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.”
