No.151315
Infinite dilation. You sit on the toilet to dilate, but you begin to spray blood uncontrollably. After ten spurts you start to worry. Your axe wound is sticky and it reeks of pus, congealed blood and saline. You desperately shove a wad of toilet paper into your surgery site, but that only makes your prostate hurt. The bleeding accelerates. It’s been three minutes. You can’t stop bleeding. Your bathroom floor is covered in a thin layer of dilation fluid. You try to bleed into the shower drain but it builds up too fast. You try the toilet. The blood and pus is too thick to be flushed. You lock the bathroom door to prevent the blood from escaping. The air grows hot and humid from the pus. The dilation accelerates. You slip and fall in your own sex toys. The blood is now six inches deep, almost as long as your vaginal dilator. Sprawled on your back, you begin to bleed all over the ceiling. Globs of sticky yellow pus and blood begin to fall like raindrops, giving you a facial with your own fluids. The bleeding accelerates. You struggle to stand as the force of the blood begins to propel you backwards as if you were on a bukkake themed slip-and-slide. Still on your knees, the blood is now at chin height. To avoid drowning you open the bathroom door. The deluge of blood and pus reminds you of the Great Molasses Flood of 1919, only with blood instead of molasses. The bleeding accelerates. It’s been two hours. Your mother and father scream in terror as their bodies are engulfed by the blood-red sludge. Your parents goes under, with viscous bubbles and muffled cries rising from the goop. You plead to God to end your suffering. The bleeding accelerates. You squeeze your neo-vagina to stop the bleeding, but it begins to leak out of your asshole instead. You let go. The force of the bleeding tears your stinkditch open, leaving only a gaping hole in your crotch that spews pus and blood. Your body picks up speed as it slides backwards along the blood. You smash through the wall, hurtling into the sky at thirty miles an hour. From a bird’s eye view you see your house is completely red. Your neighbor calls the cops. The bleeding accelerates. As you continue to ascend, you spot police cars racing towards your house. The cops pull out their guns and take aim, but stray loads of blood hit them in the eyes, blinding them. The bleeding accelerates. You are now at an altitude of 1000 feet. The SWAT team arrives. Military helicopters circle you. Hundreds of bullets pierce your body at once, yet you stay conscious. Your fauxgina has now grown into a substitute brain. The bleeding accelerates. It has been two days. With your body now destroyed, the blood begins to spray in all directions. You break the sound barrier. The government deploys fighter jets to chase you down, but the impact of your blood sends one plane crashing to the ground. The government decides to let you leave the earth. You feel your frankenpussy start to burn up as you reach the edges of the atmosphere. You narrowly miss the ISS, giving it a new red paint job as you fly past. Physicists struggle to calculate your erratic trajectory. The bleeding accelerates. The blood begins to gravitate towards itself, forming a comet trail of pus and bodily fluids. You are stuck in space forever, stripped of your body and senses, forced to endure an eternity of bleeding. Eventually, you stop thinking.