The Rinsing

"Come with me," she said, releasing my cock with a wet sound that seemed too loud in the fire-warmed room. "Time to rise."

I tried to stand, but my legs betrayed me—rubber beneath me, the sedation turning my bones to jelly. I swayed, stumbled, and would have collapsed onto the Persian rug if she hadn't caught me. Her arm—stronger than it looked, corded with strange muscle beneath that flowing black gown—slid around my waist, and she hoisted my arm over her shoulder, taking my weight as if I weighed nothing.

"Easy now," she purred, her breath cool against my shaved scalp. "I've got you."

She half-carried me through another doorway into a room I hadn't seen before—tiled in white ceramic like the bathroom, but larger and industrial, dominated by a long metal trough built into the floor. It looked like something from a dairy farm, or a mortuary, or a place where things were taken apart and made ready.

"Time to rinse you from inside," she whispered, guiding me to the edge of the trough. "Lay it in it."

I climbed in, the metal cold against my bare, hairless skin. The trough was long enough to hold a man stretched full-length and deep enough to cradle me like a coffin. I settled onto my back, looking up at her transformed face—those golden eyes, that snout-like nose, and the hunger that never left her expression.

"On your stomach," she commanded, her voice carrying an edge of authority that brooked no disobedience. "And raise your ass. Present yourself."

I rolled over, the metal pressing against my newly spent cock, my shaved balls. I drew my knees beneath me, arching my back, lifting my hips in a posture of obscene submission. The position exposed everything—my hairless cleft, my vulnerable entrance, and the complete lack of protection she had prepared me for.

I heard the rustle of fabric, the clink of metal on tile, and then the hiss of water pressure building in pipes. She had pulled a long garden hose from a hook on the wall—industrial, thick, the rubber black and ridged. It coiled in her hands like a living thing.

She knelt behind me, and I felt her cool fingers spread my cheeks, exposing my hole completely. Then—the rubber end, blunt and unforgiving, pressing against my sphincter.

"Relax," she said, but there was no mercy in it.

She pushed.

The intrusion was immediate, burning, and wrong. She used no lube—to keep her food clean, I realised dimly, the thought floating through my sedated haze. The hose pushed past my resistance, opening me and filling me in a way that felt like violation and preparation all at once.

Inch after inch disappeared inside me. I gasped, my fingers scrabbling against the metal trough, finding no purchase. She worked it deeper, feeding the hose into my bowels with a patience that was somehow more terrifying than violence. One foot. Two. The sensation of fullness grew, expanded, and became overwhelming.

"Another," she whispered, and I felt a second hose join the first, or perhaps she was simply feeding more of the endless length into me—I couldn't tell, my nerves overwhelmed, my body stretched beyond comprehension.

My midriff began to bloat.

I looked down, watching in horror and fascination as my abdomen distended, grotesque and round, filling with the coils of rubber buried inside me. Three feet. Four. She kept inserting, her hands working with the efficiency of a butcher preparing a turkey, until I was certain she had buried five feet of garden hose into my large intestine, my gut packed full, my insides rearranged to accommodate her instrument.

"There," she said, satisfied. "Hold onto the edge. Don't let go."

I gripped the lip of the trough, my knuckles white, my body trembling.

She moved away, and I heard the faucet creak open—a trickle at first, cold water beginning to flow through the hose into me, filling the spaces between my organs. I felt the pressure build, the strange sensation of my bowels expanding, water seeking every crevice, rinsing me from the inside out. It leaked around the hose, dribbling from my ass, running down my thighs—the first rinse, the preliminary cleaning.

Then—the sound of the valve turning fully.

The pressure hit like a fist. Water gushed into me, flooding my intestines and distending my stomach even further until I looked pregnant, obscene, and filled to bursting. The sound was wet and hollow—*gurgling, rushing*, the noise of an abattoir enema, an industrial cleansing of meat before the spit.

I could hear it—the water moving through me, sloshing in my gut, carrying away everything I was, everything I had eaten, leaving me empty and clean and ready.

"Good," she purred, her hand stroking my bloated belly, feeling the water slosh beneath my skin. She touched my rock-hard cock again, fully aroused from the anal penetration.

"Clean inside and out. My perfect little roast."

She let the water run, and I lay there, stuffed and helpless, understanding finally that I was no longer a man to her.

I was at dinner, being prepared.

To be continued.