“Amy, one last chance. If you’re not down off that table by the count of three, I’ll have Nurse prepare another syringe, and we’ll put both of them inside you.”
I knew I couldn’t fight him, and all I would gain by objecting any more is another enema, so I got down (besides, I secretly *wanted* this, even though it humiliated me, and I hated it.) off the table and lowered myself on to his lap. I could feel the roughness of the towel on my belly. His legs were muscular, not bony, so I didn’t feel too squashed, but face-down over a man’s knee is certainly an ignominious position, especially if your butt’s bare. I felt his thumb and forefinger separate my cheeks. I could tell he was looking at me, because he also separated me lower – to reveal my vaginal opening (hadn’t he seen enough?). I felt the nozzle pressing against my anus. (God! It was BIG!) Wet (Oil?). Sliding in. Invading my bottom. Thicker than his two fingers. Looonng. The tube on the end was semi-rigid, and as he pushed I could feel it pushing the fecal matter deeper into me, and actually penetrating the feces inside of me. He kept pushing.
“UUUnnnggghhhh!” I groaned.
“Just a little deeper, Amy; I have to get it in far enough to break up the mass of feces in you.” he kept pushing. Finally he stopped. Then I could feel him reach up to grasp the plunger. He pushed. The warm oil flowed in. PRESSURE!!!
“OOOOAAHHHHaaaaAAAHHH!” I groaned, winding up as he pressed the plunger home, filling my bowels with hot olive oil. Nurse Adlequist had been standing there the whole time, a curious smile on her face.
Doctor looked up at her. “Didn’t you have something to do, Nurse?? Or would you like your turn next?” The nurse left. I was left alone with the doctor, a huge nozzle stuck up my backside, my bottom full of oil. He gradually withdrew the tube, squeezing my buttcheeks together as he did so. The tube was covered with feces, and stank. He laid it aside.
“Now for 15 minutes of relaxation, Amy,” he said. “You have to hold this enema for a while. Then you can expel, and we’ll continue with your treatment (CONTINUE!!!???).
Dr. Ben began to massage my belly and my bottom. The oil gurgled inside me, moving around. I wasn’t too full (not like Mom’s enemas!).
“Your next enema will be with warm water and soap, Amy!” he said. “Did you see the bag in the bathroom?? (tormenting me); it holds a lot. I’ll insert the nozzle all the way in, and then fill you fuller than you can believe. How’s that??”
“Pleeeassseeee, Doctor!” I sobbed, “Pleaassseee Dooon’tt!”
“Sorry, Amy, but you need a thorough cleansing, and you’re going to get it.” I moaned and wept, but I didn’t struggle. It was pointless. In just a few minutes I would be LIVING the cries and begging I had heard through the ventilator. I had begged and pled, but to no avail. I had struggled, but it didn’t help. My only hope was that he would stop with one enema. I had heard that some doctors gave enemas in series. What if Doctor Ben did that to me?? What then??
Finally I was given permission to get up. I ran for the toilet. The fecal matter/oil/gas came spraying out of my bottom. Some of the feces were hard, almost like uncooked beans. Those came out first. Then (as I continued to empty), partially formed feces came out, and finally liquid and gas.
I actually felt much better (though Dr. Ben would never know), and I sat there on the toilet for another 15 minutes, or so. At last I got up, after wiping myself as clean as I could. I was upset to the max when I heard the water running again, but I knew I had to face this, so I left the bathroom with a little shiver. I left the bathroom to find the exam table laid out with the stirrups back in place, and a vertical bar rising about 4 feet from the top of the table, with a hook on the end. It looked ominous – like a device from which to hang an enema bag(!!)
I shuddered with dread as Dr. told me: “Up on the table, Amy, and put your feet in the stirrups and scoot down to the end. You know the routine.” The stirrups were set so that my knees almost touched my chest, and my thighs were spread wide. Dr. came in holding the bag. It looked even bigger full than empty. “This is a 4-quart bag, Amy!” Dr. Ben announced proudly.
I shivered. Mom had never given me even half that much. Connected to the bag was a black rubber hose, about 1/2″ in diameter, and attached to that (by way of a hard plastic connector) was a long tube that was about 3/4″ in diameter at the top, but which tapered to about the thickness of my index finger at the end. Water was dripping from it. I didn’t want to look, but couldn’t stop myself, as Dr. hung the bag from the hook, unrolled the tubing, and began to coat it with that slimy stuff he used as lubricant (K-Y, it’s called). In just a moment he had inserted his two fingers in my bottom, lubricating me as I laid there helpless. Then he began to insert the tube into me (a “colon tube” he called it).
As the tube found its way into my bottom about 6″, he opened the clamp and the water began to flow into me. It was warm. It felt good, but it also felt like I could never take all of it. The tube continued to snake up inside me, Dr. Ben adjusting the flow every so often to that the water was just barely flowing.
“OOOOoooohhhh!!! OooWWWWwww!!” I whimpered, as the tube entered me deeper and deeper, the water continuing to flow.
“Just relax, Amy,” Dr. Ben intoned. “This is a large enema, I know, but you’ll do fine, and you will feel MUCH better once we’re done.”
“Oh, Please, Dr. Ben, don’t! I-I-It’s too much!! I’m already full! I can’t take any more!” I was almost screaming by this time, sobbing and whimpering as the water continued to flow, filling me, never stopping, pushing everything out of its way, the tube continuing to go ever deeper into me.
Finally the tube was in. Dr. Ben stopped pushing it in. But the water didn’t stop.
I was gagging and gasping with the pressure. “OOOOoooooHHHHhhhh, Please, Dr. Ben!! Stop!! Please Stop!” I wailed.
Instead, Dr. Ben inserted two fingers in my vagina, and began to massage me in there, rubbing my clitoris with his thumb. “There, there, Amy, this will make you feel better!” he announced.
Now I was not only getting an enema from a man, he was also touching me in such an overtly sexual way that I couldn’t help but understand that this was indeed intended as a sexual experience. I shuddered. The pain and pressure were incredible. But it also felt good. As Dr. Ben rubbed and massaged me, it actually began to feel almost entirely good. I now understood the wails of anguish that I had heard through the ventilator – the wails that fell off into grunts of pleasure and rhythmic gasps. The pressure and warmth of the enema in my bowels, the invasion of my anus/rectum/colon with the long tube, the massage of my genitals – it was all incredibly sexual, and even though the pain was there, it lessened dramatically as he continued to masturbate me with his large, strong hands. I could do nothing but let him. I could do nothing but yield.
And so I yielded to him – and to orgasm after orgasm as the last of the enema flowed into me. Dr. Ben helped me up, and I ran for the bathroom. I expelled (forever, it seemed).
Finally I was done. Dr. Ben watched me as I came out of the bathroom. “Amy, you’ll need weekly treatments here at the college,” he said. I nodded, transformed from shame to desire.
“Yes, Dr. Ben. I certainly will.”
I received two degrees from that college, and I took a long time to get them. My mother could never understand why I took ten years to get 6 years worth of education. But then I never told her about Dr. Ben.