“Sorry about that,” Andrew says, stopping in front of the sofa where I’m reading. “You told me to come down, not to stop in the kitchen for two shots of whiskey on the way.”

Whatever is on his mind frightens him enough to require fortification. “You needed to drink? What’s up?”

“Domina,” he says, then stops. He shakes his head, unable to continue.

“Baby, it’s me. You can say anything to me.”

“Shit. Yeah, okay. Yeah. So this one night, I got pretty drunk. I was, ah, looking at porn and clicking on links, going down a rabbit hole with some pretty weird stuff, and I watched a bunch and thought What the hell? and ordered something. It came today, only sober it seems way too… I don’t know about this.”

“Just tell me.”

“Or show you?”

“Or show me.”

He takes a deep breath, expanding the chest of his T-shirt, then undoes his fly, folding it open in a wide V.

Oh. He’s interested in latex? Not my thing, but I’ll go along. The black rubber low on his belly looks like the kind they use to make inner tubes. He pushes his pants down to show what appears to be a black rubber Speedo. As the pants go lower, his cock droops from an opening in front that also exposes his balls, the tight rubber cut and folded away to allow for it.

“I told you,” he says, looking at his cock rather than me. “After the doctor’s, how you could do this to me. You thought I was still drugged, talking nonsense, but I wasn’t.” His pants are around his knees now.

Wait, what is that? “Turn around so I can see.” His butt is covered, but there’s a black tube, four inches or so, sticking out and down, and a smaller one attached to an inflation bulb that dangles against his hard hamstrings.

“They’re enema pants,” he says, his voice tight.

I make my tone arch, the Domme rather than the surprised woman. “I’m unfamiliar. Tell me all about them.”

“Well, they’re cut away for my cock and balls,” he says. “Obviously. My cock’s out so I can be touched, or not be touched, whatever you say. Or touch myself, I guess. I’m pretty sure the balls are out because it would be really uncomfortable to have them pressed that hard. This thing fits tight!”

“I see. Turn around and tell me more.”

“Yes, ma’am. Domina. In back there’s a bigger tube. The other end of it is up my ass, held in place with this inflatable bulb thing. Inside me. The little tube is the inflator, like when they take your blood pressure?”

The lips of my pussy twitch. “So you can’t resist or refuse the enema by pushing out.”

“No, ma’am. And so I can’t have an accident, I hope.”

Oh, my. “I’m curious how you put these enema pants on.”

“It’s not easy. What I did was pull them to the top of my thighs, then grease up and put in the bulb. It was so soft I couldn’t until I inflated it just a little. Pull up the pants the rest of the way, adjust your junk, inflate the bulb, and report to your Domme.”

“Aren’t your forgetting something?”

“Drink two shots of whiskey.”

I suppress the grin. “And?”

“Oh. Fill the bag. If you, ah, want to do this to me, we shouldn’t take too long or it won’t be warm any more.”

“It won’t bother me if it isn’t warm, although it might bother you.”

His shiver is a delight, and his cock rises.

“Go upstairs. I’ll be there in a while.” I’m already thumbing the search into my phone, so I’ll know the safety aspects. Most of what I find is medical, concerned with both safety and comfort, even modesty.

One out of three isn’t all that good. I’m invested in his safety, of course, but intend to violate both comfort and modesty. That’s the whole point of what he bought.

Finally I find a message board, its notes going back twenty years, which is about how modern the user interface seems to be. But as I read, I learn a lot. A lot.

“Sorry, that took a while,” I say as I walk into our bathroom.

Andrew stands near the vanity, awkward, not sure what to do except cross his hands over his exposed genitals. The enema bag, frosted colorless silicone, hangs from the shower head. I walk past him and press my hand to it. Cool.

“Dump it.”

“Yes, Domina.” He unscrews the connector between hose and bag and pours lukewarm water down the drain.

“We’re going to do this the old fashioned way,” I announce. “You weigh yourself as a benchmark. Then you receive at least two enemas, whether you want two or change your mind and would rather receive none at all.”

“God,” he breathes.

“The first is soapy and you will retain it despite the inherent discomfort. Your new pants should prove useful. You empty yourself, however that works with your new pants. When you weigh less than before, you put on your pants again and receive a second filling, with some baking soda and sea salt to make sure its salinity matches your body’s. It will be a greater quantity, but you don’t need to retain it, although maybe I’ll have you do that for my pleasure. When you have emptied yourself fully, your anus and rectum will be clean, somewhat open, and entirely mine.”

He emits a sexual moan.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Yes, ma’am. Entirely yours.”

“Shall we get started, then? Come to the kitchen. We’ll need a pitcher.”

“What for?”

“To mix up a nice soapy solution.” Luckily I have a six-pack of the bar soap the people on the message board mentioned so many times. I grab it from the linen closet and go downstairs, Andrew on my heels.

The glass pitcher is a thrift store find, with a small chip at its lip. I bought it thinking it could serve as a casual, country-style vase for the flowers I would grow, except I never grew any. Even though our garden is doing quite well, it has no flowers.

“We should grow some flowers,” I tell him as I unwrap a bar of white too-sweet soap.

His eyebrows rise. “Whatever you want.”

“I’d like to be able to have a vase of flowers any time I want them. For you to pick them and present them to see how easy it is to make me happy. It doesn’t always have to be an enema.” Laughing, I drop the soap into the pitcher, then turn on the faucet, waiting for the water to run hot. “There we are,” I croon. “Nice and hot, but not too hot. Perfect for filling you to the brim.” That was foolish, since bodies don’t have brims.

He doesn’t say anything as the pitcher fills, the soap floating at its top. I get a big wooden spoon and stir, continuously but not especially vigorously. He watches with narrowed eyes as the water slowly goes from clear to whitish to the opacity of fat-free milk. “Come.”

Andrew follows me back up the stairs and into the bathroom.

“Hold the bag open while I pour.” The message board people said a quart and a half was a good starting point until a person learned their capacity. More than one noted that a person’s size and capacity are not necessarily related, that some small people could easily handle three quarts while others struggled at half that.

The bag has no measurements, but its box on the counter says its capacity is two quarts, so I eyeball three-quarters full. “There we are. Get it set up, baby.”

He screws the hose part on again and squeezes the bag until the air is out, the transparent hose filled with the milky soap solution. He clamps it shut at the end away from the bag. “It’s ready.” He hangs it from the shower head again. “You just put the connector at the end into the pants. Fuck.”

“Did you forget something?”

“How bad this is going to be.”

“Isn’t that a pity?” My voice is cold. “Weigh yourself.”

“Oh, right. Shit, I’m up almost five pounds.”

“Down on all fours, please.”

I have to move the bag to hang from the towel bar before I can connect the pants to it. A bubble enters the clear hose, no doubt the air that was in the empty tube extending from the pants. I pinch it as close to the pants as I can, and more air enters the tube. I pinch the hose up and up until the bubble is gone. There’s no announce that I’m starting. I release the clamp that holds the water back.

“Oh,” he says. “Ow.”

I stop it immediately. “Too hot?”

“Not hurting-hot, but it kind of stings.”

“The soap at work.” The message board people liked the sting. “You will endure it. Do I have your permission to proceed?”

“Oh, fuck. Yeah, do it.”

I let the soapy water flow quickly at first. A glance down shows his cock hard despite small noises of discomfort that aren’t words.

“You’re doing well, baby. Almost half way there.”

“Is that all? It’s getting really hard.”

“I saw. The end’s wet, too.”

“What?”

“Sorry, just a silly joke. You’re discussing the enema and I’m discussing your hard-on.”

“Stop, you have to stop.”

“I will. I shouldn’t have been joking in the first place.”

“No, stop the water. You have to!”

“Do I?” I don’t, but I slow the flow substantially.

Andrew’s buttocks clench inside their black latex covering, and the small sounds that aren’t words approach being Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh… broken into long strings of noises separated by moans. “Please,” he says, his voice thick with misery.

“Please what?”

“I don’t know, just… This is awful. I can’t.”

“That’s what the pants are for. You can’t, but you will.”

“Yes, Domina, yes, I can’t not, oh, oh…”

Finally the bag is flat. “Very good, baby. You thought you couldn’t, but you did because you had to. You’re going to hold it a while.”

“How long?” he says through gritted teeth.

“I’ll tell you when.” The website regulars held their enemas for anywhere from five minutes to a half hour. I’m thinking ten. “Does it still sting?”

“It’s real irritating.”

“Perfect.” I light two candles, their scents mingling immediately, and turn off the lights. The room seems calmer with only that, although some soft music might be nice. Next time. “Lie on your back.” I imitate a video someone at the message board linked, massaging his inflated belly over his colon in a clockwise rotation from appendix up, across between ribs and navel, and down the other side. I do it again, digging lightly with my knuckles like a cat kneading a lap. Andrew’s eyes are closed and mouth set. He’s enduring, not enjoying.

It’s only been four minutes, so I continue. “You’re at the beach, baby, a deserted beach. The sun is hot and the water’s perfect, warm a foot or so down, but the deeper part is wonderfully cool. You’ve been swimming, enough for your muscles to feel good resting, but now you’re lying on a towel in the shade, water beaded on your skin, just letting your mind wander, not a care in the world. Your lunch isn’t sitting right, but it’s not so bad you need to go find a bathroom quite yet. You will, soon, and you’ll feel fine after. But now, you’re just lying on your towel in the deep shade, the air warm on you, simply existing…”

Not only do my hands feel him relax as they work his belly, but it shows, his face slack, muscles soft, hands half open instead of fisted.

“How are you doing, baby? You good? Back to the beach. The sound of the waves is steady, so slow, and little rocks sparkle when the wave leaves them on the sand all wet. The sand is hot where the sun hits it, but you’re in the shade, one hand just playing in the sunny parts. You skin feels tighter as the beads of water evaporate. There’s no sound but the waves and your own breathing, just as slow and steady.”

His face twists. “Please,” he says. “Please, now. Right now.”

“I’m going outside for a bit. You get up and use the toilet. Don’t forget to weigh yourself after; you’re not empty until it’s less than before. Once you’re all the way empty, and cleaned up, put your enema pants on again and come find me.”

“Yes, Domina.”

“I’ll be in the back yard. Take your time.” It’s breezy, my hair whipping my face and once my eye, but Andrew will want auditory privacy and I’ll give it. Still, it seems like a very long time before he sticks his head out the door, looking to be sure no one is around but me.

“So modest,” I say with a smile. “Come escort your Domina inside.”

“I can’t go outside in these. Jesus.”

“Oh, all right. Be that way.” I lever myself off my chair and go into the kitchen.

Andrew wears only his enema pants and a frown. He holds an arm aloft for me to take, and escorts me upstairs to the larger of the bathrooms as if we were on the red carpet. “Sorry. Are you mad?”

“Only at myself. It was too big an ask. Have you prepared the next one?”

“I wasn’t sure just how you wanted it. I’ll do it now, however you say. Will it make me stop tasting soap?”

I don’t know, so I don’t answer. I have him rinse the bag well then fill it, adding a tablespoon of sea salt to the two quarts of warm water.

“I’m not complaining, but why?”

“You match your body’s salinity so osmosis won’t happen.”

His face announces his ignorance. How did he graduate from high school?

“Water going from the less salty cell into the saltier cell, until it’s all even? Some enemas, you want water drawn into the colon, but not a rinse. Elbows on the vanity this time.” I work the air bubbles out of the tube then hang the bag on the shower head. The flow is slow and apparently not difficult to accept until near the end, when Andrew again makes small sounds of discomfort and urgency.

The bag is almost flat and his cock stands hard away from his body. “Take however long it takes,” I tell him as I go, “and after, a quick shower. Come and find me when you’re clean.”

“Nnnh!”

“Struggling?”

“Yeah. Fuck. Please go.”

“Already gone, baby.”

Some time later, he walks out the kitchen door, wearing a towel wrapped at the waist and a handsome smile. Why is he carrying a flattened cardboard box?

He drops it two feet from my chair and kneels on it, carefully. “Thank you, Domina. That was—man, I don’t know what it was. Weird for sure. Hot while also being degrading. Not something I want in the regular rotation.”

“What you want,” I remind him, “is not my concern. You’ll receive an enema when I decide to give you one. With or without the pants, as I choose.”

“Yes, ma’am. I just hoped you’d, ah, take my preferences into account.”

Of course I will. “Unlikely.” I get up from my chair and slip past him. There’s not a lot of room. I walk behind him. “Elbows on my chair.”

“We’re outside!”

“Indeed. Elbows outside, or ping-pong paddle inside?”

He bends way over and sets his elbows on the seat of the chair, but his tensed muscles tell me he’s angry. I lift the lower edge of the towel with one finger and peer downward. I can’t see a thing in the deep shadow of his cleft.

“Very nice. We’re done now. Get up.”

He uses the chair to push off. “But I didn’t come.”

“Nor did I, in the unlikely event my satisfaction crossed your mind.”

“Shit. You want to punish me? Just not more of that.”

“Not for you to say, is it? Go put the pants on again.”

“Please, not another enema. Really, I don’t want it.”

His rising cock knows the truth. “It’s not up for discussion.”