Kaylani: Part I

by D

I walked into my office carrying my laptop in its case. Sitting behind her desk was Jacquie. I was fond of Jacquie and seeing her always brightened my day. Middle age was treating her kindly, and today she was wearing a white lace blouse that set off her dark brown skin. At her throat she wore a gold crucifix.

She was devout. I knew Jacquie was in the choir at the Buffalo AME church – she was a soloist, in fact. She could belt out blues or gospel with the best of them. She was a widow, too. I remember when her husband died. She sang the eulogy and there wasn’t a dry eye in the place. I mist up myself each time I recall it.

On her desk were three mail trays – the first marked “Giveth” and the second marked “Taketh Away.” She reached into the third, marked “Purgatory” and handed me a stack of papers.

“Thanks … I think.” I proceeded through a door marked “Private”, plopped down the stack and zipped open my laptop case. Jacquie came into my office carrying a cup of coffee and thus began our daily ritual:

“Jacquie, that’s not in your job description.”

“No, it ain’t.”

“I’m perfectly capable of fetching my own coffee.”

“I know you are.” She set it down.

“Thank you Jacquie. Anything catch fire overnight?”

“Not to my knowledge. Will you need anything else?”

“I don’t think so. Let me check my calendar.”

“You know where to find me.” She turned and headed toward her desk.

I powered up my laptop and jacked it into the network. I had my own ritual – before doing any real work I liked to scan a few of the blogs. One in particular – one from New York City dealing with New York politics and culture – was my favorite. I love New York and I love the City. Even though I’ve lived all over the planet as an army brat, I consider myself a New Yorker. When I started my own business, I picked Tonawanda. It’s not very close to the City, but it’s in the same state and it feels like I’ve come home.

This blog was the sort that straddled the border between legitimate journalism and the ravers and yelpers. The page was loaded with advertising, of which I had become so desensitized I summarily ignored it. Today, though, my eye wandered to the lower right hand corner of the screen.

There was a photograph of a woman. “Personals” the caption read. The girl’s moniker was FalNAngel.

I knew her. I was sure of it. I hadn’t seen her for how many years? Ten? A dozen? More like fifteen. Her name was Kaylani. I was living in Honolulu at the time – where my dad was stationed. I was fifteen and she was fourteen.

She was Polynesian … or, maybe something else. Whatever she was, she was exotic. Her skin was the color of coffee-with-cream, and she had almond-shaped eyes of mahogany. Her raven hair was straight and reached the middle of her back. She was beautiful. She had the same birthmark that I could glimpse in the photograph, and it confirmed her identity beyond doubt. It was on her forehead right between her eyes and made her look like she was wearing a Hindu bhindi. I thought it made her look even more beautiful.

And, she was rich. Her house in Honolulu was behind a wall with a security gate. I was only inside it once – on the last day I saw her.

Kaylani was my first love and my first kiss. She wasn’t my first sex partner, however. That had to wait a few years. I smiled when I looked at the moniker she used: FalNAngel. Her mother used to call her Angel, and it fit her. I thought she had fallen from Heaven right into my lap.

I did something I never thought I’d find myself doing – I clicked on her picture and up came a box marked Send a Note. “Dear Kay – Hi. Remember Honolulu?” I wrote, gave my name and email and sent it. I wasn’t sure she’d want to answer me, after what had happened all those years ago; but I sent the message anyway. I laced my fingers behind my neck, leaned back and recalled our last encounter. It was burned into my hypothalmus and I remember it as if it were yesterday.

It was a Saturday. My dad had duties so he was on the base. My mom had left us years before, tired of the unsettled military lifestyle. It was late morning and Kaylani and I had a date to meet at a local music shop in a small shopping center where teens would hang out.

Her parents didn’t approve of me. They thought no one was good enough for their Angel. It was why Kaylani had to sneak out of the house on some pretext for us to have some time together. On that day, her father was away on business and her mother was running errands and not expected home until dinnertime.

I made it to the mall and spotted her, loitering by an entrance. She was wearing a green sundress that laced up the back, its hem cutting across her thighs about three inches above her knees.

Kaylani had dynamite legs, but she never showed them off much. The problem was her mother. Kay was firmly tied to her mom’s apron-strings, and there was very little slack. Once she got in trouble at school for rolling the waistband of her skirt, to shorten it up a bit. For her, it was no short-shorts, no miniskirts, no cut-offs, no bare midriff, no tanks and no halters. Her sundress exposed as much of her brown skin as she was permitted.

“Been here long?” I asked her.

“Not long.”

“Sorry I’m late.”

We walked, hand-in-hand and talked the nothing nonsense that teens talk. We both had one thing on our minds: Where could we go for some uninterrupted necking? Kaylani’s mom had put the fear of God and Satan, too into her about the evils of making out. I never got past first base with her. Sure, she loved kissing and touching. But, breasts were off-limits. If my hand wandered too close to the no-touch-zone she would gently but firmly guide it elsewhere. Legs below the knees were okay, but above was verboten.

Lying together, fully clothed, hugging and kissing and stroking were the extent of it. She was so beautiful, though. Most times I went home with my shorts starched to the gills and needing a little solitary vice to relieve the tension.

Together we flipped through the racks of CDs, each of us pretending we had nothing better to do. Finding nothing interesting (and, having no money to buy one if I did) we wandered onto the street.

“What do you wanna do?” I asked.

“I dunno. What do you wanna do?”

“I dunno…”

“My mom thinks I’m at the library, studying,” she said. “Finals week is coming up.”

“Maybe we should go to the library. That way if she asks who’s there you can say who’s there.”

“Yeah… Okay…”

We wandered to the library and pulled a couple of reference books from the stack. I pointed toward a study carrel in the corner.

We opened the books on the table and pulled our chairs next to each other. She flipped her leg over my knee. I caressed her smooth, brown shin with my left hand and slipped my right under her hair so I could explore her shoulder blades and spine through the open lacing of her sundress. She gazed at me out of the corner of her eye and gave me a sly smile.

A librarian came by. “Hey, you two – that’s not what the carrel is used for. If you’re going to study, use the long tables.” She pointed toward an open area.

“I think we studied enough,” I said.


“Now whattya wanna do?”

“Your dad’s on duty today, right?” she asked.


“Go to your place?.”

I hated my place. It was a cramped apartment just off base – a run down dump. “Nah,” I replied. “How about your place?”

She smiled. “My mom’s gonna be gone all day. Come on…”

We hiked along the palm-lined streets. I spotted a burger joint. “Hungry?” I asked.

Kaylani smiled, nodded and we went inside. I counted out my meager change and realized I had enough for a burger and fries … for her. For me it was just a large soda.

We finished lunch and resumed our hand-in-hand stroll until we reached the gated manse. She went to a side gate, punched in a security code and the gate popped open. I followed her past some formal gardens with a fountain in the middle.

She opened the front door, disarming a security system on her way in. I looked at the polished marble foyer. “Wow, Kay,” I exclaimed.

“I’ll show you my room,” she said and led me up a swooping staircase. She opened a door and nodded inside.

“Gosh, Kay,” I exclaimed. “Your room is bigger than our apartment.”

“Yeah,” she replied. “Trouble is – it starts feeling normal after a while.”

The place looked like a princess’s chamber. She had a huge canopy bed, brocaded curtains, white Louis-XV style furniture.

She bounced on the bed. I lay beside her and we began necking, with me playing the game to see how close to her breast or how high up her thigh she’d let my hand wander.

My lunch had arrived in my bladder. “Kay,” I said, “I gotta whiz.”

She climbed off the bed and pointed to a doorway. On the other side was her private bathroom, with soaking tub, standing shower and what looked like two toilets – I know today one was a bidet.

I shut the door, did my business and proceeded to wash my hands. My eye fell upon a row of Fleet enema boxes lined up on the vanity top. I picked one up and carried it into the bedroom.

“Hey, Kay,” I said holding it up. “What’s with this?”

She put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God!” She poked her head into the bathroom. “Mother! … she never misses a chance to embarrass me. They weren’t there when I left, I know for sure.”

“Do you use these?”

“Mother makes me,” she replied. “She thinks I should have one once a week whether I need it or not. Saturday is enema day.”

I nodded. “My mom was the same way, especially when I was little and got an upset stomach or something.”

“Your mom gave you enemas?” she asked.

“Yeah, but she didn’t use little ones like these – she gave me big whoppers. She did up to the day she moved out.”

“I thought mine was the only one.”

“It’s a mom thing to do,” I replied. “My dad won’t.”

She looked at me and giggled. “You should be thankful for that.”

“Oh, I am.”

“Mother keeps a scorecard of every time I go to the toilet.”

“Like at a baseball game? Circle number 1 or number 2… Put in a big K for no results…”

She swatted at me. “You!” She giggled.

We sat beside each other on her bed. I tossed the box in the air and caught it. “Don’t you hate it when your parents do things like that?” I asked. She nodded. “Well, my dad’s divorce stopped it for me.”

“At least I don’t have to let her do it to me anymore,” she added. “When I turned thirteen I told her I was old enough to do it by myself. I hate it, though. She makes me prove I did it. I have to show her the empty bottle.”

“Why not just squirt it down the drain?”

“‘Cuz I also have to show her what I … left in the toilet.”

“Tell her you forgot and flushed by accident.”

“Naw… That might work once. Mother has a memory like an elephant.”

“Tell her you don’t need it.”

“Thing is – I do. If I miss a week, then I start feeling all full inside – my tummy pooches out and I look awful in my ballet leotard. I hate to admit it, but Mother’s right. They do help me.”

Then, out of nowhere something came out of my mouth. To this day I can’t believe I suggested it.

“Kay, let me give it to you,” I said. “Maybe it’d be easier for you if I did it.”

She looked at me agape. “Why would you giving it make it easier?”

“Because,” I said, recalling what my mother used to say as she squirted warm suds up my butt with a bulb syringe, “I’d be giving it to you with love – so you’ll feel good and be healthy.”

She looked at me for a long moment. “Sure – why not?”

I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe what she was agreeing to. I had been afraid she would smack me down the stairs, through the garden and right onto the street, but instead she said yes.

I looked at the box and read and re-read the instructions. Kaylani turned her back to me, reached up under the hem of her sundress, pulled off her panties and tossed them on the bed.

Then she lay on her left side and hugged her knees. “I’m ready.”

“No,” I said referring to a diagram on the box. “Lie more on your stomach…” I straightened her left leg. “Now, put your left arm behind your back. Good…”

I opened the box and removed the gadget. Thinking about what I was about to do gave me the firmest hard-on I could remember. And, it was a wet one, too – I could feel juices bubbling up and soaking my BVDs.

I approached her with it, lifted the hem of the dress and beheld her gorgeous bottom. With my left hand I spread her buttocks.

“Don’t forget to take off the cover,” she said.

“Oh … yeah…” I pulled off the sheath and set it on the bedspread. I spread her again and gazed on her brown anus. I imagined a line from it to the back of her navel, aligned it along that line and touched the tip to her.

She flinched, but with a twist I penetrated her and slid the tip into her rectum. I slid it in deep, up to the hilt. Then, I squeezed it, folded down the empty bottle, squeezed, folded again and squeezed again to get every drop into her. I pulled it from her, set the spent bottle on the bed and covered her bottom with her dress.

“Now what?” I asked, sitting on the other side of the bed so I could face her.

“Now I wait ten minutes.”

“I’ll time it.” I looked at my watch. Then, I took her hand, held it and looked into her face.

She smiled. “I think it was easier this way,” she said. “Thanks.”

I took the opportunity to run my hand along the outside of her thigh, savoring her milk-chocolate skin.

She grimaced. “I feel it working – it’s making me wanna go. How much longer?”

I checked my watch. “It’s been four minutes.”

“Only four?”

“I think if you really need to go, you should go. Who’d be the wiser? I certainly won’t tell.”

“Mother has a sixth sense… All right, I’m gonna go.”

She hopped off the bed and headed for the bathroom. She must’ve been in there twenty minutes. I heard the toilet flush.

“You flushed,” I said.

“Oh, crud! All that for nothing.”

“You said you could get away with it once.”

“I DID get away with it once.” She pressed her hand against her abdomen. “On top of that, it’s making me feel awful inside. I don’t think it all came out. I usually feel icky for a while after but this is worse.”

“Icky how?”

“Squishy inside… This time it feels like … I dunno, like burning … irritation.”

“Wait ‘til you have to go again.”

“It won’t be enough. Mother won’t be satisfied and she’ll make me do another. Then I’ll really feel awful.”

“You know,” I said reviewing the list of contents and recalling my science class, “this has a lot of salt in it. It’s probably what’s making you feel crummy.”

“Let me see…” She took the box from me. “I never looked at what’s in one – I just used ‘em.”

“My mom always gave me two enemas – a soap one and then a plain water one to wash out the soap. She used a bulb to give me the soap. It was bigger than that thing and she refilled it a few times. I remember it used to make my stomach ache. It gave me cramps and made me have to go so bad I’d beg my mom to let me. She always said I had to wait the full five minutes. Then she let me go and I’d push down so hard I thought I’d lift right off the seat like a rocket.” She giggled. “They burned coming out, too; and sometimes even after I was empty I’d grunt and push and nothing would come out. Then, she’d give me a plain water enema to wash out the soap and after that I felt okay.”

“Gee – that sounds worse than this. I shouldn’t complain.” She squeezed my hand. “That’s what I like about you – we understand each other, and we can talk about this sort of thing.”

“Maybe a plain water enema would wash out the salt and you’d feel better.”

“I dunno…”

“Plain water’s no big deal, Kay. It feels good almost.”


“Wanna try it?”


I picked up the crumpled bottle. “Maybe we could use this like a bulb…” I struggled with it. “No – looks like there’s a one-way valve in the tip. I could unscrew it and fill it from the tap. We’d have to refill it a few times.”


“A plain water enema has to be bigger to wash it out.”

“Makes sense, I guess. How much bigger?”

I shrugged. “Just bigger. My mom used the bulb for the soap but for the plain water she used a bag and a hose.”

“Like a douche bag?” Kaylani asked.

“Yeah, exactly. Do you have one?”

“Follow me…”

I followed her down the corridor to a closet. She opened it and poked beneath piles of folded towels and sheets, and then produced a flat box. She opened it and inside was an old-fashioned red bag – a combo hot water bottle - syringe with hose, douche and enema pipes, clamp and adapter. It was all there.

It looked like it was thirty years old. The fittings were made of black hard rubber, and the bag was getting hard but it looked sound with no cracks. She carried it into her bedroom.

I ran water in the sink, adjusted the temperature to luke-warm and filled it about as full as I remembered my mom doing – a little more than half – and then I screwed on the cap, affixed the hose, clamp and enema pipe and held it up.

“No way,” she said, “I’m not taking all that water.”

“I did,” I said. “The last enema I got was when I was ten years old. It was this much water. I’m bigger than you now, but you’re bigger than I was when I was ten.”

“I don’t care. There’s no way.” She folded her arms across her chest.

“Okay, then,” I said. I held it under my arm like a bagpipe, pointed the nozzle at her and opened the clamp. “We’ll dump some out.” I squeezed it with my arm and it released a stream that hit her in the shoulder.

She gasped. “Oh! You…” Then she started laughing. “Give me that…”

“No way.”

“You give it here!”

She chased me around the room as I squirted her. She caught me and I let her wrestle the bag from my grip, then she squirted me up and down with it.

“There,” she said. “That’s better. It’s not too full, now.”

I felt the bag. There was probably just under a quart left in it. “Fine,” I replied.

She lay on her bed, stifling laughter and assumed the position for the first enema.

“No,” I said, “my mom always made me take them on my hands and knees.”

“Okay…” She got on her hands and knees.

I spread her, and then something flashed on me. “Oh! Do you have any Vaseline?”


“For the tip – so it’ll slide into you easy.”

“I don’t think so. Let me look…” She hopped off her bed, rummaged around her bedroom and then in the main bath with no luck.

“I remember once my mom had no Vaseline,” I said. “She used some Crisco.”

“I know we have that,” she said and bounded down the stairs to the kitchen. She returned with a two-pound can. I pried off the lid, dipped in my finger and coated the enema pipe with it.

Kaylani was back on her hands and knees. I folded her skirt onto her back, worked the tip into her anus and pushed it all the way in. “Lower your shoulders,” I said.


“‘Cuz water won’t flow uphill.”

She lowered herself onto her forearms. “This okay?”

“Yeah. Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

I held up the bag with one hand, opened the clamp and held the pipe in her bottom. “Can you feel it?”

“Yeah… it feels cool…” She giggled “…kinda like a lawn sprinkler in my bottom.”

“If you start feeling full – do what my mom told me to do: Pant like a dog.”

Kaylani began panting. “How much more?” she asked.

I pinched the bag. “About two-thirds.”

“I can’t hold so much!”

“Yes you can. Keep panting.”

She panted more, then gasped.

“You okay?”

“Yeah … yeah… It’s going in easy now.”

I pinched the bag again. “About half done.”

“You’re right – this does feel good almost.”

The bag emptied. I closed the clamp, pulled it from her and covered her bottom with her dress. “Now what?” she asked.

“Like the other one, we wait for it to work.”

“Do I have to wait here like this?”

“My mom used to let me sit up – for the plain water ones, at least.”

She got off the bed and sat on my lap. I put my hand on her belly. “How’s it feel in there?”

She put her hand on mine. “Feels okay.”

I caressed her face and kissed her. She kissed me again. I put my hand on her knee and ran it down her shin. Her skin was cool and smooth as silk. I slid it back to her knee and up her thigh a bit.

A gurgle came from her abdomen. She looked at me wide-eyed. “I think I gotta go now.”

“Then go,” I said. “Remember – no flushing.”

“I’m not gonna let you look at it,” she said.

“I don’t wanna look at it.”

She went into the bathroom. I paced around her room.

After about fifteen minutes she came out and closed the door. “Okay?”

“Uh-uh,” she nodded. She stood facing me. “I feel a lot better, now – and there’s plenty in there for Mother.” She took my hand and pressed it against her abdomen. “Feel how flat?”

Then, she put her arms around my neck, held the back of my head and kissed me. She smiled. “Thank you for helping me.”

“Any … any time. Any time you need help like this, call me and I’ll come running.”

She flopped on the bed and I so did I. I lay on my back and she cuddled up to me. I ran my hand along her back and it dawned on me – she wasn’t wearing underwear. I looked into her eyes. We kissed. We kissed again and began some tongue-play. I slid my hand along her side past her waist and began stroking her flank in the hopes her hem would ride up a bit.

We heard a noise downstairs. “Kaylani, Angel,” her mother’s voice sang out. There were footfalls on the stairs.

“Oh, my God! Quick, hide all this stuff!”


“I don’t care – under the bed!”

I picked up the fountain syringe but it was too late. Kaylani’s mother swung the door open and stared at the scene in her daughter’s bedroom. Her jaw hit the carpet.

I was caught red-handed, holding the bag. My clothes were wet. Kaylani’s dress was wet. The bedcovers were mussed. On the bed was the open can of Crisco … Kaylani’s panties … the Fleet box, the spent squeeze-bottle and tip sheath. And, there were big water marks on the bedspread and curtains.

If she could’ve had me arrested, she would’ve. I sprinted down the stairs. Her mother opened a broom closet. There was no broom so she chased me to the street with a Dust-Buster, shouting oaths that would make a sailor blush.

That was the last time I saw Kaylani. For the whole last week of school she was careful not to cross my path. Then, school let out and my dad learned he had been transferred stateside.

After that, Kaylani faded into my memory.

Until I saw her photo in the personals of the blog.

to be continued…