Eleanor: Part I

Matt Groening said a graduate-school dropout is the bitterest person in the world. Well, I’m not bitter. Not me.

I did drop out, though, and spent several years spending an inheritance traveling the world – in particular, India and the Far East. When I found myself back in the States I decided to drop in on Dr Rosen, my mentor. Even though I dropped out, we remained on friendly terms.

It was from Rosen I learned my grad-school drinking buddy Mick met an untimely end, being run over by a bus after one too many pints. Mick was the Chemistry Department’s glass blower, and they had yet to find a replacement.

One of Rosen’s students came into the lab holding a piece of apparatus – some glassware – in two pieces.

Rosen shook his head in dismay. “Mick could’ve repaired that,” he said.

“Let me look,” I replied and took the broken equipment. It was a clean break in a tube connecting two glass vessels. “I’ll bet I can fix it. Mick showed me a trick or two.” Rosen looked dubious. “What’ve we got to lose? If I can’t we trash it. You’ve gotta trash it as is, now.”

I had always been handy and good at repairing things, and I was confident I could repair this. I followed Rosen and he opened Mick’s shop. I fired up the torch and in a few moments had the piece of gear back in one piece.

That was five years ago and it’s how I became the university’s new glassblower. The pay’s not so hot, but I get to live in cheap, on-campus housing; I can more or less set my own hours and I can get around with no need for a car.

One day I was absorbed in my work – attempting to seal a platinum electrode in a glass tube, when I was startled by the whack of a stack of paper hitting the bench, followed by a woman’s voice.

“Dr Rosen thinks you can make one of these.”

I jumped. “Please don’t startle me,” I replied.

“I’m sorry…” I looked at my botched job and tossed the electrode into the trash. “Did I make you do that?”

“No – I did it by myself.” I stretched, got off my stool and faced her.

Standing before me was a woman in her late 20s to early 30s. She was petite and looked to be Amerasian. Her features tended more to the Asian side. There were pronounced epicanthic folds to her eyes and her hair was thick, pin-straight, shiny and reached to the tops of her shoulder blades. Her color was western. She had hazel eyes, light skin and her hair was light brown, bordering on auburn. Her face had an Asian shape with high cheek bones, but her nose was European.

“You don’t sound English,” she said.

“What?”

She pointed to a poster on the wall. It featured the Union Jack and read “British to the core.”

“I’m not,” I replied. “That’s from the previous tenant. I keep it as a tribute to him.”

“I’m sorry I barged in and disturbed you,” she said. “I can leave the journal and come back later.”

“No, we can talk about it now.” I picked it up. “Let’s walk over to the union for some coffee.”

“I’m not on the meal plan and I don’t have any change…”

“I’ll buy. Come on.” I shut off the torch and locked the workshop. “We haven’t met I’m…”

“I know who you are,” she interrupted. “Dr Rosen has nothing but good to say of you. My name’s Eleanor.”

“Eleanor… Pleased to meet you. You’ll like Rosen. He’s a good prof … and a good guy. If you don’t mind me asking…”

“My mother’s Korean and my father’s from Iowa.” I looked at her. “It’s the second question everyone asks.”

“No, I was about to ask how you came here. You don’t look like a typical new grad student.”

“I took a few years off after getting my B.S.”

I nodded. “To get some field experience.”

“You could say that.”

We reached the union. I bought coffee and we sat and looked over the journal. I made some sketches. “Yeah,” I said, “I can do this. Give me a week or so.” I sipped my coffee. “What are you doing for dinner?”

She looked at me slack-jawed. “I … I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Do you like Indian veg? I’m making some aloo ghobi tonight. There’ll be enough for two.”

“Are you always so forward?”

“Never. I see a great many pretty girls come and go through this school. My number one rule is, they’re off-limits. I made an exception with you.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re different. I’ve been enjoying your company and I’d like to enjoy more of it. The recipe makes too much for me. I end up wasting some and I’d rather share it.”

“What time?”

“Around six.”

She nodded. “All right. You seem like a nice enough guy. But, I want you to understand something, up front. I’m accepting your offer because I’m hungry and I’m broke and it’s another week before I get my first stipend check. I’m not interested in anything physical. Understood?”

“Understood. There is no quid-pro-quo, Eleanor.”

That evening I heard a knock on the door of my apartment. I opened it and there she was. “Come in,” I said. “Aloo ghobi’s almost ready.”

“I could smell it in the hallway. It smells delicious.”

She sat and wolfed down the portion I set before her. “There’s more,” I said.

“I can get it.” She returned with another helping. “This truly is the first decent meal I’ve had in days. I wasn’t kidding about being broke and hungry.” She pressed her hand against her stomach. “I’m sorry if I was crabby earlier. Hunger puts me into a bad mood.”

“It’s okay. Tell me about your job.”

“What job?”

“You said you took time after your degree … to get some field experience.”

“Oh… I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Okay.”

She walked over to me. “I’ll show you my field experience.” She lifted the hem of her blouse and pulled down the waistband of her jeans. Below her navel was a scar nearly three inches long. “My husband did that … ex-husband to be precise. I married him right out of college. It was five years of hell. He’d get drunk and become belligerent. I told him I’d had enough and was leaving him. He stabbed me with a kitchen knife … almost nicked my aorta. He came within two centimetres of killing me.”

“Gosh, Eleanor… I’m sorry…”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Where’s he now?”

“In prison. It took me six months to recover from this. I started having nightmares. I was afraid once he’s released he’ll find me and finish the job. I needed a fresh start, so I applied to graduate schools … got accepted here. It’s halfway across the country, so I figure I’m safe. I didn’t tell anyone where I was going … say goodbye to anyone. I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this.”

“Does your family know where you are?”

“I don’t have a family. My mother left us and my father’s dead.”

“Brothers? Sisters?”

She shook her head. “The fewer people who know where I am the better.”

“I feel sorry for you.”

“Save your pity…” She shook her head. “I shouldn’t have said that.” She picked up her bag. “I think I had better be going.”

“Is it something I did?” I asked her.

“No.” She sighed. “I’m not comfortable with strangers who’re kind to me.” She headed for the door. “Thank you for dinner. It was delicous.”

“We’re not strangers. We know who we are. Eleanor, it’s not my thing to take advantage of someone.”

She paused, her hand on the doorknob. “I’m not ready to get into the dating scene.”

“I respect that. I like you, Eleanor. It’s why I invited you. I was hoping we could be friends.”

“I have to go. I have work to do.”

“You’re always welcome here.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“Same time tomorrow?”

She smiled. “Okay.”

Eleanor started spending a lot of time at my apartment. We’d share Indian vegetarian and we’d have long talks about her experiences and mine – my travels abroad, and about the ayurvedic yogi I studied under for a year. Saturdays were our days. We’d go places or just enjoy unstructured time. I knew I was falling in love with her. I remembered what she said about not being ready for anything physical, and I respected that.

One Saturday evening I noticed she had no appetite for dosais and dahl. “Something wrong?” I asked.

She shook her head. “What makes you think something’s wrong?” I pointed to her plate. “I’m just not hungry.”

“You haven’t eaten all day,” I replied. “Are you sick? Coming down with something?”

“I’m coming down with the usual.”

“What’s that?”

“I’d rather not discuss it.”

By now I knew whenever she said she didn’t want to discuss something she was getting ready to discuss it.

“I took something last night, and I was hoping it would … resolve itself by now. I feel rotten.”

“Take what?” I asked. “What resolve itself?”

“I get … bound up, okay? It happens when I’m stressed and overworked. I had all those papers to grade … two exams this week … a preliminary proposal for Dr Rosen…”

“You’re an overworked girl, Ellie. What do you take for it?”

“I took some milk-of-magnesia before bed. It works about half the time. When it doesn’t, I’m supposed to…” She paced back and forth in front of the sofa where I sat. “I’m embarrassed to talk about it.”

“We’re friends, Ellie,” I replied. “You can be open with me.”

“He said I should…” She shook her head. “I can’t…”

“I hate to think of you in discomfort.”

She continued pacing. “I’ll bet that Indian yogi of yours could concoct some herbal tea or something that would set me right.”

“He taught me a thing or two. Would you let me examine you? No rubber gloves I promise.”

“Okay.”

“Lie on the sofa.” I lifted her blouse to her navel, unsnapped her jeans and palpitated her lower abdomen. She grunted as I pressed down on her left side near her pelvis.

“Feel here,” I said and directed her fingers. “That’s your sigmoid colon. Feel how hard it is?” She nodded. “It’s packed. You are constipated.”

“I know THAT,” she replied. “I was wondering what your yogi would do about it.”

“He’d say you need to be cleaned out,” I said. “A rather simple problem to deal with. What he’d recommend is called in the ayurveda, basti. A cleansing enema.”

She gave me a wry smile. “That’s exactly what I’m supposed to do – take an enema. You wouldn’t happen to have one, would you?”

“As a matter of fact… No, I don’t.”

“I’ll survive, I guess.”

“Let’s walk to the Walgreen’s on the corner. It’s only about ten minutes.”

“I can’t do a ten-minute walk feeling like this.”

“It’s really bothering you, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “This is one of the worst.”

“If you can’t walk to the corner, how are you going to get to the bus stop for the ride back to your place?”

“I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Then, I’ll go.” I stuffed my wallet into my pocket and slipped into my sandals. “I’ll be back in a jiff.”

“Do you know what to buy?” she called after me.

“I certainly do,” I called back.

I wasn’t about to buy one of the squeeze-bottle disposables. Eleanor needed a real enema. I headed toward the aisle where they kept the fountain syringes. The drustore stocked only a combo hot water bottle/enema/douche kit – not my first choice. I bought one and headed back to the apartment. I opened the door and showed Eleanor my purchase.

“That’s not what I use,” she said. “It’s a little squeeze-bottle.”

“Those things aren’t good for you … I don’t think so, at least.”

“It’s what the doctor suggested. Why would he suggest something that’s bad for you?”

“Probably because they’re quick, easy and convenient,” I replied. “Oh, they work, all right; but I wouldn’t use one. They’re concentrated salt solutions that work by irritating your rectum. They also cause your tissues to give up fluid. We’re both chemists, Ellie. You know about fluid transfer through a membrane.”

She nodded.

“I’d much rather use this…” I held up the fountain syringe. “You take a large volume of warm water. It’s a kinder, gentler approach – and, more effective. The water softens what’s in your colon and the mechanical distention induces you to expel it.”

“I’ve always used the other kind.”

“How does it make you feel afterward?”

“Relieved, maybe?”

“That’s it?”

“What should I feel?”

“You should feel good … de-stressed … energized … ready to take on the world.”

“You’re making it sound like some sort of drug.” She pondered. “I don’t know…” She looked at the box. “I’ve never used one of these…”

“Ellie, I’d be happy to help you take a proper enema. It’s a topic I know something about. I’ll explain everything…” I looked around the apartment. “We need to find a way to hang this.” I looked in the bathroom. “You could lie on the floor and we could hang it from the towel-bar… It’s not quite the right height. I should’ve picked up some string at the store. They didn’t have enemas in mind when they designed this apartment.”

“Why do I have to lie down?”

I traced an outline of her colon on her abdomen. “Because otherwise you’re fighting gravity. You need to be horizontal. I suppose you could be on your hands and knees, but I think you should be comfortable for it. You could lie on the sofa and I could hold the bag.”

“Fine,” she said. “What’s next?”

“We need access to your bottom. You’ll need to lose the jeans… I know.” I took one of my tee shirts from a drawer. “Put this on. It’ll give you some coverage.”

She took the shirt into the bathroom. While she was changing I started my preparations. I took out my pocket knife and shaved ten grams off of a bar of Kirk’s Castile soap onto the pan of an old triple-beam balance that had been retired from the labs in favor of the electronic variety. This I dissolved in some hot water, filled the bag with two quarts of the soapy solution, flushed the air from the tube and attached the douche nozzle.

Eleanor emerged from the bathroom barefoot and wearing my shirt – it came halfway to her knees. It was the first time I had seen her legs. They were short –I don’t think she was more than five feet – but they were athletic and shapely. She had cute, dimpled knees and nice muscle definition in her calves. I think Asians have the sexiest legs on the planet and hers were no exception.

“Now what?” she asked.

I held up the bag. “This is filled with warm water and a bit of castile soap.”

“Why soap?”

“The soap’s a mild irritant.”

“I thought you said irritants are bad.”

“This is gentle. Because you’re so plugged up, I put soap in to make it a bit more purgative. It also makes things slippery.” I held up the nozzle. “This goes into your rectum.”

“It looks like a douche nozzle.”

“It is.”

“Don’t they have special … rectal ones?”

I took the enema pipe out of the box. “This? These tend to plug up if your rectum happens to have anything in it. They also slip out easily. They’re no good.” I flicked it into a waste-basket; then I held up the hose with the douche tip. “This will do neither.” Eleanor shrugged. “The object is to fill your colon from one end to the other. The distention from the volume and stimulation from the soap will get your colon moving and you can rid yourself of what’s plugging you up.”

“How much is in there?”

“Two quarts.”

Her eyes popped. “TWO QUARTS?”

“An adult – even a little schmeck like you – can take two quarts with no problem. If they’re empty that is. You’re so plugged up I doubt you’ll take it all. I won’t be cross with you if you don’t. Just take as much as you can.” I looked into her face. “Are you scared?”

“A little.”

“It’s not too late to call it off.”

“This will really make me feel better?”

“Guaranteed or double your money back.”

“That’s an easy guarantee for you to make since I haven’t paid you anything.” I could see she was struggling with it. “How do you know so much about this?”

“I used to do this myself – all the time.”

“Why did you stop?”

“I went east. I learned to eat right, to live healthy. I got a low-stress job I love. I haven’t needed them since. Do you trust me?”

She nodded. “I think I do.”

I put a towel on the sofa. “Lie face-down,” I said. She complied. I rested the bag on the back of the sofa – being of the closed-top, hot-water-bottle variety I could lay it down with no fear of spillage – one advantage, I guess. “Here we go, then…”

I smeared a dab of petroleum jelly on the tip of the nozzle. I lifted the hem of the shirt to expose her buttocks. “You have a great-looking ass, Ellie,” I said.

“I figured that’s really why you’re doing this,” she replied.

“Not at all.” I spread her with one hand and lubed her brown anus with the nozzle. “You do have a world-class ass, though. Now relax,” I said and slid the nozzle into her. “Okay?”

“Okay,” she replied.

I picked up the bag. “It’s not supposed to hurt. You might feel some discomfort…”

“Discomfort? You never mentioned that! What sort of discomfort?”

“Fullness, pressure, minor cramping – sometimes you have to feel a little worse before you feel better. You shouldn’t experience any real pain. Tell me right away if you do.”

She nodded and I opened the clamp.

“I feel it!” she gasped. “It’s warm. What an odd sensation…”

“I made it warm to relax your colon. Is it too hot?”

“No … almost… It’s starting to hurt! It hurts … it hurts! I’m full – I have to go!”

“We just started – you have hardly any in you. It’s only a spasm.” I closed off the flow. “Relax. Your colon needs to open up and the pressure will subside.” I slipped my hand under her and with a circular motion massaged her lower left abdomen.

She moaned and whimpered. “Yes. It feels better now. It was like a valve opened. I could feel it flow in.”

“Some cramping is normal, especially since you’re sooo full… Lift your butt a little to take pressure off your stomach.” I snapped open the clamp again. “Breathe deeply and slowly. Try to relax your abdomen. Can you feel the flow?”

She nodded. “Uhuh. I feel pressure build and then release … I feel it moving up…” She pointed to her left side near her ribcage. “I feel it here, now… bubbles inside… My stomach’s starting to hurt.”

“Pain?” I asked. “Pressure? Cramping?”

“No – nausea.”

I clicked off the clamp. “Your colon is responding to the soap. I think you should take a soap enema as fast as you can – to get as much into you as possible before your colon realizes what’s going on. We’ve been going slower than I’d like. It looks you’ve taken about a quart so far. You should try to take a little more.” She nodded. I opened the clamp. “Tell me if it gets real bad.”

I held the bag fairly low to keep the flow gentle. She took about another pint.

“Stop,” she said. “I’m feeling really uncomfortable.”

I stopped the flow. “Does it hurt?” She shook her head. “Sick to your stomach?”

“Sort of…”

“Are you going to throw up?”

“I don’t think so. It feels more like a case of Montezuma’s Revenge coming on.”

I pulled the nozzle from her. “That’s what it should feel like. You did well – almost a quart and a half. I want you to lie here and let the enema do its work.”

“How long?”

“As long as you can stand it, but at least five minutes. Fifteen would be better.”

“I can barely stand it now.”

“I know in this situation five minutes feels like five hours. You need to hold it a little while to loosen things up so you can get rid of them.”

“Ohhh!” she moaned. “I feel cramping.”

“It’s the enema stimulating your colon. Relax and try to hold it.”

“It feels awful. I’m sorry I agreed to this.”

“Once you expel it’s over. You’ll be cleaned out and you’ll feel better. You’re doing great, Ellie. Try to hold it a little longer.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“I’ll help you.” I pressed and held her buttocks together. “Better?”

“Yes… It’s passing. Oh! Another cramp. They’re coming in waves.”

“That’s good. The enema is stimulating peristaltic waves in your colon. Hold it through three strong ones and then you can go to the bathroom.” She groaned. I’ll explain the proper way to expel an enema. Resist the urge to bear down. Let your colon do the work. When you feel a wave coming, relax your bottom and it will flow out. Got that?”

“Uhuh.” She nodded.

“Don’t try to force it and don’t strain. It doesn’t work, anyway.”

Eleanor grimaced through one more wave and then waddled to the bathroom bent over and clutching her stomach. Meanwhile, I flushed the soap out the equipment and made ready with a clear water rinse. I filled the bag with two quarts. I wanted her to take more, if she could. This is what I didn’t like about the closed-top bags. An open-top one I could refill mid-stream.

I decided to try applying some fluid dynamics to the problem. I filled my quart measure and set it on the kitchen counter. Then, I submerged the end of the hose in it, lifted the bag and opened the clamp. Once the air was done bubbling out of the hose I shut off the clamp. Keeping the hose end submerged, I set the bag on the floor and opened the clamp.

Sure enough, the water started siphoning from the pitcher into the bag, its sides stretching as it filled. It took a couple of minutes to get most of another quart into the bag, but soon the quart measure was empty and the bag, bloated with three quarts, lay on the floor. I picked up the inflated apparatus and set it on the sofa.

She came out of the bathroom. “Wow!”

“Wow?”

“That’s the word for it. I had no idea I held so much … crap. It just kept coming out”

“Did it work better than the squeezie kind?”

“I think so.” She pressed her hand to her abdomen. “Look at how much flatter I am now.” She glanced toward the bathroom. “I turned the fan on but I wouldn’t go in there right away if I were you…”

“How do you feel?”

“Pretty good. Better than before.” She ran her hands along her sides. “My insides feel a little…”

“Twitchy?”

“Yeah.”

“Come here,” I said. “I’ll give you another.”

“Another?”

“Yes. This one’s clear water to flush any soap residue out of your colon. Remember, the soap’s an irritant. You don’t want it to become inflamed, do you?”

“No…” She glanced at the bloated bag. “How much is in that thing?”

“Almost three,” I said.

“How did you get three quarts into a two-quart bag? That thing looks mean.”

“I have my ways. Just think – in a few minutes this will all be in there.” I pointed to her abdomen.

“That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

“Don’t worry, Ellie – you don’t have to take it all. But I do want to take as much as you can. This time lie on your back.” She lay on the sofa. “Lift your legs and press your knees to your chest.”

She hooked her forearm under her knees and lifted her legs. I slid the nozzle into her rectum and held up the bag.

“You should find this one easier to take,” I said. “You’re quite a bit emptier, now.”

“I should hope so.”

“Put your legs down and relax.” I opened the clamp and could hear the water gurgling through the tube.

“I feel it,” she said.

“Any cramping?” She shook her head. “Any discomfort at all?”

“No… Just the water flowing in. It feels … kinda good … the warmth…”

The bag was getting lighter. I estimated she had taken about a quart and a half.

I snapped off the clamp and set down the bag. “Roll onto your right side,” I said. “Let gravity move it deep into your colon.” I massaged her abdomen and could feel the fullness in her belly. “You’re doing fine. Just a little more.” I held up the bag and opened the clamp. “Breath slowly and deeply. Relax your abdomen. Let it fill. That’s it. Every time you exhale, relax your belly a little more to make room for the water.”

I watched her take slow, deep breaths through her mouth. “Stop,” she said. “I don’t think I can hold any more.”

There was less than a quart in the bag. I snapped off the clamp, pulled out the nozzle and felt her abdomen through the fabric of the tee shirt. It was distended and heavy. “Feel this,” I said.

She ran her hand along her side.

“No – here,” I said and took her hand. I felt a jolt run up my arm; or, maybe I imagined it. I looked at her face to see if she felt it, too; and gazed for a moment into her hazel, Asian eyes. I was looking straight into her psyche and I saw the sweetness and goodness in her. No one deserved the sort of mistreatment she received from her ex-husband; and certainly not she.

She broke the eye contact and focused on her hand. I guided her fingers along her belly. “There. Feel it?” She nodded. “That’s your cecum. When it’s full, you’re full enough. You took nearly two and a half quarts. There may be some soapsuds still inside you. How do you feel?”

“Really bloated.”

“Does it hurt?”

She shook her head. “No … doesn’t hurt, hurt. It’s kinda uncomfortable, that’s all.”

“Same rules for expulsion apply – don’t force it. Okay, go do your thing.”

She stood sideways to me and ran her hands along her belly, pulling the tee shirt taught against her abdomen. “Look,” she said. “I look like I’m pregnant. If this is what it feels like to be pregnant … I’m not having any kids.”

Eleanor headed into the bathroom and I started cleaning up and putting away the equipment.

She emerged with her hand on her stomach. “It won’t all come out.”

“It’s not an uncommon problem. You did the right thing, getting off the toilet. Walk around a bit, maybe that’ll help.”

She paced around the living room. “What happens if it doesn’t come out?”

“Don’t worry about it. Your colon will absorb the water. That’s one of its jobs, anyway. You’ll end up peeing like crazy the rest of the evening. The surest way to get a stubborn enema to come down is to get thoroughly absorbed in some other activity.” She continued to pace around the living room. “If you were to walk down to the corner and get on the bus back to your place, I guarantee that forty-five seconds after pulling away from the curb that enema would come down and want out in the worst way.”

Eleanor laughed. “That is my sort of luck.” She grabbed her sides. “I do feel better, I guess… Just kinda sloshy…”

“I know how to get it to come down,” I said and headed to the kitchen. I ran water from the tap with just enough hot to take the chill off and put a little more than a pint in the bag.

She saw me carrying the bag. “More? How much more do you want to put into me?”

“This is some cool water. It should stimulate contractions and bring the rest of that enema down in a hurry.”

She rolled her eyes. “All right. How should I lie?”

“You’ll take this one standing. We want to keep it low in your colon. Bend over and put your hands on the sofa.”

I lubed the tip and used it to lube her spot. With a circular motion I slid it into her. “Okay, stand up.”

I held up the bag and opened the clamp. “Oh, my God,” she exclaimed. “Oh … my … God… That is such a strange feeling.”

“It must feel a little like the squeezie kind.”

“Yeah, but that’s just a squirt. This feels like a lot … and it’s cold.”

“Does it feel crampy?”

“A little.”

“It’s about a pint and a half… Almost done.” The bag emptied. I closed the clamp and pulled the nozzle out of her anus. “Walk around until the urge to go is strong.”

Ellie started pacing around the apartment. Then, she stopped and folded her arms across her stomach. “Is it coming down?” I asked.

“I think it is.”

“Wait until the urge is strong.”

“Oh, it’s strong,” she said. “Excuse me.” She sprinted back into the bathroom.

I heard the toilet flush and she emerged with a big smile.

“Success, I take it,” I said.

“More stuff came out,” she said, “and, not just water. It came out like a torrent. I didn’t think I had so much still in me. I could feel the temperature of the water change.”

“How do you feel, now?” I asked.

“I can’t describe it,” she replied. “I feel empty … relaxed but invigorated at the same time. And, I’m so flat now.” She took my hand and pressed it against her abdomen. “Feel. My tummy hasn’t been this flat since I was ten or so.”

“You had a good enema,” I said. “You feel great after a good enema. To be thoroughly cleaned out, you should take a series of them – large volume enemas until the water returns clear.”

“Should I do that?”

“Only if you want to. The ones you had tonight accomplished eighty percent of the job.”

“I feel so much better now…” She approached me and kissed my cheek. “It felt good… You were so gentle and patient with me… Thank you.”

“Would you do it again?” I asked.

“Mmm… I would.” She kissed me on the cheek again, and then on my lips. We kissed again and her tongue touched mine.

She unbuttoned my shirt and slipped it from my shoulders. I picked her up and carried her into the bedroom.

She unfastened my jeans and dropped them to the floor. I took the hem of the tee shirt, lifted it from her and gazed at her nude body. She was flawless, except for the scar under her navel. I coaxed her onto my lap, fondled her compact breasts and tongued her half-dollar-sized, darkly pigmented areolas.

Eleanor lay on her back. I slipped my arm under her shoulder blades and kissed her breasts. She held my face against her chest and I began sucking on her nipple, the taste of her skin filling my mouth. I caressed her belly with my free hand, fingered her navel and explored her scar.

“Don’t touch that,” she said.

I looked up. “I love you, Ellie. I love this scar. It’s part of you and a testament to surmounting adversity. You stood very near the edge of the abyss, but you stepped back and you prevailed. Wear it with pride.”

I moved my hand lower and felt her thick pubic patch. My finger slid into her slit. She was very wet down there. I lubed my finger with her juices and began a gentle massaging of her clit. It was as hard as a pebble. I could feel her heart pounding through the flesh of her breast.

She arched her back and moaned, then pushed me onto my back and climbed atop. I slid into her, locked my legs with hers as she rocked her hips. We thrust together. She worked her fingers under me and held tight.

I ran my hand along her crevass between her buttocks. I put my finger against her anus.

“Uh-uhn,” she said and shook her head. I slid my hand higher and held her around the small of her back. Her skin was becoming damp. I continued thrusting and felt my own climax approach. Grabbing her buttocks with both hands I pushed deep into her and ejaculated. She wiped some dampness from my face.

She kissed me. “Oh, I love you,” she said. “You take such good care of me.”

“What changed your mind?” I asked.

“What to you mean?”

“You told me you weren’t ready for anything physical. Something made you decide you were.”

“Mmm…” She kissed my cheek. “You’re so gentle. I figured if I could trust you with my colon – I could trust you with the rest of me.”

I held her against me, still inside her and ran my hand along her back. “Maybe,” I said, “we should talk about you moving in with me.”

“Mmm… Not now … in the morning…”

I felt her legs twitch as she drifted toward sleep. I closed my eyes let a delicious sleep wash over me.

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