Redhead was to meet Mariosquiqui at their usual spot: that Café they always had breakfast in after Sunday Mass. Mariosquiqui, longtime close friend, had her life settled several miles apart from Redhead. They haven’t seen each other in ages, and she was eager to meet her, hear about her adventures, catch up with her, because Mariosquiqui, fidget, always has a new story to tell. As she walked by, she passed by the Church they had volunteered so many times and enjoyed so much together. Unexpectedly, her stomach growled. Not hungry (a bit), but restlessness. Not hers, just a memory. Not hers, either: it belongs to Mariosquiqui. They shared so many memories. This one, one to remember. One of those times, Mariosquiqui was put back in place, for her bad habits. In that church. Because…

Mariosquiqui, real name Mariah (none of her friend calls her like that), has always been a free spirit, even though her parents wished she was more restrained. Two years older, but a similar level of maturity. Brunette, straight hair, pretty face, curvy-sexy figure (half-sisters with Redhead). Sweet, but strong personality, overconfident; convinced her character would take her far (and right she was), and with an excessive taste for excess; all fuelled by her good, but naïve parents. No wonder tranquillity never suits her. And she’s a girl who doesn’t look like it: she usually appears (she isn’t) serene, but when TV turns off…. Even if Redhead considers herself somewhat naughty, Mariosquiqui was always been one or two steps ahead: she knew, and better knows as of today, where to draw the line with her antics, and never liked lose control; Mariah, not at all: she loved, probably still loves, bursts of ecstasy and chaos, this “night version” of hers, her truly original self. “Feels good to be bad” she joked… not really. In her language, that is, giving her 100%: flash, flash, pose, pose, drink, drink, smoke (or more) … if lucky, kiss some cute boy out there. Her limit was, precisely, taking the next step with those boys, because she was very picky before going forward; everything else… was welcomed. All, “very professional,” she also says; never understood the drama her parents created around it. Even if she has, occasional, one “crazy night”, or two, Mariosquiqui, for what Redhead knows, is calmer now, about to marry a good man who managed to get past her expectations. She still needs those moments of frenzy.

Coming back to wilder times… It was Sunday. Summer. Redhead was 18, to 19; Mariosquiqui 20 or so. At 08:30AM, as usual, both families met up under the porch of Mariosquiqui’s house, before 09:00 Mass…. That day, a little earlier, Mariosquiqui’s mom asked them to come over. Not to the porch: to the house. Redhead, oblivious to everything (for now), didn’t think much of it; both her parents knew. What Redhead was certain about was her friend arrived late, because she hadn’t walked her back when almost midnight. Mariosquiqui was in “that” mood, and she knew what happened when that girl got into “that” mood. So much, she was surprised Mariosquiqui was in any condition to go to church so early in the morning. Mariosquiqui’s house pleased Redhead: small, yes, but pretty, with a modern theme, full of carefully crafted woodwork, many paintings (small, large, family portraits, landscapes….) and rugs of all kinds. Large living room, largest room in the house.

There were Mariosquiqui's parents, dressed for the occasion, and their daughter too, also dressed for the occasion, but with a rather somber expression. She smelled clean, as if she had just come from the bath, and her attire was quite appropriate for her condition: a modest and sober short-sleeved black dress that reached a little below her knees, with only white trim, almost without detail, on the collar and sleeves; and also a black headband that gave her a solemn air, atypical for, at least, a living Mariosquiqui, but appropriate for a funeral. The girl's state of mind matched the miserable look behind her pretty dress: melancholic, tired, and haggard. "Post-mood," Redhead called it. It was odd that Mariosquiqui was awake after her night out, she thought, but she was about to find out why: her mother had explained in rather unkind terms that her daughter had returned at 4:30 AM, without any sign of life before that, drunk, probably high, and, judging by the smell, had surely thrown up on the way home. A disgusting sight, which fit with Mariosquiqui's gloomy mood. Vic, Redhead's mother, had to know, because she didn't seem surprised and simply disapproved of the girl's behaviour. Even if Redhead and her sister didn't know it, they could easily imagine. Mariosquiqui's mother then asked them to volunteer to witness the punishment her daughter deserved. Redhead was shocked: it had been a long time since she had seen her friend punished. She remembered her own punishments in front of Vic Jr.

"Mom, really...? Can't we do this later?" the girl replied disapprovingly. Her voice was hoarse, clearly betraying a night of wild partying. What it didn't betray, however, was much shame—as if, given her circumstances, she cared a little less about being exposed than one might expect. Her mother, angry but in control, simply threatened her with harsher reprisals if she kept protesting—a threat she decided not to push too far, considering how much effort the conversation was already costing the girl. Her complaints grew quieter, almost unintelligible, partly because she was physically too exhausted to protest any further. Her father returned from the kitchen with a bowl of hot water—giving off a faint but noticeable scent of soap—along with a classic black enema bulb and some Vaseline. "Oh, man..." Mariosquiqui protested again. Like her parents, Redhead knew that the best form of discipline in Mariosquiqui’s house was a good colon cleanse. Although it appeared to be a soapy enema—using a relatively mild soap, judging by the scent—Redhead imagined that, given the tobacco and alcohol involved, it would be a difficult ordeal to endure. She, for one, had never received an enema while half-drunk.

Mariosquiqui’s mother—following the established household protocol—laid out the punishment step by step: her daughter was to receive three full bulbs for her bad habits and poor behaviour the previous night, one additional one for missing her curfew, and yet another for talking back when confronted about her attitude. Before her daughter could reply, the mother pre-emptively noted that the bowl held enough water to add a couple more bulbs on top of the extra one already earned, should the girl decide to keep defying her. Adding more volume was a bad idea, and Mariosquiqui knew it; the wisest course was to stay quiet and obey. "What a load of crap..." she muttered under her breath. Her mother continued: the girl had to hold the fluid inside until they reached the church building—giving the enema time to take effect—where she would be allowed to relieve herself. If she failed to hold it long enough, she would have to change clothes, but upon returning from church, she would receive a much larger bag enema and be required to hold it for a significantly longer time. That was a serious threat, though unlikely to be carried out; the church was less than a five-minute walk from Mariosquiqui’s house, making the walk—while certainly uncomfortable—manageable. Besides, looking at the chosen bowl, she was certain the volume wouldn't be excessive. Her mother told her to get ready, and she complied, letting out another sigh of complaint: she leaned over the table, pulled down her white panties, and—as ordered by her mother and swallowing all her shame—spread her buttocks. It was the only moment the girl seemed self-conscious about having witnesses. Her secret little hole—now revealed to everyone present—was carefully lubricated; once it glistened in the daylight, amidst the various sighs Mariosquiqui interspersed with her unintelligible complaints, the enema bulb was carefully inserted into her rectum. "Fuck... What a disgusting punishment..." the girl said again, feeling her mother subtly squeezing the bulb as the soapy water was deposited into her colon. "Ugh..." GRLRLRRL... Empty; and she, a little fuller. Because, in all likelihood, she already was. Her mother ordered her to count—something Mariosquiqui hated—but she had no choice.

Amidst comments about how squeaky-clean she’d be before Mass—and how much her mother hoped this would make her rethink her choices before getting wasted like she had the night before—Mariosquiqui once again felt that black plastic nozzle (matching her dress) invading her backside. She felt her rectum stretch to accommodate a fresh influx of liquid. "Mom... how much soap is in this? Good grief... I already need to go to the bathroom, and you want me to hold it until church? Damn... OH..." GURGLE… The removal of the enema bulb was her answer, along with a firm "YES" from her mother—and a reminder to think about this enema next time she reached for her first drink. Her mother knew the girl was just complaining for the sake of it; as Mariosquiqui would later admit, the soap wasn't actually harsh, and holding in wasn't all that difficult. Perhaps she hadn't considered how alcohol would amplify the effects... or maybe she saw a silver lining in the situation. Who knows? With Mariosquiqui’s digestive system particularly sensitive to intruders that morning, the mere insertion of the nozzle stimulated the area. She shifted her backside slightly, though it offered little relief; the problem was inside, and the pressure was mounting by the second. "UH..." Another insertion, another bulb squeezed, more solution for Mariosquiqui to worry about—and then the bulb was removed. Enema count: 3. Seizing the moment—and the challenge—as the nozzle was withdrawn, Mariosquiqui spoke up: "On top of everything, I feel a fart coming on... I’m going to make a huge noise in church, just so you know." Her mother simply replied that, at this rate, the fifth bulb wouldn't be the last one she’d be getting... and took the opportunity to comment to Vic about her daughter’s foul mouth. She nodded, acknowledging the point. Bulbs number 4 and 5 arrived without further comment from her, though the first signs of discomfort did appear: grunts and subtle shifts in posture. Once they were finished, Mariosquiqui managed to pull her panties back up and stand—albeit with some difficulty and a strained expression that betrayed her effort to hold it in, given how tightly she was crossing her legs. She was undoubtedly feeling the full effect of the soap creating a tsunami inside her, along with the weight of nearly half a litter of hot water in her backside. "Oh... I feel so bloated... Can we go now, please? I’ve been embarrassed enough as it is... And I need to use the bathroom." Her mother nodded, grabbed her purse, and they left.

The families split into two groups: up front, the parents—moving at a "normal" pace—discussed discipline, today’s kids, and bad habits. Naturally, there were plenty of examples—mostly involving other people, though a couple concerned Redhead (mild ones that didn't reveal too much about her) and more than a few involved Mariosquiqui (shared in greater detail than she would have liked, though she had certainly earned it). Bringing up the rear were the girls, moving at the pace set by the one who had been grounded: Mariosquiqui, Redhead, and Vic Jr. Obviously, Mariosquiqui couldn't walk any faster; for one thing, she lacked the energy for a normal pace, and for another, she was using a good chunk of that energy left to clench her glutes and hold back her enema—something that, while uncomfortable, was just about manageable... though every step was getting a little harder. Redhead asked how she was holding up. "Well, you know... I feel like it could slip out at any moment, but I can walk and all that... Damn, it’s just so unfair. Will I ever be able to move out? I’m twenty, for God's sake. This whole 'living under their roof' thing and all that bullshit is just so stupid," she said. Redhead understood her—better than she could have imagined—because, even if less frequently, she too had been there: on the receiving end of the scolding and the enema tube. She knew what it was like to clash head-on with parental authority. Vic Jr. was able to chime in too—albeit less so—since she wasn't immune to punishments herself. The group at the back, then, was discussing the same topic as the group at the front, though from a completely different perspective: that of the "oppressed." And criticizing their parents, of course. The parents' opinions were heard by the daughters; the reverse, not so much. All the while, Redhead admired the fortitude with which Mariosquiqui managed to function despite a massive hangover—lingering effects from the night before—and half a litter of current trouble churning in her gut; still, the occasional crack in her facade betrayed the fact that the discomfort, the bloating, and the gas she had mentioned earlier were waging a covert war inside her. Her pace slowed a bit, and more than once an involuntary sigh escaped her; just before entering the church, she had to stop to pull herself together. Mariosquiqui glanced around, closed her eyes, and rubbed her belly, regaining enough composure to finish the walk. Redhead asked how she was feeling again, but this time the answer was blunt: "I need to poop—and a lot... Thank goodness it’s only three minutes away. It’s urgent now." Her words and gestures matched perfectly: she was reaching her limit.

Luckily for Mariosquiqui, the church was already there. It was a modest building sandwiched between two houses; one was an attached annex used for catechism classes—and the first, mandatory stop for the girl in distress. They arrived early—too early for Mass, with hardly anyone around to greet yet; even the priest hadn't shown up. That was good: they liked him, but Mariosquiqui had neither the inclination nor the time to waste even two minutes chatting. She approached her mother—looking anything but friendly and clearly at the end of her rope—and, in a soft voice tinged with understandable embarrassment about what she was about to ask, confronted her regarding whether her punishment was reasonably over. "Mom, CAN I GO TO THE BATHROOM, please?" she asked in a low voice—audible only to Mom (and the nearest bystander) but clearly insistent. The urgency was pressing; and rightly so. Although her mother didn't appreciate the tone, she understood her daughter's need for relief and agreed. Mariosquiqui turned to Redhead and spoke in a low voice: "Come with me, will you? That way I can rant while I take a dump." Even though it was a bit gross, Redhead liked the idea of ranting and went along; Vic Jr. stayed behind with his parents. They went through the left-hand door, entered the annex's foyer, and headed to the bathroom: a small white square containing a toilet, a sink, and a tiny window—all white, old-fashioned, but functional. Mariosquiqui wanted nothing more than a place to sit down; it was obvious that the composure Redhead admired was hitting rock bottom, right along with her endurance. "Phew... It’s coming out, I really gotta go..." she said, her tone surprisingly cheerful and almost sing-songy. She yanked her panties down—faster than Redhead had ever managed—to just above her knees, hiked up her dress, and plopped noisily onto the toilet seat without a second thought. "Oh, God..." That was her only message to the world—along with a look of utter relief—before she noisily emptied herself, just as she’d predicted. PPPPPPSSSSSHHHHHHHT! PSHHHHHTT! Redhead chuckled and asked—knowing the answer full well (and she would have known even without asking, given the force with which the stream hit the bowl)—if she was peeing. "No, I'm not peeing..." She laughed too, then furrowed her brow and strained a little, intensifying the violence with which the water—and all those vices she’d indulged in the night before—was leaving her body. "Fuck... goddamn enemas, I hate them so much. It happens to you too, right? There was a moment there where I thought I was gonna shit my panties..." she said. "Plus, it’s totally unfair... At my age, I should be able to do whatever I want, right? I mean, sure, sometimes I go a bit overboard... And I get embarrassed too—you know, it’s not like I enjoy waking up hungover or having thrown up, but... still, going from that to THIS—having to show your ass to your mom and everything..." she complained. The two of them chatted a bit about individuality, age, and choices—punctuated by the sounds of rushing water and bathroom noises—finding themselves more or less in agreement on everything and concluding that... well, their moms were just overreacting a bit! Typical conclusions for young women! Redhead and Mariosquiqui kept on venting to their hearts' content, until Mariosquiqui’s expression shifted; she strained again, expelling more water and gas. PRRRT—it echoed in the toilet! "Oops... Like I told my mom, I really needed to fart. Phew...! It smells awful..." They laughed again as she wiped herself and straightened her dress. "I hope nobody walks in here, because—phew!" Both of them stepped out and rejoined the ritual. A healthy, clean body, sure, but when it came to Mariosquiqui... her mind was made up. She was a free spirit, that girl.