Behind the living room door…

Curly Boy waits, once again. Leaning over the table, bracing himself for what’s coming. Misbehaviour—discipline is on the way. He waits—patiently, yet impatiently—for Redhead to return from the kitchen. He sighs. The mid-afternoon sun streams directly in through the window…. It’s warm, which is why he isn’t wearing a shirt. He’s still in his jeans, though they’ll be coming off in a few minutes. For the boy, it is, without a doubt, a terrible time. Curly Boy wonders why Redhead always waits until midday to mete out punishment, even when the trouble happened in the morning… and he remembers, once again, that he had a late lunch—his own fault, which is precisely why he’s sitting there braced for impact—and had finished the meal with a coffee. He had let his attention wander—naturally—forgetting that Redhead comes home from work hungry. And hunger means a bad mood. If he’s distracted by excuses, he might get a pass; without them, he knows exactly how the situation will end.

Behind the cabinet door…

Redhead glances sideways at her boyfriend, looking anything but friendly. She is dressed in the outfit she wore to work—a brown shirt and navy-blue bell-bottom jeans. Well-groomed. Gorgeous. But angry. Her annoyance is unmistakable; she is an expressive girl whose face gives plenty away. She already has the Vaseline in hand and is weighing her options on the "punishment shelf"… Hesitant. She factors in the coffee and the food—which arrived late—as mitigating circumstances, so she struggles a bit to decide just how hard to squeeze (or rather, how hard Curly Boy will have to clench). Finally, she settles on a combo: she grabs two different jars and heads to the living room. Curly Boy’s face registers strong disapproval when he sees her coming, as he recognizes both jars. Redhead doesn't budge. "You should have thought of that sooner"—that is her only verbal response. The non-verbal part is yet to come. Curly Boy swallows hard and pulls down his jeans. He bares himself. He blushes slightly; no matter how many times he has gone through this, this step always makes him feel embarrassed.

Behind the back door, hidden between Curly Boy’s buttocks...

Intruders begin to slip in, their insertion eased by a generous dollop of Vaseline. This little door—round, shiny, and puckered—serves as the entry point for the unwelcome guests that will soon make the boy regret his actions. Redhead gently, deliberately pushes in the first glycerine suppository, then the second. Those transparent, sticky cones slide unopposed through her boyfriend’s most intimate little hole, traveling deep inside. He protests a bit—a token act of rebellion—but it doesn't change the course of events one bit. The medication, now waiting behind his secret gateway to take effect, begins to release its substances. Heat. Itching. That part is easy enough to bear, but it gives him an inkling of what’s to come. Or maybe not. "Please, babe, not one of *those* suppositories... Please..." he begs. It’s no use. Redhead insists the punishment is deserved, while a different kind of suppository emerges from the second plastic package. White, hard, barely sticky. "Better formed." The brand name *Dulcolax* is visible on the box. Bisacodyl—the active ingredient. An added bonus of this punishment: its insertion burns twice as much as the glycerine ones. And its effect is three times as intense—and unpleasant. "Fuck..." the boy mutters. Curly Boy’s little hole feels itself being violated once more, inch by inch, until the laxative disappears inside him. "Oh, God," he says again. He can already feel the heat, the burning sensation. It’s twice as intense as the glycerine suppositories—and he already had two of those inside him. His clothes are pulled back up, and he is made to turn around. Redhead remains unfriendly. He points to a spot in front of the bathroom door: fifteen minutes. An extra psychological punishment. The worst is yet to come. This has only just begun.

Behind the bathroom door…

Lies everything Curly Boy wants—and needs—right now. A pleasant, sunny, well-equipped bathroom. He can’t wait to open that door, head for the toilet, and sit down. He can’t stop thinking about it, or about how annoying it is to have to hold it in right there by the closed door. Just holding on, holding it in. He’s spent a few minutes—he doesn’t know exactly how many—in “reflection,” and that initial, genuine train of thought quickly led him to the conclusion that, yes, he had let himself get distracted. He shouldn’t have. He’ll try not to do it again. It took very little time to reach that realization—or so he thinks—since he has spent the last few minutes (however many there have been) dwelling on the effects of the suppositories Redhead inserted into his little hole—suppositories that are now on their way out. The two types, his girlfriend used. The itching and burning persist; milder but still there. The urge to use the bathroom—initially quite faint (due to the coffee)—has steadily intensified as he sat there reflecting... and now that the reflection is over, he has nothing better to think about. The glycerine suppositories are intense and are giving him gas; the bisacodyl suppository is far worse, triggering a terrible urge to push. His hand never leaves his buttock—a mechanism for a sense of “false” security. He dwells endlessly on how much he wants to empty his colon, how insistently his body is demanding it, and on the room—closed off to him—where he could finally do it. The door, however, will remain closed until further notice, and Curly Boy knows it. Sometimes he complains to the open air, other times to his girlfriend; the air offers no response, and his girlfriend is hardly encouraging, as she still insists on denying him his freedom. Meanwhile, the revolution is taking its course behind his buttocks, growing increasingly unstoppable; he has reached the point where his only thought is holding it back. And the fifteen-minute mark—if it hasn't passed already—is fast approaching. "Ugh... Babe, it’s about to come out..." he warns. He isn't bluffing. There isn't much time left. Behind the back door, between Curly Boy’s buttocks, the pressure is mounting, and time is running out to give in.

Behind the back door nestled between Curly Boy’s buttocks…

He counts the seconds until he can let go. The boy has his boss’s permission; the bathroom door is finally open, his jeans are pulled down just above his knees, and his buttocks—sweaty from the strain—rest contentedly against the slightly warm porcelain of the toilet bowl. You can tell the sun is shining in. Curly Boy has placed his hands wherever feels most comfortable—though anywhere would do—relaxing his entire being and surrendering completely to the overwhelming effect the suppositories have had on him. Sure enough, it’s coming out now… The punishment is ending—"OHHHH… It’s coming out…" the boy declares to the world. From the other side of the bathroom door, Redhead watches him out of the corner of her eye while folding laundry. Desperate yet relieved to finally answer that urge, the boy looks even sweatier from the outside, but his face expresses nothing but ecstasy. Then, she hears in vivid detail how the back door between Curly Boy’s buttocks brings the punishment to a close. PLOP-PLOP-PLOP. Hard, fast, and loud. It’s far away, yet the smell carries—bad, odd. Glycerine, something else. The look on the boy’s face is quite the poem. Liberated, certainly. And repentant. "Almost" fifteen minutes of anal agony set this boy straight. Though he still has a little while left for reflection… and straining. Dulcolax is, after all, a logical next step in punishing the boy. He emerges from the bathroom… a fresh look on his face, an apology. She is satisfied. He, surely, has learned something. Or maybe not. But he knows one thing: if he messes up… the bathroom door will be locked. And he’ll surely miss what’s inside.