Chapter 3: The Colonic Baptism
The screaming face on the ceiling seemed to pulse in time with Barney’s heartbeat as the intercom buzzed at 6 AM. “Pool house, Barnaby. Now. The system requires priming.”
He dressed in the dark, his fingers fumbling with buttons. The walk across the dewy lawn was a death march. The pool house, a faux-Grecian structure, smelled overwhelmingly of chlorine and something else, something sharp and medicinal. Inside, past the unused pool furniture draped in sheets, was a white door. He pushed it open.
The room was blindingly white. Tiled floor, tiled walls, a single drain in the center. The stainless steel table glinted under fluorescent lights. Next to it stood a machine on wheels, all dials, clear tubes, and a large, clear reservoir bag. Manuel was there, polishing a nozzle with a cloth. He didn’t look up. “You will fill the bag with warm water. Not hot. Test it on your wrist. Like a baby’s bottle.” His voice was flat. “Then you attach the tube. She will instruct you on the rest.”
Barney’s hands were shaking as he fumbled with the faucet over a deep sink. He filled the bag, testing the temperature until it felt like nothing, like lukewarm blood.
The door swung open. Delilah entered wearing only a silk robe, untied, which she let slide from her shoulders onto a hook. She was naked beneath, a topography of tan lines, stretched skin, and violent scars from surgeries long past. Her body was a testament to brutal revisions. She moved to the table with a practiced grunt, heaving herself onto the cold steel. The flesh of her thighs and belly spread, settling. She lay on her left side, presenting the vast, pale expanse of her rear to him. It was a landscape of dimpled cellulite, a quivering, pale moon.
“The nozzle, Barnaby. Lubricate it. The jar is there.” She pointed a thick finger to a tub of clear gel.
He coated the hard plastic tip, his stomach churning. The air was cold, but he was sweating.
“Now, you insert it. Gently but firmly. Angle it towards the navel. Yes, just like that. Don’t be timid, dear, it’s just a doorway.”
His vision narrowed to a tunnel. The cold steel, the clinical light, the sheer, shocking reality of her body. He pushed. The resistance was immense, a tight, hot ring of muscle that yielded with a soft, wet pop. He flinched, jerking his hand back as if burned.
“Good! Now, open the valve. Slowly. Let the warmth in.”
He turned the clamp on the tube. A gurgle echoed from the machine. He watched, hypnotized, as the clear water traveled down the tube and disappeared into her. She let out a long, low groan of pleasure. “Oh, yes. That’s the stuff. Flushing the pipes. Keep it coming, boy. Open it wider.”
He did. Her body began to distend further, a low bloat visible beneath her. She started to breathe heavily, moaning with each influx. “The dinner… the cake… it’s all in there, fermenting. Rocket fuel, Barnaby. You’re changing the oil.”
After what felt like an eternity, the bag was empty. “Close it. Remove the nozzle. Quickly now.”
He did, fumbling with the clamp, then pulling the slick tube free. The second it was clear, she rolled onto her back, her legs splayed, her face a mask of concentrated effort. A deep, subterranean rumble started deep within her, building like an approaching train.
“The drain, Barney. Stand clear.”
He scrambled back. The rumble became a roar, a liquefied torrent that erupted from her with volcanic force, hitting the steel drain with a sound like a firehose blast. It was a brownish, chunky deluge, the ghost of last night’s feast. The smell hit him—a complex, eye-watering bouquet of digested meat, chocolate, and human waste. It filled the sterile room, overpowering the antiseptic.
Delilah’s body convulsed with each powerful ejection. She wasn’t embarrassed; she was ecstatic. “YES! That’s the spot! Oh, God, the pressure… it’s all coming out!” She laughed, a ragged, breathy sound. The table shook. The onslaught seemed to go on for minutes, shifting from a torrent to a series of thick, wet pulses, then finally to a trickle.
She lay there, panting, a sheen of sweat on her forehead. A look of profound, almost religious peace smoothed her face. “Magnificent. The system is clean.” She swung her legs off the table, the flesh of her thighs slapping against the steel. “Now, the shower. I can’t reach everything. You’ll help.”
Still reeling, his senses assaulted, Barney followed her naked form into an adjacent wet room. Steam billowed as she turned on multiple showerheads. She stepped in, the water sluicing over her, and handed him a loofah on a long handle and a bar of strong, herbal soap. “Scrub. Everywhere. The places that are hard to get. Be thorough.”
He stood outside the spray, getting drenched in the steam and mist. He started on her back, scrubbing at the knotted muscles. “Harder. I’m not made of porcelain.” He pressed harder, the loofah dragging over scars and folds.
“Lower,” she commanded. He moved down, over the massive terrain of her hips and rear, cleaning the valley where the explosion had originated. She guided him without shame. “Here. And here. Use your hand for the crevice. The soap must get everywhere.”
He obeyed, his mind detaching, floating somewhere near the ceiling. He was a mechanic hosing down a complex, foul machine after a grueling race. The intimacy was absolute, and utterly devoid of eroticism. It was a service. A brutal, necessary maintenance.
She turned, letting the water hit her face, her augmented breasts swaying heavily. “Now the front. The legs. Don’t neglect the feet.”
He worked in a silent, efficient trance. She watched him, her eyes assessing. “You’re adapting. I see it. The squeamishness is leaving your eyes. It’s just a body, Barney. A beautiful, complicated machine that needs a lot of upkeep.”
When she was done, she turned off the water and took a vast, fluffy towel from a warmer. She dried herself with a few brisk, powerful swipes before handing him the damp towel. “Hang this. Then you may have breakfast. Manuel will have prepared you eggs. You’ll need your protein.”
She walked out, leaving wet footprints on the tile, her body pink and steaming, already calling out orders about her morning injections as she disappeared into the main house.
Barney stood alone in the damp, foggy room. The smell of the herbal soap and the lingering ghost of the colonic room fought for dominance in the air. He looked at his own hands, pruned and clean. He felt hollowed out, scoured. But as he picked up the wet towel to hang it, he noticed his fingers weren’t shaking anymore. The screaming face from his ceiling was gone, replaced by a single, clear, terrible thought: he had done it. He had survived the morning. And he would, he realized with a cold, quiet certainty that felt nothing like bravery, do it again tomorrow.