He locked the ball gag on me and led me into the bedroom where he told me to sit in a half- lotus position. We took a yoga course together (one night a week for nine months) and we are both pretty limber, although not as limber as the teacher. She was incredibly flexible but a little too much into eastern mysticism for our taste. It’s hard to find a yoga teacher that doesn’t debase the discipline by mixing it with some mystical cosmic theory involving universal truth, beauty, peace, harmony, virtue, and vegetarianism. Yoga could be defined as exercise corrupted by morality. That’s not why we quit, though. We enjoyed it despite the incense and ceremony. Maybe I’m too Midwestern. I hate to keep blaming everything on my upbringing. Maybe this time it was good old-fashioned narrow-mindedness. But just because I’m narrow-minded doesn’t mean the mysticism wasn’t bullshit.

So anyway. There I was in a half-lotus and J strapped my shins together so I was stuck that way: right ankle on top of left knee, left ankle beneath right knee, two belts wrapped around several times and buckled. Then, in some kind of weird symmetry, he strapped my forearms in a similar position behind my back.

I guess you could call it the corruption of yoga by immorality?

He left the bedroom to get something; I thought he was going to leave me that way for a while but he came right back. He flipped me over on my face so that I was “kneeling” with my rear end in the air at one end and resting on my chest, shoulders, and the side of my face at the other end. Talk about awkward and degrading verging on painful. He got the hot water bottle and a collection of rubber hoses out of the bathroom. I figured he was going to give me a repeat routine like he did before with the water-filled condom (way back in “Item 17”, was it?), except this time he inserted two hoses into me, one with a condom, one without.

“You said I could do anything to you. Anything at all,” he said. “Lets see if you still feel that way tomorrow.”

He sat me back on my hips again and began filling the condom inside me just as before. I could feel it expanding.

When it was full, he tipped me over onto my chest again and removed the tube from the condom, just as he had considered doing the last time. The water-filled condom was inside me, acting as a kind of plug. It was held closed by a rubber band with a string tied to it so it could be pierced and drained later. For now I was plugged. There was no way I could expel anything that large. He tipped me back again so I was sitting on my rear in this enforced half- lotus position, and began filling me through the second tube. As I became fuller and fuller I eventually became unable to hold my stomach in any more. I had to relax and let my abdomen distend under the water pressure. My stomach protruded and filled my lap. The hot water bottle was suspended four feet overhead and I couldn’t prevent the flow by pushing back; neither could I stop the flow by clenching my rear opening: the tube would not collapse.

Before I became uncomfortable he stopped the flow, took out the gag and unstrapped my legs. It took me several moments of intense pain and whimpering to straighten my legs after being in that position for so long. I thought he was through with me, that this was all he was going to do, but I was wrong.

He stood me up, strapped my ankles close together so I could only take the tiniest of steps, and locked my arms to an overhead chain. I watched while he taped a loop of the water tube to the flange of a vibrator and put it inside my sex with the tube between my clitoris and the flange. He taped it in place. Then he moved a chest of drawers nearby. I didn’t know what the hell he was doing. Then he started the flow and turned on the vibrator.

“What are you doing to me?” I asked.

“You can stop the flow by pressing the vibrator against the edge of the chest of drawers,” he said. He put the ring gag in my mouth. At least it wasn’t the ball gag again. I began filling up.

After a while I began to feel uncomfortable and pressed against the tube, which transmitted the vibrations directly to my clitoris, but it stopped the flow. Something gurgled in my abdomen and the discomfort disappeared, but I continued to press lest it return.

As I pressed against the tube I tried to ignore the vibrations. I discovered I had to press quite hard to stop the flow. After about ten minutes I was unable to stop the orgasm and while I tried to regain control of myself I began filling up again. I went back to pressing but had another orgasm after a few minutes. That was the last one I had that night. After a while the vibrations just got so tiresome I had to step away and let the flow continue unhindered.

I watched my stomach slowly distend to become a belly. It grew until I began to look pregnant. I kept looking from my stomach to J, trying to ask with my eyes when he would stop it. From time to time I made little incomprehensible mewling noises, not really trying to talk, but expressing my growing discomfort. Several more times I began to feel uncomfortable but each time my stomach gurgled, the discomfort passed, and the flow continued.

I know that the length of the tube was too short for the water pressure to do any damage, but I finally felt so big and heavy I had to let out a moan. He let it go a little longer. I couldn’t tell if the water pressure had equilibrated with the pressure inside me or if I was still expanding, but he finally stopped it and took out the tube. I had been clenching to prevent any leakage around the tube, and after he had removed it I still tried to stop the humiliation of the water leaking out and running down my legs. But I needn’t have worried. I couldn’t have expelled the water if I had tried to, plugged the way I was.

He took off the gag, freed my ankles and released me from the overhead chain. With my arms still strapped behind my back I couldn’t reach the string between my legs, but I was free to walk wherever I wanted. Immediately, I went to the bathroom, but I couldn’t expel the condom or the water. Not a drop. I had a pee, though. It didn’t help. In the mirror I looked like I was about four or five months pregnant. I felt incredibly distended and all I could think about was getting the water out of me; of course I was powerless to do so. I felt so ungainly and bloated. I couldn’t even walk naturally with my abdomen distended that way. I waddled back out of the bathroom to confront him.

“My God,” I whimpered, “what have you done to me!?”

I started begging him to let the water out. He left me that way, though, and actually made love to me in that condition. I suppose I should say he used me to satisfy himself: I didn’t get much out of it. He just sat me on the edge of the table in the living room and penetrated me while he stood between my legs and I lay back on the table waiting for it to be over. At least he didn’t put his weight on my abdomen. I didn’t have an orgasm, and he didn’t seem to care.

When he was through with me he freed my arms. I cradled my stomach in my hands and started to rush to the bathroom.

“Wait,” he said. I stopped, but didn’t turn to face him. I just stood there shifting from foot to foot, wishing I could get back to normal. “You’re beautiful when you’re worried, too,” he said. I tried to regain a measure of composure, steadied myself, and turned to face him. I still held my abdomen in my hands as though it were fragile enough to burst. “Okay,” he said, releasing me.

In the bathroom, I pulled gently on the string until I could puncture the condom with a nail scissors. The condom emptied quickly and so did I. I’m sorry if I can’t dress this up and make it sexy and entertaining, but I didn’t feel very sexy or entertained myself. I had told him he could do anything he wanted to me, but I think (hope) he chose to do this to me in order to get me to change my mind about continuing with him as top. Or maybe J has better associations with this sort of thing than I do because he has a prostate to be stimulated. Maybe a pretty nurse gave him an enema once.

Ask Freud. I was not turned on by it.