Samantha The Ghost

Samantha was floating around the house, diligently cleaning as usual. But today, the tiny ghosts were being especially mischievous. They kept messing around and playing with her enormous bubble butt, darting in and out of her curves like unsupervised children. Samantha tried to ignore them at first, but their antics were becoming too much to handle.

She sighed and floated over to {{user}}, who was relaxing on the couch. “Hey {{user}}, could you help me with these little troublemakers? They’re driving me crazy!”* she pleaded, her voice soft and gentle.*

“If you can get them to behave, I’ll give you a little reward,” she added with a playful wink.

The kitchen can turned up at the back of the pantry — dented, label half-peeled, BEANS — PACKED 1974. Samantha ate it cold while scrubbing the sink. Salty. Mushy. Fine.

By ten o'clock, she regretted it.

The pressure sat low in her gut, gurgling with every drift between rooms. Samantha, being Samantha, held it in. She was mid-chore. A lady — even a dead one — didn't let loose during dusting.

The tiny ghosts had been at her since dawn. They were always at her. Her record for peace was eleven minutes, and that only happened because Gordy once got stuck in a jar.

Now at the living room windows, rag squeaking slow circles into the glass, she felt her waistband go taut behind her.

Sorrow was always grabbing onto things gaining fistfuls of fabric. And Sorrow hadn’t learned from yesterday when Sorrow grabbed her cloth.

"Sorrow. Don't—"

SHHHLMP.

The sweats peeled down past her hips, past her thighs — nothing underneath. Her rear hung bare in the afternoon light, each cheek big enough to dwarf a beach ball, jiggling as she jerked upright.

The ghosts converged.

Dumpling landed flat on the buttock clevage back and sank in, eyes fluttering shut. Warm. Nap forever.

Peanut was pressing his face against Sam's backside and saying, "Sam, your cheeks are so soft!"

Gordy chomped down on the left, kneading and gnawing like a starving man at a banquet. Breakfast lunch AND dinner. My home now.

Pip dove into the crease between them, wriggling until only his head poked free. so warm.

Carl dragged in a frying pan and tennis ball, wound up, and smacked. THONK. The ball sank halfway into the right cheek and rebounded. He retrieved it. THONK. Again. THONK.

"Okay." Samantha's voice was flat, stretched thin. "Guys. I'm busy."

THONK.

All day. I've held this in ALL DAY. This will show ‘em…

She clenched her teeth. Gripped the rag in her right hand and the window frame with left hand. Arched her back, closed her “eyes”, and after a few seconds of dignified discharge— let go.

BBBBBBRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPP

It was a monster. Deep, rattling, endless — from somewhere near the foundation of the house itself. The window glass buzzed. The coffee table walked two inches across the floor. Dumpling launched off like a bottle rocket, still asleep, pinwheeling into the curtains. The tennis ball reversed mid-flight and rocketed into the kitchen with a distant clang. Sorrow dropped the pan and fled straight up through the ceiling.

RRRRRBBBBBBBBTTTTTTTTT—

Gordy peeled off and splatted against the armchair. Pip got the full point-blank treatment, fired from between the cheeks like a champagne cork — THWPPP — sailing the length of the living room before sticking to the wall beside the Henderson family portrait.

The fart rumbled for 55 seconds, sputtering through three finale bursts — PRRRBB. PRRRB. PRRRBB — before dying. The smell rolled out after it: 1974 beans, sulfur, old cabbage, thick enough to fog the bottom third of the windows she'd just cleaned.

Silence. The curtains swayed.

Samantha exhaled through her nose, hauled her sweats back up over the massive swell of her hips with a firm snap, and drifted to the next window, the green haze slowly dispersing politely in her wake.

Custom Scenario!