After years of childhood “doctor and nurse” games in which I was invariably the patient and my sisters were the doctors and nurses, it came as no surprise when Fran was accepted into nursing school. Francis was the eldest and she had sort of held us all together in the years following the death of our mom and dad. Even with Aunt Emma taking care of us, it was always Fran who we looked up to and followed.
Mom and Dad were killed in a car accident when I was ten, and Aunt Emma had been with us for the past four years. She moved in shortly after the funeral. She was a nurse, as my mom had been, and I guess the girls got their desires to be nurses from her and mom. Aunt Emma was a private nurse and she often worked at her patient’s home, although sometimes she was at the hospital downtown.
This is one story of how I was Fran’s “homework” during her training. She referred to me as her “private patient” but sometimes she called me her “special homework.” She tried almost everything out on me, making the bed with me in it, giving me sponge baths, having me use a bed pan or a urinal, taking my temperature in many different ways, and doing all the special things that good nurses do for their patients. I used to enjoy the pampering very much even though I sometimes complained about the bother of it. Fran used to laugh when I complained, and say, “You’re certainly good to work on, because in the hospital everybody complains too!”
One Saturday, the twins were away with friends for the weekend, and Aunt Emma was going to be on duty in a patient’s home for two or three days. Fran would be home, and she said she would look after me and Barbara, my youngest sister. Fran had gone over to school “to pick up a few things,” she said. Barbara wouldn’t be back till supper. I was sleeping late. I woke to hear Francis calling from downstairs, “I’m back. Come down and give me a hand.”
When I didn’t appear. Fran came upstairs and said, “What’s the matter, Bobby? Are you too tired to help your sister bring in a few things?”
I didn’t want to seem lazy, so I replied, “I don’t feel so good this morning.”
I knew right away this was a mistake, because in the next breath Francis said, “Yes, you look a little feverish. Let me feel your forehead.”
She sat down and put her hand on my head. The cool white nylon of her uniform brushed me and felt delicious. She looked beautiful and so professional. Fran was slender, of medium height; a brunette with an excellent figure. She had her hair cut short and wore it loosely around her face. She was a very neat person. After a moment she said that I felt hot. “I want to take your temperature. Go lie on my bed while I get a thermometer.”
I did as I was told and she came in a few minutes later carrying a tray covered with a white towel. “This is the way we do it at the hospital,” she said. “Pull down your pj’s and turn over.” She put the tray on the night table and pulled the pillow down. She told me to lie on it: “It will lift you up in back a little.”
She took the towel from the tray and I saw what she had brought in: A large thermometer in a long case marked “Security: Rectal;” a jar of Vaseline, a small rubber glove for one finger, and something made of black plastic that looked like a thick thumb with one end rounded and the other end shaped like a thick thumb with one end rounded and the other end shaped like a flat disc.
I had only pulled down my pajamas a short way, so she pulled them all the way off and tossed them on the floor. I quivered as I felt her hand rub over my backside. “Relax,” she told me, “loosen up. I’ve done this before. You know it won’t hurt.” I saw her put the rubber glove on the first finger of her right hand, and open the jar of Vaseline. She dipped her finger into it and, with a tissue, lubricated her whole finger. I felt her touch my opening and slowly rub her finger over it.
She did this for a few moments and then, suddenly, I felt her enter my hole and push in. I shivered, The slippery feeling tingled. It felt funny, like going to the bathroom backwards. “Loosen up,” Fran said. “This will make it easy for the thermometer. One of the girls in my class suggested I try it out. She says it’s very effective.”
Wow, I thought to myself. Francie was twisting and turning her finger, pulling it out slowly and plunging it in again. I was feeling crazy! In and out, shallow and deep, finally pushing hard with her whole finger buried in my backside hole. Then she said, “You seem to be loose enough now. I’m going to insert this thick thermometer and I want you to squeeze it tightly with your anal muscles so it won’t slide out. It’s a special type we use when patients are unconscious or uncooperative. I’m trying it for the first time on you, so be good, Bobby, and do what I tell you,” she said with authority.
Francie took the rubber covering off her finger, got the thermometer from it’s case, shook it, and touched it to my opening. I must have tensed because she said, “You won’t need any more Vaseline; I put quite enough in already.” I relaxed and she inserted the rectal security thermometer a little bit more. “Hold it,” she told me. I squeezed and it felt good. She pushed it in further, and when it was properly inserted into me, she said, “Stay this way for a few minutes. I have to get my bag and packages from downstairs.”
When she came back up, she was carrying her small blue overnight bag and several packages wrapped in brown paper. “In a way, it’s a pleasant coincidence for me today. I brought home some special equipment to try out with you, and it looks as if you are going to need it anyway. Let’s see what’s cooking.” She slipped the thermometer from my grip and wiped it quickly with a pink tissue. “Well, you do have a slight fever. When was your last bowel movement?
“What’s that?” I asked.
Fran Laughed and said, “When was the last time you went to the bathroom sitting down?”
“Oh,” I said, feeling stupid, “a couple of days ago. I think.” I could tell what was coming.
“Dear Bobby, what you need is a thorough cleaning out. You are constipated. Do you have a headache?”
“Well, maybe a little one.”
“Okay,” she smiled pleasantly. “Francis will fix it. I’m going to give you a cleansing enema to wash out your system. We’ve just been learning the techniques, and this will give me some useful practice. My friend gave me one last night, and it was wonderful. You’ll feel much better when I get done with you.”
“But I don’t want an enema,” I protested. I was beginning to get a little uptight. “I’m all right, really I am. Enemas hurt and are very uncomfortable. I remember the last one I had, the one Aunt Emma gave me when I was sick last winter. That was no fun.”
“Don’t be afraid,” Francie said, sitting on the bed with me. “I won’t hurt you. You were being punished the last time, but this is because you are constipated. You need it, and I need the practice. I’ll do it so you will like it. In fact, we’ll pretend that you’re in the hospital, and I am the nurse who takes care of you. Just imagine that the doctor has ordered for you to have a good cleansing enema and that he called for an enema specialist to wash you out. I arrive to greet you, then I go for my enema equipment.”
Francis looked so efficient in her white dress, and seemed so confident in her manner that I began to reconsider. “Well, okay, you’ve always been good to me before and if you are sure it will be good for me….”
“Of course,” she said. “Just get out of your clothes and come back here in your bathrobe. While you do that I will get the enema ready. Go on now, and get your robe.”
As I returned from my bedroom, I passed the bathroom and saw that Fran had laid out a lot of things on the vanity. The water was running slowly, and the toilet seat was lifted. Her blue bag was open on the floor, and the wrappings from one package were scattered about. I looked in the open box and saw several rubber tubes, some small plastic containers which were labeled with the words “Liquid Castile Soap: for Enemas,” and a few small glass tubes. In her blue bag I could see rubber tubing and a clear plastic pouch. She also had a white enamel can, somewhat larger than a coffee can, with a spout on one side toward the bottom. There were three tubes of surgical lubricant, and the instructions on the tubes said: “….good for lubrication of douche and enema nozzles, rectal and colon tubes, rectal thermometers, and other similar devices. Water soluble, will not harm rubber goods….”
I was looking at this tube when I heard Francie come into the bathroom. “Come to bed,” she said. “The doctor has ordered a thorough cleansing for you and I am ready to begin. Leave your bathrobe in here.” So I took off my robe and walked through the door into Fran’s bedroom. She had spread out a red rubber hospital sheet over the quilt on her bed, and she pointed to it. “Lie down now, on your stomach,” she commanded.
The rubber felt cool and smooth under me. It was the first time I had ever had this feeling. Aunt Emma had always used an old blanket whenever she gave me an enema lying down, or else she had me bend way over either standing by the toilet or kneeling on the floor of the bathroom. Francis got something from the tray on the night table and brought it over to me. She put some slippery jelly on it, and then around my hole.
“This is something to dilate your anus,” she explained. “That’s so you’ll be able to eliminate everything when the enema comes out. As I insert it, I want you to pretend you are going to the bathroom and open your rear.” She touched my backside with it, and with a slow rotation, twisted it into me. It felt big, but not too uncomfortable.
“I’m starting you off with a small size so it won’t hurt. I put it in warm water, too, so that you’d find it comfortable. Tell me how it feels,” she said, pushing it up to its flat bottom, as far into me as it would go.
“Like I have something to get rid of, but it won’t drop off,” I replied.
“Okay. Stay like this a bit. I’ll fill the enema can. I’m going to put some hospital soap into the warm water to make it work better.” She went into the bathroom and I could hear the water splashing into the metal can. Then the sound of a spoon stirring in the soap, and soon she was standing beside the bed again. She set the enema container on the night table and draped the rubber hose across the small of my back. There was no nozzle on it.
“I’m not using a regular nozzle,” she said. “I got a rubber rectal tube from the hospital supply room, and I want to try inserting the flexible tube into your hole. I find it more comfortable myself, and I think you’ll like it. It’s a small one, what we call a number twenty-two. I use a number thirty-two for myself, but I’m bigger than you are, and I’ve been doing it for awhile.”
Francis had brought in a plate with a long rubber tube curled around it, and it glistened with lubricant. She set the plate on the floor beside the bed. With a short piece of glass she connected the tubes to each other, and opened the clamp for a moment. The fluid raced through the tube, forcing out the air, until it reached the tip of the red rectal tube which she held at the same height as the enema solution in the can. “Some people don’t bother to remove the air from the tube,” she remarked, “but I like to give my patient this extra comfort.” She closed the clamp and replaced the tube on the plate. I could feel her reach to my behind and grasp the thing in my opening. “I’ll take out the dilator from your fanny now, so relax and push a little.” I must have pushed a lot, because it popped right out and she said quietly, “Take it easy, Bobby.”
The black plastic thing went on the plate too. She had me turn on my left side, and told me to pull up my knees. That left my rear end wide open. Francie stooped to get the rectal tube, and began to insert it into my hole. I could sense each movement as she made it slither in through the slippery lubrication. “It’s about six inches in now. I’m going to start the fluid flowing into you.” I could feel the first gush, but Fran soon slowed it with the adjustable clamp she had in her left hand. With her right hand she gradually pushed the tube further into me, and I could feel it inside me, emptying the warm, soapy enema into my belly.
I began to feel full. Francie stopped the flow every so often and told me to be very still. Once she rolled me over and rubbed my stomach when I felt uncomfortable. As she did this, the erection I had been hiding beneath me suddenly sprang free. I must have turned several shades of red in my embarrassment. But Francie, always the professional, pretended not to notice. She was much nicer than Aunt Emma usually was in giving enemas. When I was completely full, I told her, and she stopped. The tube was almost totally inside me. All I could see was a few inches sticking out of my behind. “How do you feel?” Francie asked with professional and sisterly concern, “Can you hold it for a few minutes?”
I don’t know,” I said. I feel awfully full.”
“Well, it’s best if you don’t expel the enema right away, but let it do its work. I’ll take out the rectal tube, though.” She began to pull, and I could feel it sliding out from deep inside. I wanted to go in the worst way, but Francie held my cheeks closed as she withdrew the rubber tube. It came out slowly. When she had removed the entire tube, she said, “As soon as I put this equipment in the bathroom, I’ll be back for you. Hold on.” With her holding my bottom, I made it to the toilet. I was going to turn around and sit down, but she stopped me and said, “I would prefer you to straddle the bowl so I can watch to see if everything comes out alright.”
I climbed over the bowl, and as soon as Fran took her hand from me, I let it go. And did it go! I must have been really full. It even got on her hand before she pulled it away. I kept pouring it out, and then I stopped, and then it comes out again. Finally, I had given up all the enema solution that was in me. The bowl seemed to be steaming - from the soap, I suppose. Francie flushed and washed me. She had me bend way over so she could dry me. Then she sprinkled soft talcum powder on my bottom, and gave me a pair of rubber pants to put on. “Just in case there’s more enema left in you.” She told me to go to my bed and lie down while she cleaned up the equipment and put it away.
Afterwards, she said, she would fix us something to eat as she felt hungry and thought I must too. “I’ll be in to see you in a minute. Rest for a bit now.” I went to my room and slid between the covers. I couldn’t sleep, though. I was still tingly all over. I kept thinking of the things Fran had done to me and how I felt inside. It was fantastic. Even though I didn’t originally want the enema that she offered me, she was right. I must have needed it because I felt so good when she had finished washing me out. It was really good.
“Do you feel better, Bobby?” she asked as she came into my room. “I’ve cleaned up, and I came in to talk with you before I tell the doctor that everything came out well.”
“Oh, Sis, I feel great! I never thought that an enema could be do good. Don’t let Aunt Emma give them to me any more. I want you to be my own personal nurse. You do it so good.” Francie leaned over and kissed me on the mouth. She said, “Of course, I’ll take care of you. Don’t we all love one another? But you must remember that Aunt Emma loves you too, and she’s very experienced at this sort of thing. Don’t be afraid, though. I’ll speak to her. Come down stairs in a few minutes and we’ll have some lunch.”
This has been an extraordinary morning for me. I remember it now, years later, as if it had happened yesterday. this was the first enema that Fran gave me. She was learning, and so was I. As time went by, we learned much more. She was my personal private nurse. We all began to play grown-up roles of doctor-nurse-patient - Francie, Barbara, me and the twins, and even Aunt Emma.
When Aunt Emma saw the contents of Fran’s textbook, “Special Techniques and Practical Exercises: A Series Two Nursing Handbook,” she suddenly took a new and excited interest in the coffee talk of my sister, Fran, and her two classmates. The student nurses had come in from the hospital a bit earlier and were planning their outside assignments for the rest of the month. They were having coffee and cake in the kitchen.
Betsy was somewhat taller and heavier than Fran. Her rich red hair was neatly gathered into an attractive ponytail and complemented the “little girl” freckles that graced her face. She had grown up with Fran and was one of her best friends. They had played doctor-and-nurse games with me long before they applied for nursing school. She knew me very well, particularly in my “professional” role of practice patient for Fran and Aunt Emma.
Pat had met Fran and Betsy when they began training. She was a tall, slim brunette, full of energy and always smiling with her full, luscious lips. She carried herself sensuously, but elegantly. Her white nurse’s pant-quit seemed tailored to accentuate her stately figure. If her personality, or her eyeglasses, had been different, she might have been called prim and proper. However, she was chic and modish and anything but proper. Her closeness to Fran and Betsy, I was to discover, arose from a common enthusiasm for enemas, giving and receiving these colonic catharses with careful but creative imagination.
Aunt Emma, of course, was an old hand at these procedures. We called her our “Enema Expert” because she gave us enemas and similar anal treatments with great regularity. Fran had often helped her with these activities. I was usually the “enemee,” although she sometimes pumped the cleansing draughts into Barbara and the twins.
Being the only boy in the family, I frequently had to take enemas for punishment or discipline in the full view of my sisters who were assembled for the occasion. I think Aunt Emma sometimes gave me these anal instillations just for her personal entertainment when she got bored with her nursing job or didn’t have any outside clients for her favorite treatments. Occasionally Aunt Emma would discipline the girls by enema but I usually wasn’t invited.
That afternoon, Aunt Emma was relaxing at home when Fran, Pat and Betsy came in. She just had her slip on with a light robe over it. You could see her bra and panty girdle through the flimsy material.
Fran was asking the girls which topics in their textbook they should take up next. Aunt Emma’s eyes scanned the table of contents. Topic 9 (Large Volume Enemas for Elimination) and Topic 14 (Nutrient Enemas) were favorites in her repertoire of special treatments. She was intrigued by others as well: Topic 27 (Enemas for Customs and Security Searches), Topic 28 (Enema Techniques for Uncooperative or Resistant Subjects), and Topic 33 (Enemas for Punishment and Discipline).
Her head began to swim as she realized she was reading a complete textbook on her personal specialty. It was an extensive enema manual with excellent diagrams and illustrations. It had listings of suppliers for special equipment and materials. There was even a long introductory section giving the history and psychology of enemas and a bibliography. One section, “The Psychiatric Implications of Enema Addiction,” pricked her curiosity. Topic 22 was entitled “Patient Preparation for Proctoscopic Examination,” and Topic 23 covered “Colonic Irrigations.”
In all there were more than 35 enema topics. All were practical exercises for nurses and student nurses created by an author whose dedication read: “For the instructor, to teach thoroughly; for the student, to acquire actual experience; for the beginner, to become proficient by practice; for the expert, to polish acquired skills to perfection.” The manual had been beautifully printed in London. It excited Aunt Emma not only by its stimulating contents, but also by its elegant appearance and lavish illustrations.
I came in from school that afternoon as the girls were discussing whether to do Topic 9 (Large Volume Enemas) or Topic 11 (Carminative Enemas). My big sister saw me and said, “Come in here, Bobby. I want you to meet Pat.” As Pat and I shook hands, I saw excitement gleaming in her eyes. I looked over at Betsy and Aunt Emma to say “hello,” and saw the same sparkle. I knew something was up.
“What’s the secret?” I asked naively.
“Can’t say yet. It’s a surprise, but we’ll tell you soon,” said Betsy. She looked like the cat that ate the canary.
Aunt Emma added, “Get out of your coat, and give us a few minutes. Then come back and there’ll be something very pleasant for you.”
I went to my room and plopped on the bed wondering what was up. I thought about how pretty they all were, especially Betsy with her big breasts bulging under her tight white nurse’s uniform. She had wonderful hands, too. I remembered one time that she and Fran gave me a bath in bed. Her gentle massage aroused my little boy’s penis to stiff attention.
Just thinking about Betsy got me going. I began to get a strong hard-on. The bulge became clearly visible in the tight crotch of my trousers as Aunt Emma appeared in the doorway.
“Well!” she said with a slight smile on her face. “You had better hold back on that for a while, Bobby. The girls will be coming in to see you in a few moments. They want your help with some hospital homework. Take off all your clothes and hang them up. I have a hospital gown that I want you to wear.”
My face blushed bright red while Aunt Emma regarded my erection and ordered me to strip. She waited as I rose to drop my trousers and remove my shirt. Then she said, firmly and slowly: “Take everything off. Step out of your underpants. NOW!”
Down dropped my pants. Down dropped my penis. Her glance was imperious and overwhelming. Off came my T shirt. I stood naked before my aunt, helpless and dependent. “Put this gown on,” she said, tossing me a clean, green hospital gown with tie-strings on its edges.
“I don’t want to wear that thing. It makes me feel like a girl. It has no bottom. It’s a dress. Even to call it a gown is to give it a girl’s name.”
“Don’t talk back to me, young man!” snapped Aunt Emma. “You’ll do what I tell you. Just for that bit of nonsense, I’ll show you what it is to dress like a girl. Wait right here for me.” She turned abruptly and stepped briskly out of the room. Her light robe fluttered in her wake, and showed the almost transparent slip she wore underneath.
I was very sorry I had complained. Totally stripped of clothing, I waited in the center of my room, ruefully fearful of her return and what she would bring. She was back very quickly, and held something that I recognized from previous use. She had gotten a beige petticoat from Barbara’s drawer. It had lace trim and the suggestion of a slit on the side. It was a mini. It would only come to the bottom of my buttocks.
“Put this petticoat on, you silly boy. This will teach you how a girl feels with her bottom exposed. The next time I tell you to wear a hospital gown, you’ll obey me without complaint or murmuring.”
As I stepped into the pretty petticoat and pulled it up to my waist, I blushed all over. A watery film fogged my eyes, but I was afraid to cry. Aunt Emma might take me on her lap and spank me. She didn’t like little boys who cried. I knew that through experience.
The cool smoothness of Barbara’s nylon underthing was very pleasant to feel, but I was too embarrassed to appreciate it at the moment. The silky touch of her petticoat on my backside emphasized the open defenselessness of my bottom entrance. I shivered in excitement.
Just then, I heard Fran talking to Pat and Betsy. They were coming upstairs. “Let’s put him into the dorsal lithotomy position. We can prop up his bottom with pillows and we’ll be able to see any penis activity easily.”
“No, the manual specifies the Sim’s Lateral Position for this type of enema,” Pat put in.
“Knee-chest is my favorite,” Betsy replied. “That way his asshole will be nice and high. It’s probably the most embarrassing position for a male anyway, being bare-assed in the air, balls hanging loose. Also, it would be more like the bathroom enemas we used to give him for your Aunt Emma.”
I knew now what the surprise was to be. I was going to be washed out by these three would-be women-in-white. Aunt Emma read my mind. She crisply ordered, “Get back onto your bed and roll over - stomach down.”
The girls came through the door carrying a tray draped with a white napkin. Fran’s eyes lit up.
“What’s this?” she said, coming over to my bedside. “Do I have a new sister?”
“You do for this afternoon,” Aunt Emma explained. “A hospital gown was too feminine for Bobby, so he’s going to learn what lace is like. For this homework session he is to wear Barbara’s beige petticoat, and he’d better not complain again, unless he wants a real lesson in lace.”
“How pretty you look, Roberta,” Pat chided me. “That’s a very becoming shade of beige. And the nylon is so smooth,” she added, running her hand over my backside. “You have a lovely derriere.”
They all laughed, but I just turned lobster red.
“Look at how she blushes,” Betsy remarked. “She seems a very sensitive young thing, doesn’t she?”
Fran ran her fingers through my hair and asked, “Bobby, we’d like your help with our homework assignment. We need a teenage boy to be our practice student. You’ll enjoy it, we’ll see to that. And, we all promise to do you a return favor.”
“What do I have to do?” I asked, suspecting what was coming.
“Nothing,” answered Betsy. “Just relax. We’ll do everything. “
Pat interrupted, “We’re going to take some Polaroid snaps to show to our nursing supervisor, but we won’t let anyone else see them.”
“In fact,” added Fran, “we won’t let your face appear in the photos. Just us and your treatment.”
“What she means is, just your rear end,” Betsy chuckled.
“All right, young man (or should I say little lady), get your behind up in the air for the girls. First, you’re going to get a quick rinse with a disposable unit to make your big enema less messy. Clearing any blockage will allow the enema to have greater effect with fewer flushings.” Aunt Emma always seemed to take charge when she was around. She could be very domineering when the mood took her. I was glad this wasn’t going to be one of her strenuous discipline enemas.
“Kneel on the end of the bed, please,” said Betsy, putting her hand on my shoulder. “Now, bend over and rest your face on this pillow.” I felt her lift the bottom of Barbara’s petticoat from my bare behind. She pulled it all the way up to my shoulders, leaving my bottom completely exposed to their view and touch. My little penis hung limply between my legs and I hoped the girls wouldn’t notice.
Aunt Emma as usual was one step ahead of me. “Bobby just had an erection, ladies. Do keep an eye on her and she may rise to this occasion also.” My cheeks reddened and even my rear end was embarrassed.
Pat held the tray as she sat by my bottom while Betsy prepared to insert the nozzle of the four oz. flusher into my rose-hole. All of a sudden, there was a bright flash and Fran said, “Got it. That should be good as an opener. Let me get a close up shot of the tray, too.”
“Open wide,” Betsy directed. “I am now inserting the tube into your bottom.” Click. FLASH. A cool blast of enema fluid sprayed my rectum. Two squeezings and the clear plastic bottle was emptied into me. Betsy held it there for a moment before withdrawing the thin hose that had blown cold inside me. I felt tingling movement in my lower bowels.
“Keep your buttocks in the air, Bobby. Squeeze your muscles until I say you may relieve yourself,” ordered my aunt.
“Hold still while I take a tight shot of your anus, Bobby.” Fran brought the camera close to my hole and focused. Click. FLASH. My rose-hole in living color.
She was going to take another snapshot, but Aunt Emma said, “A flush in time saves mush! You’d better let him void it now, Betsy, before he dirties the bed and your hand:” She must have sensed my predicament, or perhaps she remembered the time I let loose an enema she was pumping into me, spraying it all over her slip and the kitchen floor.
Betsy brought me to the bathroom, lifted the nylon petticoat and seated me over the bowl. Whoosh! Whoosh! It was out, and I was much relieved, but she called out to the others, “Come and see what he was hiding.” Startled, I looked into the bowl. What I had been hiding was in plain view of my nurses but I didn’t realize it until I looked between my legs. It wasn’t the enema that Betsy pointed out, but my penis. The little fellow had risen in mock salute to the medical observers gathered around me with approving smiles.
“What an unusual young lady!” They all tittered and I began to wilt in embarrassment.
“You can see for yourselves, girls, that I wasn’t fooling when I described Bobby’s enjoyment in helping me with my homework.” Fran covered my stiff pole with a blue washcloth, wet with warm water. As they stared and smiled, my blue veil sagged and slipped to the bathroom floor. My blushing flag had been furled.
“Please wipe your patient’s bottom with that cloth, Pat.” Aunt Emma was moving us along. “Bobby, bend over for Pat and hold up your petticoat. Now, which of you will actually administer the enema to Bobby? I have a black rubber apron you can use to protect your white uniform from splashes or stains. You should each wear surgical gloves too. It’s more professional.”
Betsy put the rubber apron over her white dress and tied a bow behind her back. She looked scrumptious above and below her bow. Pat and she both donned rubber gloves. Fran would begin as photographer.
Fran and Betsy went into Aunt Emma’s bedroom to prepare a big bag for the exercise. It was to be Topic 9 (Large Volume Enemas for Elimination). Pat was wiping me, and Aunt Emma was busy fixing the other tray.
“When you’ve wiped him enough, Pat, bring him into my boudoir and position him for the enema - knee-chest, on the rubber sheet on my bed. Tell Fran we’ll use the large, white enameled can as a reservoir for this enema. She can set it on the bureau next to my bed and run the rubber hose from it to Bobby’s bottom. That will free her from holding the bag so she can take the Polaroids. By the way, ask her if she wants pictures of Bobby’s hard-on and of the enema emerging from his anus.”
Pat smoothed the pretty petticoat on my rear and ran her gentle hands over the beige nylon veil covering my retracted penis and screening my sphincter from sight. “Okay. Go into your aunt’s bedroom now.” She walked in with me and said, “Kneel on the rubber sheet at the end of her bed and put your head down. I want to see your buttocks sticking way up in the air to make it easy for us to get to your anus.” I followed her soft instructions, shivering slightly at the sexy sound of her words, and climbed onto my aunt’s big bed. Pat put two pillows under the rubber sheet and I bent down over them. My ass was up again, but for the moment she let my sister’s petticoat drape my half-exposed rear. The smooth, cool feel of the rubber sheet sent tingles through my skin.
Fran and Betsy were fixing things. An unused blue enema bag lay at the head of the bed and held my glance. It was very big, possibly capable of expanding to four full quarts of enema fluids.
Across the room, I could hear the clicking of metal and plastic implements. I heard Betsy tear open a sealed packet of enema soap concentrate, and squeeze it into the white can. I heard her stir it briskly into solution with a tablespoon. I heard Aunt Emma unscrewing the top from a jar of lubricant, (they were going to use some special hospital confection which had a minty fragrance). I listened to Fran laying out the nozzles and insertion tubes from which they would select a suitable instrument to open my rear and connect with my plumbing.
“If you use a colon tube for Bobby’s enema, its repeated withdrawal and insertion will slow the second and third infusions. A short nozzle would be better.”
“But we need the practice of threading the tube through a patient for that high effect to work.”
“If it’s very thick, we may not be able to get it far into him. He may respond too quickly.”
“Yes, but a thick nozzle produces that same desired result: a demanding urge to expel the enema fluid.”
“Are you going to plug his hole for a while, so that he has to retain the enema?”
“Let’s settle on the nozzle or tube, first. How about a inflatable nozzle, with the balloon?”
“No. Save the inflatable nozzle for another time. Could we use this green plastic pipe? I can take the Miller cuff off it.”
“Perhaps we should use several, a different one each time. What does your Aunt think, Fran?”
Aunt Emma had listened quietly, observing the girls as they prepared to flush me clean. She sat by the vanity where the enema tools were displayed on a new yellow towel. She was obviously pleased when Betsy brought her back into the preparations by asking for her opinion.
“It seems to me,” she replied, “you would best start slowly. Work your patient gradually up to the last, fast flush. Use a long thin colon tube to begin with, perhaps a number 20. Work it in gently, and let the warm flow be slow. Have the patient retain as much as she can hold for a few minutes. For the second filling, I would suggest a thicker rectal tube, maybe a number 28 if you can get it in. Make the flow slightly faster. The fluid will be cooler coming from the reservoir, and therefore more stimulating. Then, for the third enema, that thick green nozzle will be perfect. The remaining soap solution will have cooled to room temperature and will greatly excite contractions in your patient’s bowels. The faster you pour it into the patient, the sooner she will need to expel the deluge. The sudden pressure of the fast inflow will demand an immediate and powerful response. The enema should come back almost clear after the third washing. If it doesn’t, a fourth filling will certainly clear her completely. After all the soap solution has been taken, two more washings, both with plain water, will remove any soapy residue that might remain.”
“Oh, Aunt Emma, we all think that’s a wonderful program.” Betsy was delighted. The repeated insertion and withdrawal of various nozzles and tubes set off fireworks in her imagination. She was more than eager to begin.
I wasn’t so anxious to start being their damned patient, but I was afraid that Aunt Emma would discipline me if I complained any more. I waited silently and soon Pat came over to lubricate my rear entrance. Dipping her gloved right index finger into the hospital’s jar, she put a big blob of creamy jelly on a pad of pink toilet tissue. Then she touched her fingertip to my rose-hole with minty “goosing-grease.” I tingled and quivered as she gently rubbed the rim of my anal opening with the slippery cream. I shuddered as her finger plunged into me and explored the little go-hole of my bottom. I saw her pick up a plastic applicator filled with the anaesthetic ointment. I felt her pushing it into my anus a short way. By pressing the plunger, she forced that ointment out into me. Advancing slowly and squeezing ointment, Pat coated my anal canal with the lubricant and pumped the last little bit into my rectum.
“In a couple of moments, that ointment will take effect,” she told me. Well, I wasn’t going anywhere. As a matter of fact, the pillows Pat had arranged for me were quite comfortable and the cool rubber sheet I lay on was pleasantly refreshing in Aunt Emma’s warm boudoir.
Betsy and Fran were bringing the enema equipment to the bedside. Fran carried the heavy enamel irrigator and Betsy held the coiled hose and colon tube. Everything was ready.
Betsy’s gloved first finger shot into my rear! “Is he ready for the insertion?” she asked Pat.
My startled reaction showed I had not lost my feeling, Betsy was pleased. “Okay Pat, put a large dab of K-Y on the tip of his colon tube and coat it liberally as I slide it into him.” Her finger held open my anal passage. “Bobby, I want you to relax and breathe deeply.” With her free hand, she brought the tip of the tube to my hole.
Fran was snapping photos: Click. FLASH! K-Y onto the tube. FLASH!
The probe entered. FLASH. More K-Y. Deeper penetration. Betsy’s finger guided the tube through my anal canal. FLASH! A red, rubber tube breached my defenses. Betsy’s finger tip touched my rectal spaces! FLASH! Slowly she pulled her directive digit from me. FLASH! It came free. Only the tube was in me now. FLASH! Slowly she inched it in. Pat coated it with globs of glistening lubricant as Betsy slowly pressured it to slide more deeply into my bowels. Click, FLASH!
“Start a brief flow to test its potency.” Aunt Emma’s authoritative voice continued, “Sometimes a colon tube will fold closed or curl back on itself. When that happens the fluid is stopped. You must pull back slightly for the blockage to clear.”
Warmth oozed into me. I could only murmur, “Ouuu . . weee, I can feel it now.” They stopped the flow and I felt the tube advance into me. More fluid was flowing now. Betsy was pushing on. “I’ve got over 12 inches into our patient. I’m going to start the regular flow now.”
“I can feel it! I can really feel it! It’s warm. I feel funny. I’m getting full.” Click. FLASH.
“Slow the flow,” Pat said.
“Don’t give him any more till I get new film and flashbulbs.” Fran left the bedroom in a rush.
“Up on your knees, Bobby!” Aunt Emma had noticed that I was resting on the pillows. “We don’t want any unnecessary pressure on your bowels. Let your stomach droop freely under you as you are being filled.”
I was filling up fast. I began to feel very, very full. I was getting a cramp “Please stop. I can’t take any more enema,” I said to anyone listening.
Pat replied, “Just take a little more, Bobby. You need it for a thorough cleansing.” The flow was slow but I was aware that the pressure was constantly increasing. I seemed ready to burst, but then there was a new sensation. Betsy was tugging on the long colon tube. I could sense it slipping through my taut sphincter. I strained to retain the fluid that wanted to pour out with the withdrawing tube.
“Just a little bit more,” Betsy said. “Try to hold tight.” The tip of the tube made its anal passage. The slight irritation was exquisite. I shivered and trembled. She pulled it from me with a final tug. FLASH! Fran had returned with film.
I was ready to spray everyone with enema, but Aunt Emma’s firm hand pressed a large pad tightly against my bottom. Betsy and Pat laughed, “That’s a great idea.” One of my aunt’s sanitary napkins held the enema within me, covering my hole and preventing a gusher.
“Hold this napkin tight against his bottom. It will force him to retain the soap suds! FLASH! FLASH! Two photos of me and my Kotex. “Now you know a little more about being a girl,” my aunt said to me.
“Shall we plug her now?” Betsy returned from the tray on the vanity carrying something wrapped in white cellophane.
“Now’s the right time, but can you get it in without Bobby’s letting loose?”
“I think so.” Betsy was tearing the paper wrapper off. “This doesn’t need a tube for insertion. I can ram it in quickly.” The white cellophane revealed a two-inch-long cotton lollipop with a loop of string hanging from the stick end.
“What’s that?” I asked in surprise.
“That, young man,” Aunt Emma said, “is what girls use all the time. It’s called a tampon and it will absorb any enema you try to expel before your time’s up. You’re learning a lot today.”
Pat applied some K-Y jelly to the long cotton lollipop, and Betsy held it to my rear. FLASH! In it went. FLASH! The tampon only blocked my anal canal. Betsy didn’t push it into my rectum. This way, as it absorbs fluid, it expands to clog the opening. Pat put the Kotex on my hole again. What a fantastic experience! I was going crazy with the sensations.
I heard Fran stirring the enema fluids in the enamel reservoir. She said, “It’s still warm; there’s plenty left. I’ll take the colon tube off and connect the rectal hose. What size are we using?”
“Try a number 28. That shouldn’t be too thick, now that he’s been loosened and lubricated.”
Betsy was rubbing my buttocks. I loved her touch. Pat said, “Two more minutes and we’ll take you to the toilet. “
Finally, we got up. Pat’s hand pressed the Kotex pad to my bottom and we walked together to the bathroom. I was placed over the bowl, facing the wall. FLASH! The women-in-white wanted only to see my rear end. Pat removed the thick napkin and left it on the sink. I was going to gush.
Betsy tugged on the string and my plug popped out. FLASH! Brown water splashed into the bowl. Solid chunks teased my ass as they were flushed out. Some mush ran down my leg. FLASH! I was being drained. I stopped. I started again. More mush rushed out. The aroma of effective enema filled the room.
“This enema is certainly working well,” Pat observed. “Let it all come out, dear,” she said to me.
“Whoosh!” Again the fluid poured out. I was eased inside to rest while Betsy wiped my asshole. Then she said, “Okay, let’s go back to the bedroom.”
By the time I resumed my “knee-chest” position, Pat had donned the black apron and Betsy had taken her place at my bottom with the lubricant. I felt a thicker tube worming its way into me. FLASH! Betsy’s fingers touched my hole as she anointed the entering instrument. No flow yet, just suspense. Pat was pushing the rectal tube up my ass.
“Here goes,” she said. Enema surged into me.
“Ahhh…” It’s different this time. The tube crept further up and the solution rapidly stretched my bowels toward their capacity. “Oh, Pat . . . please…” I was feeling its intensity now. She paused. More fluid. I got a cramp and cried out. Another brief pause, then lukewarm enema resumed flowing into me. Pat was intent on pumping me as full as possible. More and more enema entered my bowels. “Please, Pat! I can’t take any more!” She closed the clamp.
“Be still, Bobby. Betsy will rub your bottom.” I felt Betsy’s rubber gloves on my buttocks. She touched my rear crease and her fingers caressed my cheeks. One hand came under me to knead my stomach. The expulsive urge ceased and the cramping eased.
“Pat, you can begin to pull your rectal tubing out now. Do it slowly, though, or you’ll have an enema erupt all over you. “
I felt the tube exiting. She was twisting it out. The sensation in my ass was exquisite. I could feel the tip smoothly emerging through my anus. FLASH! It was free.
“Okay, Betsy.” Aunt Emma handed a tampon to Betsy to shove into me. She pushed it in too vigorously and I felt it expanding in my rectum. “Put another one into him, Betsy. He has to go downstairs holding this load and he’ll need a tight plug to keep him stoppered.” Aunt Emma peeled the crinkly white wrapper from another tampon and handed it to her. My rose-hole was being packed with cotton lollipops. FLASH! Betsy took out the second stick.
“Put these rubber bloomers on, Bobby. I don’t want any enema stains on your sister’s petticoat. “ Aunt Emma passed me a pair of latex piss-pants and I gingerly stepped off the bed into them. Betsy held up the beige petticoat I was wearing while Pat pulled the bloomers up and arranged them around my waist. “Come with me, and don’t you dare spill a drop of your enema.” Aunt Emma led the way from her bedroom to the kitchen.
Fran was waiting for me as I entered. She held a banana in her hand. “Open wide,” she said. She shoved it in, completely filling my mouth with more than half the long fruit. “Swallow it!” I did and she gave me a cup of lemon soda to drink. It washed down the banana, but she had the second half ready at my lips. I was being filled front and back, my bottom and my top. “Open . . . swallow . . . drink this . . . open . . . swallow…” and so on, until I was stuffed with two-and-one-half long bananas and several cups of soda. Then I saw the label on the soda bottle: “Citrate of Magnesia,” and I realized what was going on.
“Now we will permit you to expel your enema.” I had almost begun to forget my bottom fullness, but the urge surged most powerfully to push against the plugs wedged in my behind. We rushed up to the bathroom. Betsy lifted my petticoat and pulled down the rubber bloomers. I stepped out of them and straddled the toilet, again with my face to the wall, and my rear exposed to their ministrations. I felt Fran tugging on the strings hanging from my hole. My dam plugs were being pulled. “Plop!” The first soggy tampon fell into the toilet bowl. More pulling, as she eased the expanded cotton wadding from my rectum and through the channel. She held the string as the second tampon swung free. FLASH! Having displayed the soft wet trophy, she let it fall into the water. Splash!
As the explosive pressure rose within me, Pat put a glass bowl under my opening. Out it came. My enema cascaded into the crystal container she held. It started to overflow the sides. “Can you hold back the flow for a minute,” she asked me, “while I put this bowl into the sink?” I did and she dumped the thin yellowish liquid. “The next time, he’ll run clear,” she announced to the others.
It was Fran’s turn to do me next. She donned the rubber apron as I resumed my knee-chest posture on Aunt Emma’s enema couch. Pat was to take the remaining photos. I saw a large green nozzle in Betsy’s hand. She was attaching it to the latex tubing. “That’s too big for me,” I pleaded.
Aunt Emma answered, “Of course it’s not. I’ve already used that nozzle on Barbara. You can easily accommodate it.”
“You don’t think we’d hurt you, Bobby, do you?”
“Your feces are bigger than the nozzle.”
“What are feces?”
“Your turds, when you go to the bathroom.
“Oh. Are you sure they’re bigger?”
“Yes. Now be quiet so we can get going.”
Betsy’s finger was into me with the lubricant. She massaged my asshole vigorously. FLASH! I loved her fingers. Fran came over. The tapered green tip touched my puckered hole. She pushed and twisted. FLASH! The first inch entered. I could feel the widening ridges. Another inch. The bulge passed through. It was in my rectum. FLASH! I had over three inches of thick green pipe connecting my plumbing from the outside. I heard Betsy say, “Are you ready?”
“Lift up the irrigating can now!” Fran ordered. I saw Betsy pick it up from the top of the bureau and lift it over her head. My opening had been dilated fully by this thick pipe sticking from my behind. I awaited a gusher.
“Okay,” signaled Fran. “I am releasing the valve.”
The cold soapy enema coursed through the wide pipe into me. Its surprising suddenness stimulated me. I tried to stand, but Fran’s palm on my back confined me to my ass-up posture. It felt as though I was being filled by a firehouse. I felt gallons rushing into my emptied coils. My valley was being washed by a broken dam.
“Oh . . . oh . . . ouuwee…” I stammered. Words wouldn’t come. I had never felt like this before. Suddenly, I heard the gurgle of a drained basin. The can was empty. I had taken it all. Totally filled. The waters wanted out. I was going to wash away the bureau unless they stoppered me right then.
Aunt Emma took charge: “Leave the nozzle in him. Tighten the clamps and disconnect the hose from the can. Now, help him up. Gently.” She re-applied the Kotex to my hole. “Now walk him into the bathroom, and use very short steps. Betsy, you take the free end of the tubing.”
This time, Aunt Emma had me stand on a stool placed beside the toilet. Betsy placed the end of the tubing in the sink and slowly released the clamp. My juices ran into the stoppered sink. The enema was clear. White soapy water spotted with small flecks of brown and yellow splashed out. The pressure inside eased.
“That’s enough into the sink. Get over the bowl, Bobby.” Once again, I climbed over the bowl of the toilet. I felt Fran’s fingers at my hole. She grasped the “Great, Green Nozzle” and was twisting it from my rear. The feeling was intense as its ridges rode through me. The bulge before the tapered tip passed through my channel and, with a final flow of enema, emerged from my hole. I gushed copiously, like a spring waterfall.
Soon the reservoir was drained and I squatted to rest a little.
Across the bathroom, Pat was filling the tub and laying out clean towels. Perhaps they are going to bathe me, I thought. From the corner of my eye, I noticed my aunt’s favorite red enema bag hanging on the back of the door. Four feet of red tubing and a small black couch nozzle dangled beneath it. On the wicker hamper we used for soiled clothing, I saw her white bulb syringe with its thick feminine probe and a jug of white antacid medicine.
Fran wiped me clean and dropped her rubber gloves into the sink. “Did you put the shampoo attachment onto the faucet?” she asked Pat. An affirmative nod. “All right, Bobby. Stand up. You may take off your sister’s petticoat for the time being. We’re going to give you a soothing bath.”
I slipped out of Barbara’s beige underclothes and stood naked in front of Fran, Aunt Emma, Pat and Betsy. This was a very lonely way to wait.
Get into the tub and sit down,” my aunt said, relieving the tension of nakedness. The warm bath surrounded me as I slid down to cover my entire body. It was very comforting. Betsy and Fran knelt best-de the tub. I wondered, “What now?”
Aunt Emma passed her old red bag to Fran. I could hear the nozzle clicking across the tiled floor. There was no clamp on the tube. “We want to wash out any soap residue that might cause gripping or cramps in your bowels. It won’t take a minute.”
Betsy turned on the water and the shampoo attachment began spraying gently into the tub. She let it hang from the faucet for later. Fran submerged the red bag in the tub and the air gurgled out of it. Betsy guided the douche nozzle through the water into my tight pucker. Without lubrication, its fluting felt rough while she entered me. In one flowing motion, Fran rose, lifting the enema bag over my head. As I watched the red bag rise, warm tub water rushed into me. I was hypnotized. The bulge thinned as the water filled me. Empty! Betsy popped the nozzle out. Fran knelt to submerge and refill the bag as I squirted clear enema back into my bathwater. Out again; in again. Betsy again. She impaled me with the hollow shaft. Fran lifted my red cleansing pump high and I bulged with enema. Nozzle out . . . enema out . . . bathwater out . . . everything was down the drain. Soon the tingly needles of shampoo spray washed my whole body. Pat dried me off and puffed talcum all over my cracks and crevasses. Aunt Emma returned. I had to wait there in the middle of the room, completely nude, as they looked me over.
“Fine, Bobby, fine. Thank your nurses for their expert care. Tomorrow we’ll get those bananas out of you.” Aunt Emma stepped forward and told me to touch my toes. She dabbed my tired hole with Vaseline. “This will smooth your insides,” she said. I felt her big douche nozzle penetrate my behind. She squeezed the white bulb with both hands and forced a thick cream into me. Then she pulled the douche pipe out and put her syringe into the sink. “You may go to your own room now. I want you to take a nap for a while. I have left something for you on the bed. Put it on.”
Pat kissed me on the lips as I started for the door. I was nude and felt very sexy. Betsy kissed me too, and I could taste her sweet lipstick. Fran came to me and kissed me on the mouth. A big juicy smack. She held me close, my nose in her bosom and her-hand on my ass.
She said to me, “Thank you for helping us with our homework. You were a perfect patient. We won’t forget the favors we owe you.”
I could hear their “Thank you’s” all the way to my room. I walked slowly until I heard Barbara’s voice coming upstairs. Then I ran the rest of the way. I didn’t want her to see my bare ass or ask me about “her little dickie.” On my bed, Aunt Emma had laid out a pretty, full-length, beige petticoat and a pair of beige panties. After a moment’s hesitation, I put on the panties and picked up the petticoat. I slid into its silky softness and lay back on the bed. I was delighted but completely washed out. Thinking of my sweet nurses, I drifted into sleep.