The cold metal of the speculum made my hole clench before it even touched me. Dr. Vance’s latex-gloved fingers, slick with lube, spread my cheeks wide. “Relax,” he commanded, his voice a low rumble. “We need to see how much you can take.”

His thumb pressed against my pucker, circling the tight ring of muscle. I could feel every ridge of his fingerprint. He worked a single digit inside, slow and relentless, the lube making a wet, squelching sound as he breached me. My asshole yielded, stretching around his knuckle. “Good,” he murmured, adding a second finger. The burn was sharp, delicious. He scissored them, opening me up, his fingers probing deep, searching. I could feel him brushing against my prostate, that sweet spot making my cock leak onto the stainless steel table.

“Cavity is clear,” he stated clinically, but his eyes were dark with intent. “But it needs a thorough flush. Prep the enema.”

The enema bag hung heavy, the clear tube ending in a thick, black rubber nozzle. He coated it generously with more lube, the shine catching the harsh clinic light. “This will go deep. You’ll feel every inch.”

The cold, blunt tip pressed against my well-stretched hole. He didn’t rush. He applied steady pressure until my sphincter gave way with a soft, wet pop. The sensation of being filled by the rigid nozzle was immense—a deep, invasive fullness. I could hear the faint slosh of the warm saline solution in the bag above.

“Open the valve,” he ordered his assistant.

The flow began. Not a gentle trickle