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Imagine laying in bed next to Calliope, running your finger up the back of her thigh and lightly probing her butthole. You push a suppository up into her sphincter and, each time you lightly start to pull your finger away, she pushes it out involuntarily. Finally, after holding your finger there for a bit longer, you move it away and the laxative doesn't come out, having been swallowed into her intestine.
There she lie on top of the covers, sweating lightly in anticipation, slightly grimacing for moments at a time as waves of stomach cramps wash over her and gradually increase in intensity. The pressure of the sweet pain in her abdomen finally gets the better of her and she starts shitting. At first, she conservatively tries to pace herself and aim onto a singular spot on the sheets, but as the momentum of her bowels snowballs out of control, she accidentally soils her stockings and the rear flap of her dress that she tried to hold out of the way.
As the minutes pass, the torrent of waste coming out of her ass gradually becomes more liquid than solid, until the final chorus of her bowels erupts out as a viscous tidal wave of wet, brown slime.
She slowly and reservedly sits up on the side of the bed and propels herself up on her feet, shamefully making sure to keep her back to the mess as she walks to pour herself a glass of wine. Using her shivering hand to pull the glass to her lips, a single tear falls down her cheek as she looks at you and sobs "Th-thank you for 'peeping' my performance" before taking a long sip of drink to help her forget.
