Anonymous6: Francine Smith arched her back slightly, her plump cheeks quivering as she positioned herself over the orange mixing bowl Hayley dutifully held beneath her. Hayley had to adjust her grip as Francine's weight shifted, ensuring the bowl stayed perfectly centered beneath that deep, musky crevice (Francine: "And I would like my butt to smell like strawberries instead of butthole, but neither is happening Jeffy my boy".) between her mother's spread buttocks. Overhead, the kitchen light cast a warm glow that highlighted every ripple and clench of Francine's puckered hole as it pulsed rhythmically against the pressure building inside her. The batter itself—thick, gooey, and still bubbling from the chemical reactions within Francine's digestive tract—had been specially formulated to transform inside her body. Injected earlier through that same tight rosebud now straining against its contents, the batter had absorbed the unique enzymes and heating compounds of Francine's intestines, the mixture nearly boiling as it thickened into the perfect cake consistency deep within her bowels. With a grunt of effort, Francine bore down. Her sphincter bloomed open like a fleshy flower, releasing a thick, steaming rope of batter that poured smoothly into the waiting bowl. The sound was obscenely wet—a continuous glorp of semi-solid batter sliding free from her clenched insides. Hayley watched, mesmerized, as the viscous stream piled higher in the bowl, her arms trembling slightly from the increasing weight. Just when it seemed Francine had emptied herself completely, a final sputtering fart escaped her stretched hole, sending a burst of warm air across Hayley's face along with a few last globs of batter that plopped wetly onto the mound below. The entire kitchen smelled richly of vanilla and butter—with just the faintest tang of something distinctly, unmistakably Francine.
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