Author's notes: You may remember, this story was written for an on-line sister in water love whom I've chosen to call Mary. This story is for her enema training. Throughout the tale, from chapter 3 forward, there are specific instructions for Mary to act out. Her Master's orders are always [enclosed in brackets] as shown here. Wherever bracketed text occurs, Mary, my on-line enema subbie, has already acted out the story and e-mailed me a dripping wet, sexy description of how it made her feel. There are more of those bracketed instructions in this chapter.

Perhaps some of you would like to follow in her steps. If so, print this so you can read it in the privacy of your bed and bath. Others may just wish only to read, content in the knowledge that what you are reading is not mere fantasy, but a real scene, enacted in many hot variations, by adventurous people here in the many places the Internet touches.

If you are playing Mary's role, note that this chapter includes the use of alcohol and valium in an enema. Alcohol is a potentially addictive substance. Excessive alcohol (more than you would comfortably drink) in an enema is very dangerous. Valium is a prescription drug carrying warnings not to mix it with alcohol. Also, this chapter describes a high-volume enema. As you read and play, recognize the line between fantasy/fiction and reality. Please use your common sense, and don't do anything that would put your safety or legal rights in jeopardy. If you haven't a whit of common sense, then use mine, and don't enact this chapter! You have been warned.

Finally, throughout this work, there are sections where I relate my own thoughts, usually indicated by a comment such as 'I thought' or 'I mused.' Personal reflections are set off in italics in the original text, and are related in the present tense. However, for this ASCII version on the net, no italics are available, and I have not used the _this_is_underlined_ convention. I don't like it. I trust the reader can take all this in stride. Now, to Mary's tail . . . er tale.

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I was up before dawn toady. I hadn't planned any such Monday morning diligence. But a notable artist had painted an elegant sunrise to bid farewell to yesterday's tempest. Having spread this glory in the pre-dawn sky, He had called secretly to me in my sleep, wanting me to witness the refinement of His heavenly tapestry - the beauty unfurled in the disappearing clouds on the horizon . . . it had to portend a good day.

Unwilling to issue any more than a covert wake-up call to my two sleeping beauties, I set about preparing morning coffee for three. Perhaps the rich, sweet aroma, wafting through the suite, would steal sleep from you, too. After all, fucked and sucked to near oblivion, we had collapsed by no later than nine the night before.

My ploy worked. In time to see the fringe of red before the rising sun cleared the cloud bank, you and Jazmand were up. We shared coffee and intimate teases on the balcony, overlooking the boat yard where, if all went as scheduled, I'd take delivery of the new yacht today. We decided to forego the hotel's restaurant this morning and hike to somewhere on the waterway's edge. A morning walk in the rain-washed air would do us good.

I was in high spirits by our return. What a grand entrance the Alexander has. I all but danced through the garden, round the fountain, threatening to jump in. And the two of you did no better. Urging me on, daring me to take the plunge. Feed a ham, will you? In I went. Then out - dripping wet - and into the stuffy elegance of the Alexander's lobby. Hiding behind the two of you to avoid undue notice from the desk clerk.

But he was waiting for me. He knew you, and guessed correctly that I must be the shadowy figure at your side. "Mr. West!" he called. "I have four messages for you. One of 'em is urgent."

"Thanks," I sheepishly replied, taking the messages while trying not to drip too much on his polished-marble floor. You've got to remember to act your age, I thought. But quickly followed by a mental note - A good law, yet one made to be broken. I may grow old in spirit, but I damn well won't do it without a fight.

Back in the room, I stripped off the dripping clothes. That done, and in a robe, I sorted through the phone messages the desk clerk had handed me. A call from the boat yard, the Key West police, something for Jazmand about her condo, and finally, the urgent one - from Rashad's tail.

Tony Rueger's investigator in Key West, Bob Templeton, had called only minutes before we returned to the hotel. He should still be in his office. I dialed his number immediately. "Templeton here," the voice crackled.

"Morning Bob," I said, introducing myself. "I'm returning your call."

"Right, Mr. West. Good to talk to you, since I'm on this job, working for you. Well, you asked that we let you know if Mr. Banton made plans to leave Key West. He's booked a flight to Miami. Arrives there at two this afternoon. Just thought you'd want to know."

I certainly did! I didn't want to know what manner of dirty tricks they'd used to get such information, though. Wiretap? Something illegal? I steered the conversation on a different tack. "What else have you been able to learn about Rashad?"

"Well, he does seem to have connections to Jamaican drug smuggling. He's definitely not a street dealer or runner. Must be a boss of some kind. We've been able to gather quite a file on him, given the short time we've been working. I don't think much of it would be good in court, though. Of course, Mr. Rueger should have the final say on that."

"Right," I said. "But tell me why you feel it's not strong evidence."

"It's documentation enough, Mr. West, but it's almost all circumstantial or hearsay. There's little or no hard, court- admissible evidence in the packet to date. Most of it is what Mr. Banton has told others about himself and his doings."

"Well," I countered, "given the restrictions on gathering evidence, I'm not surprised by that. On the contrary, I'm pleased with your progress. I didn't think you'd have anything worthwhile this early in the investigation."

I hung up, encouraged that the investigators were already beginning to accumulate data on Rashad's underworld activities. There was something else about the call, though - something troubling me. However, I couldn't figure out what, and there were the other calls to return.

I dialed the Key West police and asked for Detective Johnston, whose name was on the message slip. His "Johnston" boomed through the receiver. He explained that he'd been assigned to the shots-fired investigation. He wanted to let me know that they had found a car matching the description of the shooter's, and that it had Florida tags with the NLT prefix. "It was stolen a month before the shooting," he said in his powerful baritone. "Looks like a professional job. Look," he added as an afterthought, "we've got you as a straight-and-narrow citizen, but if you're in some kind of trouble with organized crime, now's the time to tell us. It might save your skin."

"Thanks, detective," I chuckled, hoping that he wouldn't hear the tension in my lungs. "But I can assure you that I haven't turned to drug running or diamond smuggling in my old age."

"No . . . you haven't, we've already checked you out," he admitted. "But what about those two ladies you're hanging out with? You know one of them has a rap sheet down here and in Miami? She might be bringing her trouble with her, Mr. West. You sure she's worth it? Maybe you better just back off."

"I'm sure she's worth it, detective. But thanks for the warning and the concern." I felt his worry was genuine. And more than a little bit justified. This might be a dangerous game we were playing. Had that bullet been a warning shot? If so, who was it meant to warn? What was it meant to say? What would come next if we got the wrong answers to these questions?

With Jazmand now in the forefront of my thoughts, I dialed the third number - the one about her condo up in New Smyrna Beach. The condo was an investment she'd picked up with her profits from the dungeon job. It was a pleasure to turn to its sale, and away from disturbing thoughts about cars with blackened windows and Jamaican hit men.

I called Jaz to the phone, and she spoke briefly with her Realtor, Nancy Hertzog. Nancy had a possible buyer for the Smyrna Beach condo, which Jaz had been trying to sell for months. Jazmand would have to leave this morning for a meeting and walk through in New Smyrna, just south of Daytona Beach. Sweetie that she is, she looked to us for approval, which we immediately gave. She'd be back no later than Wednesday evening.

Jaz went to pack and dress for the trip, while I handled the last of the while-you-were-out slips - the boat yard. On top of Jazmand's hopeful word, more good news. WaterWay, a Hatteras 112 Custom Yacht, was ready. I could take delivery this morning if I wished.

I do wish! With Rashad on his way to Miami, this is a perfect time for us to scatter - you and I out to sea, whereabouts unknown. Jazmand secretly off to points North. Rashad was slow enough tracking us last time. Let's see how long it takes our junior Sherlock to solve this mystery, I thought, pleased with the way fate had dealt the cards.

Thoughts of the boat filled my mind. The standard 112 foot Hatteras comes with a master stateroom amidships, running the full 24 feet of her beam, His-and-Her lavatories, and a whirlpool garden tub. I'd traded of footage in the saloon for additional space in the master stateroom and its bath. Quite opulent. But the boat was far from a floating luxury hotel. Under her sleek exterior, she had the muscle to outrun all but the swiftest of small craft. I had opted for the most brawny engine combination offered. Her triple 1893 shaft-horsepower Caterpillar diesels deliver a whopping 5,679 SHP, pushing the yacht at 28 knots, full throttle.

Hatteras yachts have a well-earned reputation for guts. The boats were bred to tame the rough sea off Cape Hatteras - treacherous waters that have fully earned the grim name - Graveyard of the Atlantic. Hatteras yachts have acquired a high level of refinement. Their appointments are as elegant as they come. But nothing is done at the expense of seaworthiness or speed.

With most of our things already packed, we made short work of stowing the balance of our goods and checking out of the hotel. I had called a taxi, and we took it to a nearby hotel. Jazmand continued on in the car, heading to Miami International for a commuter flight to Daytona. You and I simply doubled back in a second taxi, and stopped at the boat yard. If Rashad tried to trace us, his job would not be an easy one.

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By the time we had the baggage unloaded at the yacht basin, some of the apprehension I'd felt this morning was beginning to lift. The boat was superb, beautiful lines, plenty of room, cushy appointments. I could see we would beat Rashad by several hours. Things were on the mend. We had completed the signing process, all the paperwork in order, and gotten our gear aboard when . . . Over at the Alexander . . . Sudden fear! . . . A black BMW! . . . Darkened windows . . . Squealing tires . . . Rashad! . . . He's already here!

I knew he couldn't see us aboard the boat. Our stern was already swinging free of the dock, and the yard people were loosing the painter. We backed WaterWay into the channel and began to slowly move out toward the open sea just as Rashad came back out of the hotel lobby. Even from this distance, he did not look pleased. Nor was I. I wondered if he'd taken an earlier flight, or made the reservation as a ruse, then driven up. I wondered why he was here four hours ahead of schedule. How much had he guessed of our game? Was he aware of the tail I'd put on him? As I pondered these concerns, I realized that I probably wouldn't find immediate answers. I might have to wait till the game played out.

Now, the lure of the open sea called loudly. I looked forward to the anonymity it would provide. But much more, I looked forward to some time alone with you. The past few days had been so taken up with Jazmand, as it were a pilgrimage into her soul. Now, I felt a strong need to explore your depths in equal measure.

After the gale of yesterday, the Atlantic was choppy. I was glad we had taken some Marezine with breakfast. I didn't know your tolerance for motion sickness, and didn't wish to test your limits or my own in this area. The morning breeze was gentle out of the West. It carried the sweet and the sordid scents of land far out over the sea, mixing with the fresh odor of the waves. It was, in every way, an excellent day to be out here, away from Miami and raging bulls like Rashad.

It is not characteristic of me to put to sea without having filed a trip plan. The boat yard had asked about our expected time at sea, and our intended point of return. I had told them only that "We'll take the boat off shore and try her in the swells of the Atlantic for a bit. We don't know where we'll explore. We may return here by late afternoon, or put in somewhere else along the coast. If Rashad traced us as far as the boat yard, a thing I doubted he'd manage, I wanted to be certain he'd be launched in a useless direction from there. So, as we sat to consider our itinerary, there were only two options excluded from the list. We would not go back to the boat yard, and we would not put in at any harbor along the immediate coastline.

I suggested that we might open WaterWay's throttle and run for Deerfield Beach. From there, we could turn into the Hillsboro Canal and head inland to Lake Okeechobee. We could hang out for a few days at Belle Glade. It seemed unlikely that Banton would be searching for us there, unless . . . unless he learned we'd picked up the boat. I wasn't certain of the canals draft or beam limits, though. Another option would be to make a quick run across the hundred miles or so from Miami to Bahama. You suggested that we could drop down around the tip of the Florida Peninsula, and head up the Western Coast, perhaps stopping in Fort Meyers, or venturing as far north as Saint Petersburg. Thinking through these options, I decided that Bahama best fit my desire to far from Florida soil. Perhaps I was just being paranoid, but I had a nagging feeling Rashad might have eyes other than his own looking for us. I thought the chances of this vigilance extending as far as Bahama were acceptably remote. You agreed. And so, without turning back to look at the shrinking shoreline, we pointed our bow East-by-East-North-East and opened the throttle on the new boat.

The engines came up to a commanding roar. She briefly shook her pretty tail at the land and then leapt on top of the chop, hurtling forward before the offshore breeze. For a time we just sat on the flying bridge, enjoying the thrill of the rushing air, the rhythmic pounding as we hit each approaching swell, the sense of flying just above the warm waters. For any of you who've driven a true speedboat, 28 knots doesn't sound very impressive. True, there is a unique excitement in skimming the surface of a lake at 50 MPH plus. But there is a special feeling, too, in climbing up atop ocean swells in a craft over 110 feet long and weighing 320,000 pounds.

We raced along for a short way then I backed off the throttle to cruising speed. For the better part of an hour, we sat quietly, taking in the beauty of the ocean morning. Then, as it were hypnotized by the thrill, the gracefulness and the constant replay of it all, we fell to talking about things of the sea. "I have always been a sailboat fan," I said. "But right now, with our need for haste, I'm thankful for the horsepower in this baby. Back in Santa Barbara, twenty years ago, in what seems like a previous lifetime, I lived abroad a 38 foot Choy Lee."

"How was it, living in such cramped quarters," you asked.

"It was a delight," I replied. "The boat had plenty of space for two to live comfortably, even to shower and cook - as long as you liked each other. And the Santa Barbara Marina had an on-shore bath including hot showers. Only marina occupants got keys, and it was always kept spotless."

"I was young and not making all that much money. I couldn't afford the exorbitant real-estate prices of Santa Barbara. Even a shack in the slum section went for a quarter of a million. But Santa Barbara was the only town along the Southern California Coast that allowed live ins in their harbor. If you had a lease on a slip in the harbor, you could live on your boat. The challenge was in getting a slip. I could have put my name on the waiting list, but with the attrition rate at that time, it figured to be 250 years before a berth became available. I wasn't confident I could wait that long.

Fortunately, I stumbled onto an opportunity to short-circuit the process. Marina regulations allowed for the passing of slip leases with boats when they were sold. A beautiful, teak-decked Choy Lee was available, with its slip in the Santa Barbara Marina. I could not have afforded it plus an on-shore apartment. But, living aboard, I could handle the payments. It gave me a way to invest in something with more than the zero return of renting."

"Have you had any experience sailing?" I asked.

"Just a bit," you answered, snuggling up to me in the brisk wind. "A boyfriend ages past had a boat and sometimes took me out on the gulf. It was a 12 meter sailboat. He raced it - with some success, I think."

"Really?" I replied. "And what about him? Your relationship. Any success there?"

"None. He turned out to be married. He'd been lying about that, but I found out. Then came the promises to break up, which I didn't want to hear. I had cared for him, but I didn't want to play home-wrecker. I believe deeply in marriage as a forever bond. And any man that doesn't see it that way isn't the man for me.

"The bottom line," you continued, "he was a manipulator. When he realized he could no longer yank my chains, he dropped me for another affair. My guess is his wife knew about the whole sordid mess, but decided to put up with him for some reason."

"But I did like his sailboat. There's a seductive feeling to sailing. I guess there is to the speed and pounding of this boat too, but it's not the same. The sailboat slides so quietly through the water. You hear and feel the subtleties. The lapping of the waves on the hull, whistle of wind in the rigging, the gulls, the groans of taut ropes. Here, you hear only the roar of the big engines and the slamming as we crash through each wave. It's like comparing slow, sensuous sex with masturbating on a jack hammer."

"And they say it's the men that think about only one thing," I joked.

"Well, what can I say. Mia culpa. When I was going through the hormone wars of my teens, my best girlfriend, Suki Osumi, used to point at my pussy and call it the Gland Canyon. A little play on her Japanese R-and-L confusion. She said I was always in heat. You see, we had a torrid, junior-year lesbian affair. Trouble was I was always the one to initiate sex. Suki loved everything I took us into, but she never, never was the aggressor."

"Talk about R and L puns, I remember that Suki had a beat up old Ford. When it started overheating, I told her to tell her mechanic that the problem was a reeking ladiator."

"Keep dealing puns like that and you R going to L," I said, chuckling along with your lighthearted spirit. "But what happened to that relationship?"

"Her dad - he was some kind of diplomat - was recalled to Japan. If he hadn't been, we might have just settled down. I might still be eating sushi. I doubt it, though. Not that I didn't love Suki. We still write. She's a full-time lesbian now, living with an American woman in Japan. I guess she developed a taste for a certain kind of fish. But I just don't think that a long-term lesbian relationship would keep me fulfilled."

"Oh? What would be missing?" Finally, we were alone and you were talking about yourself. I wanted this to go on and on. Maybe we should go around Bahama and continue to Grand Bahama, I thought.

"I'm not sure," you replied. "Perhaps its the excitement generated by being pursued. It's nice to feel a man's hot desire for my body, sometimes. Of course, if I don't feel the same toward the man, it can get to be offensive. But I wouldn't want to live in a relationship where my lover never made me feel sexy - wanted - you know?"

"I copy," I admitted. "I've been there. But there's more. Go on."

You knew what was unstated, but saying it was not easy. There was risk. One who knows you too well can use that knowledge to twist a knife in your soul. You were wondering if you should trust me that much.

I waited.

"Well," you began, thinking to offer just a morsel of the truth then retreat, "maybe there's just not enough passion there to keep love alive."

"Love doesn't rely on passion," I responded. "Love is a decision. Once decided, passion - true passion - flows from it. You know that. Why couldn't you decide to love Suki?"

Silence. Again, I waited.

"I don't no," you lied.

"Yes, you do. And I need to hear you say it."

Resignation, and a touch of fear in your eyes, you began, "Sometimes, I . . . I just need to submit. I can go for months feeling fine about being the top, but then some submissive part of me begins to grow. The need builds. It gets so strong - I can't ignore it - can't keep being the aggressor. Suki couldn't top me, and I needed somebody who could - would - take me that way. Make me reach heights I didn't think I could scale. That's why I wanted you to train me," you said. Your face held a look of concern. Had you been too honest too soon? But there was something else subtly written in your eyes. A look like - There! It's finally out.

"So why not a Mistress?" I pressed. "There are plenty of lesbian lovers who can take care of that need."

I know, but . . . Well, I just don't know. It's what I need.

Those eyes, still downcast, were staring into my lap, watching the swelling in my pants. You knew you were affecting me.

"Yes, I know, darling," I said, hugging you to my chest. "I know how it feels to push so far out you're just a quivering mass of submissive flesh. You get totally lost in the experience. It is sublime, isn't it. It's what you need now, too."

"You've been watching me play," I continued, "and you've been playing too, with Jazmand and with me. But it's not the same as bottoming. I know your need has been building. I was counting on that. You've been very good, and now - we're alone at sea." If this sounds sinister enough, I thought, there will be just the right amount of fear behind the proffered play. I could see from the mix of apprehension and lust written across your face that I'd hit my mark.

We were nearing Bahama, close enough to moor. I brought the boat to a stop in no more than 200 feet of water, and dropped anchor.

Without another word, I rose, and led you by the hand, down from the flying bridge to the spiral staircase that goes below decks, into the Master stateroom. I held you close, murmuring to you, "I know what you feel - know what you need now. And I'm going to give it to you. Even more than you have dreamed. Yes, I know your dreams. Umm-hum, girl! You're not such a dark secret, you know."

She's been so edgy, I thought. Caged animal. The near miss with Rashad - the exhilaration of the high-speed ride - all magnifying the sense of tightness in you. I had been watching it build in you the entire time we'd been together. Now, I reasoned, was the time to release all that pressure.

I let my fingertips trace the line of your cheeks, circling your temples, rubbing the tension away . . . Slowly . . . Giving you time . . . Time to relax. And I felt it - felt you letting go. Fingers tracing along your cheeks. Masculine presence - so near now. Touching the curve of your neck - etching lines of excitement along your shoulders and down - down within a whisper of the swell of your breasts.

Peeling each piece of clothing from your body. A slow, sensuous strip-tease. Exposing - inch-by-inch - your precious flesh. My breath sucking in as your bra came into view. A sigh through your parted lips as your nipple felt the warm touch of sea air. Nude from the waist up. Jeans that zip in the rear - their zipper coming down. The touch, that hand across your rear, drinking in the sleek texture of your undies. Moving on, hands brushing the flesh of your flanks as your jeans slid down.

[Strip and put on a loose fitting pair of panties.]

You were standing there, dressed only in the briefs with the flap opening in the rear - your eyes following me as I paced around you. How could I get my fill of your perfection? Every curve - every nuance of skin shading - demanding my full attention. And as I moved, your eyes timidly followed me, and my eyes boldly feasted on you. My desire was obvious, tenting the front of my jeans. Yours was more subtly displayed, but nonetheless clear to any trained observer. And I am a trained observer. Trained and trainer. Intensely interested in you. You are my all. You are my mystery. You, I must solve.

[Touch and caress yourself as closely as you can to the action in the following paragraphs. Use your fingers as my surrogate hands and tongue. Imagine that my urgent need is inspiring your every move. After all, it is.]

I touched the hollow of your back, as if I might know all by exploring your flesh - by guiding you to my bed. I sat, holding you before me, kissing the warm, fragrant flesh below your breasts - tonguing your navel - hands separating your buttocks to pull you into me. And then I turned you. Your back to me now, your skin flushed, showing me your response. I slid my hands over your ass cheeks - opening the rear flap of your nylon briefs. I bent forward and planted a tender kiss on your hidden rosebud. My hands holding you - cupped under your breasts - urging your body to yield to my lips.

Soul kissing you - so gently to start. Lips just brushing your nether lips. Touching, as if to say you are clean, you are loved - every part of you. But growing more insistent, an urgency rising in the embrace. Tongue against entrance - a contest of wills. Mine to open you and know all - the dirty with the clean. Yours to hide the secret parts - to show only the polished, public persona - the benign portion that all comers can comfortably accept. But secrets fall to desire. Yours to be possessed, and in so doing, to possess. Mine to enter and explore, to yield myself as your possession.

Seeking so deeply now, cupping a breast in each hand, nipples erect and straining. You, opening yourself - bent slightly at the waist - your hips thrust back - your heaving chest pushing into those massaging hands - your knees touching as your buttocks flare apart . . . every fiber of you screaming, More! Yes! In answer, a hand moves down to your steaming pussy - gentle at first - tracing the delta of your sex lips. But growing more insistent, exploring, forcing the nylon of your briefs into your wetness there.

I am drawing lines of connection. Your breasts to your cunt to your ass, all being brought into direct linkage. All building to that one central theme, to open. To be utterly taken and thereby to lay an immutable claim.

Soft moans escaping your lips, mixing with my own threnody, Sorrow in my cries? Yes, for I knew that this was but the opening act. You must be opened slowly, lest you fracture and all that's precious in you be lost. And soon the curtain must fall on this delightful scene.

But not just yet. There is still time and need for a few more lines. There is time to move that hand from the wet nylon covering your vagina, and slide it up the open leg of your briefs, up where it can enter you, where fingers can tease directly on your clit. With this handhold I can pull your anal opening onto my probing tongue, tasting the bitter-sweet depths of you. My senses full of your mingled sachet. Fertile valley. Perfumed garden. Mother of life. Oh, man of need. Woman, delighting to be needed. Melding in the eternal plan whereby two unique beings mystically become one flesh.

Breaking away from you, I held you by the hips, pushing you to arm's length. Your eyes were downcast, so full of desire, not wanting the delicious feelings to end. You saw the huge bulge of man-flesh trapped in my jeans, staining them with its insistent offerings. How could I hold you away like this? The magnetic pull of male desiring female was so utterly overwhelming. You could feel it - a palpable mass, permeating the stateroom.

But you must be bound, I realized. You can go much farther. This, we both know. And go you will.

[Use a double or single balloon enema catheter if you have one. If not, just use your favorite nozzle. Get a water-based lubricant (KY or equal, or your favorite lubricant if no water-based type is on hand) and have these at ready. If you have a latex sheet, cover your bed with it. If not, use a soft, fluffy towel. Prepare a VERY warm 2 quart enema for yourself. In this sequence of the story, the enema contains 3 ounces of vodka and a valium. Provided you know what you're doing with these, can legally use them, and can tolerate them, you may make yours the same, or just use plain water. You may add baking soda (2 tablespoons) if you have problems with bloating after an enema. Bring your enema the lubricant, and your other props to your bed. Arrange a way to hang your enema bag about 2 feet above the level of your hips on the bed.]

"Mary, stand right there," I ordered. "Do not move. I must get some things."

What things, your mind flashed, a knot of apprehension growing to join the congested feeling in your groin.

I walked across the room to the bank of built-in teakwood drawers and cabinets along the forward bulkhead. All the things I needed were already gathered in the center drawer, but I made a deliberate show of selecting this and that, taking my time. I was aware of the buildup of concern. It was written in your furrowed brow - the way you stole glances over your shoulder. You were trying to catch a furtive glimpse of what was to come. I made sure my body blocked any view. I could feel a unique sense of excitement swelling within. If they can be mixed to perfection, fear and desire can lead to an experience beyond the sublime.

I came back to your side, kissing your forehead, your eyes. The heat of my body reached out to you. All that urgent maleness, needing you so fiercely. Your knees went weak. But for my hand in the hollow of your bare back, you might have crumpled on the bed - seeking distance in which to recover. But that hand did not permit it. Instead, it drew you deeper into the engulfing spell. Your eyes met mine, ardently drinking in the passion smoldering there. Your lips parted, heaving a breathy sigh. There was nothing but to kiss you. Nothing else existed. In a timeless moment, our lips met. Our tongues entwined, dancing in wanton abandon.

That hand again, between us, forcing into the sopping wetness of your undies, cupping and caressing your womanhood. Another hand, urgent, pulling your buttocks open, crushing you against my embrace. You were aware of nothing else but your pulse roaring in your ears. My mouth sucking breath from you - pouring life into you. A hand alive in your vagina, molding you into burning carnality. Another hand - fingers seeking your rear opening, pressing nylon up inside you - clamping you between thrill and tumult.

But again, I broke away. Holding you at arms length, sitting on the bed, sliding down those now soaked briefs. Your body was trembling, chest heaving in excitement. Your flesh begged to be taken. Yet you knew that this was but preparation. You knew that you would be bound. You would be tormented with erotic pain/pleasure. You would be tested. Your limits would be stretched. The fear returned. Your mind, awash with jumbled feelings, would bid you to protest, to plead against going so far. But your body betrayed your mind. The pounding pressure in your pussy was in control.

You came here to explore the outer limits. Now you felt that you had gone over the edge. You had been set adrift in some alternate universe. All the familiar reference points were gone. Up was no longer up, down was in its place. You looked into my eyes. Your fear was conquered, not vanquished, but relegated to a place where it could only inspire, not control. You would travel with me. What is it I had said? "Love is a decision." Here and now, you decided to love me. You would deliberately put yourself down, submissively letting me take you through the warp of space to the inner limits where down becomes again up and you emerge on top.

"Mary, give me your left hand," I said, breaking your wild internal dialogue.

You extended it as if it were an offering of inestimable value, which it indeed is. Gently I took it to my lips and planted a tender kiss in your open palm. Then, with the same gentleness, I snapped a padded-leather restraint around that wrist. "Now, the right hand, darling. You are so beautiful right now." And it too was adorned with a wet kiss and a wrist cuff and chain.

"Now, my precious, let me cover the bed with this latex sheet. Then we'll have you up on it. There, now climb up on the bed. That's it. No, head that way. Good. Lie on your tummy. Perfect." [Lie, tummy down, on the covered spot on your bed. Give yourself the massage described in the following paragraphs. Of course, leave out the bondage unless you have a partner to do the massaging.]

Taking your left hand, I swung your arm up and loosely chained it to an eye bolt at the upper-left corner of the bed. Then right hand to the upper-right corner. With your arms spread apart and secured, I turned my attention to your body, giving you a back rub, kneading away the knots of tension in your neck and shoulders. Slowly, massaging hands moved down, across the small of your back, encircling your waist, and lifting up. Down across your sensitized ass-flesh, fingers soaking in the silkiness of your skin. Sliding down along your seat. Down legs, massaging the tender muscles.

After a bit of reflexology massage, giving me an ample opportunity to appreciate your dainty, feminine feet, I wrapped an ankle restraint around each ankle and fettered your legs to opposite corners at the foot of the bed. There. You were splayed face down just as Jazmand was when our adventure began.

You moved to test your bonds. You could shift, but not far. The restraints were quite unbreakable. You realized you were now totally in my power.

I stood, moving back from the bed to admire my work. I peeled down my jeans. I was concerned lest my aching hardon rend the zipper of them. I had in hand the slit-back nylon briefs I'd taken from your hips. I held them to my nose, delighting in the powerful musk our loving had left on them. Your head was turned to me, and you watched as I drank in your smell and the sight of your supine form. Each subtle curve stirred delight in my hot loins. Every time I inhaled your perfume, my rigid member jerked its approval.

[If any of you dear readers who are playing along would like to mail me the undies you use in this exercise, I promise to replace them with a brand new pair of similar kind, and to use your pussy- perfumed panties just as is related here. :-)]

You were lovely - your femininity heightened by your vulnerable position. Your ash-blond hair, all curls about the gentle curve of your neck. Your pixie smile a flash of sunshine to my soul. Your eyes, filled with the beauty of wisdom and caring. Your ample breasts, their prominence heightened on your small frame. The purely feminine sweep of your ass, spreading out from your waist. Too big, in your eyes. You're one of those I-can't-wear-a-bikini women. How can I teach you how wondrous your lavish bottom looks to me?

Perhaps we can start here, I mused. Reluctantly, I set your pussy- scented panties aside. Moving back over to the bed, I helped you lift your middle while I slid two pillows under the latex sheet and positioned them where your upper legs would rest on them, lifting your rear into a provocative pose. [Place two pillows under the covering on your bed, positioned just as above. Get the nozzle and lubricant, and place them near where your face will be when you lie back down. Now, lie, face down, with your thighs supported by the pillows.]

"Umm. Mary, you look so desirable, bound butt-up like this," I declared. "So ready. Let's test, though. See if you are ready for all that is to come."

"One more touch before we begin," I continued. I reached down to the toy pile beside the bed. From it, I retrieved a small piece of latex. I reached up to your face, caressing your cheek. I could see the concern in your eyes. What is this, you were thinking. Rather than leave you guessing, as I continued stroking your face I announced, "It is a blindfold, dear. Your vulnerability is so enticing. But it is not yet complete. Blindfolded, you will look so incredibly exposed, don't you agree?"

"I really don't want to be blindfolded. Please don't blindfold me," you pleaded.

"What's this? No Master?" I challenged. "Such impudence to use in arguing that I change my mind about your treatment. This is not likely to go unanswered, Mary. Remember your position. You are - you know - bound and helpless in my hands."

Ummm, I relish the way you squirm in your bonds at these words.

"I'm sorry, Master," you answer. "It's just that I hate being blindfolded."

"I know, darling. But it is necessary. It will be good for you. You'll see. But you don't have to do it. We can stop right here if that's what you want. You know that."

You knew - and you understood what would be lost if you decided to quit at that point. You'd come this far. No. You would not turn back. With no more protest from you, I slid the latex strap over your sweet face, locating the wide part to cover your frightened eyes, and tying the two ends over your curls.

Standing back again to admire the image before me, I was swept up in the beauty of the scene. "Then let the games begin," I said. "Now, we need a safe word. If you say 'Zanzibar,' the play will stop instantly and I'll release you. However, I must caution that a safe word is not to be used lightly. Using the safe word is to be a last resort when some distress gets so intense you truly cannot go on. You understand that unnecessary use of it will bring your training to an abrupt end. You won't arrive where you want to go. Courage. Perseverance. These are the requisites if you are to reach the high peaks. Hillary and Tenzig would never have made the top of Everest if the had quit at the first discomfort, Mary."

"I understand, Master."

"Yes, I'm sure you do. On the surface, at least, you do. But let us deepen your understanding."

[Act out the following.]

With that, I turned my attention to the alluring curves of your ass cheeks, letting my right hand caress its rounded contours. You did not see my left hand as it reached for the KY jelly. You were first aware of it when you felt its cool slipperiness applied to your anal opening. I rubbed it round and round, lubricating the whole valley between your fine, feminine hips. I pressed into the opening, exploring your insides with my whole finger. Wiggling in you. Loosening you.

I could feel your beautiful ass open itself to me. I slid a second finger into you, twisting the two around and around, letting you grow accustomed to the girth boring into your core. Then a third. Fucking your ass like you saw me do to Jazmand. I could tell from your soft moaning that you loved it as much as she did.

Then out! Nothing inside but yearning where that aching fullness was a moment before. And not a sound in the room. Your Master - tormentor - lover. Gone. And you cannot see where.

I wondered what you were thinking. So many conflicting thoughts. Waiting for . . . for what? What will come next? Fear. Alone here. Who might see. Ass cranked up in the air like a mare ready to be mounted. What's that? Is that someone moving, somewhere distant, but on the boat. Could we have been boarded. What if the Coast Guard were to walk in. On and on, the thoughts must race.

You are an executive back in the real world. You give an order, and people jump to your bidding. You are not untouched by feminist philosophy. I could imagine the internal dialogue as you lay nude, in bondage, blindfolded, rear end hiked into a lewd invitation. I knew, though, that this was what you wished to explore. As we traveled this road together, I was certain you would enlighten me as much as I would train you. Together, we would delve into a whole storehouse of volatile issues - feminism, maleness and male pride, submissiveness, dominance, the mystical way bondage frees and submission empowers.

I was taking my time preparing things for the next phase of your training. I wanted you to lay there awhile, blindfolded, nostrils full of the scent of the latex sheet. I was certain that, when I returned, it wouldn't be visions of sugar plums dancing in your head.

I came back into the stateroom, again letting my eyes feast on the sight of you, bound and ready. You were shifting, testing your fetters. I could see from your expression that you were feeling a tumult of emotion. Fear mingled with anger and self-regard, these were written on your face. But pride in your performance, and raw lust, they were there too, and they held sway. This will be a most interesting afternoon, I mused.

"Thanks for waiting for me, Mary," I said, teasing at your emotional limits. "I've brought something for you. An ENEMA. I'm going to put the enema nozzle up your pretty ass now, my pet. And then I'm going to pump my sweetheart full of steaming, sexy water.

Blindfolded, you had no idea what kind of nozzle, how big a bag. I was counting on your emotions and fears to amplify reality for me.

[Grab the nozzle end of your enema kit, and put it into your well- oiled rear. Follow the action below regarding taking and retaining this enema.]

I sat on the bed beside you. I had to fight the impulse to stretch out and resume our petting and kissing. This was not the time. Instead, I guided the business end of a double balloon enema catheter to your nether lips, and easily slid its tip inside you. It took some work to feed in the first retention balloon, even in its present deflated state. You were not sure what was being done. You could feel something rubber, the sliding of KY-coated fingers, a twisting motion as I screwed it around to get it into you without its doubling back on itself.

With patience, the job was done, and your little rosebud well stimulated in the bargain. I turned the valve on the inflator bulb and gave it three full squeezes, causing the balloon inside your anus to expand to the size of a tennis ball. I closed the valve on the other inflator, and in likewise fashion, blew up the outer balloon, positioned just outside the delicate folds of your anal opening. The retention nozzle was now sealing you tightly. Its inner balloon was pulled against the tense ring of your anal sphincter. The outer balloon ensured that the inner one couldn't move inward away from its sealing position.

"Now, sweetie, daddy's put something special in your enema water today," I said. "Something to make his little girl feel better. Oh don't worry, now, sugar-plum. It's perfectly legal. Nothing like that bad boy, Rashad, would play with. Just a little something to make daddy's sweetheart feel better, that's all. You'll take it all for daddy, now honey. And don't let any naughty feelings start up. If you do anything naughty while daddy's giving you your enema, he'll have to punish his little girl. And we don't want that, now do we, dearest."

"Unh-uh." you groaned. "I don't want to be punished."

"Good. I know my little girl will do just fine." And with that, I opened the clamp.

I could see you were taut with anticipation. What was in this water? How much would I force into your small body? How would it make you feel?

Two shocks hit you. First, the water was hot. Not hot enough to hurt, but sufficient to grab your attention and focus it squarely between your quivering hips. Second, it was not rushing into you. The bag, you see, was hung quite low. This enema was meant to relax your internal organs. I wanted no cramps to interfere with the slow absorption of the additives in this first cleansing wash.

What additives? I had dissolved one of your valiums, and added 3 ounces of vodka. Since the two are complementary, you would feel quite a kick. I told you all this. I also told you that I had added a decoction of psilocybe cubensis mushrooms. (Warning, reader. Possession of these psychedelic mushrooms is illegal in all states with the possible exception of Florida, where a ruling by a Federal Judge MAY make simple possession legal.) The psychedelics were not really in the brew. I would never do such a thing to you without your prior agreement. I was counting on the placebo effect. With your nerves as jangled as they were, this enema would be psychologically psychedelic to you, and that would assist in expanding your limits.

I sat and watched as the two-quart bag almost imperceptibly collapsed, its steaming contents migrating slowly into your intestines.

"Mary, darling, daddy wants you to tell him how this feels," I commanded.

"OK, daddy," you answered. "It feels hot. The water feels real hot. It feels kind of good. Doesn't really hurt yet. Sometimes it hurts - when you do this to me, but this one doesn't hurt . . . not yet."

"It hurts when I do what to you, Mary?"

"Sometimes it hurts when you give me enemas, daddy."

"Oh, my sweet little Mary, I don't want to hurt you. Sometimes, daddy has to do things that don't feel good at first, but its for the best for my little girl. It's to make her better. Always remember that, Mary. Always to make you better."

"You need this, Mary. You need the enema daddy's giving you. It's going to make my sweet girl feel so wonderful. Just give yourself over to the feeling inside. Let go and feel."

Oh, daddy, I do feel it. Like I'm starting to float. Unghhh. It hurts a little, daddy.

"Now, there, that's daddy's good little girl. Let me rub your tummy and help you take your enema, sweetie. There, that's better, isn't it."

"Umm-hum, that's better, daddy. I like that. I feel the hot water all inside me now. It's getting me excited daddy. Making funny feelings."

SLAP! I spanked your ass with an open palm. "Mary, daddy told you not to do naughty things. You hold that back, darling. Your time will come, but not now."

Mary, I thought, if you could just see the dance you are doing in your bondage, tummy obscenely swollen, bag emptied into your hot ass, you'd cum on the spot. But you couldn't see, and so you didn't yet know that you'd taken two quarts. You'd already managed it without an orgasm.

"Mary, the mushrooms daddy put in your enema, honey. They're to open your eyes. They can help you see, even through a blindfold. Relax, darling. Just drift in the warmth of the water inside you. Let all your fears and your tensions go into the water. Daddy's going to take care of his little girl. Really clean her out."

"You can feel your body getting lighter,' I intoned. "The pressure inside is perfect for you. You don't want it to go away. The enema pressure, it makes those naughty feelings. But you are in charge of them. You can yield to them, or you can turn them off. You feel yourself being carried up by the warm waters. You are being carried to a high place - a place that lets you see."

"Relax, my dear daughter. Relax and give yourself to the feeling inside. Let it carry you to the place of vision . . . the place where you can learn. And learn from me, my daughter. Yes. Give yourself over to the feeling and learn. Learn to expand. Learn freedom in bonds. Learn power in submission. Learn release through control"

With this gentle, loving patter, I soon had you hypnotized. These thoughts would remain with you. You had made wonderful progress. The look on your face was utterly sublime. Pleasure beyond pleasure. You were floating in a sea of love, nurtured inside and out. I removed your blindfold. Your eyes were closed and a wondrously placid look was on your face. For 30 minutes, I let you float along in this trance.

Then the time came to call you back to the here and now. "Mary, darling. You have done very well. Daddy is so proud of his little girl. Now, honey, you will remember all the things you learned from this lesson. The next time the pressure makes you want to do naughty things, you will be able to resist. Resist, my darling daughter, till there is no resistance left, and the thing which you need is no longer indecent. Wait till it is not naughty, but right."

"One more thing, Mary. After I call you back here, you will continue to be hypnotized. You will be open to my suggestions, and you will feel the psychedelic effects of this enema for another 8 hours. But you will not remember that I told you to do this. And, if I say the word Zanzibar to you, the hypnotic episode and psychedelic effect will stop immediately. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Master, I understand."

"Now, Mary, when I count to three, you will be awake and fully aware. You will feel more rested than you have ever felt. And you will remember all that you have learned while floating with the water. One . . . Two . . . Three!

Your eyes came open. With a look of deep, passionate love, you absorbed my presence beside you.

I asked, "How does your enema feel, darling?"

"Wow," you answered, "I've . . . I got. I don't know how to say it. It's like I've been floating away on this incredible journey, and all of a sudden, I'm back here. And the colors in this room - the sun streaming in - it's all so beautiful. I could never have imagined. Ummmmm. But I really am full. I do need to let this out, Master."

"Yes," I said, "I believe you do. Let's get you to the head."

I released your bonds and helped you to your feet. I held you to me, your arm over my shoulder, my hand behind your back. I led you to the Master head. You minced along, legs wobbly, bent with the weight of the water in your intestines.

It took ten minutes for the low-hung bag to empty itself into your bowels. You held its charge inside you for another thirty minutes. By the time the last of this enema is expelled, you will have had it in you for nearly an hour. And no climax. Not bad for a first step, I thought.

I eased you onto the toilet seat, then knelt between your spread legs. I looked deeply into your eyes, and let the passion I there stir the coals smoldering in my own loins. Your lips were parted, begging to be kissed. I had no choice but to answer their call. Torrents of water began to splash from you. Our kiss went on, driven like flotsam before the escaping flood. I held your face to mine, drinking deeply from your mouth, exhalting in all I could sense of you. I pressed against your turgid tummy, helping you expel the heavy load of water.

I would have had our kiss go on forever. The intimate sense of sharing such a private thing as enema expulsion - it was a blow torch enflaming my desire. But you emptied so quickly. All too soon, it was over. No loss, though. Now, I can fill you again, I realized.

"Good girl, Mary. You took your enema so well. You kept your control all the way through it. I'm really proud of you. Now, let's get back to the stateroom. I'm going to give you another enema. Four quarts, this time. And this time, as the last of it goes into you, you will be allowed to climax. You do want to climax, don't you, darling?"

"Oh, I . . . I rea . . . really do, Master" you stuttered.

I smiled and kissed you gently, reassuring you that I understood your lack of composure. Folding up a wad of tissue, I lovingly patted your bottom dry, and flushed the mess we'd left in the toilet. I reluctantly broke away from our hug. I stood, and took your hand in mine, lifting you up for an encore embrace. Then, hand in hand, cupping my other hand around your buns, I led you back to the bed.

[After expelling your first enema fully, prepare the next treatment. Get an ample supply of petroleum jelly (Vaseline or equal) for this one. You next enema will be a four-quart filling. If you own a four- quart bag, great! Use it. If you don't, then prepare a standard two- quart bag and another 2 quarts of your solution in a pitcher or gallon water-jug. You can use the same solution as before, or, if that already got you tipsy, use plain or soda water. For this enema, use a dildo nozzle if you have such a sexy thing. If not, c'est dommage. Use your douche nozzle and liberally coat it with imaginary girth. Take all your toys back to the covered spot on your bed. Get back in your rear-raised position and act out the following in as much detail as you can manage. Where kisses and caresses are concerned, let your fingers do the walking.]

Again, I laid you out face down on the rubber sheet. I attached your wrists to the headboard restraints and your ankles to the foot- board chains. You were spread eagle, rear raised over the same pillows as before. As I pulled back to admire my work, I saw how your most secret flesh was wantonly displayed. I was so overwhelmed by the sight that I couldn't stay detached. I knelt between your legs and kissed your most private opening, your brown asshole. I lingered, letting my tongue explore you, reveling in the fetid scent left behind by your recent enema.

I drew away from you, and delighted in the enema redolence left on my lips. In heavy doses, the smell is fetid. In very light sprinklings, it is like some super-sultry, earthy sachet. Almost like the womanly sachet of pussy. I had enough on me to be caught just between, and the interplay of the two was maddening. Your smell would haunt me as I went to prepare your next enema.

"Mary, darling, I'm going to go get things ready. I'll soon return with your big enema. This time, you get four quarts, and you get that enema outfit you picked out at Madame Brighton's. You remember, the one with the giant dildo-nozzle. I'm going to fuck you up the ass with that big thing, Mary. While I'm gone, think about how it will feel, dearest. More magic mushrooms for Mary, and a big cock-nozzle pumping pleasure into her behind, ass- fucking her sooo deep."

With that, I was gone, leaving you bound and trembling with desire . . . desire tinged with fear of the massive enema to come. You lay there wondering, would the second phase of this psychedelic expedition be bearable? The first scene had been such a wondrous experience. But this was to be double its size. Double! And that nozzle. Sure it looked attractive - like manhood personified. But being reamed with it - having it jamming in and out of your guts - guts full to popping with all that water. You were afraid, and the fear only served to enervate you. Already, you were wet with anticipation. It would do no good to plead with your master. Your own fine nectar, dripping down onto the latex sheet, would testify to how much you wanted the treatment.

"Here we are, precious. Four more quarts of hot enema-water for my pet. Same mix as last time, only twice as much," I said, enjoying the expression this pronouncement painted on your brow.

I set to work oiling your rear opening. This time I used Vaseline, scooping a huge glob of it from the giant sized bottle by the bed, and forcing as much as I could into your upturned ass. A water based lubricant would soon wash away in the flood, and make fucking your ass painful, even dangerous. Again, I started with a single finger pushing in and out, but I soon opted for two fingers . . . scraping around your buttocks to collect smeared petroleum jelly, then pushing the slippery stuff inside you with a spatula-like motion. You were grunting and wiggling your pretty butt to get the most of this, making my task the more difficult. Not to worry, though, I thought. This way, I can take longer with this delightful task.

With you VERY thoroughly lubricated, and lubricating, I might add, I turned my attention to greasing the nozzle. I used the liberal coating of Vaseline now smeared all over my right hand to slicken the monster.

"Well, Mary, all loosened up, are we?" I teased.

'Mmmm. Very loose, Master," you affirmed.

"That's good, honey, because Master has a small problem, and your open ass is just what he needs to solve it. You see, dear, I need to clean my greasy hand, but I don't want to lay this well-oiled dildo down and get anything messy. Suppose I just stick it in you and let you hold it for me while I wash up.

"Uhh, OK Masaaahhhhrr!" you growled, as the nozzle slammed into your hole, at least 8 inches of it disappearing down your upturned rear.

With the nozzle securely in place, I toweled the bulk of the petroleum jelly off my right hand, eyes riveted on the enticing sight before me. Your rectum was trying to reject the invader. Bit by tiny bit, your anal canal was forcing it back out by peristalsis. The movement - in little twitches and jerks - was so sexual. I felt almost jealous. I wanted that milking action around my own dripping hardon. But first things first.

"Thanks for holding the enema cock for me, darling," I said. "You look so wildly sexy with that big thing slipping back out of you. But it wouldn't do to let it all the way out, now would it?"

"Nuuh Mas - ter, you breathed through quivering lips.

"Let's see how deep it can go, pretty one. You tell me how it feels, dear." With that, I pushed it slowly into you. At least nine inches of the monster sank into your up thrust ass.

"Ough. It feels . . . It feels BIG . . . Hitting meoughhhh! . . . Way up inside."

"Let's see if some water will help you take more, honey. Spiked water to heat you from the inside out." That said, I snapped open the clamp. The bag was hung a bit higher this time, and the rush of hot water so far up in your bowels brought an immediate deep sigh from you. "Remember to tell me the feelings, sweetie."

"Oooooohhhhh, I don't know what to say. Its hhhhhot. Way up in me. And I feeeeeeel the push of that dildo hitting the baaaaaaack of my anal canal. I loooooooove this feeling," you breathed, punctuating each downward stroke with an earthy moan.

"Good, darling. Hold that thought as the pressure builds. And you are not to climax until I tell you. When you finally cum, it's going to be more glorious than any orgasm you've ever had. Better than any you've even imagined."

"Ummmmmmm! Oh it feels pretty fuuuuuull now. I'm getting so fuuuuuuull. Umah! I feel it stuffing myyyyyyyyy right side now."

"Good girl. You take it all for your Master. Submit your pretty derriere for my delight, and you'll get pleasure back a hundred fold."

"Oooh Mmmaster! It . . . The preeeeeeeessure. Soooo much. I . . . I think I'm . . . I'm . . . "

NO! Mary, Don't let it make you orgasm. Use the control you learned. Open your insides. Concentrate, my darling. Let the water push up into your small intestine. It will all fit, and you'll be so delightfully distended. You'll look so pregnant. Have you ever been pregnant Mary?"

"Yessssss Mastah. I-gah . . . I huh have . . . Please? . . . Soooooo heavy! . . . No moooo! . . . No! . . . More! . . . Moooooar! . . . Huunh! . . . Ooooohhhh, just - fill me. Give it to meeeeeeeee Mastaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh."

"That's my love, take it all, honey. Yes, you've got it. Look at your belly bulging. Hold it for me."

"Moooah . . . Meual . . . Meual . . . Meual . . . Nahhhh!" you mewled in panting breaths as the feeling of the gallon enema took you totally into its grasp.

"Oh, such a pretty, perfect girl. That's my darling. So submissive. So powerful. You've got it all in you now. I'm pushing this big dick up your asshole, Mary. The cock that pumped all this psychedelic pee into your bowels. Now give yourself to it's penetration."

You began to move your rear on the impaling monster.

"Feel every subtle part of its texture. Now stretch your vision, darling. Feel the heat of my love coming through it, pouring into you. I'm topping you off, dear. Fuck yourself on this nozzle just like I want to fuck your ass right now."

You bucked back against the dildo, swallowing most of its massive length, then forward and back, fucking yourself with abandon, mewling and scratching the latex sheets. Wave after wave of spastic tension rippled through your abdominal muscles. The cry you let out was pure ecstasy expressed, wailing on and on. Now high and plaintive, expressing the pain of all existence, now low and throaty as life in you regrouped for another assault on the peak.

How long you went, I cannot say, for I too was transported into the deeper reality of the fantasy we were living. I had not touched my cock, but your unrestrained orgasmic dance had. Surge after surge of hot, sticky cum was pouring from me. I rose and pushed my spurting cock at your lips, feeding it to you, and you lapped it up - sweet, warm milk for a hungry kitten.

As you continued to suck on me, I slid my head under your body, held above the bed by the pillows under your thighs. I found your waiting sex with my lips. You were so sopping, fragrant, special smell that only comes with cums. Wondrous. It picked me up, digging into you and working your sex for more, a man possessed. My hand was on the big nozzle, fucking madly into your ass with it. It felt like I could pump your incredible orgasmic nectar from your cunt into my thirsty throat, and I drained for all I was worth. I had to have more and more. All of you. And give all of me to you. Pouring out more cum into your sucking lips. Wonder and joy. Where is it all coming from. That miracle place of the endless supply.

We rocked along in this glorious 69 for ages, eons. Over time, the flood of our juices began to subside. We still stayed locked together, full of each other, bodies twitching in fabulous aftershocks.

Was it days, weeks, months? When we finally separated, the clock testified that it had been only 1 hour and 10 minutes since your gallon enema began. The clock must have been wrong. Surely, the hidden powers of the Bermuda Triangle had taken us to some timeless place where two lovers can exist in eternal embrace. But here we were, back on earth now, and you with this 7 months pregnant look. Back on the time line, and it was time for you to let the enormous pressure out.

[Be careful as you get up to let out this enema. Don't bend too tightly at the middle. Don't make any sudden moves. Don't put any pressure on your bloated tummy. And most of all, hold tight. Don't make a mess.]

I slid from under your sweating body, and gently helped you to your feet. I held the bag in one hand, and cupped your buttocks with the other, holding them together around the big nozzle. Only its girth could hold back the flood within. Thus corked, I helped you hobble to the head.

"That was the most incredible, wondrous, sexual experience I've ever had," I told you. You were too full to answer, nearly nauseous from the pressure in your bowels. She really opened herself to me, I thought. But can I open myself to her. What if I show her all that I am? Will she respect me in the morning?