Dirty Laundry

by Penny Birch

  ‘What’s in the preparation?’ I asked.

  ‘It is complex,’ she answered. ‘A formula I devised myself, and which I call Balanced Mud. It includes natural exfoliants and several essential oils.’

  She opened a pot, revealing a thick brown paste, very like mud. I dipped a finger into it and sniffed. The scent was intensely herbal, like a very rustic vermouth, also rich and fruity, with a touch of earth.’

  ‘Pineapple?’ I queried.

  ‘Pineapple juice is an important constituent,’ she admitted. ‘Also tea-tree oil.’

  ‘So you’d smear me with it and wrap me in cling film?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘Except for your face,’ she replied. ‘In all therapy involving enclosure it is crucial to keep the airways free. Always.’

  She sounded absolutely serious, absolutely formal, not at all giggly, as I would have been if doing something with such obviously sexual implications. Yet she knew what enemas did to me.

  ‘So it’s a mental therapy as well?’ I asked.

  ‘Certainly,’ she said, ‘there may be a sense of return to the womb while enclosed, and of birth when released, in addition to the mental aspects of the cleansing effect.’

  ‘All right,’ I agreed. ‘Shall I go first?’

  ‘That would be most sensible. Put your hair up. Stand over the drain and place your arms to your sides. Relax yourself.’

  After piling my hair high and wrapping a towel around it, I stepped to where she was indicating, a grill at the centre of the floor, as she picked up the open tub. It was easy for her to suggest that I relax, but she was about to rub the mud preparation into my body, which meant putting her hands on my neck, my boobs, my bottom, even my pussy. Some women genuinely seem to be able to enjoy touching without any erotic implication. Not me, unless I don’t want it at all. It’s either sexy or has the potential to become sexy.

  She dipped her hand into the pot, bringing up a good handful of the thick paste, which she slapped on to my shoulder, smearing it across my back. It was cool, and felt pleasantly slimy, until, as she added a second handful, it began to tingle, ever so slightly. A third handful went on and she began to rub it in, across my shoulders and around my neck, her long finger pressing gently to my skin. She certainly knew how to massage, and I could feel the tension draining out of my body as she worked on me, more tension than I’d realised I had.

  I was quickly feeling pleasantly drowsy, horny too, in an easy-going sort of way, wanting sexual things done to me but without any real urgency. The feel of her fingers on my flesh was just so nice, particularly at the nape of my neck, which she kept coming back to. Her hands were soon on my breasts, cupping them and smearing the mud upwards, which made my nipples pop up under her fingers. I was hoping she’d enjoy a good feel, but she gave them no special attention and moved lower, doing my belly and sides, then my lower back, and at last my bottom. That really was glorious, slow and sensual, with her hands spread wide, making slow, circular motions that made my cheeks lift and part.

  If she didn’t concentrate on my erogenous zones, then she didn’t hold back either. With my bottom cheeks well smeared with the mud, her hands went down between them, quite casually, as if touching another woman between her buttocks was of no great significance at all. Her finger even touched my anus, pushing a little mud into the opening before moving lower to coat the insides of my thighs. Her treatment of my bottom left me aroused, if still strangely at ease – in fact, more so than ever – and I was wondering exactly what was in the mud, or if the feeling simply came from her skill at massage. Not that I really cared, as I was more than ready for her to touch me, in any way she wanted.

  I’d thought she would leave my pussy until last, maybe even touch me off, which wouldn’t have been difficult. I knew she considered orgasm therapeutic in itself, and was hoping that it was included in her treatment. After all, it wouldn’t be as if I asked for it. Unfortunately she simply smoothed her hand once over my pubic mound, smearing on a good handful of mud, and briefly dipped lower, to coat my sex lips, although she did briefly enter my vagina and stroke mud on to my perineum. My arms came next, my legs last, leaving me coated from neck to toe in the stuff, with the herbal smell thick in my nostrils. My whole body felt enervated, my skin tingling gently, slightly hot, but not unpleasantly so, and while I wasn’t sleepy, I was very, very relaxed and equally horny.

  ‘Is that good, yes?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, beautiful,’ I admitted. ‘You’re great at massage.’

  She gave a little tut of acknowledgement, nothing more, and stepped across to the sink to wash her hands. As I waited, the mud was running very slowly down my body, and I realised why she had put more high up. The tingling sensation was growing stronger too on the more sensitive areas of my flesh: my armpit and breasts, particularly my nipples, but also between my bottom cheeks too and most of all my pussy and bumhole.

  Washed, she took the cling film, an industrial-sized roll a good two feet long and thick as well. I put my hands to my sides as she approached, thinking of the domination fantasies she had inspired and wanting to be as helpless as possible. Not that she was going to be cruel to me, but she was going to give me an enema of sorts, which was close enough.

  Pulling the end loose, she pressed it gently to my back, smoothing it on one-handed as she unrolled it, trapping my arm. Pulling it out across the front of my chest, she trapped the other, squeezing my breasts in as she did it. That alone was enough to trigger my feelings of restriction, with my boobs bound up tight, and it became stronger as she wound more around me, quite hard, encasing my upper body until I couldn’t move my arms at all. My hips followed, then my legs, leaving me standing but unable to take so much as a step, with the cling film wound tight, right down to my ankles. The restriction had become genuine, and quite severe, with the soft flesh of my bottom and belly squashed out beneath the cling film and the mud oozing into whatever cavities were left, including my cleavage and between my thighs.

  ‘And now, to the table,’ Gabrielle said as she tore the roll free.

  I’d always imagined her as strong, but she lifted me really easily, certainly more easily than I’d have been able to lift her, on to the massage table, full length and face down. Helpless in my cocoon, and bottom up, it was getting hard not to show my reaction, and my domination fantasies were running wild. She could do anything to me, anything she wanted to, explore my body, spank me, indulge herself on my mouth, rub herself off over the slick film that encased my breasts. What she actually intended to do was nearly as good.

  ‘Now,’ she said, ‘a little applied internally, in both the vaginal and rectal chambers, and you are done.’

  I twisted my head around, watching as she went to a box of plastic gloves and pulled on a pair. As she moved the box it revealed a small tray, with a big syringe on it, maybe holding half a litre, with a long nozzle ending in a bulblike tip. Just looking at the thing had me biting my lip, but she was as cool as ever, sticking the end into the pot of mud and drawing the plunger up to fill the syringe with glutinous brown muck, glutinous brown muck that was about to be squirted up my pussy and bottom.

  With the syringe full she took up a pair of scissors, coming behind me. I felt her fingers on my bottom, where the mud had pooled between my cheeks and thighs. I felt the tension go as she cut the cling film, and there was a little squashy noise as some of the mud pushed out of the hole. Her fingers went in, between my cheeks, opening them, and she was touching my bumhole. I was gritting my teeth, struggling not to show my emotion as she greased my hole, her rubber-covered fingers working the mud into my ring, opening me, probing and slipping inside, up into my rectum. It was already stinging my anus, really burning, making me tense my cheeks and wiggle my toes in reaction.

  She made a thorough job of it, smearing the inside of my gut with the mud, before reaching for the syringe, still with two fingers holding my bumhole open. Just thinking of her actually peering up my bum was too much, and I let out a sigh, closing my
eyes against the senses of exposure and helplessness, of shame and indignity. Then the nozzle was at my hole, pushing up as her fingers withdrew. She stuck it well up, deep into my rectum, until my anus was stretched taut and I could feel the weight of the horrible thing up my bottom, before depressing the plunger, and with that my self-control went completely.

  I moaned loudly as I felt my rectum start to fill with mud. It felt heavy, solid, very different from a water enema, although I knew it was no more than a thick paste. In no time I had begun to feel bloated, with a desperate, urgent need to go to the loo building up inside me. It was going right up too, and I could feel my belly beginning to swell and the pressure rising as it pushed against my bladder.

  She put it all up, the whole half litre, before pulling the syringe from my bumhole. I could hardly hold it in and I was panting, really showing my feelings. She took no notice, calmly cleaning the nozzle and refilling the syringe before once more coming behind me. Again I felt the nozzle poke in between my thighs, but lower, aiming for my pussy. It went up, deep, and then she had begun to depress the plunger and my pussy was bulging with mud, stinging too, a hot, almost burning sensation that added to the pain in my anus and the bloated feeling in my rectum.

  ‘There we are,’ she said as the nozzle pulled from my pussy. ‘The tingling will soon die down. Let me put some fresh cling film on and then you may expel when you are ready.’

  ‘Expel? In the cling film?’

  ‘Certainly. You will find it cathartic, I think.’

  I wasn’t sure if I’d find it cathartic or not, but I knew I’d find it rude, deliciously, wantonly rude. I said nothing though, waiting with my bumhole clamped tight against the mounting pressure as she wrapped fresh cling film around me, from my waist down to my knees, sealing the hole. I had to lift my bottom to let her get the roll under me, and I nearly let go. It came out of my pussy anyway, squeezing into the cavity between my thighs and up between my sex lips.

  Gabrielle was watching, smiling down at me in my helplessness, quite clearly enjoying the state she had put me in. She looked so dominant, tall and cool and aloof, amusing herself by making me expel my muddy enema into the cling film cocoon. I wanted her to enjoy it, and what was going on in my head too, but I still didn’t dare tell her. I was wishing I could though, badly, and that she would then make good use of my helpless body to get her kicks, perhaps sitting on my face with my tongue well up her bottomhole.

  I was still holding the enema, tight, enjoying the rising pain and helplessness, also the humiliation of knowing it would come out in the end, and that she would see. My bumhole was still stinging too, and my breath was coming ever deeper, my cheeks clenching, my thigh muscles twitching, and suddenly it was too much. It was coming out, thick and slow, oozing between my bumcheeks and into the cling film. I’d shut my eyes, my face screwed up to the gloriously disgusting feeling as it began to bulge out in the cling film over my bum, squashing up between my cheeks, down too, over my pussy, then up it.

  I moaned aloud as my vagina filled, unable to hold my reaction back. It was all so lewd, so wonderfully filthy, with the mud still oozing out of my bumhole, my pussy full of it and the pressure building around my bum. I wanted to pee, and I just let it come, bubbling out into the cling film to mix with the mud and pool around my pussy mound, warm and wet.

  ‘You are peeing?’ Gabrielle asked. ‘Good. Let your body empty, everything. It is good, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ I sighed.

  ‘You are aroused?’

  I nodded miserably, unable to deny it, hoping she’d say she was too, and then just use me. She said nothing, just nodding to herself as if to confirm her suspicions and returning to the inspection of my bottom. I knew it must have looked obscene, and that there was a big bulge where my cheeks met my thighs, because I could feel the weight of it. I wanted Gabrielle to slap it, to spank me for what I’d done, to treat me as if it was wrong, naughty.

  The mud was still coming, but I was having to push, and I wasn’t sure it was all mud, which made it yet more humiliating. I was soaked in pee too, all over my tummy and thighs, even up between my boobs, which felt tight and slimy under the film, and badly needed to be touched. Then Gabrielle’s hand had settled on to the bulge behind my bottom.

  ‘Is it all out?’ she asked.

  Again I nodded.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Then I roll you over.’

  Her hands went under my hip and shoulder and I was flipped over on to my front, really easily. I shut my eyes, knowing she could see the pee flowing down over the contours of my flesh beneath the cling film, then grimaced as the squashy mess around my bottom settled beneath me.

  I had no idea what she was going to do, but there were still visions of her sitting on my face running through my head. I’d have gladly licked her pussy for her, even her bumhole. In fact it would have been a privilege to stick my tongue right up that rude little hole while she masturbated in my face.

  What she did was less intimate, less delightfully rude, in fact cold and clinical. Yet that seemed right – the calm, methodical manipulation of my body as she coolly pressed a ridge of cling film down into the slimy cleft of my pussy and quite simply frigged me off. It took seconds, her finger finding my clit, rubbing as my mouth came open in surprise and ecstasy, harder, all the while looking down at my body in the most extraordinarily calm, detached way, and then I was there. I cried out as I came, naturally, but when she removed her hand it was hard to believe she had masturbated me like that. There were no kisses either, and she had turned her back before I’d sat up, walking to the sink to pull off her plastic gloves and drop them into a bin.

  Seven

  Gabrielle never got the favour returned, because I was still washing when her mobile went. Somebody wanted to see her, urgently, and she accepted, although I could tell she was genuinely annoyed about it. Given how little she showed her emotions, that suggested she’d badly wanted to continue with me, either for the sake of her treatment or to quiz me. I suspected the latter.

  I didn’t hear from her in the week either, or call her, because I’d been given a rush commission which again would have gone to Percy if he’d been around. I did hear from Damon though, who was being incredibly persistent. He kept trying to arrange dates, or more exactly fix them, because I evidently wasn’t supposed to have much say in the matter. In the end he told me straight out that he would be picking me up on Saturday morning to visit some obscure film festival in Cambridge. He also told me to bring my best, so it was quite obvious that he just wanted me on his arm to show off, as if I was a doll. It was not going to happen.

  I’d given Monty by mobile number, which seemed safe enough, and he called on the Friday, suggesting I came and spent the weekend with him. I was tempted, but I wasn’t really ready. For one thing my bottom was still a mess and it would be another week before I was really fit for anything more than spanking by hand. Another problem was that I didn’t know if I could bear to live in his flat for two days. Cleaning up after our last session had been a real pain, while the thought of a diet of beer and takeaways was less than appealing. On the other hand, it was the only chance I had of some good, rude sex, while there was a lot to be said for being somewhere Damon could not find me. So I accepted, on the condition that he took me away, out of London and south or west. He agreed readily, suggesting that I drive down that night.

  When I got there he was eager enough, but seemed somewhat preoccupied, as if something was preying on his mind. It came out as soon as he had sat me down with the inevitable cup of bad coffee. I’d guessed the problem and was ready for it.

  ‘So . . . you are my girlfriend, right?’ he asked, not at all to my surprise.

  ‘Well, no . . . Look, can’t we just keep this as a sex thing?’ I replied. ‘Think of it as an open relationship.’

  ‘An open relationship?’

  ‘Something like that. The thing is, I’m with someone else. We’ve been together for three years.’

  ‘Oh right, Mr
Perfect, I suppose, and I’m just the freak show for when you want it kinky.’

  ‘No, don’t stereotype me. Percy’s over sixty and nearly as fat as you are.’

  ‘A sugar daddy?’

  ‘No, I pay my own way. He’s very caring, we have a lot in common, and he gives me the discipline I need.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Don’t get heavy with me, Monty.’

  ‘OK, sorry.’

  ‘I take it you haven’t got a girlfriend.’

  ‘No. I’ve had my share, I suppose, off and on. It never lasts. Women are a pain.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Not you, obviously. It’s just that with women there has to be this great big song and dance before sex, like some sort of ritual. Like they’re making some huge sacrifice by opening their legs.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘Almost always. It’s like you can’t just do sex for the fun of it, there always has to be a load of crap to go with it.’

  ‘You’re out of date, Monty. Anyway, that’s because the cost of sex is much higher for women, in biological terms, or at least it was until contraception came along. The social situation reflects that, and it’s been changing steadily for decades. I fuck with whoever I like.’

  ‘Yeah, but you still made a big deal out of it, at first, pretending you didn’t get off on having me toss over watching you in the bath and that.’

  I shrugged, not wanting to admit that he only appealed to my desire for sexual humiliation.

  ‘Blokes are more logical,’ he went on. ‘We make a decision and we stick to it.’

  ‘Go gay, or bi,’ I suggested.

  ‘Other blokes don’t turn me on, or I would,’ he responded. ‘There was this guy, once, who caught me looking at a dirty mag in a wood. He’d put it there, like a sort of trap, then watched to see who picked it up. What he wanted was for us to read it together and take turns to wank each other off. He wasn’t gay – he wanted to look at the pictures of bare girls – but he wanted someone else’s hand on his cock while he did it.’