S
Saturday morning filtered through the blinds in stripes, gold across the hardwood, and Margot stretched under the sheets like a cat testing its limits. The twins were at her mother's for the weekend. Her older one was at a sleepover. The house had that rare, stolen quiet, the kind she usually spent chasing content ideas or catching up on sleep she'd never quite recovered from.
Henry had texted at eight: *Weekend project. Be there at ten. Wear something loose.*
She'd smiled at the screen, something warm and nervous settling in her chest. Weeks since the cream incident. Weeks of avoiding mirrors, of touching her belly in the shower like it might still be someone else's. But the softness that remained—the extra curve at her hips, the new roundness that made her look like she'd been eating well and sleeping better—that was hers. Her body had absorbed what it could, stored the rest as fuel, and left her looking like a woman who'd been thoroughly enjoyed.
She padded to the kitchen in nothing but an oversized t-shirt, poured coffee, and watched the steam curl. The bathroom door was closed. She hadn't opened it since she'd come home that night, scrubbed herself raw, and crawled into bed. Henry had handled it. Cleaned the hoses, bagged the evidence, left the room smelling like bleach and lemon. He hadn't asked questions. Had just held her that first night, her back to his chest, his hand flat on her belly, and said, "We're not done. But we're not doing that again."
She'd believed him.
The doorbell rang at ten-oh-three. She opened it to find Henry in a soft gray sweater, jeans, and a leather satchel slung over one shoulder. He looked like a man showing up for brunch, not a man carrying plans that would leave her gasping on a bathroom floor.
"You look good," he said, stepping inside, and she caught the way his eyes tracked down her body, lingering at the new softness at her waist. "You've been eating."
"My body does what it wants." She closed the door. "What's in the bag?"
"Experiment." He set it on the kitchen counter and pulled out two plastic bottles—one with white powder settled at the bottom, the other clear liquid. Baking soda and vinegar, she realized, from the labels he'd taped on. Then a box of enema bags, a coil of tubing, and a silicone buttplug with a flared base and a Luer-lock port. "Weekend project."
Margot leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "You're going to make me fart vinegar."
He laughed, low and genuine. "Not exactly. The reaction happens inside you. Baking soda and vinegar mix, they create carbon dioxide. Gas. Inside your colon, your intestines." He tapped the box. "We fill you with the baking soda solution first. Let it settle. Then we add the vinegar. The gas expands you from the inside."
She felt her pulse quicken, a familiar ache spreading low in her belly. "That's... that's actually new."
"I know." He stepped closer, hand finding her hip, thumb tracing the curve. "I've been reading. The reaction is gentle if we control the rate. But it's fast. Faster than water, faster than cream. And it doesn't leave you full of liquid afterward—just gas. You'll belch it out, pass it, be fine by morning."
"And the setup?"
"Three liters of baking soda solution. Three liters of vinegar solution. We use the enema bag, slow flow. You lie in the bath with cannabis oil to relax your muscles. I give you wine, a joint, whatever you need to ease into it." He tilted her chin up. "Gentle. Slow. You tap, we stop."
She held his gaze, searching for the edge she'd come to expect. It wasn't there. Just patience, and something softer beneath.
"Okay," she said. "Weekend project."
He set up the bathroom while she finished her coffee, the sound of water running and the clink of glass bottles drifting through the house. Margot stayed at the kitchen counter, tracing the rim of her mug, feeling the quiet settle around her like a blanket she'd forgotten how to use. No cameras. No followers. No strangers with hoses and tape. Just Henry, who knew her limits because he'd tested them, and who was choosing today to be gentle.
She finished the coffee, rinsed the mug, and walked to the bathroom doorway. Henry had the bathtub filled halfway, steam rising in slow curls, and the air smelled green and earthy—cannabis oil, she realized, watching him pour a dark amber liquid from a small bottle into the water. He stirred it with his hand, the oil dispersing in lazy swirls.
"That's a lot of oil," she said.
"Full body relaxation." He straightened, wiping his hand on a towel. "Your muscles need to be loose for this to work well. The gas expands your intestines, and if you're tense, it'll cramp." He gestured to the setup beside the tub—a metal IV pole with an enema bag hanging from it, the tube already connected to the silicone plug. "I'll insert the plug first. Then you get in, we let the oil and the wine do their work, and then we start."
Margot looked at the plug, then at the bag, then at the warm, fragrant water. "How long does the whole thing take?"
"An hour, maybe two. Depends on how fast you take the solutions." He picked up the plug, holding it out to her. "You want to do the honors, or should I?"
She took it from him, the silicone cool and firm in her palm. "I've got it." She stepped out of her t-shirt, letting it fall to the floor, and turned toward the tub. "Don't watch."
"I'll watch the water temperature." He turned to the faucet, adjusting the hot, and she heard the click of the handle as she bent forward, pressing the plug against herself, working it in with practiced ease. The flared base seated against her skin, the Luer-lock port facing out, and she felt the familiar weight of it, the promise of what was coming.
"Ready," she said, and he turned back, his eyes catching the plug, the curve of her ass, the soft belly that hung just a little lower than it had a month ago. He didn't say anything, just held out his hand to help her into the bath.
The water was warm, almost hot, and the cannabis oil coated her skin as she sank into it, the scent rising around her like a forest after rain. She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, her muscles softening, her shoulders dropping. The water lapped at her belly, and she watched it float, pale and round, the plug pressing against the inside of her thighs.
Henry sat on the edge of the tub, a glass of red wine in his hand. He offered it to her, and she took it, the first sip spreading warmth through her chest. Then he pulled a joint from his shirt pocket, lit it, took a long drag, and passed it to her.
She inhaled, held it, let the smoke curl from her lips. "You planned this."
"I planned a weekend where you could let go." He took the joint back, his fingers brushing hers. "No performance. No content. Just you and me and what your body can do."
She drank more wine, the second glass emptying faster than the first, the heat pooling in her stomach. The joint made its way between them, the ash growing long, and she felt the world soften at the edges, the bathroom tiles going fuzzy, the steam curling like living things.
"I'm loose," she said, and her voice sounded far away, even to her own ears. "Really loose."
Henry smiled, that rare, genuine smile that made him look younger. "Good." He took the empty wine glass from her, set it on the floor, and reached for the enema bag. "Ready to start?"
She nodded, her head heavy, her limbs like water. He attached the tube to the plug's port, checked the clamp, and held the bag up. "This is the wine enema first. The alcohol will absorb directly into your bloodstream through your colon. It'll hit you faster than drinking it."
"More?" she asked, and her laugh came out slurred and loose.
"More." He opened the clamp, and she felt the first rush of liquid enter her, cool and strange, filling her from the inside out. She closed her eyes, letting the warmth of the bath and the cannabis oil and the wine in her blood blur together, the sensation of being filled becoming something dreamlike, distant, pleasant.
The bag emptied slowly, the flow steady, and Henry kept his hand on her belly, feeling it rise beneath the water. "How's that?"
"Good." The word came out thick, her tongue heavy. "Really good."
He closed the clamp when the bag was empty, letting the wine settle inside her. "Now the baking soda. This one's three liters. It'll take a while."
He swapped the empty bag for the one filled with cloudy white solution, opened the clamp, and the flow resumed. Margot felt the new liquid mix with the wine, the volume building slowly, her belly rising inch by inch. She watched it through half-closed eyes, the way it pushed against the water, the skin stretching to accommodate the growing mass.
"You're taking it well," Henry said, his voice low and approving. "No cramping?"
"No." She shifted, the plug pressing deeper, and the movement sent a ripple through her belly. "It feels... full. But not bad."
"Good. That's the cannabis oil. It's relaxing your intestinal muscles, letting them stretch without fighting." He rubbed her belly in slow circles, the motion hypnotic through the water. "You're going to get very big before we're done."
She smiled, a slow, dreamy smile, and let her head fall back against the tub's edge. "Show me."
The second bag took its time, the liquid flowing in steady pulses, and Margot drifted in and out of awareness, the world reduced to the warmth of the water, the pressure in her belly, the sound of Henry's voice when he spoke. By the time the bag was empty, her belly had risen into a smooth, taut dome, the skin gleaming under the water, the curve pressing against the surface.
"Baking soda's in," Henry said, closing the clamp. "We let it settle for ten minutes. Give the solution time to distribute through your colon."
Margot nodded, her eyes closed, her hand resting on her belly. It felt different from water or cream—lighter, somehow, more airy, even though it was full of liquid. The wine was still working its way through her, a pleasant haze settling over her thoughts, and she felt no urgency, no fear, just a deep, animal satisfaction at being full.
Henry lit another joint, held it to her lips, and she took a long drag, the smoke filling her lungs, the world tilting pleasantly. He smoked the rest himself, the ash falling into a small dish on the floor, and the minutes passed in a warm, silent drift.
"Ten minutes," he said finally, stubbing out the joint. "Ready for the vinegar?"
She opened her eyes, meeting his. "Do it."
He swapped the bag one last time, hanging the vinegar solution—clear, sharp-smelling—from the pole. He opened the clamp, and the liquid began to flow.
For a moment, nothing. Then Margot felt it—a fizzing, a bubbling, deep in her core, like soda shaken and released. Her eyes widened, and she looked down at her belly, watching it begin to rise.
"Oh," she breathed, and the sound was surprise and pleasure mixed together. "Oh, it's working."
The gas built fast, faster than she'd expected, her belly swelling visibly beneath the water. The baking soda and vinegar were mixing inside her, the reaction creating carbon dioxide that pushed against her intestinal walls, expanding her from within. She felt the stretch, deep and full, and moaned, her head falling back, her hands gripping the edges of the tub.
"That's it," Henry said, his voice low, his hand finding her belly beneath the water. He pressed gently, and she felt the gas shift, the pressure redistributing. "Keep going. Let it fill you."
The vinegar solution continued to flow, and with every ounce that entered her, more gas was created, her belly rising like bread in an oven. She felt herself growing, expanding, the skin stretching taut, the curve pushing against the water until her belly broke the surface, a pale, gleaming dome rising into the steam.
"Look at you," Henry murmured, his hand tracing the curve, the path of her stretch marks, the places where her skin had gone thin and translucent. "You're beautiful like this."
She couldn't answer. The gas was building, her belly swelling to the size of her twin pregnancy, then past it, the pressure deep and constant and utterly consuming. She felt the wine and the cannabis and the sheer physical sensation blur together, and she let out a sound that was half moan, half laugh, her body surrendering to the expansion.
Henry adjusted the flow, slowing it, letting the reaction catch up. "You're at about four liters now. You've got two more in the bag. How do you feel?"
"Full." The word came out strangled, her breath short. "So full. Keep going."
He opened the clamp wider, and the vinegar flowed faster, and Margot felt herself rise again, her belly swelling until it pressed against her ribs, until she could feel the gas pushing upward, looking for escape. She belched, a long, bubbling sound, and the release sent a shudder through her.
"Good," Henry said. "Let it out. Don't hold it."
She belched again, the gas finding its way up, and the pressure in her belly eased just enough for her to take a deeper breath. The vinegar kept flowing, the reaction kept building, and she felt herself grow beyond anything she'd ever achieved alone, beyond the twin pregnancy, beyond the cream, beyond the water. She was a balloon, a vessel, a woman made of gas and liquid and the warmth of the bath.
The bag emptied, and Henry closed the clamp, setting it aside. He knelt beside the tub, both hands on her belly now, feeling the tautness, the heat, the living expansion still underway as the last of the baking soda reacted with the last of the vinegar.
"You're done," he said. "You took all of it."
Margot opened her eyes, looking down at herself. Her belly was enormous, a perfect, taut sphere rising from her torso, the skin stretched so thin she could see the blue lines of veins beneath. She was bigger than she'd ever been, and the gas inside her shifted and bubbled, alive and warm.
"How long does it last?" she asked, her voice hoarse.
"An hour, maybe two, before the gas starts to pass. You'll deflate slowly." He leaned down, pressing his lips to the curve of her belly, a kiss that was almost reverent. "But right now, you're perfect."
She laughed, a breathless, giddy sound, and her hand found his, pressing it against her skin. "Thank you," she said, and the words meant more than the experiment, more than the fullness, more than the weekend project they'd planned. "For being gentle."
He looked up at her, his eyes dark and soft. "Always."