Nature Takes Its Course

“Let me look at this…” he says taking the plastic object from my hands and examining it closely. “So this is what they look like. I always thought that they were these weird, nasty things that came with five tubes and a bag or something to put your shit in.”

I laugh. “Well there is that kind of enema, but those are, ahem, an acquired taste. Not for beginners like you. I prefer these, a bit more civilized, medically safe and readily available from your neighbourhood pharmacy. Clears you out and the best bit? No bags of shit to tote around!”

“So you just stick them in and it all comes out?”

“Yup! I’ll show you! In fact, you are going to do one with me!” I pronounce smugly. “That will be the rule from now on ok? If I do one, you do one – for solidarity! C’mon it’ll be fun! These are the things you do with someone you feel completely and absolutely comfortable with. The things you don’t see in porn!”

“For good reason…” he mutters under his breath.

I see him hesitate - caught between curiousity and dismay - and ruthlessly press my advantage. “Pwease? Pwetty pwetty pwease? Friends for life, right? And besides, it’s my birthdaaay…” Faced with all the earnest and enthusiastic cajoling, he knows his only option is to gamely capitulate.

I make him lie back and tell him playfully – and quite unnecessarily – to “just relax”. I lube up the tip of the plastic tube with my forefinger before carefully and tenderly inserting it into him, subsequently pulling it out in exactly the same fashion.

“See? Easy-peasy! Now you do the same on me!” I squeal, reclining horizontal on the bed and positioning my buttocks at an angle to give him the best access. He obediently returns the favour and looks suitably serious whilst admistering it.

“So now we wait.”

We stretch out on the king-sized bed next to each other. And wait. And giggle. And wait some more. It gives me great amusement to see him just lying there looking somewhat uncertain and vulnerable, anticipating what will happen next.

The irony of the situation is not lost on him. “This is a real bonding experience huh, waiting with somebody to shit!” he exclaims with great amusement. “Actually I could feel it working the minute you inserted it, like my insides were relaxing. Matter of time Baby, matter of time…”

The urge hits me first and I run off to let nature take its course, forgetting in my haste that he is still lying in bed a few feet away. My body begins to release and induced by the enema, I begin to make some reasonably loud and explosive bathroom sounds (subtext: farts that echo throughout the entire villa).

Suddenly I hear a loud yell of encouragement: “YOU GO Baaaby! YEAAAA. Giiiive it to me. C’mon, LOOOUUD! Just the way I like it!”

“FUCK OFF!” I shriek back in laughter, helpless to stop my body from completing the course of its natural functions. “I’m sooo fucking going to sit outside the toilet when you gooo!”

“Ok ok, I’ll switch on the TV,” he says, as a concession. I hear the sounds of the tube and I recognize the drone of a newscaster reading the news.

Great, I muse. Just great. Now I’m shitting to the sounds of car bombs detonating in Iraq. Poetry in motion indeed. I vow silently to feed his innards to the flies when I finish.

When I finally wander out of the toilet, he is nowhere to be found and I conclude (correctly) that it must be his time. Out of general politeness and the reluctance to intrude, I sit on the bed idly flipping channels, looking for something remotely inspiring on the small screen.

It doesn’t last long – my half-hearted attempt at courtesy and self-control - and after a few moments, I run over to the other room and press my ear to the glass door of the toilet. “Knock knock! How’s it going?”

“Good. The miracles of science are…miraculous! Everything’s coming out in a rush!”

“I don’t hear anything! Where are the fucking sound effects?”

I arrange myself cross-legged on the floor outside and wait patiently but receive no audio gratification for my efforts. I must have mis-timed it. Drats. He emerges from the cubicle a little while later, careful to shut the door firmly behind him. He chuckles when he sees me sitting outside. And this sets me off on yet another round of mirthful spasms.

“What will you say to the people who ask what you did on your birthday, Sash? Sat outside the toilet and listened to a guy shit,” he teases me, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Stop it! For your birthday next month, I’m going to make you carry a 2 gallon bag of shit around. You best not shoot your mouth off, buster!” I gasp out a warning, wiping the wetness of hilarity from my eyes and holding my sides tightly.

Thus, with our bowels so unceremoniously emptied, we have set the scene for an all-night session of hot, heavy backdoor action later on (subtext: no mess, no embarrassment and no need to call the hygiene police, people!) Just thinking about it gives me a quick pucker from anticipation and arousal.

But for the immediate moment, first things first – we head out for lunch. Chocolate fondant is predictably not on the menu.