I like to think I’ve given the culprit a real choice when I invite her to select which she’d like to receive first, the paddling, the enemas or the vigorous use of her behind. After all, a gentleman always lets the lady choose, and I am nothing if not a gentleman. Or so I’m told, even while the culprit’s bent over the rim of the tub with my cock jammed deep up her backside as she struggles to retain the enema while I make use of her posterior.
Sometimes I offer up an addition or two to the basic menu I’ve already outlined; for example, if I’m in an especially upbeat mood I may invite the culprit to be masturbated across my knee while having her bottom filled with soapy water. This is something I feel we can both enjoy – she for the overwhelming submission to my will and the naughty sensations my fingers and the nozzle in her bottom produce; I, for … well, for the joy I invariably get when I’m in control and creating misery and pleasure simultaneously in the recipient.
I should say that I’m sadistic in the allocation of reward; the masturbation, while pleasurable, is prolonged, in order that she take the entire bag full of water, to which I should say I’ve added an extra large helping of soap. Well, reward should be given only after it’s earned, and besides my own enthusiasm for rubbing the sopping wet space between the spread legs is only enhanced as I watch the level of the bag drop and the pressure in her backside build to a completely intolerable level.
It always creates a pretty scene, the shifting and tensing of her body across my knees, the delicious sight of her posterior impaled on the nozzle or, most appropriately, her cheeks spread wide apart by the inflated outer balloon of the double bardex, that most glorious of retention nozzles, the inflated rubber poking out from the well lubricated little opening I’ve forced it into.
I suppose at this point you’ll likely want to know the obvious – do I give pleasure in the form of intercourse or is it just rubbing while receiving and retaining? The answer is, yes, I do, in fact there’s nothing I like so much (apart from the use of the culprit’s bottom) as to give a punishment enema during sex, especially if it’s a beer enema and I can taste the beer on her breath as I administer it and she rides up and down seeking desperately for the release I may at some point provide.
Her discomfort is an incentive to ride, you see, and the nozzle in her backside makes her entirely tighter in front, which, needless to say, is something I can’t help but enjoy, not that it diminishes in any way the length of time I’ve resolved to make her post on me, or the ordeal I’ve committed to her undertaking.
The above exegesis should make plain that I’m a stickler for detail, I like sensation as much as the next gentleman, obviously, but what’s sensation without intricate planning and preparation to precede it?
Now planning has one major drawback – it distracts from my own enjoyment of the culprit’s predicament. Being in the driver’s seat is a pleasure, but it has the disadvantage that you generally have to drive and, in so doing, get so focused on the road that you just don’t enjoy the view.
But that’s a somewhat strained metaphor. To put it more simply, all the energy I put into preparing the culprit for the ordeal and the instruments of the ordeal for the culprit … it’s energy I’d rather expend elsewhere.
I do admit there’s a certain economy in my preparations that comes of long experience with the rod, which I set aside for use in the caning she’ll get at some point, or the different straps I have no doubt I’ll employ, or even the thin little leather piece I apply vigorously between the spread cheeks to get her little bumhole ready for my penetration. And so too there’s economy in my preparations of the bag, filled to the brim with the caustic soapy water that will wreak havoc in her entrails and pleasure in my cock if I have her ride as she receives and retains while skewered on it.
So too there’s parsimony in my laying out the double bardex – or rather, having her fetch it, and my watching her do so, the flaps of the gown swinging open in back so I can enjoy the sight of her red marked cheeks as she goes to get the instruments of her internal purging.
And even when she’s tied down and I’m viewing her spread cheeks with my cock just at the entryway, her bottomhole clenching desperately tight as she struggles to retain while waiting the unrelenting sodomy she’s about to receive, even in that position I prefer to require her to push back to take me in, thereby reducing my own efforts that would otherwise go to thrusting. I am a conservator of energy, I intend to use the behind for a good long while, and it’s for her good as well as my enjoyment that she should have to thrust herself back onto me.
Something I invariably have to explain each time the event occurs, or, in the alternative, have her recite to me each time she thrusts her paddled posterior back to take me deep inside, her stomach gurgling and her tight little portal squeezing desperately on me as I slide in and out.
One thing I’ve found over time is that there’s some real solace to be found in leaving the decision-making to fate, in the form of a flip of a coin or some other mechanism that introduces a measure of chance into the length and severity of the correction.
Consider the amount of soap in the enema bag, if it’s up to me I’ll likely decide to be kind and use less than a true punishment requires. I’ve always been soft and age has only increased my lapses in this direction.
And so we play a little game instead, one where I fill the bag with water and then hand her a pair of dice for her to roll to determine the length of the retention. And roll she does, not once but twice, for a single roll would be, at most, 12 minutes, which is clearly too short to constitute a real purge under any circumstances.
No, two rolls, 4 minutes at a minimum, and 24 minutes at most. So when the retention happens, the length’s fate’s choice, not mine. I am simply there to enforce what chance has chosen, and of course to ensure that she be a good girl and retain the entire bag for the entire time the dice have decreed.
You can see how this makes a situation more interesting, also how the mechanism I’ve described is easily extrapolated to other choices that would otherwise fall on my shoulders to make. The number of packets of soap in the water, a roll of a single die will decide. I admit 6 packets is excruciating, or so I have to judge based on the cries for mercy and release. Buf if that’s what’s been rolled, that’s what she’ll have, whether she likes it or not.
And then the number of strokes of the cane that precede the cleaning out beforehand, two dice for that one, and similarly for the strokes to be applied after her behind’s been put to use. I admit that there’s some monotony to a defined range of 2 (at a minimum) and 12 (at most), so I sometimes add a third or even a forth die just to ensure variety. Yes, the grand total of 48 strokes is substantial, but punishment requires severity, and as I said, if left to my own devices I’m otherwise inclined far too much to kindness.
There’s poignancy in this approach, she may look at me with desperation, pleading with me to be less severe than the dice have decreed; but it’s not up to me anymore, I’m the enforcer of the sentence, not the enactor of its terms.
I’ve written other discourses on the combination of choice and fate, for example the use of the enema chair in corrections. You’ll recall that this is a particularly interesting invention of mine, the arrangement being in brief the girl positioned on a moveable seat with an open center, her bottomhole directly over the vertically placed nozzle, her arms strapped to the arms of the apparatus so that, for as long as she can hold herself up from the nozzle, she can avoid its penetration and, on full penetration, the flow of the enema.
This mechanism immediately creates a captivating scene. The culprit is led in to the location where the chair’s been set up, sometimes she and I are alone, other times there’s an audience, sometimes viewable to her, sometimes in the dark half of the room where she’ll receive the correction. She’s usually clothed in front, bared in back, and, after being seated on the chair, her arms are strapped down to the chair and her behind is positioned directly over the nozzle.
As I said the seat moves, vertically, it’s on springs balanced to push up, but not enough to overcome the culprit’s weight. Therefore, if the girl chooses not to push up with her arms, she’ll sink down onto the nozzle, which will intrude its way deep up her vaselined behind and, when it reaches its maximum depth, a valve will be triggered that starts the flow from the bulging bag over her head.
Most culprits choose to hold themselves up off the nozzle, but the arms tire eventually, and a little drama ensues as they do so, as the culprit struggles, the arms buckle, the nozzle penetrates, and then the culprit rallies and pulls herself back up off the nozzle.
After which the cycle repeats, each time becoming more and more desperate, the ultimate ending already set in stone, only the timing of that ending uncertain.
Now I suppose if you wish to be a stickler about it, the above really exemplifies three principles rather than two: my role in the punishment, that of fate, and the extent – whether large or small – of the culprit herself in controlling the correction.
That last one is particularly fascinating since it speaks volumes about the female psyche to see how different culprits approach a session on the chair.
In this regard let me set aside the question of how filled I’ve made the bag (very), or how much soap I’ve added (a great deal) or how large a nozzle I’ve chosen for the punishment (this does vary). Instead confine yourself to a single variable – how the culprit chooses to descend onto the nozzle and receive the enema. Will she choose it to be quick, or will she struggle for as long as possible to prevent the preordained ending?
Will she bless us with a valiant struggle, the minutes ticking by as the arms weaken and the anus distends further and further as she sinks onto the nozzle? Or will she take her medicine without hesitation or resistance, letting her behind sink down immediately, hoping perhaps that the retention will be shortened in light of her cooperativeness?
I’ve yet to see a single pattern, it’s really a different ride for each person made to take the punishment. I am a student of submission, yet each woman is different in how she takes what’s happening, and I never attempt to wager on what choice an individual will make. I’ve seen the most robust of culprits meekly drop straight down onto the nozzle; and I’ve seen the seemingly most delicate struggle for 20 minutes or more to keep up and off the nozzle, a most pointless display of resistance in my view.
Somewhere at hand I have a record book of each of these sessions, who the culprit was, how long she held out, which nozzle was used and how long I made the retention. I don’t know that columns of numbers are fascinating under usual circumstances; but I guarantee that this book is fascinating to peruse, even for the most innumerate.
And this doesn’t even begin to describe the variety of noises the culprits make during the procedure, by which I mean both noises emanating from between the lips, and also those arising from lower down, between the beaten cheeks.
I know I should describe these to you as well, and the mortification culprits undergo during the production of these sounds (especially those from lower down).
Alas, I must defer this discussion to some other time, as I have pressing duties elsewhere. I’m sure you can infer from context what I mean by this statement.