The Second Meeting – Intimate Invasions

She prepares herself for the second meeting, changing into the pencil-skirt and the demure white blouse, watching herself in the mirror, thinking how subdued she appears, how professional. Only the high-heels are anomalous, the only overt sign of the battle inside, the war raging between her desires and her reluctance to admit to them.

“But he’ll see my shoes and know I want this,” she thinks, turning in the mirror for a third or fourth assessment of her backside. “The shoes will do it, he won’t need to see the stockings and garters and see-through panties underneath,” she thinks, even though she has to admit that it’s been a long time since a man paid that much attention to her shoes.

As she turns before the mirror her watch falls; reaching down to retrieve it, tottering slightly on her absurdly high heels, she catches the sight in the mirror, her ass presented beneath the thin fabric of the skirt, the outline of the plug she’s wearing almost visible.

She straightens with a start, feeling worse for the attractiveness of the view, feeling her shame at preparing herself for this, for what might come if she wants it to, for what she desperately wants to have, even though he’s reassured her that she need not have it. “It’s your choice,” he’s told her, and she feels her shame and desire spike at the words, for she knows that, as much as she might deny it, she’s already made up her mind about what it is that she wants, and “choice” is something that’s long since ceased to exist.

As far as why you’re more nervous, it’s because you could pretend to yourself last time that you were just going to have coffee and nothing more. Now you know that, although we absolutely could just have coffee, you want more. And admitting that want to yourself is very … intrusive, revealing. Scary, perhaps, because it’s you admitting that you want it, not just me taking control and giving it to you.

She’s finishing up her preparations, feeling the plug in her behind, wondering why she’s choosen to put it there, it’s certainly nothing he’s asked her to do.

She feels the plug inside her as she attends to her appearance, feels how empty her bowels are, for she’s spent the last few days taking enemas every evening — something he’s explicitly forbidden her from doing. “I want to you to be clean there,” he’s told her, “but I want the cleaning out to be at my hands, not yours, and I want you to fear the possibility — however remote — that I’ll demand to see the state of your bowels as we progress to that purity.” She knows she’s forbidden to take them, but, even so, every night she’s knelt in the privacy of her bathroom, head down, behind in the air, feeling the water filling her. Feeling relief at the fact that she’ll be immaculate there when they meet, even though she knows she’ll be spanked for disobeying him.

She checks herself in the mirror again, sees herself dressed, imagines herself unclothed — or rather partially unclothed, for she’s had fantasies about what he’s told her about having to wear the hospital gown.

“I’ve decided you might have to wear the gown,” he’s said, “but when you do, it will only be to be sodomized while you retain.” She’s thought about what she’ll look like, having seen the pictures of other women dressed that way, behinds bared, cheeks red, sometimes with a plug in, sometimes with the nozzle inserted. Several times she even took a nightgown and put it on backwards so that she could see what view he’d see when it was her bared backside before him, knelt on one of her chairs to match the pose of one of the girls in his pictures, knelt bending with her ass up and her plug in, imagining having to do that before him.

She’s terrified of actually having that happen, of taking him back there while holding an enema; she’s not even sure when she’ll be ready just for sodomy, as much as she desires that. She knows that the choice will be hers, that he’ll have the gown hanging in the bathroom when they meet, but that it will be up to her to put it on. The thought doesn’t comfort her, she’d rather not be able to choose, she’d rather it all happen at his hands. For choice reveals desires, and having to admit to those desires shames her, even though she knows he’s aware of what she wants, knows what’s inside her head as well as she does, perhaps better.

But the option of choosing … he’s given it to her, and now she carries it like a curse. Each night she’s taken an enema, each night she’s expelled imagining voiding in the hotel room, sitting on the commode feeling the relief of her body emptying, imagining expelling and having to look at the gown hanging there as she does so, having that choice presented to her each time she’s finished taking the water and he’s given her permission to use the toilet while he refills the bag …

She doesn’t even know if they’ll go to his room, and, if they do, if anything will happen there; he’s already told her it’s all up to her. But each night she’s knelt, slipped the nozzle inside and let the water flow while imagining what might happen, whether he’ll make her kneel on the bed again or over the back of the couch, or if it will be different this time — perhaps on a side-table with her head down on the floor so the water can rush higher into her bowels, perhaps with the curtains opened this time so that she might be seen …

She takes the enemas and wonders if they’ll be warm when he gives them, or if they’ll be colder so that she’ll feel the intrusion of the water deep into her. Will they be plain water or soapy — perhaps she should ask to be given punishment enemas to make up for her taking ones without his permission?

She returns to the picture of the girl’s reddened bottom with the plug in it, scrutinizes the view between the legs of the victim, trying to see if there’s arousal. She wonder’s if she’d be aroused; should she be, would he allow her that? Would he want it, or, if it’s to be punishment, should that be forbidden. She’s not even sure what she wants; in her own fantasies her thoughts are always on the exposure of the events, at the shame of having to be undressed, of being penetrated in that secret place “against her will,” of having to be good and cooperate when the enemas are administered, of having to stay in place as she’s told she’s going to be fucked in the ass while she keeps her behind tight and keeps what she’s been given inside …

She uses the commode, and as she does she thinks about having to take him in her behind and hold the water as he uses her ass. She looks over at the tub, thinks about how he’ll position her for the final enema, the one he’ll make her hold during the sodomy — will he bend her over the side, or will he make her kneel on its rim, head down against the cold floor, behind obscenely high and spread to his view? Will he make her stay like that while he fills the bag and hangs it from the curtain rod high above her, will he scold her and make her wait with her cheeks spread and her rectum Vaselined while he attaches the large nozzle, brandishing it behind her before he puts it in?

Will he make her bend over the tub and wait for him, behind striped from the strap, having to wait like that as he walks around in the other room, occasionally passing by the open door to look in and see her, ass-upwards, waiting for him? Will he enjoy that sight of her bare-bottomed, legs spread, ass greased? Perhaps he’ll make her wait like that after he’s given her the enema, make her wait, bending, clenching her behind to keep the soapy solution in her bowels until he’s ready to come in and fuck her ass. Perhaps …

She’s finished with her preparations in front of the mirror, it’s time to go to meet him. Perhaps for coffee, perhaps for more; the choice will be hers. There’s so much she’s wanted to ask him, but she hasn’t because she know he won’t answer, because he’s told her quite explicitly that this time it’s going to be her choice, and that there’s nothing that they need to discuss.

As she closes her car door behind her and turns the key in the lock, she feels the plug pressing into her behind, feels her arousal and her dread. Well it’s only coffee, and nothing need happen; the choice is hers.

As she drives off, she realizes how much she hates those four words.