Piss Enema

You kneel on tile floor. Standing next to you, his nanobot-enhanced penis stretching your retching throat, your father scans the nearly empty lunch room at Globex for anyone who could help. He sees John by the entrance, throwing food containers into the large plastic garbage bin mounted on wheels.

Your father wraps your hair like horse reins around his left hand. He’s done this during your father-daughter gag training whenever he intends to walk with his cock down your throat - usually to the bathroom where you stumble to kneel by the toilet so Dad can dislodge, urinate, and re-sheath - never releasing his grip on your hair.

“Hey John, hold up,” you hear from above. Your father starts waddling, dragging you between his legs. Your eyes roll and bulge as his member presses into you. Its spongy head rubs your lungs through your throat - like heartburn - alternating sides with each step. You clench and gag and push against your father’s thighs.

He seems not to notice as he cowboy-strides across the room. Your used ass whips across lunchroom tile. Your legs kick tiny eddys in your father’s wide, swaying wake. He halts near John at the trash can and asks, “Take a late lunch?”

John looks down at you. Is that sympathy? No. He whistles with admiration at seeing the width of the shaft nearly breaking your jaw and the swelling of your stuffed neck, eventually commenting, "Damn, Kev. How did you manage this one?"

"Uh, the throat just tightened up on me. Help me get it to relax will you?” says your father, and he passes your hair-reins into John’s massive mitts.

John takes the reins, and together the two ogres manipulate your head. They shake, jerk, push, and yank at your hair, temples, jaw and throat. You hear your father complain that it doesn't feel as good as John might think. The pressure behind your eyes forces them to roll up. You see your father smiling.

Minutes of strain - of **** and drooling and crying. You suddenly fart loudly mid-retch: Your father's cock slides half an inch out of your mouth, the fat dickhead catching again in your throat. The two men stop pulling at you to eye each other in understanding. You cannot feel the relief of this stillness. Instead, fear sweats out of your thigh-backs, under your arms. What are they thinking?

John enthuses, "Like the porta-Patty! And we just had her last week too - shoulda thoughtuvit sooner -"

Your Dad interrupts, "It'd be too messy, Sarah's not trained to... Her tolerance, even rectally..." Whatever they're thinking, your father, who's willing to slap a nano-enhancement on his body, seems to have reservations. Your complaints squeeze warmly around the nutsack against your lips. FUCK TOY fills your vision.

John says, "But it will work! Here..." He reaches for the nearby trash bin, rolls it close.

Your father sighs. "Hands behind your back, sweetheart." The command has an immediate, conditioned effect: You contort to comply before your fear catches up to you. By then, John is already wrapping a giant hand around your wrists, pinning them against your back. You feel his other hand pick you up by your surprised pussy. Your father supports your upper body with one hand gripping your cock-stuffed throat, the other squeezing your right tit too tight. John keeps your wrists low as he hoists your waist high, then places your legs into the trashcan.

You feel soupy liquid and discarded food between your toes. Cartons and cans wrap sticky around your legs. Your ass hangs over the edge of the plastic bin, your breasts over the other side - the bin's rim pressing against your sternum awkwardly.

Your father continues groping your tit too roughly while he massages your throat - rather, his own stiffening cock through your throat. He loves the image of you in the trash, or the idea he and John share telepathically. John pins you bent as he moves behind you with an unzipping sound. You whimper. Your Father says “Don’t be embarrassed, Sarah. This will be like the clean-out routine we had to implement shortly after your 18th. Remember? And John will provide the hose and…uh, fluid.”

Already you feel John’s massive member poke at your puckered rear hole. You try to shake your head no but you can only squirm as the realization dawns on you: Right after you turned 18, Pete introduced you to ass-to-mouth. You had been so disgusted, you complained to your mother. She showed you how to douche your anal cavity with enemas, and this must be what John and your father have in mind!

John sighs. You feel a hot stream of piss erupt from the cockhead pressed against your asshole. It spills warmly up your crack and down your back, under your wrists. John’s urine drips down your pussy and thighs, mixing with the sticky garbage marinating you.

John groans now and presses forward, still urinating, into your wet asshole with his dick-tip. You’re instantly nauseated - too warm, bloated, smelly - as the pressured stream hits your rectum. More discomfort as the member stretching your anus pushes deeper, into a pool of the piss it poured, all up your butt. You fart a mist of stinky pee back onto John. He’s upset. At the same time you retch, and your father’s cock slides another little bit out of your mouth. He’s elated.

“It’s working!” Your father encourages. John repays the ungrateful wet fart he suffered by quickly hilting his firm salami to its base. He is still peeing into your guts as he impales deeper. You feel a variation of the familiar piss-drunk: pain is turning to pleasure through your stretched ass and throat. But something is missing. You are still thinking sober. You’re embarrassed your father devalues you, that his colleague is using your butthole as a pee-condom, that your life entails being a toilet in a garbage can. You cry more.

You help your father contort your jaw wider, at least enjoying the sensation now as he pulls slowly out of your throat. It is working. You feel pressure building in your bowels. You burp and burp as your esophagus makes way around that ol’ spongy head of your dad’s - wildly enhanced. John almost roars and the stream inside you intensifies. Pee fills you deeper and deeper. Your guts distend and you begin to look pregnant. Your father’s meatpole slides out of your throat more. You burp and retch and vomit your cummy lunch around your father. The precious medicine spills onto the lunchroom floor.

Stuck again, still half-hilted, your father’s prick-tip makes a bulge in your throat - which Kevin thinks to knead for added sensation. John has emptied his bladder inside you and stuffed your ass full of cock, too. Progress has halted, and the three of you freeze in fear of losing any: If John fucks your piss-filled ass, will Kevin’s cock re-embed itself? Will you fart out more stinky urine as your bowels reach their discomfort limit? How could your situation become bleaker?