© Copyright 2005 - Professor Challenger - Used by permission
Storycodes: Sbf; latex; breathplay; cons; X
Well, I’ve come to that time of life whereat my doctor advises it’s time to have a “routine” colonoscopy. It’s not that the procedure itself is so bad—hereabouts they basically do it under anesthesia, so all one has to deal with there is the lingering grogginess afterward. No, the worst part is definitely the “preparation”—meaning, in this case, that the night before the procedure, you are required to take a purgative that cleans out your bowels entirely. I had the prescription for the laxative solution: 4 liters worth (egad!) that had to be taken eight ounces at a time every 10-15 minutes starting at 5PM until either what was evacuated was clear, or until you had taken all of it. This works out to sixteen eight-ounce doses in approximately four hours. One knew that the laxative wasn’t going to be tasty: the instructions suggested that it was “more palatable” well chilled. So it was going to be an ordeal. It was then that my perverted and masochistic mind began thinking, “Well—if it’s going to be an ordeal, why not make it as much of a fun ordeal as possible—making a vice of necessity, so to speak?”
I had considerable leeway scheduling the actual event, and after considerable thought and discussion with my Mistress, spent a couple of sessions on the Internet tracking down suppliers of the new fetish gear we would need. Orders were placed, and once it all arrived, I then scheduled the procedure.
On the day of the purging, one could have only clear liquids at lunch, and nothing except water after that until the following day. I was to start taking the laxative at five in the afternoon. We had gotten it from the pharmacist the day before: a four-liter plastic jug containing about an inch of powder. Just add water, shake, and chill. I did all this after my lunch of chicken broth.
By 5PM, both mistress and I were changing into our “outfits” for the evening. In my case, I started out naked except for my CB-3000 chastity device, which I locked on with a disposable plastic lock. Mistress, on the other hand, was fetchingly done up in her favorite cupless corset, tautly gartered stockings, and sensibly-heeled patent leather pumps. I helped her smooth new long black rubber gloves up her arms, then went downstairs to fetch the laxative jug and measuring cup. Mistress meanwhile tied on the black rubber lab apron we had also acquired.
We then repaired to the bathroom where several other items of gear awaited, including pre-positioned ropes. I placed myself on the toilet seat and used some of the ropes to tie my ankles to the respective thighs, and then tied the ankles to a rope running around the base of the toilet. This was followed by another rope that went a couple of times around my waist connecting to the base acting as a “seat belt.” I made sure that the CB-3000 was inside and below the rim of the seat as much as possible. Then, Mistress helped me into arm length rubber bondage mitts that were buckled snugly around the wrists and upper arms. I bent forward and she added clips that held my arms behind me in a wrists-to-elbows bondage.
I struggled a bit to test the bonds. Secure. My Mistress attached a light chain to my nipple rings, which would be one of her methods of exerting control over her captive. “Ready for the next stage?” she asked.
“Good to go,” I replied. The next thing to add was a thick rubber hood, which had only a hole for the mouth. She carefully positioned it at the crown of my head, then deftly rolled it down, tugging carefully to place it over my features and make sure the mouth opening was in place. We paused a moment while I twitched my face and neck muscles to settle it, and tested that I could breathe clearly through my mouth. “Let’s proceed,” I said.
Then came the final piece—a funnel gag. In case you haven’t seen such a device, it’s a gag with a tube through the mouth part, connected to a household funnel. The wearer has no choice but to take into his mouth anything that is poured into the funnel. If, as in my position, the wearer also has to breathe through his mouth, he’s pretty well compelled to swallow whatever comes. Mistress bucked the gag on firmly, but did not tuck the end of the strap through the keeper, so that it could be loosened with a single jerk. We also had a pair of paramedic shears handy, in case the hood needed to be cut off. Make no mistake, we knew that this was a dangerous game, and we took precautions. At any cough from me or other sign of distress, the gag would come off immediately.
“How’s that?” she asked, testing to see that the gag was firmly seated. I nodded, indicating I was OK and ready to continue. “Alright, slave, now for the test.” Although the hood muffled my hearing somewhat, I could tell as she ran water from the tap and filled the measuring cup. “Ready?” she asked. I nodded, taking a breath as I did so. With one hand she grasped the funnel, and with the other tipped the water into it. It flowed smoothly into my mouth. Even with the slight constriction of the hood and gag on my cheeks, I could take eight ounces into my mouth at once, and ingested it in a couple of swallows. I sighed my held breath out, making a whooshing sound through the funnel. “OK?” my mistress asked. Again, I indicated that I was fine. “Shall we try it?” I nodded again. I listened, but did not hear the jug gurgle as she poured out a dose of the medicine. I did feel it as she grasped the funnel again, took a breath and nodded as she demanded, “Ready?” and poured in the solution.
Now, the chemical that was the main part of this solution is called polyethylene glycol. Now wait a minute, you ask, isn’t that anti-freeze? I am glad to say it is not: ethylene glycol, which is in automotive anti-freeze, is quite toxic to human livers. It has a sweet taste, which caused some unethical foreign wine makers to use to improve the taste of some wines, quite a scandal about ten years ago. Polyethylene is a different molecule with different properties, one of which is the taste. Actually, I’m not sure it has a taste at all. The bitter flavor the solution had may have been due to the mineral and electrolytes also included for safety. At any rate, the stuff tasted like bicarbonate of soda. This wasn’t too bad initially, but the unsettling factor about the stuff was that it was just slightly thicker than water without being either oily, slimy or glutinous. The fact that it felt so strange going down in itself caused the body to feel queasy as this alien substance invaded. I also discovered that it coated the mouth and throat with a vaguely plastic like feeling. Unpleasant, but not in itself as bad as I had feared. I indicated I was OK, and Mistress set a kitchen timer for ten minutes.
We had decided that we wanted to get this portion of the process over with expeditiously, one the one hand, and, on the other, that forcing the ingestions as closely together as possible would probably maximize discomfort. If I REALLY couldn’t handle it, we had arranged that I would signal “no” and the timer would be set over for the remaining five minutes. After the third cup of solution, I was beginning to feel uncomfortably full, having swallowed 32 ounces of fluid, including the test water, within a bit more than twenty minutes. Added to this was the fact that, during these times, my Mistress amused herself by administering a variety of small tortures of her choice, which included teasing my nipples and genitals where accessible, and applying fur or feathers to my exposed skin, lightly scraping my flesh with sharp or abrasive objects, and others. A limit was reached when she attacked my ticklish sides with her lips and teeth. The resulting convulsions were so painful that my hoots and moans eventually persuaded her to desist.
Some temporary relief from the bloating sensation occurred with my first bowel movement, which was solid and more in anticipation than due to the effects of the laxative. Mistress of course flushed the toilet with me tied to it, which was an odd sensation. I had expected some “splash back”, but in fact there was none. Instead, I felt a distinct breeze around my nether regions as air rushed past me to fill space as the bowl emptied.
I now realized that I had unwittingly added to my discomforts by applying the chastity device. I had anticipated the need to urinate at least some time during the hours it would take to complete the course. In fact, I expected more than that, since a lot of laxatives have a diuretic effect as well—that is, they make the kidneys work overtime as well. The back ring of the chastity and the weight of the device tends to increase pressure on a full bladder. Conversely, the constriction of the device makes it harder to relax enough to release one’s urine. I had decided to wear it, figuring that its design would allow me to pee as necessary without help—true as far as it went. I hadn’t anticipated the extent to which the powerful operation of the solution would increase pressure in the lower bowel which would further put tension on the bladder. In sum, I soon found myself sharply feeling the need to urinate while being unable to do so, a distinctly uncomfortable sensation.
After another dose, I began to feel abdominal
griping as things began to move along inside. After the next dose, the
effects began to manifest themselves. My bowels opened, and I expelled
what felt like everything that could possibly be inside me in a rush of
loose material. My Mistress hastily flushed again. This also gave me sufficient
stimulus to get my bladder to void, giving rise to another new experience,
peeing through the CB3000. By this time I was loosing track of time
and how many doses had gone down. The inexorable ticking of the timer was
a torture in itself, followed as it was by the inescapable drink. By this
time, I was beginning to be surfeited with the stuff. On the other hand,
I congratulated myself on my stratagem. We were nowhere near done, but
I already doubted if I would have had will power to continue on my own.
After another couple of treatments, I passed what felt like a quart or so of fluid, like expelling a large enema. I was then able to urinate again, which established a pattern that followed through the remainder of the treatment, confirming my suspicions of the diuretic effect of the laxative as well, at least on me. By this time, I was having continual growling and intestinal sinking sensations: rather like having a case of stomach flu without the fever or nausea (yet). I had lost track of time and the timer seemed erratic. (Mistress later confessed to me that she was varying the settings by a few minutes either way to further play with my head.) Between doses of the potion, Mistress might amuse herself by such diverse means as applying her crop stingingly to my thighs, massaging my twitching abdomen, drawing ostrich feathers between my toes, and leaving me to stew—or rather, percolate,--while she enjoyed some wine and chocolates.
By the time the final rounds had to go down, I was heartily sick of the stuff, and it took real effort to swallow it down. I held it in my mouth as long as I could, taking partial swallows and shuddering as the now-tepid potation coated my throat yet again.
At last we were finished with the stuff, by which point I wished to never have anything to do with it again. However, it was not done with me, for I continued to gush warm liquid periodically for the next hour. During this time, my Mistress was unleashed from having to mind the timer and the jug and fell upon me with nails, teeth, and her implements, which kept me busy as well.
At last, I was empty—more so than I have ever been. I listened with curiosity and then with shock as Mistress seemed to be filling a bucket from the tap! I hooted a negation as she grasped me, but she said, “Lean back, we’ve got to clean you up.” I obligingly leaned back against the toilet tank, her hand on my chest, but would have shot through the ceiling had I not been tied down when she sluiced down my chastity and genitals with cold water! “Oh, don’t be a baby!” she chided. “A little water won’t hurt you!” She followed this remark by grasping the gag strap, bending me forward, and directing another flush of icy water down the crack of my ass.
I shuddered and snorted as she began to untie my legs. I was cramped up after them being tied so long in a bent position (though I’d had plenty else to keep me distracted), and Mistress helped me to stand.
Once standing, Mistress guided me over to the bathtub, and stood me under the shower. This was within our original plans, which was why the remaining bondage was either rubber or plastic. Fortunately, the water she ran was pleasantly warm. I discovered why since, evidently having stripped at some time during the proceedings, she joined me under the spray. This was much more like it, although I inwardly cursed the bondage—and especially the chastity—as her warm, wet body rubbed against mine. She playfully directed my funnel under the shower spray, then allowed me to bend over so I could “rinse and spit.” She teased both of us with the shower massage, and paid special attention to my fundament. I moaned with pleasure when soapy fingers slipped briefly inside me.
The shower ended, I got thoroughly toweled off, another procedure that had me writhing and groaning for release. Instead, I was lead into our bedroom, where, to my surprise, Mistress bent down and fastened a cuff around my right ankle. In response to my questioning grunt, Mistress pushed a hip into me, and caused me to fall face forward on the bed. She then scrambled onto my back and crouched there while she attached a collar around my neck! She slid off as I attempted to rear up, discovering that the collar was tied to something on the far side of the bed frame, holding me in a bent-over position. It wasn’t difficult for Mistress to grapple my remaining ankle and cuff it to bed frame as well, restraining my legs spread open.
I mooed a protest through the gag. Mistress, now snuggling me from behind, said, “No, I’m not done with you yet. You know the rules: once you are in bondage, you are mine to do with as I will, and I am the one who determines when the bondage comes off!” It was true, those were our rules. Once I permitted myself to be in her power, in her power I remained until she decided otherwise. I still wasn’t sure what she had in mind, although I suspected. She still surprised me, though, since before doing anything else she proceeded to give my buttocks a thorough reddening with our leather paddle. “This won’t leave any marks for the doctor to speculate over, but will still give you something to think about!” she said, merrily. Then, she began to smear my ass with lube. I grunted and writhed in protest, but I was effectively bound and pinioned down at her mercy.
“Oh, behave!” Mistress said! “You have been begging for this and now is the perfect time. You are C-L-E-A-N inside and out. I’ll be gentle--.” She was as good as her word on that. I was carefully lubed up and opened before the humming vibration of the dildo slid into me. She rocked slowly back and forth, grinding her hips against my tingling buttocks on the in stroke, her moans matching my own. My rectum and prostate got a very complete and wonderful-feeling massage, but that was all, since my straining cock was still trapped in the chastity device. My swelling against the restraint was an exquisite pain, and I did drool some come or pre-come from the milking process.
At last mistress pulled out, and came around to the other side of the bed. She loosened the tether to my collar slightly, then slid her pelvis under my head. “I’m going to take the gag off, now, slave,” she said, “But no talking! I’m not freeing your mouth for that!” Instead, she tugged on the leash, pulling my face down into her warm and sweetly fragrant crotch. I needed little instruction what to do there, and licked and sucked with all my might. At last, she said, “Enough! You know I’m never satisfied until I’ve had you in me!” She slithered out from under me, undid the ankle cuffs, and, as I turned over, clipped the plastic lock that held the chastity closed.
I sprang to attention at once, and she straddled me, taking me deeply inside her. I writhed and bucked as she rode me to a mutual climax.
Finally, as we both lay panting, she detached my collar from its lead. I rolled over again, and she unbuckled the bondage mitts so that I would be able to pull out of them. I shuffled into the bathroom again, and, with her help, peeled first one and then the other off, dumping what seemed to be a quart of sweat out of each one into the sink. (The rubber fans never seem to mention that, but it always happens to me that way.) Then I gingerly worked loose the rubber mask, exposing my flushed face, blinking eyes, and sweat-matted hair for the first time in what seemed like many hours. I grabbed and kissed my laughing mistress before I climbed into the shower again for a final cleanup.
I slept like a baby. Actually, sleeping through
the colonoscopy was good, too. The doctor gave me a clean bill of health,
which made it all worth it. Doc said another routine check in ten years.
Perhaps by that time I’ll have forgotten the taste and be ready to do it