The walk down the hallway was a slow, agonizing waddle. With every step, the massive enema Daddy had forced into me sloshed violently, a heavy, churning ocean of warmth that distended my belly and made me feel grotesquely fertile. I clutched the low-hanging curve of my stomach with both hands, supporting the weight, terrified that if I let go, I might burst. My diaper, taped snugly around my hips, crinkled loudly with my labored movements, a constant reminder of my infantile status.

We stopped at a door I had never noticed before. It was painted a soft, pale pink, with a small, brass handle that looked delicate compared to the heavy oak of the study.