Page 61 of Knife Volume 2

She walked back into the bedroom on unsteady legs, and her stomach dropped when she saw a large plastic sheet covering the bed, a large bucket hanging from the pulley, and clear tubing snaking to the bed with a double balloon inflatable nozzle on the end.

He pointed to the bed and ordered, “Knees and chest. Center yourself.”

Fear jolted through her — whatever he put inside her would stay there until he decided to let it out. The level of control that gave him made her thighs tremble and her stomach cartwheel.

A deep breath told her he’d added Ivory soap to the water. She’d had Doms give her plain enemas before, but never a full-on soapy one, but she knew enough to be terrified. Just as she’d never actually felt a double-balloon enema, but she knew exactly what it was.

But all of this went through her head while she walked to the bed, climbed onto it, and assumed the position — knees wide, chest down, ass raised. He clipped her right wrist to her right ankle, then the left. He removed the plug from her ass and lubed her way more thoroughly than necessary. First with two fingers, then three, before he worked the inflatable nozzle inside her. She whimpered as he pumped air into both balloons, until the nozzle was locked inside her, firmly in place.

She heard a click, and gasped when the first rush of cool water flooded into her.

The cramping hit fast and vicious with a sharp, chemical fire — the soap attacking her insides, forcing her bowels into violent, twisting knots that stole her breath. Deep spasms seized her belly, rolling and contracting so hard she screamed into the mattress. Her entire lower abdomen felt like it was being wrung out by an iron fist. Tears poured from her eyes as another brutal wave hit, making her sob and shake against the bonds.

She clenched her jaw and desperately fought the urge to beg for mercy. She didn’t want a gag. Didn’t want chopsticks crushing her tongue. So she whimpered, yelped, and screamed depending on the severity of the cramps. The worst of them came in waves, violent contractions that only agitated the soap inside her like a damned washing machine. She was so full, but the water kept coming, and the burn was relentless. Every muscle in her gut screamed in protest as the soapy water worked its merciless way through her.

And still, he kept filling her.

When the bucket finally gurgled empty, he removed the tubing but left the inflated nozzle locked inside her.

Then he picked up the thin, whippy fiberglass cane, and her clit throbbed to life.

He caned the backs of her thighs in slow, methodical strokes while she shook and sobbed. His other hand pinched and twisted her nipples until they were fiery hot, then slid down to brutally torment her swollen clit with his strong fucking fingers.

“I can scent how turned on you are,” he said, voice dark with satisfaction. “How even this much pain does it for you.” He struck harder with the cane, and she yelped, turning her face away from him. “Or is it the power I hold over you that’s flipping your switch? Controlling even your bowels, hurting you in such a personal, intimate way?”

It was a question, which meant she had to answer. “I don’t know, Sir,” she gasped. “All of it, probably.”

He buried his fingers in her pussy, and her face burned with fresh shame even as her hips tried to push back against his fingers.

And then he fucking edged her, getting her so damned close to an orgasm, one hand working her clit while the other spread her sore pussy wide — but when she was about to orgasm even without permission, he stepped back and walloped the backs of her thighs with the Delrin instead of the fiberglass cane while saying, “You do not have permission to come, little painslut.”

Eventually, he released her wrists and ankles, helped her off the bed, walked her to the toilet, and made her stand over it with her legs spread wide while he deflated the nozzle. The moment it slid free, she dropped onto the seat and exploded, emptying everything in a long, humiliating rush.

He left the bathroom without a word. Later, when she thought she might be finished but wasn’t sure, he called out from the bedroom, “When you’re finished, get a quick shower, but keep your hair dry, and then get your ass back out here.”

- - - ❖ - - -

When she returned on shaky legs, he was waiting. He pointed to the side of the bed. “Bend over. Hands on the mattress, back arched, ass up.”

She bent forward, palms flat on the mattress, legs trembling. The position left her completely exposed. Again.

The second enema was plain water, but still cool. Not warm. And there was a huge butt-plug nozzle without the balloons.

The moment the water flooded into her already-sore belly and mixed with the soap residue still in there, the cramps returned with violent force. Deep, rolling spasms twisted through her guts, each one sharper than the last. She clenched her jaw so hard her teeth ached, fighting the overwhelming urge to beg for mercy, to plead with him to stop or slow down or please, Sir, let me go back to the bathroom.

Tears spilled down her cheeks. Her legs shook violently. A broken scream tore from her throat as a particularly brutal cramp seized her, making her hips jerk forward. She forced herself back into position, fingers digging into the mattress, toes curling against the floor. Every instinct screamed at her to move, to clench, to run — but she stayed.

Breath after ragged breath, cramp after cramp, she held herself perfectly still for him. It felt important to prove she didn’t need ropes or cuffs to obey. That she could give him this level of control willingly, even when her body was screaming for her to run.

The water kept coming, filling her until she felt bloated and impossibly full. She was sobbing openly now, tears dripping onto the bed, but she endured.

When the bucket finally emptied, she was shaking so hard she could barely stand.

“Oh, good girl,” he said, two thick fingers sinking deep into her pussy, curling against her front wall. “Thirty strikes of the loopy before you can move, and you’ll ask me for each one while squeezing around that plug so it stays in. Ask me for the first. Please, Sir, can I have the first strike of the loopy?”

Somehow, she managed to get it out, and the loopy johnny landed across her ass with a vicious cracking thud. The twin strands of network cable bit deep, wrapping slightly and crashing into her flesh with a brutal, bone-deep impact.

She didn’t want to ask again, but she wasn’t sure she could hold the enema in for thirty, so as soon as she caught her breath, she said, “Please, Sir, can I have the second strike?”