HookedIt’s morning. Secured in place in booth 14, I lie struggling to obediently withhold, my need to drain my bladder great.
I realize the protocol is to force the subordinate... the donor... to focus on his handler. What is a natural bodily function elsewhere is a mental challenge on Indiening Island. And it is effective, for in wait, my thoughts turn to Miss Beth... vicariously sensing her hands smoothing about, her fingers lubricating, with deliberation inserting the enema nozzle, cooing encouraging words, knowing that bladder filled, my mind is in turmoil.
There is activity in nearby booths, my cohorts undergoing the morning routine. Finally I hear footsteps. My heart leaps. I rejoice.
“Good morning, Mr. Burgess... you may speak.”
“Good morning, Miss Beth. I really need to... you
