enema | Mother

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Mother

by Tom

"Years ago, in a magazine called "Letters", not Penthouse Letters, there were a few enema stories, one of which I would love to see in print again. A brief description of the story follows:

A teenager, I believe, received a poor report card at school. When he got home he went outside and hid until supper, or just after supper; not sure.

When his mother found out about his hiding, and his bad report card, she told him that he would get a double dose of his usual punishment; i.e. 2 spankings and 2 enemas.

The story describes in detail his punishment. It further comments that as an adult he has found enema bag and spanking implement under his married sister's bed. He also states that while still a teen and at home he tried several times to get his last spanking and enema repeated. He had cum during the story above, and that was the last time he was to receive that treatment. He used to watch his sisters getting enemas through the bathroom door key hole.

If you could ever find this story and get it posted, I am certain that your enthusiasts would really approve of this story. Again, the magazine was call just "Letters". Hope you can find it."

Well - I haven't seen the original story - so I wrote my own.
 
 



To describe our family as dirt poor would have been incorrect. We were poor, all right, but there wasn't a speck of dirt on home or kids.

There was just mom and us three kids. I was the eldest boy and I had two younger sisters, Marie and Jane, two and three years younger than me. We lived in an old clapboard house filled with second-hand furniture and threadbare carpets, but it was all ours - the only thing dad had left to us.

Mom worked harder than anyone else I have ever known. We were all decently clad, although in much mended clothes, and there was always food on the table. Any extra money went into my college fund - mom was determined that I was going to be a doctor or a lawyer or some other job that made a lot of money.

Not that she had much use for doctors herself. They cost money and we didn't have much of that. In any case, mom reckoned that it was perfectly possible to recover from illness without them. She had an armoury of remedies - goose grease for chest problems, various herbs, poultices - and her faithful enema can.

Mom administered enemas for just about anything - colds, fevers, chills, spots and nausea. Sometimes she just gave one or all of us an enema on general principles - a suspicion that that all was not well with our juvenile systems. Her remedies worked, of course - all three of us kids were pretty fit, although that probably was as much due to the fact that we ate plenty of cheap, fresh vegetables and took regular exercise.

Mom had a pretty simple approach to family discipline. If we misbehaved, first time we got a warning. Second time, it was pants down for a paddling. She wasn't vicious, she didn't aim to break or bruise anything and she applied that paddle with just the right amount of force to make our juvenile butts sting like they had been stung by a swarm of bees. Mom had no truck with child psychology or the present day army of bleeding hearts - she paddled our butts and then we were forgiven - when it was done, we pulled up our pants, rubbed our smarting butts, maybe shed a few child's tears and went back to normal with a lesson learned. No exile in our rooms, no grounding, no withdrawal of love - mom reckoned that the sooner we learned that the world punishes people who ignore the rules, the better it would be for us.

In what was almost a mediaeval way, mom seemed to think that persistent or extreme bad behaviour was somehow connected to a build-up of impurities in the body - the ancients would have called it possession by demons - and that it needed a more thorough treatment. I always knew when I was to get that treatment - instead of the normal, almost casual, paddling where I just had to drop my pants and grasp my ankles, mom would get hold of the paddle and point to the bathroom with it. Everything was usually prepared in advance - as soon as I saw the enema can on its shelf, I knew what I was going to get.

First I had to strip. Then, bent over the bath, I got a prolonged paddling, a succession of short, sharp whacks that stung individually and combined to produce pain which made me weep profusely before mom decided that I had had enough.

Then it was the horrible tube. Ordinary enemas were administered with a short, shaped black plastic nozzle, but for a really thorough cleansing mom always used the colon tube. I had to kneel on the floor with my bright red, tingling butt up in the air, them she would slather the long, thick red tube with grease and feed it into my asshole while it simultaneously oozed hot soapy water into my innards. I just hated the feeling as it worked its way deep inside my rectum, poking and probing as mom worked it round unknown constrictions and convolutions until it was finally all inside of me. Then the pain in my butt was augmented by another - a need to expel the liquid which grew and flourished to the point of being unbearable.

Then came the final ritual. Mom would slowly pull the long length of rubber out of me and make me stand in front of her, hopping from foot to foot with the effort of retaining the liquid, for a tongue-lashing before she finally permitted me to relieve the unbearable pressure.

I didn't resent mom's punishments, even if they would now be considered as child abuse. I knew that what she wanted most of all was for me to go to college so that I could get out of poverty and have a better quality of life than she had. I wanted it too - but sometimes the temptation to mischief won, and it was then that mom intervened with the paddle or the tube. The punishments were painful - hell, they were meant to be painful - but not brutal. The pain faded in a couple of hours and everything was back to normal, except that I was more diligent and less wild until the effect faded - and then she did it all over again.

When we were small, there was no particular privacy about enemas or punishment - we didn't have any desire for it. That all changed when I turned thirteen and Marie was a rapidly maturing eleven. As puberty hit us almost simultaneously, suddenly I became shy about my enlarging penis and its small bush of hair, while Marie became very self-conscious with regard to the bumps on her chest and her own crop of pubic hair. Mom obviously noticed, because both punishment and enemas became private affairs. It was just my luck - at the time I suddenly realised what girls were for and when my curiosity about the female body peaked, mom literally closed the door.

From that time, spankings took place in our bedrooms - and enemas behind the closed bathroom door. I suppose it must sound depraved when I say that I became totally obsessed with catching a glimpse of my sisters naked - particularly the part I had seen most of over the years. Their butts, in other words. Even the idea of that part of their bodies became incredibly erotic - I didn't want to touch or do anything to them, just watch...

The house was not exactly soundproof and my bedroom was adjacent to the girls', so that I could hear every sound that came from it. When one or other of them got paddled, I always hurried to my room, lay on my bed and pressed my ear to the wall. I would hear mom come in, then the lecture before the command to bend over and take the whacks. My fevered brain pictured the scene and I held my breath in an attempt to hear the rustle of fabric as my sister pushed her panties down to her ankles. I could see the paddle swinging and hear it contacting bare flesh, my own ass twitched in sympathy as each sharp contact sounded. I beat my meat into submission as the short slaps went on until the sound of sobbing and whining took me over the edge of orgasm.

There wasn't much I could do when one of them got an enema except to lie with my thoughts of the long red tube sliding into a small female butt, but occasionally mom decided that they should both have an enema at the same time. That was my chance to creep to the bathroom door with excruciating delicacy and apply my eye to the keyhole in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the procedure. Unfortunately, the sort of keyhole that gives you a wide angle, sharp focus view of a room exists only in the movies. What I got was an indentation in my head from the door catch, pains in my back from holding position and the occasional brief glimpse of bare flesh - plus an astronomical heart rate - but it was worth it!

The best of all was if mom didn't put the stuff away immediately. That gave me the chance to lock myself in the bathroom and slide the greased tube into my own asshole and then fill myself up with warm water while jerking frantically and imagining my sister in the same position. It became embarrassing when I had to take an enema myself because there was a good chance that I would get a boner, so I made sure that I wore a long football shirt whenever mom summoned me to have my bowels flushed out - it allowed me to conceal my state behind the fabric.

My own paddlings decreased as I got older and even the enemas tapered off as I turned from fourteen to fifteen and finally sixteen. By then I was working real hard at school because it had become obvious to both mom and me that the family savings were going to fall far short of meeting my college fees. But one of mom's jobs was for a company which sometimes awarded scholarships to outstanding students who were children of employees. Mom took me to see a couple of the suits who worked there and I got a promise that they would recommend me - but only if my grades were truly exceptional. So I worked my balls off and produced reports which were pretty well straight A - a few A minus grades were permissible, but I tried my very best to keep them to a minimum.

Then disaster struck. I reckoned my history essay had been pretty good, but it came back with a D. A lousy D for something I had worked at for a solid week. I protested, of course, but when I got my report card at the end of the week, all I could see was that awful letter D.

I didn't know what to do. My scholarship was going down the tubes and I just could not face mom with that report - she would be crushed, even more than I was. I could see the disappointment in her face, the accusation in her eyes saying that I had let both her and myself down. I had no fear of punishment - mom would take my word for it that I had tried my best - but her heartbreak would be worse than any physical punishment.

I wandered around for hours, trying to pluck up the courage to go home. I sat by the river and contemplated suicide, but I was too much of a coward to end my life. I finally decided that my only option was to run away from home and try to get a job somewhere - I had no money at all, so I just stated walking, hoping to be able to get a ride and maybe work for my breakfast somewhere.

Nobody stopped for me. Cars blasted past at high speed, but they were mainly commuters on autopilot in a hurry to get home. It began to get dark and I started to shiver - I wasn't dressed for a night in the open. Then a car slowed down and I turned to it with relief - until I saw that it was a cop car. Even worse - the deputy inside it knew me. He leaned across and opened the door, then told me to get in. I momentarily considered taking off over the fields, but there was no point really - my runaway day was over.

He drove me home in silence and then marched me to the door and pushed me inside.

"Here he is, ma'am. I reckon you'll know best how to deal with him."

Mom's lips were compressed into a thin line - she grabbed my arm and marched me into the kitchen.

"Girls - go to bed right now. And stay there."

Then she turned to glare at me.

"Well? What is it? Some girl pregnant, I suppose?"

"No! It's my report...."

She heard me out, then she opened the drawer and took out the paddle.

"I think we will go to the bathroom right now, young man."

I winced. The bathroom meant a paddling and an enema. With the colon tube.

"Aw, mom, I'm too old for that sort of thing now."

She stared me straight in the eye and I felt my will ebbing away. On the other hand, I was six inches taller and forty pounds heavier than her. No way could she force me. I stared right back at her without moving.

To my surprise, she just shrugged.

"All right then. If you reckon you don't need any punishment, then so be it."

I groaned to myself as a wave of guilt swept over me. I had done wrong, I had caused her a lot of worry, I had wrecked my chances of a scholarship. My legs forced me to stand up.

"Okay, mom, you're right. I do deserve to be punished."

I followed her to the bathroom and sat on the lid of the toilet while I watched her go through the ritual of filling the enema can. Then she fetched the colon tube - I had known I was going to get it, but it still made my stomach turn somersaults when I saw her attach it to the end of the hose.

Then she picked up the paddle, and my heart pounded with fear.

"Undress."

I looked at her with horror, but she was adamant.

"Get your clothes off. Every stitch. If you behave like a small child and run away, then you have to take your punishment the same way."

It was sheer agonising humiliation. Mom just stood there with the paddle in her hand and watched me undress. When I was buck naked, shivering slightly, she pointed with the paddle towards the low chest where we kept towels and things. I draped myself over it, feeling ridiculous - how many sixteen year old boys were ever in this situation?

Then I yelped as the paddle hit my butt - boy, she was laying it on! I got six of the best and by the end of it I was fighting to keep the tears back. Mom might only be small, but she could sure apply a paddle. I started to rise.

"Just stay right there. Legs apart."

Oh god - this was the ultimate in humiliation! I sneaked a look over my shoulder and sure enough, she was coating that god-awful tube with a thick layer of grease. It made me kinda dizzy when I thought of it going way up inside me, but I was committed now - to refuse would be chicken.

I gritted my teeth as the thick length of rubber slowly penetrated my asshole. I prayed for it to stop, but to no avail. It went in, inch by inch, while I filled up with hot soapsuds. I groaned with agony as the pressure built up, then breathed again when something inside of me allowed the liquid to make its way deeper into my intestines.

It seemed to take an hour, but eventually mom slowly pulled the tube out of my asshole - I leapt for the commode and allowed the liquid to blast its way out of me. Actually, it felt surprisingly good - particularly the coolness of the plastic seat against my tingling butt.

Then I saw mom filling the can up again.

"Mom? What's going on? I've had my punishment."

She gazed steadily at me.

"That was your punishment for running off and worrying us all out of our minds. This is your punishment for not trusting your mother when you were in trouble."

She waited until the last dribbles of liquid oozed out of my asshole before she picked up the paddle again.

"Come on - bend over."

I braced myself for another set of stinging swats, but mom must have reckoned that she had already hit me hard. Instead she administered a long series of light taps, each hard enough to sting, particularly since my butt was already burning from the first paddling. Then something strange happened - the pain was still there, but its nature changed from punishment to a warm, expanding glow that spread over my entire body - and, to my horror, it produced a boner.

I rapidly shifted my position to sandwich my erection between my body and the padded top of the chest, in the hope of concealing my state of excitement from my mother. It was a mistake - each slap produced a movement of my body, and each movement increased my state of sexual arousal.

Finally she put the paddle down and I prayed that she might spare me the enema. No way! She just thrust the tube back into my well-greased asshole.

Jeez. I almost came on the spot! My previous erotic interest in enemas had, I thought, been based on the fantasies of naked girls' butts that it conjured up. This was my first, unwelcome, introduction to the fact that the process itself could be erotic.

Mom didn't notice. Not until she gave the tube one long push to insert it more deeply. I completely lost control - my body started to move of its own accord, my hips moved back and forth, rubbing my dick against the cloth and I heard gasping and moaning that I belatedly realised was coming from me.

I came. And it went on and on, a warm sticky pool collecting beneath my body while I spasmed out of control until I finally collapsed into my own jism.

Next thing, the tube was gone - and so was mom. I weakly hauled myself upright, got rid of the liquid, then I took a shower and went to bed. I didn't see mom until breakfast time - I felt my face burning as I realised just what an awful thing had happened to me. She completely ignored it, though.

"Eat your breakfast. Then we're going to see the principal - I can't believe you deserved a D."

Boy - she laid into the guy. In the end, they discovered that three pages of the essay had gone astray and were still lying in the teacher's case. I reckon they were both so scared of mom that I would have gotten an A+ even if the whole thing had been rubbish!

The one thing I wanted after that was a repeat of the wonderful pleasure that my spanking and enema had produced. I tried pretending that I was stuffed - but mom just gave me an immense dose of some laxative that left me straining and weeping as it worked its way through my system. I got the message - no more enemas.

In fact, the memories slowly faded as I discovered that girls could produce the same sort of effect on me. By the time I finished college and my bar exams, the whole thing was just a distant memory.

Until that day when Marie, now married with eight year old twins - a boy and a girl, typical of her efficiency to get it all over in one pregnancy - called me and asked me to baby-sit. I didn't much go for babysitting - I had not married myself (lawyers are all too aware of community property laws) - and I spent most of my time playing the field. As far as I was concerned, kids were just plain encumbrances.

I tried to get out of it, but she was real desperate - they had a formal dinner that night and their regular sitter had been taken ill. So I tuned up, praying that the brats would behave themselves - my previous session had been a total disaster with the twins running totally out of control and breaking a vase that I felt obliged to replace.

When I arrived, the twins were already in their pyjamas and they seemed to be very much on their best behaviour - they didn't cause me a moment of trouble up to and including going to bed at 9 o'clock precisely. I waited for a few minutes then went up to read them the obligatory bedtime story - they knew each and every one by heart, but that did not seem to make any difference.

Their bedroom door was ajar, so I just pushed it open and walked in, to be greeted by the sight of my nephew's bright red bare butt being slathered with some sort of cream by his sister - she was equally bare-assed and equally red. I beat a hasty retreat, very much more embarrassed than they were, judging by the floods of giggles that came from the room.

I knew Maria was a mother, of course, but I had never thought of her as a Mother, someone like mom had been. Those red butts told a different story - Maria had obviously adopted some of mom's methods for raising kids.

I went back in, this time after knocking, and found the twins in bed. I was consumed with curiosity, but I had to restrain it, so I read them their story and waited until they were asleep.

Then I started to wonder. Just how many of mom's methods did Maria use? As I thought, memories of my own childhood started to emerge and firm up in my mind. All those "routine" enemas, the special ones with the colon tube....

I'm not proud of what I did next. It was a gross breach of trust and invasion of privacy, but I needed to know. And if Maria had administered enemas to the twins, there would be some evidence in the form of the equipment required, so I started to nose around her house. Finally, in her bedroom, I found it - underneath the bed was a useful-looking paddle and a large plastic bowl in which nestled a rubber enema bag - and a colon tube, still glistening with grease and dripping water from recent use.

As I inspected the equipment, memories of my last session with mom came flooding back with an intensity and power that left me breathless and erect. I could feel it again - my stinging butt, the blunt end of the tube nosing its way into my intestines, the sweet-sour feelings as it filled me up with liquid, the mental and physical catharsis as the liquid shot out and drained me of guilt in expurgation of my sins.

I simply could not resist the temptation. I carried the equipment into the bathroom and, for the first time, realised why there was a brass hook screwed into the wall. I filled the bag with warm water - there was no need for soap - and attached the colon tube to the hose. After double checking that the door was locked, I stripped to the buff and knelt in the bath in case my lack of expertise produced a flood. With my head pressing against the tap, I slowly inserted the colon tube into my anus.

Instant ecstasy! An incredible flood of erotic and sensual pleasure permeated my entire being - it was better than ever before. I felt like a virgin teenage boy after his first real date, not just in the intensity of my feeling but in the energy they were generating as I masturbated to one orgasm after another.

Later, when I was driving home, I saw an all-night pharmacy. I had seen it often enough before, but this time I had a special reason for patronising it.....

The End

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