A pressure. Behind her. Not his hand.

Something cool. Firm. Cylindrical.

The nozzle slipped inside her before her brain caught up to her rectum.

Amy’s sentence died mid-vowel. Her eyes—the camera had them, framed tight—became twin moons. The assistant zoomed in.

“Oh.” The word was small. Stunned. “Chat. Chat, there’s a—there’s a tube. In my—there’s something inside me.”

Water. Warm water, flowing in, and with it a fullness that made no sense.

Her belly stirred. A rumble deep in her gut that she could feel through her pelvic floor, a strange liquid pressure that climbed by degrees.

She gripped the tile wall. Her palm slipped on the steam-slick surface.

“I can feel it,” she said, voice pitching higher. “Filling. It’s like I have to—oh god, chat, I have to go so bad. It’s just water but I have to—I’m going to—”

The nozzle withdrew. A wet pop. Amy’s body did what bodies do, and she cried out over the splatter, “Look away, chat! Look away!”

Her cheeks burned. The blush ran from her face down her chest, across her breasts, up her neck. And underneath the mortification, coiling in the hot wet center of her, was something feral. Something that liked the shame.

Chef Markel handed her off to a salt scrub. Coarse crystals abraded her shoulders, her back, her thighs, her soles. Each pass stripped away a layer of dead skin and a layer of inhibition.

By the time the rainfall rinsed the last grains down the drain, Amy was pink-skinned, soft, and vibrating with a sexual hunger she could not name.

She faced the camera. Water dripped from her chin.

“That was the wash. Inside and out.” She swallowed. “Chat. I think I get it now. I think I understand.”

The chef’s voice came from behind the butcher chains. “The stuffing begins in five minutes.”

Amy perked up, “Stuffing!”

“Bring the rabbit.”