“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 hurtsobadly.” 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 seemedfascinatedby his reactions, and that made it bearable. Made itmeaningful.
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 hisbiggest 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 youthinkbut 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, hercare.
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. Thewhyof it doesn’t need to be figured out.
She didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t repeat herself.
She simply waited.
