Non-consensual defecation

"How's the human?" asked Fishface.

"Raw," replied the Duchess. "Needs more cooking."

The Duchess began to wonder if eating that human had been a bad idea… It had gone down no problem, but as her gizzard attempted to start processing, she felt its jelly layer become rancid and arbitrary. It curdled and began dropping away from her gizzard walls in rubbery sheets, and her body forced out a stream of wet belches in protest. The Duchess was angry at her own body betraying her like this, interrupting her refined and poised presentation. She would have to give the workers at the jelly-fields some extra beatings for this.

Her crystalline glycoprotein rod, which helped break down the food in her gizzard, began to foam and fizz. Something in that human definitely didn't agree with her… Her body gave up on her weakened crystalline rod as a lost cause, and the mycelium of her omasum elongated and grabbed it, pulling it in for breakdown and recycling. The remains of the human's corpse got pulled in as well - the Duchess hoped she'd feel a little better once her omasum pulverised it. And she did indeed feel a little better, for a brief moment… until she was forced to cough into her hand to disguise her retching as she tried to suppress her nausea. Oh, this did not feel good…

The nestraps inside her stomach wilted and withered. The little symbiotic 'bird-slugs' inside her, who normally kept her tripe-folds clean, retreated deeper into their burrows, cheeping throatily in protest. The Duchess's pipework oozed grease at its joints, as her yeast-vats struggled to manufacture the right enzymes to deal with this wretched human carcass. They bubbled and churned with most alarming noises, the vats frothing over in defeat.

The Duchess had been afraid she was going to vomit, but now she was afraid she wouldn't.

"Error," announced her body's on-board diagnostic system. "Fatal error - total system corruption. Purge and reset protocol deploying in 3… 2…"

"No!" exclaimed the Duchess. Not here! Not now!

"…1," said her on-board diagnostic with devastating finality.

The Duchess's ominous bum-rumblings became ominous bum-jumblings. Her metal sphincter opened up like a hagfish's mouth, and the bottom fell out of her world as the world fell out of her bottom.

A tsunami of runny-yet-lumpy arse-plasma erupted from the Duchess's ringpiece, the gushing stream bisected by the gusset of her skimpy knickers. One half of the hot stream went down each of her tight trouser-legs. Miscellaneous chunks of her defeated mycelium and crystalline proteins, as well as dead symbiotes, bolts and washers from broken piping, and pieces of Astro-sweetcorn all tumbled out of her trousers.

The Duchess coughed and spluttered -- though not from her mouth. Her bumpipe made a terrible cacophony of squelching and creaking and bursting and squirting, and the rivers of shit cascaded down, down her trouser legs and into her socks. The slippery shit, revoltingly warm and acid, filled her shoes and made the Duchess lose her balance as she tried to somehow outrun her own filth. She slipped and skidded and landed right on her mucky arse.

"…Definitely needed more cooking," observed Fishface.