Eleanor: Part III

I sat at my laptop computer scrolling through some of the off-the-beaten path news sites. I liked to do that in the morning. Eleanor stood behind me and put her hand on my shoulder. “Tea’s ready,” she said. “What weird news is there today?”

“This is one you might be interested in,” I said. “It’s a story about a guy who died after overdosing on an alcohol enema.”

“Alcohol enema?” She sat and read the story. “It says the guy took three bottles of sherry.”

“Not ordinary bottles – big ones. Three one-and-a-half litre bottles,” I replied. “That’s like six regular bottles. Sherry’s pretty strong stuff – between thirty and forty proof. “

“It says here his colon absorbed the alcohol so fast it killed him.”

“It was the quantity that killed him. The same thing would’ve happened if he drank that much. It would be like drinking two bottles of vodka in one sitting.”

“I’d be throwing up after this much of the first bottle,” she replied, holding up her thumb and forefinger.

“If you could drink – and, keep down two bottles of vodka you’d be just as dead.” I thought for a moment. “The poor guy in that article injested at least seven hundred mililitres of pure alcohol. That’s what killed him.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Four and a half litres of a fifteen percent solution is around seven hundred mils of the concentrant … closer to six-seventy-five, actually.”

She shook her head. “I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true.” I poked the keyboard to bring up the calculator on the laptop.

“No – I believe you – the numbers. I don’t believe you can work those dilution formulas in your head.”

“Practice,” I replied. “I’ve done a few alcohol enemas myself. I got interested in the topic during my undergrad years. I would never use that much.”

“How much would you use?” she asked.

I went into my apartment’s study and retrieved a spiral notebook. After flipping through the pages I found what I sought. “Here are my notes… Alcohol is a drug and the same rules apply for any drug. Dosage needs to be calibrated to body weight. My guideline for rectally-administered alcohol is one mililitre per kilogram of body mass. For someone your size… What do you weigh? One-twenty?”

She gasped and looked at me agape. “One-twenty? Oh! How could you think I weigh one- twenty?”

“I’m a lousy judge of that sort of thing.”

“I have never weighed one-twenty in my entire life!”

“How much do you weigh?” She folded her arms across her chest stuck her nose in the air. “Ellie, how much?”

“Try one-oh-eight.”

“A hundred and eight?”

“You don’t believe me! You must think I’m so wide…”

“You do have muscular thighs…”

“Oh!” She gasped again. “Yes, you’re right – my big, heavy legs must weigh fifty pounds each.”

“I love your legs, Ellie. I think they’re very sexy. You have great legs.”

“Yes, great – as in huge, monstrous … gi-norm-ous!”

“That’s nonsense. Ellie – if you say you’re a hundred-eight, then I believe you.” I thought for a moment. “Your mass is around fifty kilograms … so, someone like you shouldn’t take more than fifty mililitres of pure alcohol in an enema. That guy took more than ten times that amount.”

“Fifty mililitres?” She held up her thumb and forefinger. “Is that enough to make me drunk?”

“No. It’s enough to make you very drunk – especially if you’re not accustomed to it. We’re talking pure alcohol, here. If it were 80-proof vodka, it would be … a hundred twenty-five mils – a little less than a quarter of a bottle. Of course I would never introduce pure alcohol – or, even hard liquor – into anyone’s colon. It would cause tissue damage. It must be diluted, first.” I consulted my notes. “My other guideline is the concentration of alcohol must be seven percent or less.”

“Like wine?” she asked.

“Even wine is too strong. It must be mixed with water.”

“It sounds like you figured this all out,” she remarked. “What’s it feel like?”

“You feel it going in. You get a buzz that’s similar to drinking.”

“I’ve never seen you drink.”

“I gave up consuming alcohol – from either end – after studying under my yogi in India.”

“Before then?”

“I never was a big drinker. I did it once a month or so as a diversion.”

“Interesting.” She took my notebook and studied it. “Very interesting.” She showed me a page. “Is this a timeline?”

“Yes. I recorded my experiences at five-minute intervals. Notice the entries get less coherent as time passes. I remember feeling pretty impaired after fifteen minutes or so.”

“This is fascinating.”

“Don’t tell me it’s something you’d like to try.”

“Maybe I would,” she replied. “I’ve never been able to drink alcohol – it makes me sick to my stomach. I’ve always wondered what being drunk feels like.”

I made some mental computations. “For someone like you who weighs … a hundred-eight, I would administer one-hundred-twenty-five mililitres of 80-proof vodka diluted with just over a pint of plain water.”

“A pint. That’s not much.”

“You need to hold it long enough to experience the buzz. You wouldn’t want it larger, believe me. You would want to be thoroughly cleaned out first, too.”

“This Saturday night when we do our ritual,” she said. “I want to try an alcohol nightcap – just to see what it’s like.”

“Okay – I’ll pick up some vodka and borrow a graduated cylinder from the labs.”

“Why vodka?”

“Because it’s neutral grain alcohol in water. Would you rather we pinch some 95% lab alky?”

“…No… Vodka sounds safer.”

“By the way … I should mention that sex feels really good behind one of these.”

Saturday evening Eleanor and I took our stroll around campus to help settle our dinners. I knew she was anticipating our festivities. It was all she could talk about during our walk.

“How did you get interested in this?” she asked me.

“My mother used to give me enemas,” I replied.

“Ah, no wonder it’s a turn-on for you. It’s a latent mommy-thing.”

“It sounds like you applied the full force of an undergrad psychology course to come up with that assessment.”

“Psych-101,” she replied.

“My mother got it from her mother. My grandmother was a registered nurse who trained in the ‘30’s and ‘40’s. Back then every household had an enema bag hanging from a hook behind the bathroom door. Medicine was considerably more barbaric in those days. I ran across some of my grandma’s nursing manuals. Did you know it was common practice to give ether enemas to pregnant moms about to deliver?”

“Ether? The anesthetic?”

“Diethyl ether, yes – they’d mix a couple ounces of ether in some mineral oil and shoot it into the mom’s rectum. It was a sort of neolithic epidural, I guess. I remember reading how the patient would begin tasting the ether … how it induced a twilight sleep to take the edge off the delivery. I wondered what it would feel like to experience an intoxicant delivered rectally. So I did some experiments with myself as the subject.”

“You put your life on the line in the name of science. How noble. How … fearless.”

“Hardly. I wasn’t about to experiment with ether, as I had no desire to die … or, to blow up my apartment. Ethyl alcohol is a kissing cousin to ether, so I experimented with it, instead. I started small and worked up to the parameters we discussed.”

“You say it takes about fifteen minutes to feel it?” she asked. “I Googled some websites on the subject. Some of them said it’s like mainlining the stuff.”

“No, you start feeling it right away. It takes about fifteen minutes to become intoxicated. I’m not an expert in the physiology of alcohol intoxication – all my observations are empirical. You absorb alcohol faster through your colon than your stomach, but I don’t know how much faster. I doubt it’s like mainlining the stuff, though – no matter what the websites suggest. There is no rush.”

We reached the apartment. I had made some preliminary preparations before we took our walk – the I.V. stand was by the bed and I had put two layers of towels on the bedspread.

Eleanor sat on the bed and began untying her running shoes.

I walked in with a towel over my forearm and carrying a notepad. “Good evening,” I said, “I am your enema sommelier, and I’m here to help you with your selection. Tonight we have three courses. To begin, I recommend a mild cleanser – pure water perhaps, or maybe one with just a whisper of Dr Bronner’s. After all, you wouldn’t want your colon cranky from too much castile. That would ruin your dessert.”

“We wouldn’t want that,” Eleanor agreed. “What else would you recommend?”

“To minimize irritation, you might try a hot tap water cleanser followed by an isotonic large- volume rinse.”


“Yes – Sufficient baking soda and salt to match the salinity of your own lovely juices.” I rolled my eyes in thought. “A proper saline enema might be so comfortable your colon won’t want to give it up. That could be a problem.”

“Hmm… It sounds like it might be.”

“I know. A dual-temperature rinse. An adaptation of the old cold water/old water routine.”

“That sounds good.”

I began writing on the note pad. “First course is a warm tap-water cleanser, followed by a large- volume, dual-temp saline rinse. And for dessert…”

She giggled. “Our special dessert.”

“I took the liberty of laying out some outfits for you to wear for tonight’s festivities.” I pointed to three hangers. “We have the utilitarian tee-shirt, the comfy cotton slip and the filmy black negligee. Your choice. I’ll go prepare the first course.”

The first one was easy – two quarts of tap water measured at 110 degrees F into the open-top bag. I carried it into the bedroom. Eleanor sat on the bed wearing the tee-shirt.

“You look disappointed,” she said. “I could almost hear the crestfall.”

“I was hoping…”

“For the filmy negligee. My idea was to wear all three. Not at once… But, I figured it would be best to save the filmy one for last, don’t you think?”

I nodded. “Your concept is sound.”

“I figured I’d change in the bathroom – between courses.”

I hung the enema bag on the stand and began coating the nozzle with petroleam jelly.

“What position?” she asked.

“How about Sim’s?”

She nodded and lay on the towels on her left side. She pulled her legs up and I lifted the hem of the tee-shirt to expose her bottom. Then, with a gentle twisting motion I slipped the nozzle into her rectum.

Eleanor turned over with her left arm behind her back. She straighted her left leg and pulled her right one up and lay half on her left side and half on her stomach. “Is this good?”

“You know your Sim’s,” I replied. “Ready?”


I handed her the clamp. She snapped it open and the water gurgled soflty in the hose as it flowed into her.

I sat on the bed and caressed her shoulder blades as she took the enema. As she filled she began taking slow, deep breaths through her mouth. But, she didn’t once shut down the flow.

I watched the bag deflate and pinched it to feel how much water was left. Soon the whole thing had emptied into her. I closed the clamp and pulled out the nozzle. “Two quarts, non-stop,” I said. “Good job.”

“How long should I hold it?” she asked.

“There’s no soap to stimulate you, so just hold it until you’re ready to get up and go.” I continued to caress her shoulder.

“I’ve had a couple of mild cramps… Maybe I’ll go now, it that’s okay.”

“Suit yourself.”

She grabbed the cotton slip and headed for the bathroom. I began to prep for her large-volume rinse.

For this I used two bags ganged together through a Y-connector. Each bag had a cutoff clamp on its hose, with a third clamp on the outlet hose. I mixed four tablespoons of baking soda and the same amount of salt in a gallon of 85 degree tap water. I filled one bag with this solution; then put the remainder in the microwave oven and heated it to 115 degrees F. The warmed water went into the second bag.

I hung both bags on the IV stand and, flushed air from the hoses and connected them to the Y- connector. To this I attached the outlet hose with its nozzle. I decided against the large, plug nozzle I had made for Eleanor and instead attached a douche tip.

She came from the bathroom wearing the cotton slip and hung the hanger with the tee-shirt on the closet door knob. “I can’t wait to try the alcohol,” she said.

“We mustn’t get ahead of ourselves.”

She climbed onto the bed and lay on her back. Hooking her forearm under her knees she lifted her legs and pressed her thighs against her breasts.

I lubed the nozzle and passed it into her rectum. She stretched out her legs and crossed her ankles. I handed her the common hose clamp and opened the one on the hot bag. “Comfy?”

“Mmm…” She clicked open the clamp and the bag began to drain. Eleanor closed her eyes and lifted her face. “Mmm… nice and warm.”

I caressed her thigh as the water flowed in. She reached down and put her hand on mine. “Feel good?”

“Feels good.” She nodded. “It’s going in real easy.”

“How did you do with the first one?”

“Pretty good. I think there’s still some left in me, so I don’t know how much of this I can take.”

She took the first bag without a flinch. When it was empty I had her roll onto her right side in a reverse-Sim’s posture. Then I opened the clamp on the other bag.

The cool water began to flow. Eleanor’s eyes opened wide when she felt the cool water.

“Wow, that’s different,” she said. “It feels a little crampy.”

“It’s supposed to – warmth relaxes, cold stimulates contractions.” I caressed her leg. “Remember, slow, deep breaths … relax your abdomen.” She nodded and lay on her side, fingering the hose clamp. I ran my hand along her belly and could feel the heaviness of her distended cecum.

She snapped it off. “Done?” I asked.

“Not quite. Just taking a rest. How much do you think?”

“About two and a half quarts,” I replied. “You should try to get a little more cold water into you.”

She nodded, popped the clamp open and let it flow for a few seconds before stopping it down again. She did this a couple more times and then declared herself filled.

Eleanor grabbed the black negligee on her way out the door and headed for the bathroom.

I drained and rinsed the bags and set them aside – I’d hang them to dry over the bathtub later. I began preparing the alcohol enema.

For a bag I used one of the clear plastic, disposable variety. First I filled it with clear water and drained most of that out to fill the tube. I measured out 600 ml of tap water and tested the temperature – 100 degrees. To this I mixed 125ml of inexpensive vodka and poured it into the bag.

I hung the bag on the IV stand, and I switched the nightstand light to the lowest level. Then, I undressed, slipped into a bathrobe and sat, waiting for Eleanor to come from the bathroom.

She came in wearing the negligee.

“How did you do?” I asked.

She nodded. “Okay. I see what you mean about saline being comfortable. I think I have a pint or so still in me.”

“That’s okay,” I said and pointed to the clear bag. “Here it is.”

“I’m giddy with anticipation,” she said. “What position?”

“Knee-chest,” I said.

She got on the bed on her hands and knees, then lowered her shoulders. “Why this?” she asked.

“It’s about a pint and a half,” I replied. “You’ll want to retain it for nearly an hour. We need to get it deep into your colon for you to do that. This position puts your abdomen almost upside-down. It should flow straight to your transverse colon. Ready?”

“Ready,” she replied.

I lubed the slender plastic tip and slid it into her rectum, pushing the tube in until I felt resistance. Then, I held up the bag and released the clamp.

The fluid began to flow. After about five seconds, Eleanor arched her neck and gasped. “OH! It burns!”

“I told you you’d feel it going in. Slow, deep breaths.”

She panted, mouth wide open. “Oh! Oh! I feel it all the way down my legs to my toes. Oh, my God! My toes feel like they’re red-hot!”

“About half done,” I said.

“It’s starting to feel better,” she said. “Now my colon feels crampy.”

“It’s pretty irritating stuff,” I replied. “It’s why I could never hold it very long.” The bag emptied and I closed the clamp and pulled out the tube. “It’s all inside you,” I said.

“Now what?” she asked.

“Stay like that for a little longer, then lie on your right side. Massage your stomach. Try to get it in deep.”

She lay on her right side, grabbed her abdoment and shook it. Then she pressed her hand below her ribcage. “Now I feel it here… I think I can taste alcohol in the back of my throat.”

I took the equipment from the room and returned. Eleanor still lay on her right side. I ran my hand along her leg. “How are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m really starting to feel it, now,” she replied.


“In my joints They have this funny aching feeling.”

I glanced at the clock. “It’s been about five minutes. It’ll be another ten before you start feeling the full effects.”

“My stomach stopped hurting,” she said. “Maybe I’m getting used to it.”

“We’ll see how long your colon can tolerate it. I peeled off my robe, lay beside her and kissed her. “I can smell it on your breath.”

“How can it be on my breath if I didn’t drink it?”

“It’s in your blood and you’re excreting it through your lungs.”

“Oh… When I close my eyes it feels like the room is spinning.”

I looked at the clock. It was just past ten minutes since she had taken the mixture into her colon. I kissed her again and could detect more alcohol on her breath.

I ran the backs of my fingers down her chest between her breasts; then caressed one breast and the other. I traced one of her dark, coin-sized areoleas through the sheer fabric with my fingertip. When I brushed my fingers across her nipple she closed her eyes and drew in a breath.

“Oh!” she said.

“Is that okay?”

“Oh, yes. It surprised me – that’s all.”

I began fondling her breast through the fabric. Her nipple became erect and I stroked it and rolled it between my fingers.

“Both sides like that,” she said.

I lay with my back against the headboard and propped her against my chest so I could reach around her and fondle both breasts. She was taking slow, deep breaths.

“Oh, God,” she said. “This feels sooo good.” She put her hand on my thigh and squeezed. Her body was very limp.

“Does the alcohol help?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” she replied. “Everything feels twice as intense.” She touched her lower abdomen. “I feel it here.”

I slipped the straps of her nightgown off her shoulders and began to uncover her breasts. “No,” she said, “through the fabric. I like how it feels … slippery…”

I pulled her gown up to cover her and resumed rolling her nipples through the fabric. “I know you like what I’m doing. Do you know how I know?”


“Your nipples are erect. They get that way when I’m touching them just right.”

“They love what you’re doing. They’d love more…”

“Let me know when you’re ready for me to move down.”

“In a little bit. Just keep doing what you’re doing.” Her enunciacion was becoming less distinct. “I’m still going deeper…”

“Into the alcohol?”

She nodded. “Uh-uh… I never been this drunk. I alw’s throw up first. It’s odd to feel this drunk and not feel any alcohol in my stomach…” She drew in a deep breath and released it. “Oh, this feels good… I’m almost ready. I wanna go a li’l deeper yet… Oh, God I love you.”

“I love you, too, Ellie.” I kissed the top of her head and inhaled the scent of her hair. “Don’t let yourself go too deep – you won’t feel anything.”

“I’m ready for you.”

I extricated myself from behind her, helped her lie flat on the bed and adjusted a pillow under her shoulders. Then, I rolled her thighs apart, lifted the hem of the negligee and kissed between her legs. Her musky cassolette filled my nostrils as I worked between her lips and pushed my tongue into her vagina as far as I could.

Then, I moved my tongue upward to her clit and began a gentle tickling. I slipped my arms under her thighs and cupped my hands over her compact breasts. With the tip of my tongue I found the glans of her clit tucked under its little hood. I began sucking it and rolling her nipples through the thin fabric of her negligee, my pinching in synch with my tongue.

Her body was as limp as a dishrag. She rolled her head to one side. Her lips parted and she took deep, slow breaths through them. She lifted and crossed her forearms above her head, pulled together her shoulder-blades and rocked her torso to press her breasts against my fingers.

“Oh,” she slurred, “I’m molting… I mean I’m melting … and I’m floating… it feels so good.”

I continued working her clit with my tongue and rolling both nipples. Her heart was beginning to pound and I could feel it through the flesh of her left breast.

She had reached a plateau, I sensed. I maintained a steady rhythm on her clit, but I didn’t want to overstimulate it. Each of her breaths consisted of a slow, deep inhale and a sharp, huffing exhale. I thought she needed some other stimulation, so I slipped my left hand off her right breast and slid it under her hem. I massaged her abdomen, fingered her navel and caressed her mons.

She stayed on the plateau, her heart pounding. I slid my left hand under the fabric of her negligee until I reached her breast. Then, I slipped my right hand under the fabric and began rolling her nipples again, this time my fingers against her bare skin.

That did it. She exploded into orgasm, arched her back, moaned and gasped. I could feel her pelvic muscles pushing against my chin as I continued to work her clit with my tongue.

Another orgasmic wave washed over her, and then another. I felt her pelvic floor move with each one. She grabbed my forearms in a white-knucked grip. Then, she let out a moan that was almost a shriek, and she started crying.

Eleanor pressed her fist to her lips and wept. I came up from between her legs and cradled her in my arms.

“Ellie, are you all right?”

Her body was wracked with sobs. She pressed her fist to her mouth again, nodded and sniffed.

“Ellie, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I love you. IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou.”

“Can you sit up?”

She nodded. I helped her sit and grasped the hem of the negligee to lift it from her. She sat, nude and cross-legged on the bed. I knelt beside her, held her and kissed her. Her eyelids were droopy and her eyes looked glassy. She peppered my face with kisses. Her tears subsided. “IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou,” she said.

I held her face against my chest. She started caressing me and exploring my skin with her fingers. Then I ran my hand along her thigh, put my finger between her labia and pressed it against her clit. She moaned as a mini-orgasm swept over her.

“Can you be on top?” I asked.

“I thing so…”

I lay on my back and helped her atop. She held me around my shoulders and I slipped inside her easily. I grabbed her hips and began moving them up and down. She got into the swing and started pushing on her own.

With my left arm across her shoulder blades and my right hand on the small of her back I pressed her against myself. She continued to thrust against me. I ran my right hand between her buttocks and paused when I reached her anus. I slipped my finger in.

It was like throwing a switch. She doubled and redoubled the vigor of her thrusting. “Uhh … uhh … uhh..” she grunted as she pushed against me. I could feel my own climax was moments away. I tried to hold on, but lost it. I grabbed her buttocks, pushed into her and ejaculated.

She groaned. Her thrusting became a vibrating of her hips against mine. Her back was moist and her face was red. I stroked loose hair from her face. She started crying again.

“Ellie, what is this? Why are you crying?”

“I can’t help it,” she blubbered. “I love you so much!”

I held her until she calmed again. “Are you okay?” I asked. She nodded. “How does your colon feel?”

“It’s been cramping but I don’t care.”

“Do you want to try and expel?”

“I think I better.”

“I’ll help you to the bathroom.” I got up and helped her to her feet. She was having trouble standing. “Let’s try to walk – one foot in front of the other.”

She stumbled. I supported her and ended up carrying her to the toilet. “You are drunk, little girl.”

She sat on the toilet, folded her arms across her belly and leaned over. “Don’t leave,” she said. Then, she grunted and released a stream. It hit the water in the bowl with considerable force.

“Hey – don’t bear down,” I said.

“I can’t help it.” She grunted. More water came out. “It burns coming out, too.”

“It sounds like you’re getting rid of most of it,” I said.

She grasped her abdomen, shook it up and down; then leaned over, grunted and released more. “Ohhhh…” she groaned. “I think my colon’s gonna be grouchy for a couple of days.”

“That can happen.”

“You’re right about one thing, My head’s starting to clear … now that I’m rid of it.”

“Do you remember making love?”

“How could I forget it? It was wonderful. You were right about that, too. It was the best sex I’ve ever had … uhhh…” She paused to bear down again. “About the crying…”

“Alcohol does funny things to people, Ellie. We don’t have to discuss it if it embarasses you.”

“It wasn’t the alcohol that made me cry. It was you.”


“Yes. Maybe the alcohol had something to do with it. I felt really loopy…”

“Loopy? You couldn’t walk.”

“I’ve never been that drunk. I told you drinking makes me vomit. For me, I was very drunk. Still, parts of my brain were functioning just fine – better than normal. While you were down between my legs … I suddenly felt the full force and power of your love.” She sniffed away a tear. “It overwhelmed me. I’m not sure I deserve a love like yours.”

“You let me decide who’s worthy of my love – and, who isn’t. Trust me on this one, Ellie.”

“Fair enough.”

“Sex is communication. It’s what I’ve been trying to communicate to you since our first time together.”

“Your message came through loud and clear. Its why I … didn’t ask you to look away when I started coming.”

“I know that was one of your hangups,” I replied. “I figured the alcohol lowered your inhibitions.”

She shook her head. “It heightened my awareness. I felt … I knew I had nothing to fear from you. I could expose myself – by body and my psyche in all my vulnerability – to you and … and you’d protect me. That’s why I never wanted anyone to watch me climax – I felt so vulnerable. But not with you. Not now. Not anymore. I opened myself to you and you gave me the most powerful orgasms I ever had. They went straight to my core. I feel inadequate to reciprocate. I don’t know what I can do for you in return.”

“Ellie – I assure you I enjoyed your orgasms as much as you did. I lost count of how many you had.”

“Five, I think.”

“Including the one with you on top?”

“Six then.”

“And the one with you sitting up?”

“Seven? Does it matter? Maybe it was just one long one… I think I’m done here.” She reached for the toilet tissue and cleaned herself off. “I still feel pretty loopy.”

“You need to sleep it off. Can you walk?”

“Carry me.”

I scooped her up, carried back to the bedroom, turned down the covers and we slid in together. She cuddled against me. I held her in my arms and she was asleep before her head hit the pillow. I kissed her and pulled her tight against myself.

She roused for an instant. I looked into her eyes and she smiled. “I love you, Ellie,” I said.

“I know you do. I know.” She let out a contented sigh and closed her eyes.

I switched off the light and closed mine.


Notice: The above story is fiction and is provided as entertainment only. The events described should not be regarded as an endorsement or recommendation, and the author is not responsible for damages or injury to anyone attempting to emulate the fictional behavior of the fictional characters in this story. Introducing alcohol or any foreign substance into the colon can be dangerous or lethal. Please, do not try this at home. –D.