effort of holding the next one back for just a moment, savoring the anticipation.

PHHLLLLRRRRBBBBBBBBBBBBTTT-splat!

The second one was even wetter, ending with a distinct, liquid spatter that made your skin crawl. This one felt thicker, heavier, coating the inside of your nostrils with a foul, warm dampness that made you want to gag.

It tasted vile, a putrid combination of decay and digested food that filled your entire mouth. Her body shook with the force of the release, and a low moan of pure, unadulterated pleasure escaped her lips, a sound she quickly tried to cover with a cough.

"See? We're... expelling the filth,"

she gasped, her grip on your shoulders tightening like a vice.

A third and fourth fart followed in rapid succession, a brutal one-two punch of pure, weaponized flatulence.

FWWWWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORRRRP! BRAAAAAAAP!

They were shorter, punchier, but no less foul. Each blast was a new wave of heat and stench, reinforcing the vile atmosphere trapped between her colossal cheeks.

The air was now so thick with the smell of her digestion that it was almost unbreathable, a toxic cloud of her internal foulness.

By now, her entire rear was slick with a thin layer of foul-smelling, sweaty moisture. The fifth gas pocket felt like the largest of all.

It churned and bubbled within her for a few agonizing seconds, making her entire lower body tremble. She leaned forward, putting even more of her weight onto your head as she prepared to unleash it.

"One more, baby."

she whispered, her voice a husky command.

"Take it all. Let it cure you."

Then, she completely relaxed her anus, letting loose a long, drawn-out, bassy torrent of gas that seemed to go on forever.

BRRRRRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMPPPPPPPPP...

It was a long, rumbling fart, a disgusting exclamation point on her grotesque therapy, leaving you trapped, suffocating in the absolute filth of her creation. Your cheeks inflated with that one as you were forced to swallow the absolute nasty gas down.

"Ugh, pleash shtop.. I really don't like your farts, mom! They smell so bad I want to puke!" I tried telling her, my vocie muffled in her huge asscheeks

The muffled sounds of your protest, the desperate squirming beneath her, were utterly dismissed by mom.

To her, your revulsion wasn't a sign to stop; it was proof that the therapy was working as intended.

A cruel, triumphant smile stretched her lips as she felt the last vestiges of your arousal die away, replaced by pure, visceral disgust. She registered your gagging not with sympathy, but with a cold, clinical satisfaction.

"Shhh, shhh, sweetie,"

she cooed, her voice a chillingly gentle whisper that was completely at odds with the grotesque violation she was committing.

"That's just the sickness leaving your body. You have to expel all the filth, remember? We can't stop now, we're making such good progress."

Her words were a flimsy veil for the sheer pleasure she was taking in your suffering, a sadistic glint in her eyes that you couldn't see, but could feel in the very way her body moved against yours.

To punctuate her point, she bore down again, her powerful gluteal muscles contracting with practiced ease.

The farts that followed were not the explosive, bombastic releases from before. These were different. They were slower, wetter, and carried a far more sinister payload.

PHHLLLLUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRGGGG-splurt.

A long, gurgling hiss of gas seeped from her anus, which had become incredibly loose and pliable from the previous onslaught.

This release was accompanied by a wet, sputtering sound, and you felt a warm, thick liquid spatter against your lips and nose. It was a foul anal leakage, a precursor to something far worse. The smell was absolutely abominable, a multi-layered assault on the senses.

The top note was still the pungent, eye-watering sulfur of rotten eggs, but it was now underpinned by a heavy, earthy stench of decay, like meat left to rot in a damp basement.

There was also a cloying, almost sweetish odor of fermentation and bile, a truly disgusting combination that signaled the advanced state of digestion within her.

Another monstrous gurgle rumbled through her abdomen, a deep, liquid churning that you could feel vibrating through her ass cheeks and directly into your skull. She shifted her weight, grinding her slick, filth-smeared anus directly over your mouth.

"Breathe it in, hun."

she commanded, her voice low and husky with arousal.

"Let it replace every dirty thought in your head."

Then came the next fart, a thick, syrupy expulsion of air that felt more solid than gaseous.

BLUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRPPP-blat-blat.

It was heavy, coating the inside of your mouth and throat with a tangible, oily film. The taste was indescribable. It was like licking a rusty, iron pipe that had been used to stir a vat of spoiled chili, combined with the acrid, metallic tang of old blood and the profoundly salty flavor of her stale sweat.

It was a taste that clung to your tongue, refusing to be swallowed, a permanent reminder of the absolute filth you were being forced to consume. The experience was designed to be traumatic, to replace any hint of fetishistic pleasure with pure, unadulterated horror.

Suddenly, the low gurgles and rumbles in her gut coalesced into something far more significant. A deep, tectonic groaning echoed from the very core of her being, a loud, protracted

GRRRROOOOOOAAAAANNNNN

that signaled a massive shift in her internal landscape.

It wasn't the sound of gas anymore; it was the sound of a large, solid mass beginning its final, inexorable descent through her colon. The pressure against your face changed instantly.

Her sphincter, which had been relaxed and open, suddenly clenched tight, and you could feel the muscles around her anus bulging outward with a new and terrifying strain.

The faint smell of feces that had tainted her farts was now becoming the dominant aroma, a thick, overpowering stench that blotted out everything else. It was a heavy, pungent odor of human waste, raw and unfiltered, promising a truly horrific payload.

Mom gasped, a sharp intake of breath that was part pleasure, part surprise at the sheer magnitude of what was coming. She rocked her hips back and forth, a slow, deliberate motion that ground the straining bulge of her anus against your mouth.

The pressure was immense, like a solid object was trying to force its way through her flesh and into you. She tilted her head, looking back over her shoulder to gaze down at your trapped, filth-covered face.

The mask of therapeutic concern was completely gone now, replaced by a wide, predatory smile that revealed the true depth of her depravity. Her eyes were wide with ecstatic anticipation, sparkling with a cruel, triumphant light. She knew this was the ultimate expression of her dominance, the final, undeniable act of defilement.

"Oh, my..."

she breathed, her voice dripping with sadistic glee.

"Looks like the final purging is about to begin. The main event, sweetie. Dr. Albright said we needed a 'cathartic expulsion.' I think... I think this is what she meant. You're going to take all of mommy's filth and be cured for good."

"N-no no no, please! I think I'm already cured, those farts were enough to disgust and shock me, mom!" you tried saying, but your pleas fell on deaf ears

Your desperate, muffled pleas were nothing more than a source of amusement for the woman squatting over you. A low, throaty chuckle rumbled from mom's chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated contempt.

She didn't even bother looking back this time; she simply adjusted her weight, pressing her straining buttocks harder against your face, ensuring you couldn't possibly turn away.

"Oh, no, sweetie,"

she purred, her voice dripping with false sympathy.

"The disgust is a good sign. It means we're breaking through the conditioning. If we stop now, all this progress will be for nothing."

She leaned forward, bracing her hands on the mattress on either side of your head, a position that gave her maximum leverage.

"We have to be thorough."

As if to prove her point, she bore down with a sharp grunt, and a rapid-fire succession of wet, sputtering farts exploded from her.

PHLURT-splat-splat-splutter-BLAAAAAAAART!

They weren't just air; they were thick, semi-liquid bursts of foulness, each one carrying a payload of hot, slimy anal fluid that splattered against your tongue and coated your throat.

Swallowing was an involuntary reaction, a desperate attempt to clear your airway, but all it did was force the vile, sulfurous taste deeper into your system, making your stomach heave violently.

Before you could even begin to recover from the liquid assault, a far more profound and terrifying change occurred. The gurgling in her gut ceased, replaced by a deep, straining grunt that seemed to emanate from her very soul.

"HRRRNNNNGGGGHHHH!"

Her entire body went rigid, her powerful thigh and glute muscles flexing like solid steel. You felt her anus, already slick and abused, stretch to a previously unimaginable diameter.

It bulged outward against your lips, the tight knot of muscle straining desperately to contain the immense pressure building behind it.

For a terrifying second, you could feel the blunt, rounded tip of a massive object pressing against your mouth, hard and unyielding. Then, with a final, shuddering push from your mother, her sphincter gave way completely, and the "cure" began its horrific journey.

"Open wide, sweetie! Those Huevos Rancheros are fighting back real good!"

It wasn't a gradual process. It was an invasion.

A single, impossibly thick and solid log of shit shot from her body with the force of a hydraulic press.

It slammed past your lips and teeth, forcing your jaw open wider than you thought possible, and began its relentless invasion of your throat. The speed was shocking, the sheer mass of it overwhelming your gag reflex entirely.

There was no room to choke, no space to breathe. The turd was a solid, warm, and remarkably dense column of waste, seemingly endless as it continued to unspool from deep within your mother's bowels.

You could feel its rough, compacted texture scraping against the sensitive lining of your esophagus as it plunged deeper and deeper, a truly abhorrent form of forced intimacy that was designed to shatter your psyche completely.

The sheer length of it was astounding, a seemingly infinite rope of filth that filled you from your throat down into your stomach.

While this grotesque violation was happening, her body actively expelling this monumental turd directly into your gullet, mom's voice remained eerily calm and casual, as if she were commenting on the weather.

She picked up her phone again with one hand, idly scrolling through her social media feed as her body continued its repulsive work.

"There now, see?"

she said, her voice a gentle, motherly murmur that was a horrifying counterpoint to the act itself.

"Just be a good boy and take it all. Don't fight it. This is how we purge the sickness."

Her tone was light, almost conversational.

"Every little bit you swallow is one less dirty thought in that head of yours. Think of it as medicine, honey. Mommy's special medicine to make you all better. Once you've finished it all, you'll be clean inside and out."

The stench was apocalyptic, a thick, room-filling cloud of pure, unadulterated fecal matter, so pungent and heavy it felt like you were drowning in the smell of a backed-up sewer, yet her voice cut through it all, a beacon of casual, monstrous cruelty.

Your whole world had been reduced to the singular, overwhelming reality of filth.

The colossal log of excrement filled every void, distending your cheeks and pressing against the back of your throat with an unyielding, suffocating presence.

"MFgGFGHH!"

Muffled, desperate gagging sounds were the only protests you could manage, each heave of your stomach a futile rebellion against the indigestible mass plugging your esophagus.

The taste was a symphony of horror; a deeply earthy, metallic bitterness mixed with the sour tang of bile and undigested food. It was like chewing on soil that had been soaked in spoiled milk and rust, a flavor profile so fundamentally wrong that your brain screamed in protest.

As you forced your jaw to move, attempting the slow, repulsive act of chewing, mom merely watched, her expression one of cold, academic observation. She saw the tears welling in your eyes, the panicked look of a drowning person, and felt a fresh wave of cruel satisfaction.

She wasn't done. The "therapy" had to be total, an absolute saturation of the senses. A familiar, deep-seated cramp twisted in her lower abdomen, a signal that more was coming.

But first, a different kind of lesson.

"You're resisting, sweetie,"

she chided, her voice a soft murmur.

"You're still trying to breathe clean air. We can't have that."

With a grunt of effort, she shifted her weight forward, lowering her body until her shit-smeared, gaping anus was pressed directly and firmly over your nose, sealing your nostrils completely. For a moment, there was only the suffocating pressure and the intimate, horrifying warmth of her flesh.

Then, she relaxed her internal muscles, and a silent, searingly hot wave of gas seeped from her. It wasn't loud like the others; it was a long, insidious

Hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssstttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt

of pressure escaping.

The SBD was a chemical weapon, a concentrated blast of the most foul elements from within her gut. The sulfurous rot of eggs, the cloying sweetness of decay, and the raw, pungent stench of feces vaporized and forced directly into your sinuses.

It was a smell so potent it felt like a physical blow, burning the inside of your nose and making your already-watering eyes stream uncontrollably. Breathing was no longer an option; there was only the hot, foul air of her intestines.

Just as you thought the sensory torture couldn't possibly escalate, mom let out a sharp, surprised gasp. A violent, liquid gurgle—

GGRRRRUUUUULLLGGGG-gloop!

—erupted from her stomach, a sound so loud and wet it promised a new catastrophe. The pressure inside her built again, but differently this time. It wasn't a solid mass, but something looser, more chaotic.

"Oh, my... I suppose that brunch was bigger than I thought,"

she mused aloud, her voice tight with a mixture of surprise and wicked delight. Her body tensed, and she bore down with one last, monumental effort.

"Open even wider, hun! Or well, seems like you can't... just take it then, hun! HRRRNNNNGGGHHH!"

The result was not a single log, but a grotesque cascade. A thick, semi-liquid rope of shit shot from her anus, splattering against your shit-packed mouth and overflowing. It was followed by another, and another, each one a thick, steaming cord of waste that coiled and piled up on your face.

Spluurt-splaaaat-sploooosh!

The ropes of feces covered your cheeks, your forehead, your chin, burying your features under a steaming, reeking mound of her excrement. It was like a cow had emptied its bowels directly onto your head, the warm, wet weight of it pressing down on you, the smell becoming an inescapable, suffocating blanket.

The ropes of shit also seemingly never ended, piling up on your face one after another until your whole face was covered with them. Breathing was becoming impossible and everytime you were able to somehow get some air into your nose literal shit specks went up your nose as well, making your life a living hell

Finally, with a long, contented sigh of release, she was finished. The pressure on your face lessened as she slowly, deliberately, stood up.

She took a step back to admire her creation. Your face was completely unrecognizable, a horrifying sculpture of brown, steaming filth, with only your wide, terrified eyes visible beneath the mess.

A slow, genuinely pleased smile spread across mom's face. She looked not at a child in distress, but at a completed art project, a testament to her absolute power. She casually wiped a stray smear from her thigh with a tissue from your nightstand, her movements graceful and unbothered.

"There now,"

she said, her voice light and breezy, as if she'd just finished frosting a cake.

"That's much better. Now, you eat all of that up while it's still warm. Don't let mommy's medicine go to waste. We will be doing this everyday from now on, each morning, noon and evening. Which actually is pretty beneficial to us, don't you think so, honey? We can save a lot of money if I eat the most food and you just eat what I give you, right?"

She tossed the used tissue into your trash can.

"I'm feeling a bit peckish myself. I'm going to go make a sandwich. I'll be back to check on your progress."

Grumbleee

Before actually leaving, she walked over to you again and mounted the bed before squatting her thick, huge ass over your face and letting out one last fart into your face.

BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARPRPROUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABBBBBBBRTTTTTTTTTTTT

The wet fart sputtered on your face, letting a few more droplets of shit land on top of the pile of shit.

"Ahhh, that was the last of it. Sorry hun, I'll make sure to properly unload on your face next time. Can't have us wasting anything, right? Now if you'll excuse me, I'll enjoy my delicious sandwich while you can enjoy your meal. Make sure to be finished and ready in a few hours, I think that's when I'll be able to start your next session. See you later, hun!"

Without another glance, she turned and walked out of your room, leaving you alone, buried and drowning in her filth, the sound of her humming softly as she headed towards the kitchen.