I have an erotic fascination with enemas, visits to the Doc., submission, bondage and discipline. I was raised in a house where the enema bag hung on a special hook in the bathroom and was seldom dry. My mother was old-fashioned and held strong beliefs in the benefits of enemas as a home health remedy and an effective form of punishment.
As a little kid, I remember many times watching my mom swirl a bar of Ivory in a big pitcher of water until it was almost white, pour it into the enema bag and then call my dad. He’d come up the stairs and I’d watch, fascinated, as he slowly stripped, He was in his twenties back then and I remember thinking how brave he was - about to get an enema and not making any fuss at all! He was a steel worker and had a powerful build. Once naked, he would kneel on the bed, his chest and head resting on the surface and mom would dip her finger into the Vaseline and work it into his anus. He had big balls that hung low and I loved to watch them pull up and down when mom was greasing him. Finally, mom would begin to insert the colon tube and begin the flow. inserting the tube further and further. The only sounds in the room were dad’s deep breathing, the gurgle of the enema and an occasional grunt dad would make when a cramp set in. When the bag was empty, mom would remove the tube and dad would lay flat on the bed and hold the enema for what seemed like hours, grunting and clenching his buttocks together, his breathing became more labored as each minute passed. Finally mom would say “okay” and he would get off the bed and rush to the bathroom.
When I was little, I hated getting enemas but it didn’t stop me from getting them. When they felt I needed one, my parents came into my room, my mother carrying a large bowl of water with a bar of Ivory floating in it and a bulb-type enema syringe. I remember the instinctive fear I felt as my dad stripped me down and the humiliation I felt when he made me bend over the bed so that my feet were on the floor and my chest was resting on the bed. I remember how I struggled to resist and the feeling of helplessness as my dad held me down firmly while my mother administered the enema. My struggling increased each time she filled the bulb and inserted the tube again. The soap produced cramps and no matter how hard I cried or attempted to get away, my dad’s hands held me firmly in place.
Until I left for college my brother and I received enemas whenever we felt ill, got out of line and occasionally as “preventive” medicine. The humiliation I felt increased as I began to develop crotch hair and a deep voice. I was very modest during puberty and embarrassed to be seen naked - even by my dad. Yet there was a sort of masochistic satisfaction in the humiliation I felt whenever I was made to submit to an enema.
My brother, Jeff, is 5 years older than me and than me and hated getting enemas worse than I did. I remember one Saturday morning when I was about 13. Jeff was in his senior year, captain of the football team and thought he was pretty hot stuff. Mom announced at breakfast that each of us was due “for a good cleaning out” - which meant repeated enemas until they returned clear. Jeff told mom that he had football practice that afternoon and he wasn’t going to spend his Saturday morning sitting on the toilet. The tone of his voice really pissed mom off and she ripped him up one side and down the other - then told him he had earned himself a dose of switch for talking back. Fifteen minutes later Jeff was laying buck naked on his bed with 2 qt. of hot soapy water filling his gut. Before mom was satisfied, Jeff received six enemas. Then she took the willow switch and laid into his butt until it was criss-crossed with angry red welts. Tears were streaming down Jeff’s face and a look of horror came across his face when mom said, “That will teach you to talk back to me. Think about it when you suit up this afternoon and your team mates see your backside and ask what happened!” It was a truly humiliating lesson for Jeff.
When I was in jr. high and high school, I ran around with a guy who was a year older than me. Bruce and I also had a “club,” it consisted of only him and myself, but it served as a useful, “springboard” for us to get into some kinky fun without worrying about one of us thinking the other was “queer” or “weird.” We made up rules to fit the moment. Re-initiations were rather frequent and, as a penalty for some minor infraction, one would have to submit to the other for a dose of the razor strap. For a long time Bruce and I were “equals” and each of us submitted to the other. Then, one summer afternoon, during my sophomore year, that all changed. It was shortly after I had been given an enema and was telling Bruce about it. One thing led to another and I talked Bruce into allowing me to give him an enema. I had him strip down and lay on his stomach across the bed. I filled the enema bag, inserted the nozzle and he took the entire 2 qt..
Everything was fine until he sat on the toilet and suddenly felt like he was going to pass out (I wasn’t until several years later that I learned about electrolytes.) I became frightened and began babbling about how sorry I was and how he could give me as many enemas as he wanted or do whatever he wanted to do to me. He recovered quickly and his eyes told me he was going to get even. As soon as he finished voiding the enema he got dressed and ordered me to strip. I meekly obeyed him. He filled the bag and made me lay across the bed. He inserted the nozzle and I felt the enema pour into me.
When the bag was empty he told me to hold the enema and for several minutes I held it believing that I honestly deserved the punishment I was receiving. Finally, when my grunting became more intense, Bruce gave me permission to use the toilet. While I was sitting there he came into the bathroom and began refilling the bag. The process was repeated twice; Bruce requiring me to hold each enema longer - and after I had voided the last enema, he led me into the basement, made me bend over an oak table and paddled my ass until I was begging for mercy. I never made any attempt to stop him; I had given him my complete submission freely and the punishment seemed to ease my conscience and feed the masochistic side of me. From that day on, we were no longer “equals” when we were alone or playing “club,” it was I who was always due for “re-initiation.” We often went camping together and more often than not Bruce would order me to strip, tie me over a fallen tree and give me repeated enemas using cold water from the creek. Our friendship continued through the end of his senior year and when he left for college we lost contact with each other.
During my freshman year in college the only enemas I received were those my mom gave me when I went home on holidays. I missed them. Then in my sophomore year I met Barbara. She sensed my submissive side, although I believed I’d kept it well hidden. She was a senior and had an apartment off-campus. We began our relationship as friends. We would study at her apartment most evenings. One Sunday afternoon about a month after we’d met, I developed mild stomach cramps. She left the room for a few minutes, then returned. Her dominant side surfaced and she said, “I know just what you need. Go into the bedroom and strip down, your going to get an enema.” I just sat their for several seconds, stunned. “No, I don’t think so,” I replied, trying to recover and be assertive - but at that moment I remembered my mother speaking similar words and I felt all those same emotions. Barbara’s voice took on that hard edge and she said, “Don’t you dare argue with me. I told you what to do and you will do it now!” I could feel my face turn red and I stood up and followed her into the bedroom. There was a satisfied smile on her face and we both knew at that moment she had won.
She had laid several towels on the bed and a filled enema bag hung from a hook next to the bed. “Strip,” she ordered and I could feel my humiliation build with every article of clothing I removed, but I felt powerless to resist her. I finally stood there, feeling more naked than I’d ever felt before. “Kneel on the towels,” she ordered and I assumed the position. I felt her finger apply lubrication to my anus and felt my face flush when she inserted it. It was replaced by the tube and I waited for the click of the clamp and the sensation of the enema flooding my guts. It was a short wait and the hot soapy enema quickly produced the cramps I remembered from home. It seemed like the water flowed forever before she withdrew the tube and said, “Now, lay on your stomach and hold the enema until I tell you it is okay to use the bathroom.” Again, I followed her instructions and struggled to hold the churning liquid.
The minutes passed and I began to groan and grunt. Finally Barbara gave me permission to go to the bathroom and I rushed to void the enema. My humiliation was complete when she stood and watched me void. She gave me a second enema and that afternoon an unspoken change in our relationship took place. In the weeks that followed she became increasingly dominant and I became increasingly submissive to her. At least once a week I received a strong soapy enema followed by a clear water enema.
We were married that summer; that was 21 years ago. Barbara still rules with an iron hand and I wouldn’t have it any other way. David, our 17 year old, has never learned to like enemas in spite of the fact that he had received more than his share of them. Christopher, our 19 year old, appears to have taken after his father. He attends college but willingly submits to Barbara for “a good cleaning out” every month or so when he comes home to visit.
He brought his girlfriend, Sandy, home for the Thanksgiving Weekend. I found it fascinating that Saturday morning. All of us were sitting around the breakfast table and Barbara told Chris that he was past due for his enema and that she would give him one after breakfast. His face turned red but he didn’t argue with his mother. When the two of them got up and left the room, Sandy seemed curious but was too shy to mention the subject. I was proud of Chris and have wondered if Sandy quizzed Chris when they were alone….