Memories

Memories

I stood wearing only my white jockey underpants looking at the bulging bag hanging from the shower curtain rod. I could smell the sweet aroma of the Ivory soap and could see the suds just peeking from the open top. With only a little imagination, I could feel the warmth of the water it contained hitting my bare chest. I knew the hot soapy water it contained; a few minutes earlier I had prepared it. I told myself that this enema was going to be hotter and soapier than others I usually take; it would be a punishment enema.

I rubbed my cock through my underpants; it was already rock hard, for enemas, even the thought of them, let alone standing in from of a full bag, always had the same effect on me. I thought for a moment, “How sick are you?” Isn’t a young guy like me supposed to like girls or boys, but what’s this with enemas? Well, I had to be honest with myself. I developed this secret interest as a child. It was an obsession. I hadn’t received that many of them in my life, and those I did get were always from my mother, and typically for a high fever. Somehow, though a seed got planted. I frequently wondered whether my friends got enemas, did they have an enema bag in their homes, or did they even think about them as much as I did?

I grew up as an only child. I had loving parents. My mother was my primary caretaker and loving as she was, she was also a stern disciplinarian. I knew early on in life what was expected of me. Failure to comply usually meant I was spanked with the wooden paddle. While by today’s standards, it might be seen as inappropriate, back then, it was the proper punishment for a bad boy. I knew what was expected and how I was to behave; I was to be a good boy. She also had a habit of asking if I had a BM most days. Looking back, I think I had an anal preoccupation, and, despite my efforts to hide my secret desires, I think at some point, my fascination with enemas became clear to her.

I kept rubbing myself, enjoying the pleasurable feel while watching the bulging enema bag, smelling the Ivory soap, looking at the nozzle poised to deliver the contents, and knowing how hot and soapy the enema water was. My mind drifted off again.

“Get yourself upstairs and get those clothes off.” I could hear my mother’s voice as my mind remembered the one time my enema as a teenager wasn’t for a high fever. I’m not sure really what I did wrong; maybe it was just being a bratty teenager. Whatever it was, it was clear that my mother was fed up with it and was going to remedy it.

“If you want an enema, an enema is what you’re going to get.” It was summer and the house had the windows open and a breeze flowing through it. Dutifully, I went upstairs to my room and started to undress. She was not far behind me. I heard the water go on in the bathroom and the typical noises associated with the preparation of an enema. I continued to get undressed knowing that I didn’t have a choice and would have to submit to the enema. I tried to rationalize, “Enemas are good for you aren’t they?” In my mind, though, I knew that she was right and I secretly really wanted the enema, whether it was meant as a punishment or not. I was now down to my underpants, my tighty-whities. They separated me from the enema, but they, too had to come off. I removed them and went into the bathroom.

Hanging on the shower curtain rod across from the toilet was a bulging enema bag with a hose hanging down. My mother was seated on the toilet with a towel draped over her lap. We had a folding travel enema bag which when filled looked so big. I was scared, but also very excited. I didn’t know whether to beg her not to give me the enema or to give it to me. Regardless of where my head was, it was clear I would be getting the enema.

“OK, young man, get over my lap.” I had done the enema thing before and knew how to position myself. How humiliating as a teenager to be buck naked lying over your mother’s lap with her about to put something in your rectum and give you an enema. On the other hand, was it a turn-on? I can’t remember if I had an erection. That said about the past, I knew today I had a hard-on and while in the past I had a love-hate relationship with enemas, today I wanted the enema, and wanted it badly.

I came back to the present. “OK young man, get those underpants off and get on the floor.” I had gotten into the habit of talking to myself out loud when I solo’d.

“Please don’t make me take the enema; I promise I’ll be a good boy.” I looked at the bag. I knew that my pleading and begging would not change the course of events. I was bad and now needed to be punished. I followed the hose from the bag to the floor. On its end was a bardex nozzle, the cheapo ones with the inflator already attached. The firmness of the tip wouldn’t take no for an answer when inserting it; and the balloon, when inflated, made it clear that the enema was going in until the bag was flat. Next to the nozzle on the floor I had placed a pitcher with another 1 ½ quarts of some of the hottest and soapiest water I had ever tried. The bag combined with the pitcher made about a 3 quart enema. This time, I knew I had been bad and the hot, soapy enema was the only punishment for the crime.

“Get those pants off and get on the floor.” I instructed myself.

“Please, no enema, I can’t hold it, it’s too soapy.” More feeble pleas.

“You should have thought of that beforehand.” I stroked myself a final time inside my shorts before pushing them down over my hips and erection. They fell all too quickly to my ankles, my erection now standing at full attention. I stepped out of the underpants and moved them over to the side. Next to them was the pitcher brimming with hot soapy water, a Kleenex box and a tube of K-Y jelly. I took the towel from the towel rack and spread it out on the floor, then kneeled down. The enema bag was hanging from the rod on my left. I picked up the nozzle and looked at it. I knew the bardex was a stern disciplinarian; should I try to wimp out of taking the whole enema, it would keep me on task. I put it back down and reached for the tube of K-Y.

I put a generous dollop on my finger and leaned forward. With one hand spreading my cheeks, I let the other touch my anus and penetrate it spreading the K-Y both outside and inside. I wanted to be slippery back there so the tip would go in easily. I liked having things inserted into my anus; it felt good. Removing my finger I reloaded it with more K-Y and grabbed the bardex to lubricate it. I wiped my finger clean with some Kleenex. Then, I pointed the bardex tip into the tub and opened the clamp. I loved the sound of the metal clamp. After a pregnant pause, water started to shoot out of the tip into the bathtub. The hose had been cleared and ready for my rectum.

“OK young man, assume the position.” I told myself bending forward for the insertion. Having given myself many enemas, I was amazingly adept at getting the tip to hit the anus. Bending over further, I pushed my rear in the air helping to spread my cheeks. My feet were flexed with the toes on the soft terry cloth towel. Gently, but firmly I pushed. My anal sphincter didn’t stand a chance and the nozzle made its way inside, stretching the sphincter. The balloon part passed the sphincter then all of a sudden the balloon/nozzle was swallowed into the hole. I reflexively contracted my anal sphincter and felt the tube in place. I reached back for the inflator and started to give it a squeeze. The balloon dutifully inflated putting pressure on my prostate. “Ooooh,” that really felt good. I clamped the tube so the air stayed inside the bardex. Everything was ready.

I looked over my left shoulder at the imposing bag ready to deliver its angry, hot, soapy contents. “I don’t want an enema,” I whined. “Please don’t make me take it,” I begged. “I won’t do it again.” These were futile efforts.

“You need to be a big boy and face your punishment.” The stern disciplinarian in me was forcing the little boy in me to grow up. At this point, there was no choice. I was going to be getting the enema whether I wanted to or not.

I reached back to the hose and worked my hand to the metal clamp. The bathroom was quiet as I opened the clamp. That dull metallic snap sounded. There was another pregnant pause, then a little gurgle. Next I felt the hot water entering me. “Please stop it, I don’t want to take the enema…please don’t make me take it…I promise, I’ll be good.” What a whiny little boy I had become. Meeting me on the street, you would never know how regressed I could become. What a big baby. All the more reason I would be getting that punishment enema. I needed to learn to be a big boy and stop complaining. The head games kept going, and the water kept flowing, too.

Typically, I can take 3 quarts without a problem. The water was clearly hotter than usual; I could feel that while on all fours on the floor. I thought back to making the soapy water for the enema. I had left the bar of Ivory soap in the pitcher until the water was pretty milky and opaque. I remembered how slippery the water was as I swirled the bar of soap in it. “You’re going to get cleaned out like never before. Then we’ll see who the big boy is” I remember saying to myself. Secretly, I told myself that by taking the hot, soapy enema I would be a big boy. I was on all fours, with my chest close to the floor. My ass was pointed up, exposed, and filled with a nozzle. My feet were flexed with my toes holding on to the ground, bracing myself for the enema. My mind kept wandering as it often does while taking an enema. I thought about all of the other boys in my life. Did they take enemas? When they were little, did their mothers make them strip naked and humiliate them by making them lie across their laps while being given an enema? What about Blake, my tall, blonde friend? He was quite handsome and always laid back with a warm smile. Did he whine and complain when he had to take an enema? Or, was he a big boy and took his soapy enema without any complaints? Then, there was Adam, my jock friend, tall, dark and handsome. I liked his cockiness. I imagined him buck naked on all fours with a bardex nozzle giving him an enema. Would he be his usual cocky self or did he regress like I did into a crybaby? I reached down and touched myself. I was still hard. I played a little bit being sure not to let myself come. As I played, I squeezed my sphincter against the bardex. The pressure it delivered to my prostate made me feel quite happy. I looked up and the enema bag had delivered most of its contents. It was time to refill the bag.

I reached back and closed the clamp. I got up on my knees; my belly was starting to stick out. I looked at the near empty bag swaying from its perch and then at the pitcher full of more hot, soapy water. The froth was still on top of the milky water. I touched the container; it was warm. I picked it up and began pouring it into the bag. It caused the bag to swell again to it big bloated shape. “How am I going to hold all of this enema?” I asked myself. Though so far, I was doing well, a little full, but hanging in there.

“OK young man, you have more enema to take. Get back on all fours.” I obeyed and put my rear back in the air and my chest close to the floor. I reached back to the hose and again moved my hand to the clamp and opened it. The metallic click was a turn on; it only meant one thing, and I could feel it in my anus as the water continued to enter me.

“I’ll be a good boy. I’m going to take all of the enema and get real cleaned out.” I told myself.

“Yes you are, and you’re going to take the whole bag whether you want it or not, just like a big boy.” I squeezed my anal sphincter again and felt the bardex patrolling my anus to make sure I complied. The pressure of the balloon on my prostate was pleasant.

I started to look through my enema album. I had been collecting stories and photos to enhance my enema sessions. I had all types of material. There were boys who needed enemas, boys who I thought had been given enemas, and an occasional picture of a boy actually getting an enema. Some still had their underwear on, others were naked. There were boys in position and (in my mind) asking for their enema. I paged through my album. My gut was getting fuller and it was getting harder to hold the enema. “You take all of that enema,” I told myself in a stern voice. I wondered whether the boys in the picture had trouble holding their enemas. Did they protest? Did they whimper or cry?

“Oh, I’m so full; I can’t take any more, please stop…..I promise I’ll be good, I’ll even take another enema if I have to, but please stop this one….No more enema, please stop.” The bag was almost empty. I was having cramps, “Please stop, I can’t take any more enema.” I was moving back and forth, almost shaking a little bit. The bardex did the trick, no wimping out for me. I just looked at those boys in the album, “If they can take their enemas like big boys, so can I.” I was hurting, “No more enema. I promise I’ll be good.” I flexed my feet and toes pushing them into the towel on the floor. “Oh, please stop it, I can’t hold anymore.” I thought I would be crying in a moment. Then I realized that I was being punished, having been made to strip naked, assume a humiliating position, and submit to a hot, soapy enema. Punishment isn’t supposed to be fun. That said, even though I was cramping and very full, my cock was fully hard. My rule has always been I can’t come until the bag is empty. The bag was now delivering it last contents. “I’ll be good, I’ll be good, please stop it.” In between my pleads, I heard that gentle gurgle and saw the now completely flat bag waving in the air.

I reached down and started to stroke myself, “What a good enemaboy you are.” I squeezed my sphincter and felt the pressure of the bardex balloon on my prostate and the cramps in my stomach. I was really full and was getting ready to cum. I stroked harder and faster, then, arching my back shot one load after another of hot cum. “Oh…oh…oh” was all I could say. The pleasure of the orgasm overpowered the cramps and pain of my enema. I finally found myself returning to earth. I was really full, my ass was plugged and the enema bag was flat as could be. I had taken my punishment like a good boy.