This story was submitted by a lady whose handle is Anita Freud. Here’s what she has to say about it.
“The following is from the book, ‘Without a Stitch’, by a Norwegian, Jens Bjoerneboe. The young girl is being “treated” by a physician, Dr. Peterson, an orgasm specialist (sic!). He has already given her two “treatments.”
I found this chapter of the book particularly appealing - I think because of the deliberate ceremonial aspects in which the girl was subjugated by a man (a father figure?). Though initially embarrassed, she ultimately found that she had “nothing to hide” from him.
“Anything I do with you must have a purpose. Basically you’re still embarrassed, and that embarrassment must be eliminated before you can relax and not tie yourself up in knots.”
I suspected that he had something in mind that might not be so much fun as what I’d been hoping for. He thought for a moment, then raised his head and pointed to a door.
“In there,” he said, “is a sort of washroom. There’s an enema kit hanging on the wall. Go in there, fill it up with soapy lukewarm water, and bring it back here full. Then lie down on the table again.”
My face turned red. “No,” I said. “No.”
“If you don’t do as I say, I’ll end the treatment immediately. In that case there’ll be no appointment tomorrow.”
I knew that he meant what he said, but I thought it would be terribly embarrassing to be given an enema. Especially by him.
“Do I have to?”
“Have to what?” he said. He was putting his white coat back on. There I stood, naked and embarrassed, with my cheeks flaming red and my hair hanging down over my forehead.
“Do I have to take an enema?” I asked weakly. I felt such a mess.
“Yes, you do,” he said, “and you’re going out and get it ready yourself.”
I saw that pleading would do me no good, so I walked over and opened the door to the bathroom. It looked as much like a laboratory as a bathroom, with different kinds of apparatus, like flasks, glassware, and syringes. I somehow felt that the room belonged to a gynecologist. On the wall hung a huge enema bag and all that went with it - the rubber hose and the black nozzle that was soon to be stuck into my rear.
I took the bag down and went over to the basin, in which I placed a bar of soap and turned on the hot water. I felt so pathetic, standing there fixing the enema that was to be used for my own humiliation and exposure. I say “exposure,” though I had nothing against an enema itself. In fact I rather liked enemas, but only when I was alone and knew that no one could see me. The thought that Dr. Peterson might discover that this was something I liked was enough to make me want to scream. But I went through with it since I know that otherwise he would break off the treatments, and after these first two appointments I wouldn’t do without them for anything.
I stirred up the water; the temperature was right, and it was soapy. I took out the bar of soap, still blushing and feeling embarrassed, and walked out to Dr. Peterson with the thing in my hand. He was sitting at his desk, but he got up and took it from me. I couldn’t bear to look at him, but just stared at the floor with my back hunched over.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” I said, curtsying weakly.
The awful thing was that my body below the waist was looking forward to what was going to happen. But I could have died from shame anyway. I turned around and sneaked over to the table, where I lay down on my stomach.
“How shall I lie?” I asked bitterly.
“However you like best,” he said. “But you’ve forgotten something. I’m sure you always remember otherwise.”
“Come here, and I’ll show you what I mean.”
I got up and walked across the floor with my head bowed. On his desk was a Vaseline jar.
“You forgot to smear some Vaseline on the nozzle,” he said. “And also on yourself. You’ve got to have a little Vaseline in your backside.”
I put some Vaseline on my finger without looking at him and rubbed it on the nozzle. He held the jar out again, and I took some more Vaseline on my right index finger. At that moment he took me by the chin and turned my face up to his.
“Look at me,” he said. “Now you can grease yourself in back.”
With my left hand I opened my buttocks and put the blob of Vaseline outside the opening.
“No,” he said. “You haven’t put your finger in, have you? That’s the best way.”
Just as I got my finger in, he kissed me on the mouth, and a pillar of flame shot through me. I walked over to the wheeled table, and he followed me with the enema bag in his hand. I lay on my back with my knees way up.
“Is that the way you’re used to doing it yourself?” he asked.
He did know then, and I turned beet red once again. But my backside, my abdomen, and my stomach started aching with desire and tension. He took my legs and set them up in the supports. I lay waiting to feel the nozzle go into me. Instead he bent down and kissed me on my flower, which had opened up a little while I was waiting. I could tell that I was altogether wet from my own slippery fluid, so wet in fact that I didn’t need Vaseline. He licked my clitoris until I began squirming, then stopped completely. A moment later I felt the nozzle go in, but only a tiny bit. He began massaging my clitoris as the long, curved black nozzle was pushed farther and farther in. I grew terribly excited and wanted to squeeze my legs together. I saw him far off, in a kind of haze, as he opened his white coat in front and revealed his spear in all its splendor.
Now the nozzle stayed in my little opening by itself, and he lifted the bag with one hand and worked on my clitoris with the other. When I felt the warm water coming up inside me, I began crying aloud. It was so unspeakably lovely that I took hold of both sides of the table to keep myself still. It was then I noticed he had put his sex up to my slit and was pressing it in. He began moving it quite slowly, mostly at the very outer edge, but every now and then inside me. All this time the water was coming into my backside, and his free hand kept massaging my clitoris. I clung to the table and gave out a loud scream while the tears flowed down my cheeks. I started coming in huge, shaking convulsions, but he kept right on as if nothing were happening. Not until I was almost finished did he pour his own load into me, so that I was getting it from both directions at once. When we were both through he kept on with the rest of the enema, which I still didn’t mind a bit.
After a while he finished.
I lay like jelly on the table, almost unconscious. My body felt soft and slack and lovely, all warm and relaxed. My insides were full of water - and that felt good too. But the trouble was that I had to go out to the toilet again. I rolled down off the table and stood weak and dizzy on the floor, completely happy, but almost unable to walk, my knees were so weak. In a way, I was still coming inside. I staggered toward his bathroom.
“Shall I come along,” he said, “and watch?”
“Yes, please,” I said and smiled. I understood why he had given me the enema, which had revealed me deep down inside. Now I had no secrets from him, and I felt as safe and secure as a little child when I looked at him. I took his hand and held it against my cheek as we went in. I sat down on the toilet and emptied myself.
It’s a marvelous feeling, to have nothing to hide.