Chapter 4: A New Low with the Enema
The envelope in his jacket pocket felt like a lead weight. Leonard drove home through the neon-smeared night, the taste of her still coating his tongue, a phantom sludge in his teeth. He scrubbed himself in his own shower for thirty minutes, yet the smell—that profound, fermented stench of her sweat and waste—seemed to have migrated just beneath his skin. He slept fitfully, his dreams a humid collage of overflowing toilets and smothering flesh.
When he returned to her apartment two nights later, the need was a physical ache, a hollowing out behind his navel. He craved the punishment, the absolute negation of self that only she could provide.
Bertha let him in, already sweating in a stained terrycloth robe. The apartment was hotter than before, the air conditioner shuddering ominously.
“Back for more, fuck-rat?” she grunted, shuffling toward the bathroom. “I was just getting warmed up.”
He followed, a docile pilgrim. The bathroom was worse. The toilet bowl now held a sluggish, yellow-green soup that slopped against the rim with a sickening, intermittent gurgle. A new, sharper odor of vomit layered the familiar stench, its source a yellowish smear on the floor near the shower curtain.
“Customer before you had a weak stomach,” Bertha remarked, noting his gaze. “Pussies everywhere.”
She let her robe drop. The monumental folds of her body glistened under the flickering light. She moved to the sink, where a rusty enema bag, its rubber bulb cracked and weathered, already hung from the shower curtain rod. A bottle of cheap, lemon-scented dish soap sat beside it.
“Gonna give you a fresh batch,” she said, filling the bag from the hot tap. The water steamed. She squeezed in a generous glob of the viscous yellow soap, watching it swirl into a cloudy, citron vortex. “Hot and soapy. Scrub my guts clean for you.”
Leonard watched, transfixed, as she lubed the black nozzle with a dab of her own spit. He expected her to order him to do it. She didn’t. This was her preparation, a ritual she performed with the mundane efficiency of a mechanic checking oil. She hoisted one gigantic thigh onto the edge of the grimy bathtub, opening the cavernous cleft of her ass to the room. With a practiced hand, she found her puffy, dark brown hole and pushed the nozzle in. She didn’t flinch. A low, guttural grunt escaped her as she released the clamp.
They both heard the water rush in. A hissing, internal sound. Bertha’s free hand went to her lower belly, which began to distend further, tightening the already-stretched skin into a vast, blotchy globe. She breathed heavily through her mouth, her yellowed teeth gritted.
“Fuck, that’s warm,” she muttered, her eyes half-closed. “Fillin’ me up good.”
Leonard’s cock strained against his trousers. There was something unbearably intimate about watching this, about seeing her internal space being violated by the most basic of elements. It was clinical and deeply obscene.
After a minute, she clamped the tube shut and pulled the nozzle free with a wet pop. Her asshole remained gaped, a loose, trembling “O” that seeped a single clear bubble of soapy water. She remained still, one hand massaging her swollen gut. “Gotta let it marinate,” she said. “Softens up the real good stuff.”
Five minutes passed in silence, save for the dripping tap and Bertha’s labored breathing. Then her eyes snapped open. “Basin.”
Leonard scrambled, fetching the large, stained plastic washbasin from beside the toilet. He placed it on the floor in the middle of the tiny room.
Bertha waddled over, her movements careful, her belly sloshing audibly. She positioned her feet on either side of the basin, squatting down with a series of seismic groans. The expanse of her ass hovered over the empty plastic.
“Get on your knees. Front row seat,” she commanded.
He obeyed, the tiles cold and damp through his pants. He was eye-level with her dripping, waiting hole.
She locked eyes with him, a cruel smile playing on her lips. Then she bore down.
It wasn’t a simple release. It was an eruption. A torrent of hot, soapy, brown water exploded from her with a sound like a tearing seam, splashing violently into the basin. Solid, soft chunks, dark and fibrous, were carried in the current, bobbing and dissolving. The smell that bloomed was eye-watering—fecal, chemical, deeply organic. The basin filled rapidly with a churning, steaming stew.
Bertha groaned with relief, her body shuddering as she emptied herself. A final few spurts, then a trickle. She remained squatting, panting, her hole pulsating weakly. The basin was three-quarters full of soupy, chunky effluence, bubbles of lemon-scented soap popping on its pungent surface.
“There,” she breathed, triumphant. “A fresh fucking brew. And you’re gonna drink it.”
Leonard stared at the basin. His stomach clenched, a primal reflex. Saliva flooded his mouth, the precursor to vomiting.
“Now,” she said, her voice hardening. “While it’s warm.”
He leaned forward. The steam carried the taste to him. He gagged, his body recoiling.
“Don’t you fucking dare heave,” Bertha snarled. “You asked for this. You paid for it. Get your face in there and lap it up like the thirsty little bitch you are.”
He shut his eyes. He thought of his desk, his spreadsheets, the serene, ordered silence of his office. Then he plunged his face into the basin.
The warmth was shocking. The liquid closed over his nose and mouth. He opened his lips, sucking in a mouthful. The taste was complex, horrifying—the artificial lemon twist of the soap barely masking the profound, earthy bitterness of shit, the salty tang of her intestinal water. Gritty particles floated against his tongue and lips. He swallowed convulsively, the warm slurry burning a path down his throat.
He came up for air, sputtering, strings of brown mucus connecting his lips to the surface of the soup.
“That’s it,” Bertha cooed, her voice dripping with mockery. “Good boy. My little human toilet. Now, let’s wash it down.”
She shifted her weight. A new sound, a sharp, controlled hissing, joined the room’s symphony. A hot, amber arc of urine shot from between her legs, missing the basin entirely. It struck the side of Leonard’s head, a scalding cascade that soaked his hair, ran down his temple and neck, pooled in the collar of his shirt. The smell was acrid, ammoniac, cutting through the other stench.
He froze, his face dripping with her filthy enema water, his head being pissed on. The warmth was shameful, baptizing.
“Open your mouth!” she barked.
He tilted his head back, opening his lips like a fledgling bird. The urinal stream hit his teeth, splashed onto his tongue, filled his mouth with a hot, salty-bitter rush. He swallowed what he could, gagging as it overflowed and ran down his chin, mixing with the shit-water already there.
She laughed, a full-throated, wheezing cackle that shook her entire body. “Look at you! Oh, Christ, look at you. You’re even more pathetic than I thought. And I think you’re a fucking worthless piece of shit.”
He was. And he was harder than he’d ever been in his life. His cock was a rigid, throbbing iron bar against his zipper, untouched, aroused solely by the total annihilation of his dignity. The warm piss soaking his scalp felt like a crown.
She finished, giving her pelvis a few shakes that sprinkled the last drops onto his forehead. “Alright. Get up. You smell like a urinal cake that took a shit.”
He stood, swaying, drenched and reeking. The front of his trousers was tented obscenely.
Bertha glanced at it and snorted. “Of course. Well, that’s your problem. My work here is done.” She nudged the full basin with her foot. “Clean that up before you go. Dump it slow so the toilet don’t overflow again. And touch yourself on your own time.”
She left him there, stepping over the basin with a grunt, retrieving her robe. Leonard stood amidst the evidence of his degradation, the piss cooling on his skin, the taste of her internals cementing itself onto his palate. He looked at the basin, then at his throbbing, neglected erection. The paradox was absolute. He had never been hungrier for her, nor had he ever felt more completely and finally used.
He carefully lifted the heavy basin. He carried it to the toilet, his movements slow, reverent. He tipped the contents into the swirling, foul water, watching the soapy, brown mixture vanish with a final, gaseous gurgle.
The envelope was on the stool. He took it, his filthy hands leaving smudges on the crisp white paper. He didn’t look toward the bedroom. He let himself out, a walking contamination, a secret fully realized. The night air did nothing to cleanse him. It only made him feel exposed. He hurried to his car, his need unmet, a savage, howling emptiness inside him that he knew, with terrifying certainty, only she could fill again.