A Piece of Cake (The Diet)

A piece of cake sits on a small rolling table, close enough for her to see the icing glinting in the pool of afternoon sunlight coming in through a gap in the curtains, close enough for her to smell the pieces of sugar encrusting its exterior. Her mouth waters, the saliva pools against her dry lips. Her hunger is palpable; but the last thing she wants is to sample the morsel in front of her.

He comes back into her field of view holding a knife and fork, sits down on a chair by the rolling table, carefully positions the knife over the cake. Cuts down, dividing it into three smaller portions, then uses the fork to bring up a piece on the tines that he extends across the table towards her. Slowly. She watches as the cake and the fork approach.

As it nears her lips she obediently opens her mouth. She wants to close her eyes, but that’s not allowed. So she forces herself to keep them open, permitting herself the lesser disobedience of shifting her attention to his hand holding the end of the fork. The cake enters her; she holds her mouth open for it in what she hopes is a dainty round “O” of capitulation. She tastes the sugar as she bites down, sinking her teeth in until they encounter the hardness of the fork and then the slightly tannic taste of the tines against her lips.

He holds the fork in her mouth as she licks the resides of cake from it; holds the fork unmoving as she methodically cleans it, moving her mouth back and forth. She keeps her mouth open as she licks so that he can measure her progress; when every crumb of the cake is gone he withdraws the fork and lays it down gently on the table.

He leans back in his chair to watch her as she sits there, feeling the sweetness of the residual sugar on her lips slowly dissipating, imagining she can feel the cake moving down into her stomach, the release of acids, and the process of digestion that they bring.

He smiles. “It will take a little while to have an effect,” he says, “we might as well enjoy the rest of this piece beforehand.” She sits staring dumbly at the table, listening to his words, her face and ears burning. His hand moves on the table, picks up the fork again; she watches as he dips it into the cake and brings up another chunk.

“Open your mouth,” he says, “and let’s be a good girl and finish the rest.” Dutifully she does as told; chewing the cake she thinks she’s beginning to feel the effects, although the tightening in her guts may be due to the fear of the event to come, rather than the event itself.

She finishes the piece of cake, he dips the fork back in and brings up another. A few more bites and she’ll have eaten the third she’s been working on. She wonders if he’ll make her start another piece before the effects of the what she’s already consumed make themselves manifest. He holds the fork in her mouth; she chews.


Time passes as she stands in the corner facing the white plastered intersection of the walls. There’s a leaden presence in her guts now; it’s not the cake, but rather what the cake contained – a powerful laxative, a punishment method he’s discussed with her in the past, and she has no reason to doubt he’s followed though on his earlier threats.

He comes back from the other room; she knows from the sound of the water running and the clinking in the sink what he’s been doing. She hears him hang the apparatus from the hook on the wall behind her; after a moment she feels him slide his hands into the waistband of her skirt. Down it come, slowly descending down her legs; she feels the cold air suddenly blowing on her warm thighs, is aware of what she’s showing him, and how much more he’s about to make her reveal.

He makes her stand like that for a moment, skirt down at her knees, underpants still up; then his hands go into the waistband of her panties and down they come as well, to just below the jutting cheeks. She feels herself swaying a little and pushes her face further into the corner, close enough to see every imperfection in the paint, every crack in the plaster; close enough to smell the cooler air that pools there, with the faint tang of dust and mildew a faint tickling sensation in her nostrils.

He tells her to reach her hands down and separate herself, and she does; she’s similarly obedient when he instructs her to shuffle backwards so that she can bend and present her behind for the nozzle. She complies, then pushes herself out down there so that the little hole between her buttocks is opened and waiting.

She holds the position; he does nothing for a number of minutes as she waits – or perhaps he’s just enjoying the view, but she can’t see his face to verify her suspicion. She keeps herself steady; finally, she hears him move, feels the head of the nozzle up against her anus, the greasy feeling of the plastic intruder pressing against her there. He says nothing to her, but she knows what needs to be done and, without a word, begins to push her behind back onto the nozzle, feeling it entering past her rectum and into her tight bowels. Slowly.

He lets her pause, which she does for a few seconds, trying to become accustomed to the hard intruder there, painfully aware of how much it increases the physical need the laxative she’s ingested is causing. He holds the nozzle steady, waiting, and after a time she resumes pushing backwards. The nozzle’s head is pear shaped, and the shaft gets thicker the further from the head it goes, so it takes her time to take it all inside, and she feels each inch going in as she pushed back to let it penetrate.

She waits, then pulls her behind back away from him so that the nozzle withdraws almost completely; after another pause she pushes her behind down onto it to take it back in. Back and forth she moves on the nozzle, each time finding its entry a little easier; after 10 or 12 repetitions it moves easily and, finally, when she is able to take it almost to its full depth, she stops moving and clenches herself to keep the nozzle inside.


She sits rigidly on the tall wooden stool; he stands in front of her, holding another piece of the cake in her mouth for her to chew.

Behind her is a long mirror, and she knows what he sees if he chooses to look in it. The white flaps of the gown hanging open in back to expose her buttocks, which perch as well as they can on the stool. Between them, the nozzle protrudes, the hose hangs down towards the floor then loops up to the enema bag hanging above her. She sees none of this, but knows the sight, knows the bag is filled to the brim, knows the water is very soapy. Her guts ache from the earlier effect of the laxative – expulsion has not been allowed – and she chews down on the cake with unease as she waits for him to start the flow of the punishment enema into her.

The cake is sweet in her mouth; its aroma pungent in her nostrils. Earlier she’d have found either its taste or its odor appealing; now she finds both revolting, a result of the aberrant conditioning he’s making her undergo.

She eats the cake, trying not to let her eyes stray to his other hand, which at the moment rests loosely around the clamp on the hose. At any moment she knows he’ll pop it open and let the solution flow; she knows it will fill her, causing her first discomfort and then misery, and that neither sensation will change the certainty of having to finish as much of the cake as he intends her to eat.

She takes another bite; his hand tenses suddenly, opening the clamp, the water surges into her overfilled bowels as she chews. The bag empties rapidly into her behind; his hand holds the fork unmoving in her mouth, his eyes on her jaw as she chews.


She’s bent over the stool, looking at the cake, feeling his stiffness slicing in and out of her backside. With each forceful thrust forward the cake comes closer; with each withdrawal it recedes. She focuses on it, hoping that in that focus she’ll be able to fight the base physical need that’s overwhelming her. In, out, in … out. She grips as tightly as she’s able, relieved that, for once, it’s not she who is forced to move on what he presents, and that he’s the one taking the active role.

As he sodomizes her he talks to her, calmly, his words punctuating his thrusts. She listens to him; she has to, not only because it would be wrong of her not to listen, but also because she’ll have to write an essay later on exactly what he’s said. Not that she needs to hear what he’s saying: she knows the effects of a diet of pure sugar well enough without the reminder.

But she does her best to focus on what he’s saying, his voice smooth and soft and droning on, receding into a sensory background made up mostly of her own sensations of fullness, pressure, and the need to release. Which is – as she’d be the first to admit – something that’s not only not allowed but, more to the point, something she’d never consider doing until he’d finished with her, even if he’d given her the choice of early termination of the use of her behind.

And so she stays bent in position over the stool, taking him inside her as the soapy water churns in her guts and tears run down her cheeks, trying to listen to his words, trying to absorb the lesson he’s teaching her.


A piece of cake sits on a small rolling table; beyond, there’s a bed with two sleeping forms on it, one pressed hard against the smooth curved back and hot red buttocks of the other. There’s a faint crack of early-morning light through the gap in the curtains; the piece of cake waits to be eaten, the punishment waits to be resumed.

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