Chapter 20
The pause stretched, Spence swinging gently in the ropes, body a map of fire and ice.
Welts throbbed hot across most of his body, weights pulled relentlessly on nipples and balls, the slow melt of cubes inside him made him shiver and cramp, and his breath came shallow through the hood’s nose holes, muffling the world to nothing but heartbeat and ache.
Zander’s cool hands settled at his hips, standing in front of him, and he felt Emmy’s hands on his ass, then something hard at his ass, slick and unyielding, ruthlessly pressing. Opening him.
It breached him slowly, a deliberate invasion that stretched the sensitive rim wider, gliding deep, then slowing. Stopping.
Then the inner balloon began to inflate, relentlessly swelling inside him, pressure blooming deep in his rectum as it expanded, locking the nozzle in place.
The sensation was intimate and terrifying: something growing within, stretching his walls from the inside out, the burn sharp and undeniable as it filled space that wasn’t meant to be taken this way.
His body clenched instinctively around it, muscles spasming in futile resistance, the weights on his balls swinging with the jerk, pulling fresh fire through stretched skin.
Pleasure sparked faintly along his prostate, but the foreign fullness dominated, a violation that sent his heart hammering harder in the silent dark, and his insides fluttered in helpless protest.
A second swell followed — the outer balloon, sealing him from the outside, the dual grip absolute with no escape possible.
Panic flickered hot in his chest as realization crashed through him like ice water in his gut: this wasn’t just stretching or filling.
This was going to be an enema. They were going to flood him, force him to hold it, the soap’s impending burn already a phantom threat in his mind.
His stomach dropped, a sick, heavy lurch of dread and dark thrill, breath coming faster through the nose holes as he hung there — blind, deaf, and utterly at their mercy — waiting for the inevitable rush.
He felt the tug as the tube shifted, and then the flow began, cool solution surging fast, filling him with ruthless speed.
It took a few minutes for him to realize how much soap they’d put into the water, but the first cramp was brutal and left no doubt.
He couldn’t double over, though he fought the ropes and tried. And then from behind him came Emmy’s warmth, her palm sliding over his belly in slow, soothing circles that contrasted the chaos fighting in his guts.
He felt Zander’s hands on his shoulders a brief second before his Master released the buckles on the hood.
Moments later, cool air hit his face, and he breathed in through his mouth, his first really good lungful of air in a long time.
The earplugs came out, and Zander said, “Keep your eyes closed, Dearest. The lights are turned low, but take it slow.”
The blindfold came off, then the bit gag was gently removed, and Spence worked his jaw with his eyes still closed.
Meanwhile, the cramps inside him were vicious, and his gut twisted and churned as the liquid filled him, pressure building sharp and deep, the soap’s burn igniting nerves already raw from ice. He jerked in the ropes, his groans no longer muffled, body clenching desperately, trying to make it stop.
Emmy’s hands never stopped, rubbing firm over the swell of his abdomen, feeling the spasms ripple under her palms.
“Breathe through it,” she ordered, voice a warm anchor.
She talked him through slow, deep breaths, telling him when to inhale, when he could exhale.
When his eyes were fully open, Zander put a straw at his lips and uttered a single word. “Drink.”
It seemed wrong to drink while being filled with an enema, but he did as ordered, and drank the electrolyte mixture in. It wasn’t much, thankfully. Perhaps five or six ounces.
When it was gone and Emmy was rubbing his belly again, a particularly sharp cramp rolled through him.
“Oh,” she said, voice soft with genuine sympathy. “I can see and feel the cramps. They must hurt so badly.” Her hand pressed gentle circles on his distended belly. “Breathe through them, sweetheart. The bucket isn’t even a third of the way empty yet.”
Sweetheart. The endearment landed like a caress even as the soap churned knives through his gut.
“I can’t wait to see your belly bulging and full,” she continued, and there was wonder in her voice, not cruelty. Like she was watching something beautiful unfold. “Breathe for me. That’s it. Slow and deep. Let’s count together. Ten seconds in, twelve out.”
Her touch was sympathy wrapped in steel — gentle circles easing the surface ache while the flow just kept coming, deeper and higher, cool solution flooding fast. Soap cramped his insides like knives twisting slow, but he obeyed her breathing instructions exactly, because disappointing her felt worse than any physical pain.
The pressure mounted. His belly grew under her hands.
Zander watched from ten feet away, seated comfortably on a bondage table, his gaze never leaving them. Not interfering. Not rescuing. Just … witnessing.
His distance somehow amplified the intimacy of Emmy’s care: her palms pressing where cramps knotted hardest, her voice coaxing him through each wave.
“Oh, that’s a bad one. Ride it out, breathe deep, you’ve got this.
” Sympathetic but unyielding, the bag emptying faster than he could possibly handle, but he had no choice.
Quart after quart surged into him until his abdomen swelled taut, a heavy sloshing weight that made every breath strain.
When the extra weight made his shoulders scream, Zander rose and went to the wall controls, lowering him slightly — just enough so his big toes touched the floor and could bear a fraction of the burden.
The small mercy made Spence’s throat tight.
Emmy’s hand never left his belly, mapping the swell of it, rubbing and massaging the muscles when the cramps ripped through him. She seemed fascinated by his reactions, and that made it bearable. Made it meaningful.
He floated in the torment — body stretched and filled, cramps radiating endlessly, weights tugging his nipples and balls with every clench, breath labored — but her hands grounded him.
He held on, muscles burning to contain it all, surrender deepening with every commanded breath, devotion his biggest truth as the solution filled him with unrelenting pressure, cool and soapy inside him, pressure unbearable.
Then a soft kiss brushed his cheek, and her voice dropped to gentle intimacy despite their surroundings.
“That’s my willpower filling you, but this is about more than me proving to both of us that I own your body.
” Another kiss, this one to his temple. “I need you to show me you fully submit. And that means I need to hear from you. What’s going through your head, sweetheart? ”
“Yours!” he gasped, the word torn from him. “I’m yours!”
“That’s good to hear.” Her voice gentled further, and he felt her lean closer, her breath warm against his ear. “Tell me something you don’t want to tell me. Something you think but don’t want to say.”
He shook his head and felt tears finally spill over and trail hot down his cheeks.
“Oh, you’re beautiful when you cry. Such a treasure. Talk to me, Spence.”
“I love you. I love Zander. I’m yours!”
She made a soft sound — not quite satisfied, not quite disappointed.
“Prove it, sweetheart. Another two or three minutes and the water will be all in. Then the fun really begins.” Her tone shifted, became almost playful despite the circumstances.
“I’m thinking we can make you do pull-ups, with judicious use of the horsewhip when you slow. ”
She kissed his cheek again, lingering this time. “Or talk to me, and we can stay like this until the conversation finishes. Then the water releases.”
He wanted to tell her there was nothing to say, but it would be a lie. And he couldn’t lie to her. Not when she was inside him like this, filling him with her will, her control, her care.
But she didn’t need to know his private worries.
He was here to support them, to be the foundation for the triangle.
That didn’t involve burdening them with his unimportant, insignificant anxieties about the origins of his masochism.
None of that mattered. He’s a masochist. He needs pain.
The why of it doesn’t need to be figured out.
She didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t repeat herself.
She simply waited.
And that patience — her absolute certainty she could outwait him — was more devastating than any whip.
Another cramp seized him and would’ve folded him forward if the ropes hadn’t held. He gasped, belly muscles spasming visibly under her palm, the weights on his balls swinging with the jerk, pulling fresh pain through stretched skin and crushed nerves.
The suspension and cramps forced his body into awareness — arms stretched, shoulders burning, toes brushing the floor just enough to tease balance, and the cramps so intense he had to fight to breathe.
But her focus stayed on his face, and the silence lengthened.
The bucket gurgled, and she fiddled with the hose where he couldn’t see it.
“So full,” she said, her hand splaying possessively over his distended belly, rubbing and massaging. “That’s the whole four quarts, sweetheart, and your belly is adorable.”
Another cramp hit hard, and her fingers went to work again, soothing and comforting.
“You think love is proof,” she said quietly, “and maybe it is, but it’s not the proof I asked for.” Her fingers traced the taut curve of his abdomen. “It’s a safe truth. One that costs you nothing to say.”
He swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet dungeon.
He shook his head again, feeling helpless and small. “I don’t— There isn’t—”
“Spence.” His name landed softly, precisely. “Look at me.”
He forced his eyes open and met her gaze through the blur of tears.