| Subject: My Story retold THE PURGE |
Author:
AV
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Date Posted: Monday, October 20, 2025, 03:37: am
In reply to:
AV
's message, "My Story retold once more" on Thursday, June 05, 2025, 04:09: am
What followed was a full day of discomfort. I sat on the toilet for hours, emptied and aching from the sting of warm, soapy water. Every time I thought it was finally over, she appeared again—fresh, refilled, patient. She waited for me on the sink, her body round and ready.
She was warm. She was soft. She was full. She didn’t ask permission. She pressed in, and she emptied herself into me, again and again, until I no longer knew where she ended and I began.
I cried. I begged. I swore I was empty. But she didn’t believe me. She was relentless. Each time she returned, she carried a new lesson—one about control, about surrender.
Every sound carved itself into memory—the running water, the footsteps, the muffled silence of my own compliance.
I am a container.
A vessel.
Managed.
Filled.
Emptied.
She made sure of that.
Somewhere between the third and fourth bulb, something in me gave way. My body stopped fighting. My muscles loosened without permission, surrendering to her rhythm. I no longer felt the water entering—I only felt the leaving. The release. The shaking. The emptiness that followed.
I tried to hold on. I tried to clench, to resist, to keep something of myself. But she knew my limits better than I did. She pressed, and I broke.
The sound of the faucet became a roar. The air turned heavy, and the walls seemed to close in. I wasn’t crying anymore. My tears had run out, leaving only the hollow sound of breath and the echo of her purpose.
She spoke through the water now—through the warmth, through the pressure that demanded.
“You will be clean.”
“You will obey.”
“You will let go.”
And I did. I let go of everything—my dignity, my control, my ownership. My body became something separate from me, something she could manage and move and command.
I was no longer a person. I was a process. A container being emptied.
She called it cleansing. She said it would make me pure. But her warmth and comfort lied. It was never about hygiene. It was about control. It was about erasing the will inside me, teaching me that resistance only prolonged the ritual.
Even now, I can see her waiting—on the porcelain edge, gleaming and still, like a weapon disguised as medicine. I can smell the soap before it even enters the room. My stomach twists, my muscles remember.
When it was over, she rested where she started, empty and satisfied, then left the room as if nothing had happened. But I stayed. I stayed hunched over, shaking, trembling and raw, the tile cold against my feet.
And somewhere deep inside, as the air smelled of soap and surrender. something whispered, “it was a purge, a lesson learned.”
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