****** Holistic Health ******
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Synopsis: A young woman gets an unexpected enema.
1725 words



                              Holistic Health
                           

     I was jogging, wearing my hair in a pony tail, with my new
pink jogging togs, my almost new Reboks, and my faithful Walkman
for company.  Usually, I just do a couple circuits of the park,
but for some reason, yesterday I went down an unfamiliar side
street.  It was broad daylight; I didn't fell unsafe.
     There was a funny little store, The Holistic Health Store.
There were, as I expected, window displays of fruit juice drinks,
herbal teas, bran cookies, that sort of thing, but what caught my
eye was a huge color illustration of the human digestive tract,
like in a medical text, or something.  On a whim, I went in.
     A gray haired old man greeted me: "Can I help you, madame?"
     "Uh, do you have some no-fat yogurt?"
     "Yes, of course."
     I bought one, lemon flavor, took a plastic spoon, and ate
the stuff while I wandered around the store.  It was weird.  Most
health food stores are bright and clean.  This place looked like
an alchemist's shop, with funny colored glass jars and drawers
full of dried up leaves and bark.  There was even a stuffed
alligator hanging from the ceiling.  Toward the back, there was a
closed door, with a little sign: "Madame Metamora, consultations
and healing."
     "What's this?" I asked.
     "We offer special services, available nowhere else in the
city," the man replied, "special herbal remedies, instruction in
mystical Eastern healing practices, free consultations about any
illness which may concern you."  He looked me up and down.  "You
look pretty healthy, but tell me, have you ever worried about
cancer?"
     I don't how he knew.  "My father died of colon cancer," I
said.
     "It runs in families.  May I suggest a consultation?  It's
free."
     So I went in.  A woman in a sari, with a red spot on her
forehead, greeted me and bolted the door behind me.  "The medical
doctors have not cured your ills," she said.  "They do not
understand the discomforts of women.  How could they?  But I can
bring you the wisdom of the East, timeless remedies which have
stood the test of centuries.  You are concerned that you may be
at risk of colon cancer, is that not so?"
     "Yes," I said.  She probably had some way to hear my
conversation with the old man.
     "I have a sure preventative."
     "What is that?"
     "A special herbal remedy, all natural ingredients, mixed
with fine Arabian coffee."
     "How much does it cost?"
     "You may think it costly, but, for you, I will give you the
first treatment free."
     Well, I never could pass up something that's free.  The
woman loaded up a percolator with coffee and a mixture of brown
and green and yellow powders.  While the brew dripped through,
she told me what to do.  "The medicine must be applied at the
site of the cancer," she said, "so it will have to be
administered rectally."
     "Whoa, wait a minute," I said.  "I didn't plan on that."
     "But it is necessary.  There is nothing to fear.  I give
many treatments, every day, to dozens of satisfied customers."
     Well, she talked me into it.  Next thing I knew I was in
another room, kind of like a big shower stall, with a tile floor
and walls, drains in the floor, dials and wheels and hoses
hanging from the walls.  She had me undressed and on my elbows
and knees on a kind of padded bench, with my rump in the air.
Next thing I knew, she was lubricating my anus and inserting an
enema tip.  "We have to clean you out, first," she said.
     "I don't think I've ever had an enema.  We didn't do that
sort of thing in my family.  It won't hurt, will it?"
     "No pain, no gain," she replied.  She pumped on a little
rubber bulb, and I could feel something swelling up inside me.
     "What's that?"
     "Just a little thing like a balloon, to hold the tip in.  I
think, perhaps, we had better take precautions against accident.
We can't have you falling and hurting yourself."  Before I knew
it, she had me fastened down, with soft straps, fastened with
Velcro.  My elbows and knees were stuck to the plastic pad.  I
could rock back and forth, but I couldn't get up.
     I could feel warm fluid running into me, feel a kind of
warmth in my belly which wasn't unpleasant at all.  I looked back
and saw Madame Metamora putting on a huge rubber apron that
covered her from her chin to her feet.  "Yes, we must be sure
that you are properly cleaned out, before we use the expensive
herbs."
     I don't know how long it took, but I began to feel full, as
if I just had to go sit on a toilet.  Madame Metamora put one
hand on my back and the other on my belly, below the navel, and
seemed to be evaluating the progress of the fluid.
     "Uh, it's beginning to hurt," I said.
     "The bitter medicine is best."
     "Ah. My insides are stretching.  I'm going to explode."
     "Yes," she said, and she yanked the hose out of me.  There
was a great whoosh of brown stuff, like meatball soup, which
sprayed across the room and ran down the tile walls.  I felt a
great sense of relief, as if I had just given birth, almost.  It
felt so good to be rid of that great swelling within me.
     But, before I knew what had happened, Madame put the hose
back inside me and pumped up the little balloon even bigger than
before.  I rocked forward on my elbows and rested my face against
the cool plastic, conscious of the plastic against my breasts,
and the smell of my own excrement.  "How much longer does this go
on?" I pleaded.
     "Until you are cleaned of foul impurities, until the water
comes clear."
     I waited, feeling the not unpleasant warmth of water running
into me, but anxious, because I knew now that it would begin to
hurt.  Meanwhile, Madame Metamora hosed down the walls and floor
with a soapy spray, until all the filthy brown stuff had run down
the drain in the floor.  All I could smell was the soap.  I began
to feel my belly swelling, began to feel strange sensations,
gurglings within me, the stretching of my bowels.  It was
painful, but not painful, this time.  The feelings were intense,
but I could handle them.  I wondered if being pregnant, going
into labor, might feel something like this.
     She released the air from the balloon, and again I expelled
a great stream of water, cleaner this time.
     "Oh, my dear," she said, "you certainly needed a treatment.
You were full of dirt.  Dirt equals disease."  Again, she
inserted the hose, pumped up the balloon.  Perhaps she was
impatient; she turned up the volume.  The warm liquid gushed into
me this time, raping my rectum, making me gasp at the sensations
which it set off in my body.  I could feel it, like a tidal wave
rushing up my bowel, swooshing around each bend, filling me,
filling me.  Almost too soon, Madame removed the hose, and clear
water gushed from me.
     She hosed off the walls and floor and used a gentle spray to
clean me off, plying the spray over my buttocks.  "Are you
finished?" I said, almost hoping she wasn't.
     "I have just begun," she replied.  She went into the other
room and returned with a decanter of coffee in a bowl of ice.
From time to time, she tested the temperature with a drop on her
wrist, until she was satisfied.  Then she poured the whole pot
into a rubber bag.  "Ready?" she said.
     "Yes."
     I felt the nozzle being pushed into me, almost like a lover
penetrating my body.  I felt the balloon swelling up inside me,
stretching my anal sphincters and sending little thrills through
my abdomen.  Warm liquid began to fill my clean insides.
     I cannot describe the feeling which came over me.  Surely,
the caffeine in the coffee could not account for the degree of
excitement I felt.  My heart raced, and I felt myself perspiring.
     I don't know how long that went on.  I was in a strange,
almost spiritual state, a feeling of excitement but with no real
focus.  Madame Metamora stood by, with yet another hose in her
hand.  It had a big, black nozzle.
     "Do you feel the effects of the healing herbs?" she said.
     "Mmmmm. yes."
     From the new hose, I felt warm water running across my
backside, running down the crack between my cheeks.  Then I felt
Madame direct the flow of water so that it splashed on my vulva.
The pressure of the flow gently parted the labia.  In my almost
drugged state, I did not object.  Warm water from the hose
flooded my vulva, washing my sensitive membranes.  My mind went
all crazy as my attention fluttered between the warmth filling my
abdomen and the warmth tickling my femininity.  And then the
water began to come in little spurts, buzz, buzz, buzz, and it
splashed right against my clitoris.
     I rose as high as I could on my elbows and knees, looked
back between my hanging breasts to see Madame's dark hands
holding that big, black nozzle.  The water gushed in sharp spurts,
splashing against me, and every spurt tingled like a lover's
tongue.
     "Oh. Oh. Ahh. Ummm," I babbled, as the electrifying splashes
brought me closer and closer to an orgasm.  "Oh, oh!  I can't
stand it!"  I threw myself backward, taking the black spurter
into my body.  Warm water hammered on my womb, filled my vagina,
and I shuddered in indescribable ecstacy.
     That was not the end of the treatment, nor the last of the
ecstacy, but I haven't the words to describe what happened.  Even
after I had been drained and cleaned out for the last time, and
had a rest, I still felt high.  I walked home in a daze, took a
short nap, and ate twice as much as I should have for dinner.
     Brian called, but I told him I couldn't go out tomorrow
night; I have a previous appointment.  I do, with Madame
Metamora.
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