The Weight Loss Coach
He knew he needed to lose a few pounds, but he’d tried and failed before. That’s why he decided to see Miss Monica. He’d heard she got results, no matter what it took.
This was his second visit. The first had been three weeks ago, pleasant, but packed with information, rules, and warnings about failure. He wasn’t sure he remembered much of it and could only hope for the best now.
Miss Monica now had him in front of an old fashioned beam scale. He moved to step up, but she stopped him.
“You must take off your clothes to weigh in,” she said, her tone matter-of fact.
He blushed, and stared straight ahead. “Everything?” he asked, trying to remember if this was one of the rules she’s explained. Probably, but that didn’t make it any easier.
“Yes, everything.”
She waited.
After a second hesitation, he stripped.
She looked him over, running her fingertips along his spine to direct him forward. He stood and watched as she moved the weights, back and forth, until the arm centered.
"Two hundred thirty-eight,” she announced, and wrote it in his file. “How do you think you did?”
He looked down at what he thought was a slightly shrunken belly. “Okay, I guess.”
“Did you weigh at home?”
“No, Ma’am.” At least he remembered how she liked to be addressed.
“Do you remember your goal weight?”
“No, Ma’am”
"It was two hundred thirty-five.”
He sighed. Surely it was close enough.
“Mike, you did not meet your goal,” Miss Monica said, leaning over to look into his face. “I am very disappointed.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m close. Surely that’s something.”
“Close does not count with me,” she said. “Why did you fail?”
He started throwing out excuses. "I worked out some and ate good the first couple weeks, but then we did some tailgating last weekend and I probably drank too much, sorry."
“Sorry.” She repeated the word. “Do you remember what I said would happen if you fail?”
He shrugged. “I probably wasn’t listening real close to everything,” he said. He’d been too busy looking at her and fantasizing. “But I tried.”
She shook her head. “Yes, you are going to be sorry. You ate too much, and didn’t lose enough weight, so now you need a good clean out to counter act your gluttony. Go into the bathroom.”
As he walked across the room he heard her mutter “tailgating,” under her breath.
Inside the gleaming white and polished bathroom, he stood beside the tub, shifting from foot to foot, unsure of what to do with his arms, so he alternately crossed them and let them dangle. He watched as Miss Monica retrieved a large enema bag from the closet, and the sight brought back her words...part punishment, part weight loss aid.
"The recipe I’m preparing for you is, lemon juice, epsom salt, and 3 quarts of water. You will hold it for ten minutes. That should do the trick."
He could feel sweat began to collect on his temples. Had he really agreed to this? He thought about the forms he’d signed. Guess so.
She hung the bulging bag on the shower rod and turned to him. The sight of her standing there holding the nozzle made his knees weaken.
"Get into the tub on all fours,” she instructed.
"Yes ma'am," he mumbled and knelt in the cold porcelain tub. Gloved fingers lubricated him, and then she pushed the flexible nozzle in. He gasped softly as it slid deep.
"This is a Bardex nozzle. It inflates, it won't come out until I take it out," she explained and he heard the soft hiss of a hand pump. The nozzle grew thick, and he understood what she meant. He felt plugged. With a click the water started to flow fast, a warm rush that made him squirm. Mercifully, she slowed the flow.
He groaned as the bag emptied, his belly swelling with the volume of water inside. The sensation of fullness and urgency pounded in his head, waves of cramps rumbled his insides. He groaned again. This hurt!
Miss Monica set set a kitchen timer for ten minutes and set in on the edge of the tub in front of him. She leaned against the sink and watched him struggle. “Tailgating,” she said again. “Was it worth it?”
“No Ma’am.” He grunted the words.
“Do you think you will be able to do better this next time?”
He groaned. “Please.” He looked up in desperation. “I need...”
“You need to wait until the timer goes off,” she said.
He groaned and looked up at the dial, each slow tick mocking his predicament.
“If you don’t over indulge, you don’t have to suffer this.”
He shifted and could feel the water slosh inside him.
“Do you think you will be able to do better this next time?” Miss Monica asked again.
“Yes, Ma’am!” he cried, his voice strained with the effort of holding the water.
“That’s better.”
He glanced over to see her waiting calmly. He felt anything but calm. Both his mind and his insides whirled and roared. At the ding of the timer bell she tugged on the nozzle to get his attention as if he hadn’t been counting every second until the end of this treatment. “I’m going to take this out now. But you better not spill any water when you get up. When you finish your business, come back to the scale.”
“Uh huh.”
He felt the deflation, and then she slid the nozzle out. He had to clamp down to keep from leaking. Once Miss Monica stepped out he scrambled for release. Afterward, he dreaded returning to the scale and loitered the the bathroom until she knocked on the door.
“It’s time to weight again, Mike,” she called. “Unless you think you need another enema.”
That quelled his hesitation, and he hustled to the scale.
“Two hundred thirty-seven. Still two pounds over.”
He hung his head.
“I tried to help you,” she said, and he knew she meant the enema. “But two pounds is two pounds. It’s time to be punished for them. You will spend ten minutes over my lap for each excess pound.”
Miss Monica situated herself in a straight backed chair, and picked up a hair brush. With a resigned sigh, he draped himself over her lap. She rubbed the cold brush on his naked ass.
“I’m very disappointed in you for not meeting your goal,” she said, with one swat to each cheek.
He flinched at the sudden sting.
“But you should be just as disappointed in yourself.” Another set of two swats. “You need to pay attention, and have more self control. Right?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” he mumbled.
She pushed into the middle of his back and began raining swats on his ass. He squirmed at the bumble bee sting until she wrapped one leg over his to hold him still. Every few minutes she grabbed a different implement, each one more painful than the last, and imprinted the lesson on his reddening cheeks. By the time twenty minutes had passed, she was breathless and he was panting.
She unwrapped her legs and stood him up. “Into the corner now and think about how you will accomplish your next goal of two hundred thirrty-two pounds by three weeks from today."
He shuffled over and let his forehead rest against the wall, highly aware of his glowing red butt on display. Three weeks. Three weeks from today he would be back at Miss Monica’s. Three weeks from today he was supposed to be five pounds lighter. If not, he’d endure another round of punishment.
Behind him he heard Miss Monica replace the chair at her vanity table and begin to straighten up in the bathroom. He snuck a peek over his shoulder and smiled. Only three weeks. He’d make sure to have plenty of pizza and beer before then.