This time, she placed cuffs on my ankles, pulling my legs back against my shoulders to secure my cuffs to eyehooks mounted on the edge of the table, attaching similar cuffs to my wrists and securing them to eyehooks adjacent to the ones that held my body in its bent position and exposed my slightly tilted rump to her ministrations. I moaned in apprehension and mounting lust, knowing that my backside, bowels, and genitals were completely at her mercy; I wondered just how she was going to rinse me out, and how long she'd make me hold this fresh load of liquid.

She disappeared from my view for what seemed like hours, but must in reality have been no more than ten minutes. When she returned, she was pushing the IV stand with a monstrous black bag hanging from its top. Attached to the bottom of the hose was a single inflatable nozzle with a 500cc balloon (not the 250cc balloons like those installed on the double inflatable nozzle she'd just used on me) from which depended a 27mm colon tube five feet in length. "I'll need to get really deep inside you with this rinse," she announced, "so that you'll get all that glycerine and soap completely washed out of your system."

As she snapped latex surgical gloves on both hands, I inquired, "How big is that bag, anyway?"

"The biggest one I could find, slave. It holds ten quarts, and you're going to be taking every delicious ounce. And if you complain just once, I'll fill it again." With a stern expression on her face, she cautioned, "So be sure to maintain a respectful attitude and absolute silence, unless I demand a response from you, or I just might fill you until you explode." Her voice turned into a snarl as she completed this ultimatum, and I felt my dick erecting hungrily as she added a second finger to the prostate massage she gave me in the guise of lubing my bunghole for the huge colon tube.

As she added a third finger, she asked, "Does my naughty little baby need his tummy washed out?" as she patted my flat abdomen.

Getting into the spirit of infantilism she seemed to be establishing, I whined, "Oh Mommy, it burns so bad inside my tummy. Please rinse me out with that yummy warm water." Rocking back and forth as much as my immobilized body would allow, I moaned in real distress from the soreness inside my middle, looking up at her with pleading eyes as I felt big tears (real, not feigned) slide down my cheeks. "I think I'm going to be really sick if you don't wash out my tum-tum, sweet Mommy." I belched, my nausea from the punishing nature of the soap and glycerine that lingered in my colon returning with increasing force.

"And will you kiss Mommy's ass some more if I start this warm rinse for you?" she inquired, with a gleeful look of absolute control on her face. She patted my belly again, beginning to knead it gently as she waited for my reply.

"Yes, Mommy," I hiccupped, my respiration rate accelerating at the idea of what she was about to do to me. "Please enema my tummy and make it bigger than yours so that nasty stuff will be all rinsed out of me." I began to pant as her massage of my sore abdomen began to intensify.

"Very well, then," she replied, one hand reaching to slide a finger clad in a latex exam glove, lubricated with K-Y jelly, into my tight sphincter. Her action of pumping the digit in and out renewed my erection, and I gasped as she added a second finger and continued to fingerfuck my opening fanny with a gleeful expression on her face.

"That feels so good, Mommy," I observed. "I can't wait for that nice warm load of water to start flowing into my tummy."

"And I can't wait to give it to you, my angel," she replied. "It will be especially soothing after the assault with the soap and glycerine, because I've stirred in five tablespoons of baking soda." Her hand began to squeeze my belly flesh vigorously as she added a third finger to her digital assault of my anus.

"Yummy," I cooed. "Baking soda rinses are ever the best." I gurgled contentedly, sounding for all the world like a toddler who was being treated for a real intestinal problem. "I love my Mummy--she takes such good care of me," I continued in a childish sing-song. "Please give me my tummy wash now, sweet Mummy."

"In a minute," she replied, adding a fourth finger to her anal massage. "I've got to get your bootie hole widened out enough so I can begin to work that tube inside you." She continued to saw the four fingers in and out of my wide open asshole, curling the tips against my prostate in a way that made me fearful that I'd squirt a hot, forbidden load of my cum-sauce before she could begin easing the giant tube into my rear. Before that could happen, however, she pulled the fingers out with a pop, then began to ease the thick tube inside my receptive opening, not stopping until it was inserted well past my prostate and deep into my sigmoid colon. "Here comes your tummy wash," she announced, opening the clamp to let the huge load of solution gurgle forcefully into my empty bowels.

"So good!" I hissed, feeling the pressure begin as the two and a half gallons of solution began to distend my abdomen almost immediately. My dick was once more erect, and I moaned in pleasure at the arousal as the pressure in my middle began to mount more rapidly than I'd ever experienced before. The huge bag, hung about five feet above my slightly elevated rear, was draining its contents into me far too quickly, and I coughed as I implored, "Mommy, it's coming in too fast. Can you slow it down a bit? If you don't, I'm afraid my tummy's going to burst."

"Certainly," she responded, closing the clamp and moving the bag to the lowest horizontal support on the IV stand. She began a gentle massage of my already hugely bloated gut, soothing me with her voice, "It's all right, baby. Mommy won't try to push the rest of it into you so fast." As she said this, she eased the tube further into my colon, twisting and bending it until it was all the way inside me. "I think," she observed thoughtfully, "that now that the tube is way up high inside you, you'll probably be able to take the rest of the solution more easily." She continued her caress of my distended middle for several minutes before opening the clamp to release the last gallon of the solution into my stretching inside.

"Is that better, sugar?" she inquired. She rubbed both hands in large circles around the girth of my hugely inflated stomach. Noticing my look of distress and panic, she added, "It will help if you take some deep breaths, so pant like a puppy, sugar, okay?"

Beginning the recommended breathing, I noticed her walking away, big round ass swaying sensually as she left the bathroom for a few moments. When she returned, she carried a pitcher filled with a pale liquid and a huge vibrator to which a rough-surfaced massage plate was attached. "As soon as you've held the 2-1/2 gallons of baking soda solution for the ten minutes required for this treatment, I'm going to add another treat to your tummy wash." Easing the inflatable nozzle balloon fully into my rectum, she pumped the inflator bulb three times, then thought better of her plan and pumped it twice more.

I couldn't have expelled that giant load of liquid if I'd wanted to; the balloon felt like a regulation softball inside my ass, and I grunted as I felt the pressure of my treatment against its expanse. My dick was weeping precum at a furious rate, so much that I could see the glistening trail of dampness all over my hugely distended middle. I belched with the fullness inside me as she began to run the vibrator plate across my impregnified abdomen, wincing at the abrasion from its rough plane. I soon noted that my nausea was gone, replaced by the explosive fullness that swept every inch of my colon. My hiccups had ceased, and I purred contentedly as Mistress Satana continued her abrasive massage of my swollen gut.

Checking her watch, she observed, "You've held this for the required ten minutes without complaining. Good little doggy boy." She set the vibrator aside, patted my huge paunch affectionately, and raised the pitcher of liquid over the top of the open bag, pouring it in slowly and carefully so not a drop could be wasted. "Here's the treat I promised you," she announced, opening the clamp to release the additional fluid into my already stuffed bowels.

At first, I felt a sensation of frigidity in my middle, then began the most intensely wicked set of gas pains I'd ever felt. "What is that stuff, Mommy? It feels like my tummy's about to burst."

"A half-gallon of lemonade, made extra strong and ice cold. How do you like the effect?"

"I feel like I'm gonna split wide open, Mommy. Please take it out, or my tummy's gonna pop wide open."

"Not until the bag is empty," she commanded, a stern expression on her face. "This may be the only way you'll ever learn to identify with back labor; I got this recipe from a friend of mine who recently had triplets, after sixteen hours of back labor." She began kneading my belly flesh brutally hard with her strong fingers, causing me to belch in nausea, forcing tears of brutal agony to stream from my eyes as I felt as though my middle had been transformed into a hot-air balloon. "Do you know what the best part of this baking soda-lemonade cocktail is, sugar?"

"Nothing," I groused, my tongue hanging out of my mouth from the intensity of my nausea and explosive fullness.

"The best part is that it takes a while before you can even begin to expel the solution, and the cramps and explosive farts when you do expel will make you wish you could keep this delicious stuff inside you for a longer time." She resumed her vibrator massage of my vastly expanded midsection as the last of the acidic chaser chugged inexorably into my distended colon.

A clicking sound alerted me to the fact that I had, in essence, three gallons of busy solution percolating inside my vastly expanded abdomen, and I heard her footsteps moving away just as the doorbell sounded. I fell into a partial swoon, conscious only of the tiger clawing inside my crampy guts.