Home Alone

I watched the car back down the driveway. Dad’s hand reached for the sender and the garage door descended. The view from the bedroom window was an excellent vantage point. The whole family was in the car, all but me, on their way to church as was the custom every Sunday. I begged off today, telling mom that I wasn’t feeling well and wanted to sleep. She reluctantly agreed, I purposely worded my request to give the impression that I was “crampy” and miserable. I really just wanted to be alone with myself. The car cleared the end of the driveway, moved off down the street and turned the corner out of sight. I watched out the window for several minutes to be sure they weren’t going to turn around and come back to check the stove or retrieve something forgotten. At last I felt “safe”, and the excitement within rose as I anticipated the freedom of the next three or four hours.

The nightgown slid to the floor next to my bed and I stood there in bra and panties. I undid the bra as I stepped over to the dressing mirror and gazed at my image. I am tall for my age, a full five foot eight inches at fourteen years old. I began maturing three years ago and my breasts are still growing, Mom upped my bra size again only a month ago. I touched my nipples and thrilled at the tingly sensations and the tension of the nipples swelling under my fingertips. They were more than a handful. I slid both hands down inside the panties and slid them down my thighs. I was fascinated with the growth of dark hair that was now covering the base of my tummy. I stroked the hair and felt its softness. I appraised my nude image and wondered how I compared to other girls. I wondered if I was “normal”. I have dark hair by nature. Mom has had me shaving my legs and underarms before the other girls in my class. I stole glances at the other girls in the locker room after gym classes. Only a few had breasts large as mine and most had very little hair growth and seemed immature. I wondered if boys considered hair attractive or grotesque. What did they really like?

My mind focused back on the real reason I wanted this time alone. I left the bedroom and went to the hall closet and opened it, searching for that certain box. There it was, unmistakable with its blue markings and logo, it read “DAVOL Douche/Enema Set” I carried it into the bathroom and unpacked the equipment inside. The bag had fluted sides that swelled enormously as it filled. Everything was disassembled as was Mom’s custom after each use. Everything was white rubber or plastic. I slid the white hose over the fitting at the bottom of the bag. The free end of the hose had a screw in fitting to attach one of three nozzles. There was a douche nozzle and a large and small child’s enema. I thought for a moment then chose the large enema tip and screwed it on. I snapped the clamp shut and laid the assembly aside. I closed the sink stopper and turned on the water, adjusting both hot and cold until the temperature was right. Taking a bar of soap, I began to “wash my hands” with it, swishing it around in the water until it was a milky, white color.

My mind drifted back to the first time Mom had used this on me. I was about nine or ten. Mom was pregnant with Paully, my youngest little brother. I was fascinated by her pregnancy, watching her belly swell. I had a thousand questions and probably drove her batty, I loved to lay my hands on her tummy and feel the baby move inside. I kept asking “how does it feel, what’s it like?” She would reply “You’ll find out one of these days”. I had bad cramps one day so Mom gave me some milk of magnesia. It didn’t work. I remember laying on my bed and Mom came in and told me to take off my jeans and panties because she was getting ready to give me an enema. “What’s that, Mom”? She told me that once in a while a tummy needs a drink of water from below to get well just like you drink water from above, and that she had some special equipment to fill me up from below. “Will it hurt”, I asked, it sounded scary. “You’ll just feel like you have to go the bathroom real bad”, she replied. She came back in a few minutes with the Davol bag and hose and the child enema tip installed. The bag bulged with soap and water contents and looked huge, but in reality it only held a pint or two, far less that the volume I was pouring into it now. She had me lay on my back with my legs drawn up. “Now I’m going to push this tip into your bottom and the water will run into you through it. You’ll feel it but it wont hurt unless you fight it, so try to relax”, she instructed. The tip slid in and chills ran up and down my back. She released the clamp and the water began to find its way in. It felt really different, I could feel it following my whole insides. My tummy was fuller than it ever had been, but it didn’t exactly hurt - the feeling was kinda good, but I didn’t let on. I protested because I sensed that’s what Mom expected. She filled me up with all the water, then made me hold it for ten minutes. I was whimpering like a sick puppy by the time ten minutes was up. I was sent to the bathroom to get rid of it and she made the offhand comment; “Now you know what it feels like to be pregnant”. That comment made the whole experience come together for me.

I was left home alone a few weeks after. I was so fascinated by Mom’s enema that I made a fumbling attempt to give myself one then pretended to be pregnant while I held in the cup or so I got inside me. I used every opportunity alone thereafter to experiment with enemas. I began to anticipate these occasions, the feeling of fullness, the urgency, the way my tummy swelled, and the fulfillment that inevitably engulfed me. During one of these self administered sessions, I had a spontaneous orgasm, the first one, ever . The combination of stimulation from the enema, the straining to keep it in and the fantasy of being pregnant pushed me over the edge. I was so young I didn’t understand what this feeling was, didn’t know there was any relationship to sex, didn’t even know what sex was. All I knew was that this new feeling was wonderful and I wanted more!

The memory jarred me back to the present. I finished filling the Davol bag with the warm, soapy water from the sink. I purged the air from the hose and nozzle and hung the bag from the high towel rack over the bath tub. I had found through experimentation that I could hold the most soapsuds if I filled myself up while standing. I had already tried laying down, stooping, kneeling, setting on the toilet, and standing worked the best. I lubricated the end of the nozzle with Vaseline. I was ready. I took a deep breath and slid the tip in, briefly savoring the sensation. I released the clamp and the filling began.

I breathed deeply and tensed the muscles in my thighs and buttocks, insurance so the nozzle wouldn’t fall out and interrupt the moment. I stood on my tiptoes to increase the tension. This tension enhanced the enema sensations and the erotic value but moderation was needed, least orgasm happen before I was ready. So I alternated between tiptoes and flat feet to keep control. How I loved it so, this desire would build in me for days, sometimes weeks, before It could culminate in one of these episodes.

The bag was getting low and I felt like I could take more, so I carried it back to the sink and refilled it, re-hung the bag and continued taking. Finally, I could hardly breath and I knew I was done and closed the clamp. I touched my nipples but resisted the temptation to stimulate to completion. I removed the tip and dropped the assembly into the bath tub and walked, or more accurately, waddled back to my bedroom and admired myself before the mirror once again. My tummy was swollen and distended and full clear up under my rib cage, the picture of impending motherhood. I turned from side to side and looked at myself from various poses. I caressed myself all over touching all the wonderful places.

Now it was time. I raised up on tiptoes and strained to bring on orgasm and relief. I stimulated my nipples and caressed my tummy and body, faster and faster. It had to happen now or I’d be too tired after expelling the enema for it to happen at all. I fell down on my bed and attacked my labia with a vengeance. My fingers flew over all the right spots while my hips oscillated to a frenzied rhythm. My thighs tensed for the final assault and I breathed in tiny grunts.

I lay their afterward in a reverie until the urge to expel became overwhelming, then got up and hurried back to the bathroom. I was sated and pleased. This enema was a complete success. I cleaned the bathroom up and washed an dried the enema equipment and repacked it in the box just like Mom, then replaced it in the hall closet exactly as it was. I returned to my bed and fell fast asleep. Mom woke me when they returned from church and dinner.

“How are feeling now, dear”?

“Much better”, I said, “So much better”.

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