Washing with friends

The cloying scent of jasmine did nothing to mask the smell of him. He stank of sweat, of spent men, of the cold metallic tang of the chastity belt’s lock digging into his hip bones. Lily had marched him from the car, the trench coat her only concession to public decency, and now he stood shivering on the cool, black-and-white tile of her bathroom.

“Oh my god, Lily.” Allison’s voice was a hushed, excited whisper from the doorway.

“You weren’t kidding,” Caroline added, her tone a mix of revulsion and fascination.

Lily smiled, a sharp, pretty thing. She guided John into the glass-walled shower stall and pushed him down until he was kneeling in the empty basin. The coldness of the tiles seeped into his knees, a familiar sensation he was starting to dread.

“Look at him,” Lily said, her voice pitched for her audience. “This is what happens when you think you can spy on people. You get turned into this.” She gestured at him as if he were a museum exhibit. “A worthless, used-up piece of meat.”

John kept his head down, his gaze fixed on the drain. He could feel their eyes on him—Lily’s calculating stare, Allison’s wide-eyed curiosity, Caroline’s clinical appraisal. The humiliation was a live wire under his skin, more acute here in this soft, feminine space than it had been in the brutal anonymity of the public bathroom.

“Is that… is that a chastity belt?” Caroline asked, stepping closer.

“It is,” Lily confirmed, her pride evident. “And it’s full. We’re going to need to clean him out before we can really play.” She walked to the counter and retrieved three plastic water bottles, their contents a deep, cloudy yellow. “But first, we have to wash off the outside.”

Allison giggled, a nervous, high-pitched sound. “No way.”

“Yes way,” Lily said, handing a bottle to each of her friends. She kept one for herself. “He collected these for us yesterday. Consider it a baptism.”

John’s stomach twisted. He remembered the men, the bottles, Lily’s cold command. He started to shake, a full-body tremor he couldn’t control.

“Aw, is he scared?” Allison cooed, unscrewing her cap.

“He should be,” Lily said. She stood in front of him, looking down. “Head up, John. I want to see your face.”

He **** his chin up. Her phone was already out, the red recording light a malevolent eye. The three women formed a semicircle around the shower entrance.

Lily raised her bottle. “To hygiene.”

The first stream was a shock. It wasn't warm like he’d expected from the men in the stall; it was cool, and it hit his chest with a soft splatter, the smell of concentrated ammonia immediately stinging his nostrils. He flinched back, but the glass wall was right behind him.

Caroline’s stream followed, arching through the air to soak his hair and face. He squeezed his eyes shut as the acrid liquid ran down his forehead, into his eyebrows, tracing paths through the dried streaks of cum. He gagged, the pungent, aggressive odor filling his sinuses and throat.

“Open your mouth, John,” Lily commanded, her voice calm behind the phone.

He shook his head, a weak, pleading gesture.

The shock collar activated. The pain was instant and blinding, a vicious bite that locked his jaw and made his vision swim. He gasped, and in that moment, Allison aimed her bottle. A direct hit. The warm, bitter liquid flooded his mouth, coating his tongue and teeth. He choked, sputtering, but she kept pouring, the stream forcing its way down his throat until he had **** but to swallow.

They continued, the three of them, methodically dousing him. They poured the piss over his shoulders, down his back, letting it pool in the small of his back before cascading over the curve of his ass. They soaked his legs, his feet, the liquid washing away the grime of the previous day only to replace it with this new, profound filth. The bathroom air grew thick with the stench, a pungent cloud that made even Allison cough once, though she never stopped laughing.

When the bottles were empty, Lily tossed hers into the sink with a clatter. “See? All clean on the outside.” She stepped into the shower stall, her shoes clicking on the wet tile. “Now for the inside.”

She produced a small key and unlocked the chastity belt. The relief of its removal was immediately overshadowed by a fresh wave of terror. The sealed plug was still inside him, a bloated, uncomfortable pressure.

“On your hands and knees. Face the drain.”

He obeyed, his body moving with a numb, automated compliance. The tiles were slick and yellow beneath his palms.

He felt her hands on his ass, spreading his cheeks. There was a soft, sucking pop as the plug was removed. What followed was a cold, gushing release as two days of collected semen, now warm and curdled, emptied from him into the shower drain. The sound was wet and obscene, a prolonged, slurping rush that seemed to go on forever. He heard Caroline gasp, and Allison let out a low, impressed whistle.

“Jesus,” Allison muttered. “That’s a lot.”

Lily didn’t respond. She dropped the soiled plug into the sink with a dismissive clatter. “The inside still needs a rinse. Caroline, the bottle.”

Caroline handed her a fresh, clear bottle filled with a pale golden liquid. Lily nudged John’s leg. “Lie on your back. Head toward the drain.”

Confused, he shifted onto his back, his head near the metal grate. The position was profoundly ****, his legs splayed, his exposed, violated body on full display.

Lily stood over his head, one foot on either side of his shoulders. She opened the bottle. “This one’s mine. Fresh. I’ve been saving it all morning just for you.” She looked down at him, her expression one of absolute domination. “Open wide.”

There was no fight left in him. He opened his mouth.

She aimed carefully, a confident, steady stream that hit the back of his throat directly. It was warmer than the others, and sharper, more concentrated. He swallowed reflexively, the bitter, salty fluid burning a path down to his stomach. She kept pouring, not stopping until the bottle was empty and his throat was raw from the effort of gulping it down.

She stepped away, and for a moment, there was only the sound of his ragged breathing and the final drops of liquid pattering from the showerhead onto his skin.

“Okay,” Lily said, her businesslike tone returning. She handed her phone to Allison. “Keep filming. It’s time for his enema.”