Entries Tagged 'Enema' ↓

“UUuunnggghhh!!”

“Just relax, Amy! You’ll feel a little pressure down here, and then I’ll be done.” His fingers felt like they were a foot long. They went in and in and in and in. Then he put his other hand on my belly and poked up inside of me as he pushed down on my belly. It felt good. I didn’t dare react. His hand withdrew, and he picked up the instrument he had removed from the drawer. It also slid into me. It was much larger than his fingers, and when it was in, he squeezed it and it opened inside me. I felt myself stretch.

“OOOooohhh!” I whined.

He patted my thigh. “Just a minute more, Amy.” He looked at me inside. Then, with the instrument still in place, he separated my lips and began to touch me just above my vaginal opening. I shuddered and moaned. It felt wonderful. But I was too embarrassed to like it. “That’s your clitoris, Amy. Can you feel that?”

I managed to choke out a “Yes.” he rubbed it for a moment or two more (don’t stop!), then closed the instrument and withdrew it. It felt like he had shoved a grapefruit up inside me. I was really stretched out down there. Suddenly I felt another invasion - two fingers, at my bottomhole, invading me down there, sliding in (soo big, soo slick!).

“OOaaahhhHHHSSSSsss!!” I gasped, involuntarily lifting my hips up to try to move away from his probing fingers. It didn’t work. The fingers continued to enter me back there.

“Amy, you’re constipated worse than I thought!! (his fingers began to move in and out, stroking my bottomhole). You need an enema!!”

“Oh, Doctor, NO! I can take care of that myself!”

“No, Amy, I have to treat you! I can’t send you home like this. As full as you are, it may take several enemas to get you cleaned out!” Two tears oozed out of my eyes. I was humiliated, scared, full of fear and longing.

I remembered the cries I had heard through the ventilator. “Please, Doctor, I really don’t want one!”

“One what, Amy?” Dr. Ben asked, pretending innocence.

“An enema, Doctor, I don’t want an enema!!”

“Well, Amy, there are going to be times you get what you want in life, and times you get what you don’t want. This is one of the times you will get what you don’t want, because I’m the Doctor, and you need an enema.”

I sobbed. “O Please, No!”

“Sorry, Amy. You have to have an enema, and I’m going to give you an enema.” He kept saying that word. I hated to hear it, but wanted to hear it. I wanted this, and feared it. I hated the thought, and longed to have this strong man give me the enema he had promised. I was full of confusion. I was sweating. Weeping. Wet.

“Nurse Adlequist!” Doctor called, through the intercom.

“Yes, Doctor?” came the reply.

“Prepare 240 cc’s of olive oil in a plunger syringe and bring it here.”

“Yes, Doctor!” In a few moments the nurse appeared, holding an obscenely large hypodermic syringe that ended, not with a needle, but with a short rubber tube about a foot long and an inch in diameter.

“Over my knee, Amy! Doctor said, placing a towel on his slacks, and motioning to me.

I blushed again, furiously. “OH, Doctor! Please, just this once, you don’t have to treat me!! I won’t tell anybody.”

It looked new, but the bag had recently been used. The bag was wet (apparently had been washed), and little water drops had formed on the bottom, as if it had been dried in haste. I couldn’t help but remember the enemas Mom gave me - the little white nozzle sliding into my butt (how would that great big hose feel?? how far would it go in?), the pressure of the water, my moans (and sometimes sobs)as my belly filled, the cramping, and how it hurt at the end, and how the bag never seemed like it would empty (God, that bag on the door was big!), Mom telling me that I had to take it all: everything came back to me in a rush, even though it had been at least four years since she had given me an enema.

All this took less than thirty seconds to think and experience - and the old feelings of stimulation, strangeness, and desire took over. However, I had to get out to the exam room to finish up. I shuddered. I was already frightened, stimulated, almost weak in the knees. And, I noticed, as I wiped myself, I was also “wet.” The last time Mom had used the enema bag on me, I had gotten that way - my “organs” had gotten all slick and gooey during and after the enema, and for days after, whenever I thought about it. I didn’t think Mom had noticed, and she had never said anything, but I certainly noticed. It felt sort of good, but it was embarrassing - like I was in my period, but the fluid was clear. I wiped it off when it happened, and that felt good, too, but I was NOT about to masturbate (good Catholic girls don’t), even though I wanted to.

I re-entered the room, and found the doctor standing there. He was an older man, large. He wore a smile like it was part of him, and reached out for my hand as I entered the room. Not the most propitious time for a meeting. My right hand held the “pee cup,” and I realized I hadn’t washed. I immediately blushed, and he smiled even more, and said, “That’s all right, Amy. A urine fetish is one thing I DON’T have.”