My name is Lynn, and I got my first enema when I was fifteen, unlike most other people I know, who received them as a child. I broke my ankle in a bad fall and afterwards experienced a lot of pain during the healing process. The prescribed painkillers had the unfortunate side effect of being very constipating.
The doctor told my mother when he wrote the prescription that I might become constipated. I blushed horribly when he suggested to my mother that an enema would be the best to combat it, explaining that the results would be immediate and effective. We left his office and stopped to get the prescription filled. While we waited mother picked up a few other things including an enema bag. I about died when we checked out with that large box clearly labeled ENEMA. I felt like everyone in the store knew that the enema bag was for me.
I was thankful for the uninterrupted sleep the pain pills provided. I wasn’t so happy with their side effects. True to the doctor’s prediction, they constipated me. It was as if my abdomen was numb, there was not a trace or hint of digestive activity.
Mom took notice and informed me that I would be receiving an enema every morning. I pleaded that it wouldn’t be necessary, that I’d have a bowel movement sooner or later, but my arguments did not sway her. I was going to get a daily enema and that was that.
My body was fully developed and I was extremely self-conscious of it. I was very shy and timid of nudity. I really got worked up over having to expose my private parts to my mother. I hadn’t given any thought to what the enema would be like, I was so locked into pathological modesty.
I didn’t even look up when it came time for my first ever enema. Because of the cast, I had to remain in bed, so I got it in my bedroom. Mother had to carry the full enema bag down the hall to my room. That lack of privacy made me even more embarrassed.
I was awful and uncooperative, to the point where she threatened to call my father in to help her administer the enema. Only the terrifying thought of having my father pry apart my bottom and seeing my privates made me grudgingly cooperate.
I did as my mother told me. I turned on my left side and slid up my nightgown, bunching the nylon material in my tight fists under my breasts. The enema bag, my enema bag, was pastel pink and impossibly immense. Mother used a coat hanger to suspend it from the curtain rod.
The tip was already coated with Vaseline, all that remained was to get started. I wouldn’t loosen my bottom. I didn’t want her to see my privates, I didn’t want anything stuck there either. Only the repeated threat of calling my father in made me open up for her.
The nozzle was awful, I yelled when she stuck it in and demanded that she pull it out. I told her it was killing me but she scoffed and began the enema. The water was worse, it made me cramp and bloat and caused intense pain. I screamed for her to stop and to take it out.
I made such a fuss that my father came in to see what was going on. That did it, he was looking right at my exposed behind. I yelled for him to get out immediately. That made my mother angry, back talking and demanding really set her off.
She told my father to help her give me the enema. I screamed that I didn’t need his help, but he sat down on the bed next to me and firmly help me down while my mother continued to give me the enema.
I cried and cried as that awful enema proceeded. My father’s kind words of encouragement, in spite of his firm grip, did nothing to ease my hysterics. I just continued to cry and begged them to stop. Mother gave me the entire contents of the bag, even though towards the end much of the water leaked out.
He had to help me to the bathroom, both because of the cast and because I was doubled over with cramps and pain. I made him leave me alone at the door. I didn’t want him to see me sit on the toilet emptying my guts.
That was horrible too, the excessive water caused tremendous cramps and the thick waste clogging my guts made it difficult to go. I cried and cried as I tried to relieve the pain. Finally, weak from the experience, I cleaned up and left the bathroom.
Mother was finishing up changing my bed. That damn enema bag still hung from the curtain rod, the offending nozzle tucked inside the open top. She said nothing to me, only took the enema bag away and left me to my misery.
The next day I promised her I would cooperate, but my father still had to come in to force me to take all of the enema.
The day after that, they came in together. My father sat on the bed, put a towel on his lap and then he turned me around and put me across his lap. He threatened a spanking if I didn’t cooperate. I promised I would behave, but when it came time for my mother to stick in the nozzle I tightened my behind and wouldn’t let loose.
My father told me I would be spanked right there if I didn’t cooperate. I didn’t say anything, I just broke out crying and began begging for them to stop. Mother said that the enema was getting cold from all this delaying. Suddenly I felt a slap on my exposed behind. A strong, hard slap. Followed by another and then another. My father, true to his word, was spanking me on my bare bottom.
His hand slapped hard and fast, before I could protest or squirm away he had me in tears. I sobbed uncontrollably, but I submitted meekly to the enema.
The day after that I didn’t give my mother much trouble when she came in with the full enema bag. I still complained that she was giving me too much water, but I didn’t prevent her from completing the process. Lying across my father’s lap like that kept me in line, I guess.