>>679It took so long for Miss Wentworth and I to digest enough to get up and back to the den, we were ready for a nap, so that’s what we did, her on the couch and myself on the loveseat. Lucia woke us at three o’clock with giant slices of lemon pie with whipped cream — each a quarter of the pie itself — that I forced down though I still felt like I was packed with cement. The sugar helped with the grogginess though, and I read some more of the classical mythology I’d gotten into, right now plowing through Ovid’s Metamorphoses.
Miss Wentworth sat on the couch and did some writing in a small book I assumed was her diary. At four o’clock Lucia asked if we wanted more pie and the two of us answered “Yes!” at once, and the three of us cracked up laughing. However by five o’clock I was so woozy I’d only managed a few pages more. Between breakfast and lunch I’d eaten as much as I ever had in my worst binges, if over a longer period of time.
“Remember Miss Fuentes is coming tonight,” Miss Wentworth reminded me, to my dismay. Not that I didn’t want to see her, but despite my earlier nap, all I felt like doing was climbing into bed.
“I know,” she sighed, picking up on my dismay. “And if I know your old teacher she’s gonna bring a mess of Italian takeout.”
Lucia signed off at six, and as she left I felt a rumble inside me. You’d think because of how much I ate I’d be going to the bathroom all the time but I actually only managed to move my bowels once every two days at best. It was usually a pretty awful experience as a result, getting rid of all that waste at once, and sometimes I spent an hour on the bowl.
I told Miss Wentworth I’d be right back and headed to the bathroom with Ovid. I could tell right away it was going to have a rough time of it, now realizing that much egg salad was a bad idea. Why had Lucia let me eat all that? Or Miss Wentworth for that matter? Indeed I managed to get through almost 30 dense pages before I heard my tutor calling for me.
“Sorry,” I yelled back, hearing her in my bedroom. “I’m just, ah, constipated.”
“Yeah, all those eggs,” she said. “You gonna be okay.”
“I think.”
“Hang on,” she told me.
It took a while, where eventually I went back to the book as what felt like Moby Dick worked its way through me at a painful pace. She knocked on the door, startling me.
“Can I come in?” she asked.
“Why?”
“I have something that might help you.”
Of course at first I wanted to say no, but then realized it didn’t really matter. After all, she’d seen everything there was to see of me the night before. I told her to come in, and saw she was carrying some strange device, what looked like a long pink balloon with a rubber hose attached to it.
“Ever use one?” she asked as I put my book down.
“I’m not sure what it is,” I admitted.
She waddled to the sink and filled the balloon part.
“It’s for when you’re really backed up. You put this up your butt,” she said, holding up the end of the hose, which had a rounded tip. “And the water goes in and cleans you right out.”
I was speechless but she laughed at the look on my face.
“It feels really weird and uncomfortable but trust me, you’ll feel way better after.”
I’d been there probably 45 minutes and nothing was happening. Indeed I couldn’t imagine another hour or three feeling like I did and also entertaining Miss Fuentes.
“Okay, here,” I said, reaching out for the hose.
“Best if I do it,” Miss Wentworth said. “Sorry, I know it’s a little intimate, but trust me, it’s not easy the first time.”
Still holding the pink vessel up, she twirled her finger, indicating I should turn around. And though she’d indeed been in my butt last night, washing me there, this was so weird and clinical.
“Don’t worry, I’m a pro,” she insisted, and finally I got up, feeling my cheeks go warm as I bent over the sink.
“There you go,” she said, and I jumped as I felt how cold it was. She’d put some sort of grease on it, thankfully, but had a hard time at first getting it in. It was the weirdest sensation of my life once she did, that went through my whole body.
“Okay, this is actually the tough part,” she told me, as I clenched down on the wand and then let go, over and over, so strange to have this foreign thing inside me. “I’m gonna let the water in and it’s gonna feel really weird, and probably really uncomfortable, like you’re gonna burst.”
I almost laughed, forcing out the thing in my ass, thinking that I fed myself til I thought I was gonna burst nearly every day.
“Ready?”
“Yeah,” I said, though I really wasn’t sure. She held the wand in place and then I heard a gurgle from the balloon and felt the warm water shoot up inside me. It was uncomfortable indeed, almost agonizing, and I yelped in that high-pitched way I hated. Yet I surprised myself as I realized I was getting hard, as it was also weirdly pleasurable, sort of how I felt after my worst binges, but lower in my body.
“You okay?” she asked.
“You have to stop,” I gasped, very much feeling like my colon was going to explode.
“Sorry,” she said, and I heard another gurgle from the balloon and the pain settled into a dull ache. “I’ll take it out, but get ready.”
“Oh my god!” I gasped as she pulled out the tube, as something moved down there in a dramatic way, far beyond my control.
I raced back to the toilet, all the fat on my body flopping and wobbling as I crashed down onto the seat. Miss Wentworth went back to the sink to dump out the water while I felt as if all my bodily organs and muscles were pouring out of me. It just wouldn’t stop, not just breakfast and lunch but perhaps everything I’d eaten for a month was going out my distended asshole.
“Agh!” I cried, having never in my life felt anything like it.
“You’ll thank me,” she said, though I could barely hear her over the nonstop ker-plops in the toilet.
When it subsided I slumped forward, feeling both literally and figuratively drained.
Miss Wentworth shuffled towards me and I now realized by the way her giant boobs hung, and especially how they moved, that she was braless beneath her dress. She leaned into me, pressing her fat into my side, and flushed the toilet. I was afraid it would clog but thankfully it went down. My butthole felt sore but otherwise I was indeed relieved.
“Wipe yourself, it’s my turn,” she told me, heading back to the sink and starting to clean the end of the hose.
I did the deed best I could, which was not very good at the size I was. My ass was so big I couldn’t reach behind me, and getting beneath my stomach and FUPA was tough as well. I hated having Miss Wentworth there with me but she occupied herself re-applying Vaseline to the tip of the hose while I sighed and grunted through it.
“I can put it in but you need to hold the bag,” she said, lifting her dress as I stood up off the bowl. I felt forty pounds lighter and perhaps I was.
Though I’d seen it all — and more — the night before, her naked body was still shocking. It was the rumples of her cellulite, the veins and oddly placed folds, and also how low everything hung, as without a bra even the top of her boobs was halfway down her chest, and the widest part of her was almost near her knees. I tried to think of her with another 200 pounds and my imagination failed me. Then I thought of myself with another 200 pounds and felt my heart skip a beat.
She set herself down on the bowl with a grunt and handed me the balloon that I almost fumbled, as it was surprisingly heavy and brimming with water. Seated, she’d settled into a round pyramid of blubber, like a water-filled balloon herself. I unconsciously touched the outside of my fat, spongy hip and pictured it inches, or feet, wider and shuddered.
“Give it to me,” she spread her thighs as far as they would go — which was surprisingly wide — and bent forward with another grunt and reached her hand with the end of the hose between her legs, her face buried in her own chest, her body shifting and wobbling. For several seconds she struggled and then lifted her head, gasping.
“Okay,” she said, exhausted and breathless, her fat face bright red. “Undo that clasp there below the bag but keep your hand on it.”
I did so, and the water gurgled and she inhaled sharply, her eyes wide.
“Ungh,” she moaned, putting both hands on the bottom of her belly. I swore I could see it fill up as the bag gurgled again, now barely three-quarters full.
“A little more,” she choked, breathing quickly now. The water in the bag went down to half and she leaned back, taking big gulps of air, the toilet now creaking on its bolts. I worried she’d break it.
“Okay — stop it!” she cried, and I fumbled as I reclasped it, making her scream. She thrust her hand down to grab the hose but her belly was too round and full now and she couldn’t reach it, whimpering. I finally managed to clasp the hose but realized she was still in trouble, so I bent down and yanked the hose and she shrieked.
Then she closed her eyes and groaned as water and a whole lot of other stuff rushed out of her into the toilet, the sound massive yet muffled by her big, soft body atop it. As with me, it went on for a long time, and I watched her deflate by inches.
“Jesus, Perry!” she yelled, once it had subsided. “Did you enjoy the show?”
“Sorry,” I mumbled, realizing I shouldn’t have watched her like that.
“Never mind,” she sighed, reaching for the toilet paper. “I guess you did okay for your first enema, giving and receiving.”
