enema | My First Enema

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My First Enema


I was 15, and the year was 1957. I had passed out in the bathroom with some really severe stomach cramps. Mom and Dad heard the thud and came running, but I was coming around by the time they got there. They got me to my bed, and Dad stayed while I got into my pajamas and Mom called the doctor, because she was afraid I might have appendicitis.

Dr. Bill came to the house (they did that in those days), and examined me, punching and probing. He told my parents that I did not have appendicitis, that the cramping had probably been caused by gas. On his way out, I heard him tell my parents to give me a soapsuds enema and that that would help me expel the gas. I was horrified. I knew what an enema was because I had seen a boy get one when I was in the hospital at 13, and that boy was one unhappy camper. As they went downstairs I heard him telling them to pour some Ivory Flakes (soap flakes were available then, this wasn't detergent.) into some water and to fill the bag, and that once it was in for me to hold it for five minutes. They were thanking him and asking him other questions as I listened at the door to my room. My ears were burning with embarrassment.

My parents were not enema people. I knew there was an enema bag in the closet outside their bedroom, but I thought that was used only as a hot water bottle. I know my older sister had not had one, and I could tell that my parents had probably not had one themselves.

Mom went into the kitchen and Dad passed by my room on the way to the closet. I almost cried from embarrassment. "Don't give me an enema, Dad!" I pleaded.

"The doctor said you needed it, Bobby, so go back to bed and rest."

Mom and Dad seemed uncertain about what had to be done. I heard them talking between them as to how much soap should be in the solution, and they agreed on a half-cup and then "a little more". Then I heard them coming upstairs. Dad came into my room with the enema bag and Mom went to get the Vaseline (I knew where that was kept—in the drawer on Dad's side of the bed, along with a box of Trojans—I guess he didn't know not to use Vaseline on them.)

The red bag was full and bulging. I could tell that they felt as awkward as I felt embarrassed. They seemed clumsy as they arranged things. Mom want to the bathroom, which was just a few feet from my bed, and got some towels and folded them to put under me. I was very unhappy.

Finally, Mom said the fateful words, "Bobby, turn over and slip your pajamas down. Dad was still holding the bag and hose and mom had the Vaseline jar open.

I turned onto my stomach and pushed my pajamas down. I was very self- conscious about the newly grown, bushy pubic hair that I didn't think they had ever seen. The last time Dad has spanked me was at 12, and it hadn't started growing then. I tried my best to hide it. I pushed my pajama pants down just enough to expose my behind. Dad reached down and tugged them down a few more inches as I watched Mom dip the black nozzle into the Vaseline.

I turned away and felt Mom's thumb and forefinger tried to spread my butt cheeks as Dad looked on. But she couldn't do it with her fingers and turned to pulling them apart with each hand, really wide. Dad moved the light closer so she could see better and she inserted the enema nozzle, misjudging the angle, and I jumped as she poked me. Dad was tense and flustered and barked at her to be careful, as she again spread my cheeks and inserted the nozzle gently but firmly and held it there.

"Go ahead," she murmured to Dad, as he released the clip and held the enema bag high. I felt the water flooding into my rectum. In retrospect, I know now that Dad was holding the bag way too high and the solution was much too soapy, and that they were making me take two quarts, probably too much for my age. I gasped and clenched my buttocks together to control the urges. Mom held the nozzle securely in my rectum as she and Dad watched the bag empty.

"Take it out…PLEASE!" I cried. They didn't say anything but it kept running. Once or twice Dad clamped the hose for a few seconds.

"Just a little more, Bobby," said Mom a couple of times. I was gritting my teeth and clenching my fists. I had forgotten my embarrassment and was concentrating on keeping the harsh enema in. To this day, I don't know how I did it.

Finally the bag emptied and Dad gave it to Mom to take out of the room. He stood there and held my butt cheeks together to help me hold it in, and firmly told me that I had to hold it for five minutes. Dad was a "by the books" person, and I knew that if the doc said it, it would be done.

I don't think it was quite five minutes later that he helped me up and into the bathroom, and sat me on the toilet to expel the enema. He stayed with me, not so much to supervise as to make sure I didn't fall out again. It seemed like forever until I got it all out.

Dad ran some water into the tub and helped me take my pajamas off and take a warm bath. He then helped me dry off and get back into bed. I realized that my embarrassment had faded and that I was comfortable with him in my nudity. It was shortly after that that we began going to the YMCA together, and I had felt that he had accepted me in a new, respectful way. I idolized my dad.

Although it was not at all erotic at the time, it has provided me with erotic fantasies ever since. The next enema I was to get later in the year was before going to the hospital for an appendectomy.

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