I admit to having a longstanding enjoyment of a female bottom suitably presented in a frame of stockings and garters (or “suspender belt” as our relations across the pond put it). While a hospital gown has the advantage of emphasizing the accessibility of the bottom without playing up its attractiveness (“your bottom isn’t here to be admired, it’s here to be *used*”), stockings and garters not only emphasize availability, they also help accentuate the *desirability* of making use of that which is so conveniently presented.
As a case in point, consider this first picture of an enema I gave some time ago — or rather, of the culprit that I gave the enema to, suitably presented on her side displaying her spanked bottom to my view as she waited for me to open the clamp on the quite full bag. The nozzle was the hard plastic barium nozzle, the bag full of plain water for this first enema — but note how lovely she looks with her behind thrust out, her underpants artfully arranged (by me) just below her cheeks, thereby further delineating her bared backside and the nozzle thrust deep into it.
A photo is only a momentary glimpse into a continuously unfolding tale, and not long after I’d taken this one, I’d sat down behind the miscreant you see here, put one hand between her legs and, while I flipped the clamp on the hose on and off, began to rub her between her legs, all the while promising that she wouldn’t get to orgasm until she’d taken — and held — the entire contents of the enema bag.
Now I’m sure there are those of you out there who wonder why it might be that I’d masturbate the culprit — surely that’s adding pleasure to what ought be an unpleasant occasion? Well, thing is, having an orgasm while being given spurts of water up the behind isn’t so easy, even for the most orgasmically inclined. And so the *promise* of release (which you’ll note I never made) and the *reality* of that release are, almost inevitably, divergent. Or to put it another way, rubbing alone wouldn’t bring her to climax, and, the more full her bowels, the less inclined to orgasm she’d be. So whatever promise of pleasure I might have made, it was, at the very least, punishment tinged.
In the instant case, enough time has gone by that I don’t recall whether she came or not; if she did, her orgasm didn’t change the fact that I wanted her to have a *good* retention, i.e., at least 10 minutes on her side with her bottom out and the warm water working to purge her bowels. In this case a good retention was all the more important because I intended her to have a soapy enema immediately afterwards, and it’s much easier to retain soapy water if the bowels are already mostly cleaned out.
So, if she did come, she still had to lie there and try to balance what would otherwise have been the warm afterglow of release with the fact that I was still introducing water into her behind, and insisting that, regardless of the pressure, she wouldn’t get to go potty until ten minutes had passed.
Ten … very … slow … minutes. At least for her.
**
Now we move on to the second enema, in which I’ve positioned her on her hands and knees with her head down and her bum raised well up in the air. A lovely exposed position, I get to see everything between her legs as well as between her cheeks; and its also a position in which the soapy water rushes in much faster than if she’d been on her side.
Looking at this particular photo brings back quite a few memories. Closing my eyes I can smell the odor of KY that filled the air as I applied it to the nozzle — at that time I was partial to KY, now it’s Vaseline or, for naughty girls, Vicks. We all change our favorite wines as we age, why not lubricants as well? I can also recall how warm her cheeks were from the spanking I’d just given her, and how resistant her bottom was to the entry of the lubricated nozzle. And how I made her have it even so, pushing in slowly, but ignoring the little pleading noises she made as I pushed.
Once the nozzle was in, I made her wait, head down bottom up, waiting for me to open the clamp and let the soapy water surge into her. I don’t honestly recall how long I made her kneel, but I do remember enjoying every moment of that wait, my hand on the clamp, her cheeks tensing every time she mistook some background noise to be the opening of the clamp.
I’ve given many enemas in this particular position; in every case I’m told (in pleading tones) how quickly the water runs in, and how deep. Certainly I can vouch for the fact that the bag empties quite rapidly, and I can also attest that the pleading begins almost immediately after the CLICK of the clamp.
It’s really quite unfortunate that there’s no audio to accompany these photos; if there were, you’d be able to hear all that I describe. Oh well, you’ll just have to imagine it. But the imagination is an underrated sexual organ.
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