Author: mrstrict1

Before punishing a miscreant — especially a miscreant who I’ve never disciplined before — I usually spend some time explaining what I intend to do, and the sequence in which I’m likely to administer whatever correction or corrections I’ve deemed necessary. Thus for example I recently had a conversation with a young lady badly in need of the loss of control and intense embarrassment that a bare bottom spanking, enemas and, ultimately, bottom sex brings, and in that conversation I walked her through the sequence of events she’d be experiencing, starting with her attire (school uniform), the process of undressing her for correction (first spanking over white underpants; second spanking on the bare bottom with her panties down to her knees), the fact that she’d get the spankings over my lap, the fact that she’d get the enemas in the same position …

As my description went on, I suddenly realized that there’d be a much more effective way of preparing her for her first spanking, first punishment enema, and first experience at having her bottom used. To whit, that I could provide a description on my website of the events I was contemplating for her. And — since a picture’s worth a thousand words — that it would be even more effective preparation for correction if I were to provide pictures from an earlier discipline session of a different culprit to illustrate what she was going to receive.

Thus the content of this page. *You* obviously don’t know who she is; *she*, on the other hand, is very well aware of her identity and the fact that I’ve prepared the text and pictures on this page specifically for her contemplation. One other thing — the pictures are from a session I’d conducted some time ago with someone very special to me who I was mentoring at the time, and to better protect her identity I’ve manipulated these images somewhat. I know there are some readers who would prefer to see the source photos (ideally in their full resolution as well); be that as it may, my artistic manipulations will have to suffice, and the reader is invited to use the God-given gift of their own imagination to conjure the originals.

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1. The Pre-Enema Spanking. There must always be a spanking before the administration of the enemas, since it’s important that the culprit have a sore bottom before she gets the nozzle and then the water up her behind. This picture illustrates a rather informal spanking, in fact a bedtime spanking, since the culprit is only wearing her t-shirt and panties (now banded at her knees), rather than what I promised the miscreant in the instant case, which was the full schoolgirl outfit. Schoolgirls are only one of a myriad of possibilities of course, and cute pjs to the knees with bottom bared over my lap (as was the case here) is equally as embarrassing for the culprit, and equally as satisfying … for me.

One other thing. For the spanking that you see in the illustration I used a leather paddle with a steel stiffener inside. This instrument of correction provides a satisfyingly loud SMACK (so useful when the window is left open for the benefit of passers-by); is painful, but not to the extent of a reformatory strap or Truro Terror; and, because of its intermediate effect, should certainly be followed by a handspanking, which allows me to feel the victim’s warm sore skin against my palm, and the victim to feel the indignity of knowing how much I’m enjoying the proceedings, even at this early stage.

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2. The Transition Period. All good things must come to an end, and, therefore, eventually the spanking must conclude and the washing outs must commence. I certainly enjoy spanking; it’s always uncertain to what extent the culprit enjoys being spanked, but certainly a spanking ends up being preferable to what comes next, as this illustration demonstrates.

Or maybe the illustration doesn’t capture what I remember vividly from the punishment that gave rise to the illustration. Getting her to her feet, unsteady after being over my lap for so long. How I scolded as she squirmed, sore red bottom on display, no doubt feeling the chilly air blowing over her hot cheeks (it was early fall, and there was already an Autumnal flavor to the air). How I made her stand there for longer than usual, listening to my lecture, part of her mind on what I was saying; probably an entirely larger part of her thoughts directed to what was coming next, for I’d already hung the bulging bag on the stand in front of her and I’m sure she watched the hose sway back and forth, the business end (in this case the small nozzle) already heavily lubricated with Vaseline.

I’m sure my words flesh out any deficiencies in the picture, both for the reader and, probably more importantly, for the particular person I’ve written this page for.

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3. The First Enema Commences. At the point in the proceedings illustrated here, I’ve already spread the culprit’s cheeks, inserted the little nozzle, and am now in the process of starting the flow of water. In the case of a newcomer to enemas, it’s common courtesy to start with a plain water enema (with a little salt in it to achieve isotonicity); once that’s been taken, retained to my satisfaction, and then expelled (in private, again a courtesy, but one that I inevitably hew to), we may proceed to the soapy water punishment enema, or enemas, as the case may be.

If you look closely at the illustration, you’ll see that my left hand is in the process of unclamping the hose to let the water flow; surprisingly — and a sign of good behavior indeed — the soon-to-be-recipient has managed not to tense her buttocks in a completely futile attempt to stop the sudden influx of water that’s about to occur. Such good behavior should always be rewarded, and you’ll note that indeed my right hand is soothingly resting on her lower back, a reassuring touch that presumably does at least a bit to reduce her understandable nervousness at this point.

Another point with regard to this illustration: as I recall this was the first enema I’d ever given this miscreant, so the moment captured is quite a poignant one indeed. The fact that she’d never had an enema before might also explain her relaxation; usually this moment is associated with squirming, pleading, crossed-legs, and tears. Such is clearly not the case here. Whether the more usual events will obtain when the person I’m writing this for goes over my knee … remains to be seen.

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4. A Pause, To Spank With The Water In. It’s always odd to me how deceptive appearances can be, in this case the appearances suggested by the seeming pastorality of the illustration we now contemplate.

In fact the appearances are deceptive — that right hand casually resting on her buttock is actually only pausing between spanks, and similarly the apparent relaxation of her firm rear cheeks is also equally as transitory; when my left hand unclamps the hose again and more warm water shoots up into her already full bowels, I guarantee the cheeks will go back into the clenching circling dance that earned her the spanking in the first place.

The larger question I suppose, is whether I’d have spanked her even if she’d achieved perfection across my knee. I think we all know the answer to that, which is of course “yes.” Yes, it’s completely appropriate for there to be a spanking while the enema is administered, although in general its of the type shown here, a plain hand spanking. But the smacks add to the embarrassment, lengthen the retention, and cause the nozzle to tickle up and down in the distended anus of the culprit, a sensation that, on top of the water in the bowels, can only add to the effectiveness of the correction. Or, since this is only a plain water washing out, the *pre*-correction.

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5. The Scolding While The Urge To Expel Grows … And Grows. We’re now at the climax of the first washout: the point where the desperation to expel is denied in order that a good long lecture on behavior can be delivered. In this case I’ve increased the intensity of the moment by getting the culprit up off my knees — the bathroom is now potentially more obtainable, but the transition from recumbency increases the downward pressure of the water, so there’s really very little relief in being gotten off my lap.

Depending upon how well the culprit is doing at holding her water, I might keep her in this position for four or five minutes (doing very well indeed) or, on the other hand, 30 seconds (not doing very well at all). You’ll note that she still has the small nozzle in place in her bum, and there’s good reason for this: it helps her keep the water in. Admittedly it adds to the embarrassment, especially as the swinging of the hose makes for increased movement of the nozzle and therefore increased tickling back there even when she’s just standing there (you’ll note that in this illustration I’m affording the kindness of holding the hose up so that it doesn’t move as much). And of course that tickling gets much worse when the walk (or run) to the bathroom ensues — as it does moments after this picture was taken.

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6. The Wait For The Second Enema. We’ve now finished the first cleansing, it’s about time to get down to the business of the actual punishment enema, the one with soapy water in it to cause a more complete cleaning out, increased discomfort (little contractions of the tummy muscles if only mildly soapy; actual cramps if more soapy), and intense mortification. This illustration shows another momentary respite in the procedure, one where the culprit gets a chance to catch her breath, and I get the chance to both sooth and scold.

I’m often asked how I know what’s “appropriate punishment” for any particular culprit, how much is too little, how much is too much? This illustration shows a hard pause in the proceedings that allows me to do exactly that sort of assessment: assuming the culprit is physically and emotionally ready to proceed to the punishment enema, we proceed; on the other hand, if we need to take a longer break before that happens — or even stop altogether — this momentary pause allows me time to evaluate and decide the best path forward.

And in that same spirit of momentary pause before proceeding, it seems very appropriate to break this post here, as we wait before the real punishment begins. I shall of course continue, but, for the present, I want what I’ve written thus far to have a chance to make an impact on the one person who’s reading this knowing *she’s* the topic of conversation.

Until next time, I remain, as always, M.R. Strict.

I started posting my stories in 1999, so the likelihood of someone already having stolen this COPYRIGHTED material is high.  Even so, remember this material is COPYRIGHT MRSTRICT1@AOL.COM and cannot be reproduced or sold without prior express written permission.

Also note that, if you're going to steal this and repost it, at least don't claim it as your own writing; credit me, and put up a link to this website!

In this case the culprit was required to insert a medium sized rectal plug while I discussed her behavior with her. After the requisite amount of time for the scolding (with the requirement that she move the plug in her behind while I scolded), I informed her that, because of the extent of her misbehavior, she would also be having a squeeze bulb punishment enema, i.e., 4-5 bulbfulls of soapy water squirted into her bowels.

Had the punishment taken place in person she would have gone over my knee with her behind bared for the correction (and she would have been paddled first). Since this punishment took place over the phone, I had her on her side on the bed … and, because I wasn’t there to administer the enema in person, I required a much longer retention than I would have demanded had she been across my lap.

I should note that, although it may sound to the reader as if a phone punishment can’t compare in severity to what I administer in person, in fact it is as common for a culprit to cry during phone discipline as discipline administered in person. Perhaps more common, now that I think about it, as I usually require expulsion of the enema (or enemas as the case may be) by the culprit while I talk to her and listen to her behind misbehave. In person this is so intense that a kind of mental gridlock often ensues, a headspace that precludes an emotional release like crying. Over the phone, however, the mortification is paradoxically both more and less intense — more intense because the submission is much greater (I’m not even there to “make” her do what I want; it’s the force of my voice and the desire to have the release that binds us together, more tightly than any restraints could or would do) and less intense because, although I hear what her behind is doing, I’m not actually there to witness it. As a result, the conditions seem to be optimal for release of emotions as well as of the punishment solution she’s had administered into her backside.

As the reader will guess, there are a variety of means other than phone conversation for me to ascertain the compliance of the miscreant with my directions; in this case I believe a webcam was used. I don’t have an audio recording of this session, although I have certainly recorded audio in the past (and indeed my old website mrstrict.com had audio on it). As the misdeeds continue the likelihood of postings beyond artistic ones such as these increases. In the future it may consequently be necessary to present audio or possibly video (of the culprit’s bottom only) of corrections.

By the way, I am sure that there are those readers who wish less artistry in the visual evidence, and would instead prefer a series of sharp stills (or preferably videos) of the correction being administered to the culprit’s behind and, perhaps even more to the point, the culprit’s bottomhole. I am perfectly capable of making public such pictures as the failure of the culprit to behave requires. On the other hand, starting with artistry rather than explicit clarity allows for the subsequent increase in exposure that increasingly less artistry allows.

But frankly there’s an additional reason as well … not only does starting this way increase the fear of the culprit as to what *may* come, it also increases the desire of the reader(s) that those things *do* come. So the miscreant is faced with the fact that continued misbehavior on her part only increases the desires of the viewers of her corrections to see and hear ever more detailed and ever more severe punishments.

Deterrence indeed.

I started posting my stories in 1999, so the likelihood of someone already having stolen this COPYRIGHTED material is high.  Even so, remember this material is COPYRIGHT MRSTRICT1@AOL.COM and cannot be reproduced or sold without prior express written permission.

Also note that, if you're going to steal this and repost it, at least don't claim it as your own writing; credit me, and put up a link to this website!

The room’s been emptied of all its contents; the cabinets that stand at its dark periphery have been closed and locked, all that remains is a wooden chair and, facing it from the middle of the cavernous space, an old-fashioned commode, heavy wood with a cold thick marble seat above the large enameled bowl that fits underneath.

The young woman is positioned over the commode facing towards one of the distant dark walls, her direction chosen so her face can’t be seen, her orientation purposefully selected so the man sitting quietly in the chair ten or so feet behind her can focus on the cane-scored behind and on what he’s doing with it. The behind, and the hose coming out from between the cheeks. The walls are thick, so no birds are to be heard, nor any other sound from the outer world. The only noise is the sound of the young woman breathing, exhaling sharply as she holds her position astraddle the commode, the posterior rudely spread to the man’s view, the tramlined cheeks perhaps a foot above the marble seat as she squats there, behind sticking back, holding position, the hose swaying slightly as she tries her best not to move.

Time passes slowly in such situations, and the man’s gaze, at first focused on the schoolgirl’s sixth-form buttocks and the skirt that’s been pinned up above them, now begins to wander elsewhere. To the small window in the corner that, through its thick bars, lets in the only natural light. To the cabinet that holds the cane he’d used to administer the first part of the discipline. To the tall closet where he’d made her walk to get the rubber bag that now hangs from the stand attached to the commode, the bag of very soapy water he’s just emptied to fill her bowels.

To the deep recess between the cheeks where the hose joins the thick nozzle he’s inserted into the bottom, the intrusive probe in the Vaselined ass. And, finally, to the legs tensing and straining as she begins the long struggle to hold herself firmly up over the marble seat of the commode that she straddles.

**

There’s a single light in the ceiling that casts its beam down to illuminate the girl beneath it; the man in the chair sees that light playing on the raw buttocks she’s presenting, sees it illuminating the surface of the marble seat she’s positioned over.

The illumination makes plain a set of facts he already knows: the seat’s been Vaselined, and the Vaseline has in turn been coated with a thin layer of yellow chalk. He knows these facts because he’s watched the girl greasing the seat, and then, after she’d done that to his satisfaction, sprinkling on the chalk. He’s watched her preparing the seat after he’d finished caning her, after he’d forced the nozzle up past her fear-clenched rectum. Made her do these things only after he’s pushed the nozzle in, so he could watch the hose sway as she prepared the seat, so he could see the hose dangle down from her cheeks and then rise up again to the bag hanging filled above her head.

**

She’s not the first girl to be in this room with him, nor the first girl he’s had prepare the seat in this way. There’s a reason for it, this preparation, a simple one that he always points out to the girl he’s about to punish: obedience. “A simple obedience test,” he says, “to make sure the point’s been driven home.”

And the test itself? It is simple, a paradigm of straighforwardness, something that could be accomplished with the smallest amount of equipment and effort. Simple — but all the more awful in its simplicity.

The girl is given the enema and then made to straddle the commode over the aperture, waiting with her buttocks facing him while he enjoys the sight of the hose dangling from her behind. He sits in the chair and watches the hose sway, watches the swaying increase as the pressure in the distended stomach grow. He sits there, watching the hose move as the behind slowly gyrates, wondering to himself at what point he’ll stand up and walk forward to pull the nozzle from its moorings.

And then? He’ll return to his seat and sit and watch as she empties herself, obtaining the relief that voiding into the commode offers.

With one small twist — as proof of her obedience she may not touch her behind to the seat at any time during the expulsion of the enema. If she does, chalky Vaseline will mark the point — or points — of contact, those marks of failure to be removed at the end of the proceedings by the application of the cane to the indicated areas — the cane applied unmercifully until welts obscure the adhering chalk.

The course of events that’s about to unfold is quite familiar to him, and as he sits and watches the girl hold position, the pressure in her bowels growing, he wonders when he’ll remove the nozzle, and how much of her behind will be marked with chalk by the time she’s completely released the first purge.

The first purge, but certainly not the last, for he intends it to be a very long afternoon in the basement room.

I started posting my stories in 1999, so the likelihood of someone already having stolen this COPYRIGHTED material is high.  Even so, remember this material is COPYRIGHT MRSTRICT1@AOL.COM and cannot be reproduced or sold without prior express written permission.

Also note that, if you're going to steal this and repost it, at least don't claim it as your own writing; credit me, and put up a link to this website!

A piece of cake sits on a small rolling table, close enough for her to see the icing glinting in the pool of afternoon sunlight coming in through a gap in the curtains, close enough for her to smell the pieces of sugar encrusting its exterior. Her mouth waters, the saliva pools against her dry lips. Her hunger is palpable; but the last thing she wants is to sample the morsel in front of her.

He comes back into her field of view holding a knife and fork, sits down on a chair by the rolling table, carefully positions the knife over the cake. Cuts down, dividing it into three smaller portions, then uses the fork to bring up a piece on the tines that he extends across the table towards her. Slowly. She watches as the cake and the fork approach.

As it nears her lips she obediently opens her mouth. She wants to close her eyes, but that’s not allowed. So she forces herself to keep them open, permitting herself the lesser disobedience of shifting her attention to his hand holding the end of the fork. The cake enters her; she holds her mouth open for it in what she hopes is a dainty round “O” of capitulation. She tastes the sugar as she bites down, sinking her teeth in until they encounter the hardness of the fork and then the slightly tannic taste of the tines against her lips.

He holds the fork in her mouth as she licks the resides of cake from it; holds the fork unmoving as she methodically cleans it, moving her mouth back and forth. She keeps her mouth open as she licks so that he can measure her progress; when every crumb of the cake is gone he withdraws the fork and lays it down gently on the table.

He leans back in his chair to watch her as she sits there, feeling the sweetness of the residual sugar on her lips slowly dissipating, imagining she can feel the cake moving down into her stomach, the release of acids, and the process of digestion that they bring.

He smiles. “It will take a little while to have an effect,” he says, “we might as well enjoy the rest of this piece beforehand.” She sits staring dumbly at the table, listening to his words, her face and ears burning. His hand moves on the table, picks up the fork again; she watches as he dips it into the cake and brings up another chunk.

“Open your mouth,” he says, “and let’s be a good girl and finish the rest.” Dutifully she does as told; chewing the cake she thinks she’s beginning to feel the effects, although the tightening in her guts may be due to the fear of the event to come, rather than the event itself.

She finishes the piece of cake, he dips the fork back in and brings up another. A few more bites and she’ll have eaten the third she’s been working on. She wonders if he’ll make her start another piece before the effects of the what she’s already consumed make themselves manifest. He holds the fork in her mouth; she chews.

**

Time passes as she stands in the corner facing the white plastered intersection of the walls. There’s a leaden presence in her guts now; it’s not the cake, but rather what the cake contained – a powerful laxative, a punishment method he’s discussed with her in the past, and she has no reason to doubt he’s followed though on his earlier threats.

He comes back from the other room; she knows from the sound of the water running and the clinking in the sink what he’s been doing. She hears him hang the apparatus from the hook on the wall behind her; after a moment she feels him slide his hands into the waistband of her skirt. Down it come, slowly descending down her legs; she feels the cold air suddenly blowing on her warm thighs, is aware of what she’s showing him, and how much more he’s about to make her reveal.

He makes her stand like that for a moment, skirt down at her knees, underpants still up; then his hands go into the waistband of her panties and down they come as well, to just below the jutting cheeks. She feels herself swaying a little and pushes her face further into the corner, close enough to see every imperfection in the paint, every crack in the plaster; close enough to smell the cooler air that pools there, with the faint tang of dust and mildew a faint tickling sensation in her nostrils.

He tells her to reach her hands down and separate herself, and she does; she’s similarly obedient when he instructs her to shuffle backwards so that she can bend and present her behind for the nozzle. She complies, then pushes herself out down there so that the little hole between her buttocks is opened and waiting.

She holds the position; he does nothing for a number of minutes as she waits – or perhaps he’s just enjoying the view, but she can’t see his face to verify her suspicion. She keeps herself steady; finally, she hears him move, feels the head of the nozzle up against her anus, the greasy feeling of the plastic intruder pressing against her there. He says nothing to her, but she knows what needs to be done and, without a word, begins to push her behind back onto the nozzle, feeling it entering past her rectum and into her tight bowels. Slowly.

He lets her pause, which she does for a few seconds, trying to become accustomed to the hard intruder there, painfully aware of how much it increases the physical need the laxative she’s ingested is causing. He holds the nozzle steady, waiting, and after a time she resumes pushing backwards. The nozzle’s head is pear shaped, and the shaft gets thicker the further from the head it goes, so it takes her time to take it all inside, and she feels each inch going in as she pushed back to let it penetrate.

She waits, then pulls her behind back away from him so that the nozzle withdraws almost completely; after another pause she pushes her behind down onto it to take it back in. Back and forth she moves on the nozzle, each time finding its entry a little easier; after 10 or 12 repetitions it moves easily and, finally, when she is able to take it almost to its full depth, she stops moving and clenches herself to keep the nozzle inside.

**

She sits rigidly on the tall wooden stool; he stands in front of her, holding another piece of the cake in her mouth for her to chew.

Behind her is a long mirror, and she knows what he sees if he chooses to look in it. The white flaps of the gown hanging open in back to expose her buttocks, which perch as well as they can on the stool. Between them, the nozzle protrudes, the hose hangs down towards the floor then loops up to the enema bag hanging above her. She sees none of this, but knows the sight, knows the bag is filled to the brim, knows the water is very soapy. Her guts ache from the earlier effect of the laxative – expulsion has not been allowed – and she chews down on the cake with unease as she waits for him to start the flow of the punishment enema into her.

The cake is sweet in her mouth; its aroma pungent in her nostrils. Earlier she’d have found either its taste or its odor appealing; now she finds both revolting, a result of the aberrant conditioning he’s making her undergo.

She eats the cake, trying not to let her eyes stray to his other hand, which at the moment rests loosely around the clamp on the hose. At any moment she knows he’ll pop it open and let the solution flow; she knows it will fill her, causing her first discomfort and then misery, and that neither sensation will change the certainty of having to finish as much of the cake as he intends her to eat.

She takes another bite; his hand tenses suddenly, opening the clamp, the water surges into her overfilled bowels as she chews. The bag empties rapidly into her behind; his hand holds the fork unmoving in her mouth, his eyes on her jaw as she chews.

**

She’s bent over the stool, looking at the cake, feeling his stiffness slicing in and out of her backside. With each forceful thrust forward the cake comes closer; with each withdrawal it recedes. She focuses on it, hoping that in that focus she’ll be able to fight the base physical need that’s overwhelming her. In, out, in … out. She grips as tightly as she’s able, relieved that, for once, it’s not she who is forced to move on what he presents, and that he’s the one taking the active role.

As he sodomizes her he talks to her, calmly, his words punctuating his thrusts. She listens to him; she has to, not only because it would be wrong of her not to listen, but also because she’ll have to write an essay later on exactly what he’s said. Not that she needs to hear what he’s saying: she knows the effects of a diet of pure sugar well enough without the reminder.

But she does her best to focus on what he’s saying, his voice smooth and soft and droning on, receding into a sensory background made up mostly of her own sensations of fullness, pressure, and the need to release. Which is – as she’d be the first to admit – something that’s not only not allowed but, more to the point, something she’d never consider doing until he’d finished with her, even if he’d given her the choice of early termination of the use of her behind.

And so she stays bent in position over the stool, taking him inside her as the soapy water churns in her guts and tears run down her cheeks, trying to listen to his words, trying to absorb the lesson he’s teaching her.

**

A piece of cake sits on a small rolling table; beyond, there’s a bed with two sleeping forms on it, one pressed hard against the smooth curved back and hot red buttocks of the other. There’s a faint crack of early-morning light through the gap in the curtains; the piece of cake waits to be eaten, the punishment waits to be resumed.

I started posting my stories in 1999, so the likelihood of someone already having stolen this COPYRIGHTED material is high.  Even so, remember this material is COPYRIGHT MRSTRICT1@AOL.COM and cannot be reproduced or sold without prior express written permission.

Also note that, if you're going to steal this and repost it, at least don't claim it as your own writing; credit me, and put up a link to this website!

Sitting in your office, anticipating your arrival, I think to myself about the consequences I’m about to face because of my bad behavior. I remember just a few days ago the severe punishment I received, and how incredibly sorry I was afterwards.

The door swings open and you walk in. I walk over and greet you properly. You have everything prepared and waiting for me on your desk. The paddle, the enema bag, the thermometer and jar of Vicks.

I’m instructed to get over your knee as you take my pants and panties down, baring my bottom and making me feel so vulnerable and exposed. The Vicks jar opens and the thermometer is thickly coated with it. I feel the thermometer going in my bottom. I feel the burning sensation as you take the thermometer out and tell me that I’ll be getting an enema. You pick up the paddle and paddle my bottom for what seems like forever. I begin to beg and plead and it ends with me in tears.

However, you tell me that my punishment is nowhere close to being over. I stand in the corner with a bright red bottom, and you fill the enema bag. You get me out of the corner and set me over you knee again, lubing up my bottomhole with Vicks. Again the nozzle is pushed in.

Suddenly I feel a rush of water entering my bowels. It fills my tummy. I’m put on the bed to wait for my sperm enema, but first you check between my legs to see if I’m being good or bad. You see that I’m wet, and that earns me another paddling while I retain the enema.

After the paddling I feel your hardness up against my burning bottomhole, and you slide inside. I clench my cheeks, squeezing on your cock, trying my very hardest to retain properly or else I know that there will be more punishment.

You start pumping and pounding inside of me, tears rolling down my cheeks, not knowing how much longer I can keep all of it in. You finally explode inside of me. I’m forced to expel the enema while i suck your cock. If I am not completely clean, I know that I will receive another until you are fully satisfied with my bottom. The whole process will be repeated until YOU decide that I have had enough.

This is what happens when I misbehave, daddy.

A_____, “When I Misbehave,” Homework Essay, 9/19/04

**

I got the butt plug daddy. Do I really have to wear it under my panties when I go to my classes?

I called my spanker and he said I could probably go over next Sunday. I will get him to videotape the punishment for you, Daddy.

I hope you are pleased with my essay, sir.

A_____, Email, 9/19/04

**

Incidentally, on the subject of essays, the next one you can write is about that ass fucking you went and got after we talked. I want everyone to know what you were thinking about when you were going over there to get it … and when you were getting it.

M.R. Strict

**

I wasn’t really thinking ‘bout getting my ass fucked, it just happened. My girlfriend and I went to hang out with some of our guy friends and one of them I think is really hot and vice versa.

He had been drinking some that night and we started making out and going into his bedroom and just being very playful with each other. One thing led to another and before i knew it my pants were taken off and my thong was pushed to the side and his cock was inside of me.

While he was inside of me pumping, I was thinking about how it would feel to have YOU fuck my ass, daddy. As it got more intense I thought about how intense my punishment with YOU would be like, having to retain my enema and squeeze down on your cock.

He pulled my hair to the side and started nibbling my neck and biting it, and I imagined YOU doing the same but instead of kissing or nibbling me, YOU, sir, would probably whisper to me the next step of my punishment or scold me about my bad behavior.

It was very weird to have my girlfriend and our other friends in the other room while I was inside getting my ass pounded on. I was hoping that he had remembered to lock the door so that no one would walk-in on us … thinking of how humiliated and mortified I would be to have someone see me in that position. He had me laying on my tummy with my hips pushed up with 2 pillows.

The fucking lasted about 20 minutes or so and when he was ready to cum he took it out and exploded all over my ass cheeks … while he was cumming he reached down and started playing with my clit and made me cum as well.

After we were both done, we got dressed, kissed and walked out of the room.

A_____, Email, 9/20/04

I started posting my stories in 1999, so the likelihood of someone already having stolen this COPYRIGHTED material is high.  Even so, remember this material is COPYRIGHT MRSTRICT1@AOL.COM and cannot be reproduced or sold without prior express written permission.

Also note that, if you're going to steal this and repost it, at least don't claim it as your own writing; credit me, and put up a link to this website!

M.R. Strict:   hi sweetie
M.R. Strict:   how are you?
K__________:   good
M.R. Strict:   did you study yesterday?
K__________:   no, not really
M.R. Strict:   do you have bar soap?
K__________:   why soap
K__________:   yes, i have soap
M.R. Strict:   then lather up the soap and coat the plug
               with the lather
K__________:   which plug?
M.R. Strict:   the big plug
M.R. Strict:   what are you wearing now?
K__________:   my pjs
K__________:   soap?
M.R. Strict:   take the bottoms off
M.R. Strict:   yes soap
M.R. Strict:   until its nice and slick with a good coating
               of the soap
K__________:   watery soap?
M.R. Strict:   get a nice paste of soap on the plug
K__________:   ok
K__________:   ook
M.R. Strict:   now, its going to go up your bottom.
M.R. Strict:   for punishment for not studying
M.R. Strict:   you may put a bit of vaseline on your bottom
               first to help it go in
M.R. Strict:   what are you doing?
K__________:   getting vaseline
K__________:   that stings
M.R. Strict:   is the plug in?
K__________:   part way
M.R. Strict:   get it all the way in
K__________:  
K__________:   that doesn’t feel good
M.R. Strict:   did you study yesterday?
K__________:   no
M.R. Strict:   do you have a stool?
M.R. Strict:   or just a chair?
K__________:   yes
M.R. Strict:   stool?
K__________:   a chair
M.R. Strict:   a chair, daddy
K__________:   it burns
K__________:   a chair daddy
M.R. Strict:   were you a good girl yesterday sweetie?
K__________:   no daddy
M.R. Strict:   and what happens to bad girls?
K__________:   they get punished
K__________:   i’ll study today
K__________:   i promise
M.R. Strict:   now set the chair up so that you can bend
               over the back of it .. and take a picture of
               your bare behind with the soap coated plug in
K__________:   can i please take it out
M.R. Strict:   no, you may not
K__________:   please daddy
M.R. Strict:   go take the picture
K__________:   then may i?
M.R. Strict:   then you may come and talk to me …
K__________:   now can i?
K__________:   please
M.R. Strict:   did i get the picture?
K__________:   no
K__________:   i took it
M.R. Strict:   and think about why I’m having to do this
M.R. Strict:   how many hours yesterday did you have to
               study?
K__________:   i dont know
M.R. Strict:   more than a few?
K__________:   probably
M.R. Strict:   probably? youre not sure?
K__________:   yes more then a few
M.R. Strict:   and did you study?
K__________:   no
M.R. Strict:   take 5 more pictures. then you may take it
               out
M.R. Strict:   kneel on the chair for them
K__________:   it has wheels!
M.R. Strict:   then kneel on your bed
K__________:   yes daddy
K__________:   it still stings
M.R. Strict:   and that’s to remind you about what you need
               to do today
K__________:   i will
M.R. Strict:   im going to send you a hospital gown along
               with the vicks and enema bag
M.R. Strict:   now you may touch yourself. how wet are you?
K__________:   wet
M.R. Strict:   you may masturbate
M.R. Strict:   AFTER you’ve done three hours of homework
K__________:   ill be in class!
M.R. Strict:   then you’ll have to wait till tonight.
K__________:   daddy!
M.R. Strict:   or do you want to masturbate with the soaped
               plug in
K__________:   no thank you
M.R. Strict:   because i’ll allow you to do that now
K__________:   no i’ll wait till tonight
M.R. Strict:   and only if you study for three hours
K__________:   i will i promise
M.R. Strict:   i can see i have to start a page on the site
               devoted exclusively to your study habits
K__________:   to me?
M.R. Strict:   yes
M.R. Strict:   and to the punishments your receive for not
               being a good girl
K__________:   does that mean your going to be keeping
               track?
M.R. Strict:   yes
K__________:   eek
K__________:   cant i rub a little now?
K__________:   3 pm is such a long time
M.R. Strict:   with the soaped plug in, yes
K__________:  
K__________:   its going to be a frustrating day i can see
               that now
M.R. Strict:   well i’ll tell you what. you may put the
               soaped plug in and write, 20 times, “when i
               don’t study, daddy makes me have a punishment
               plug in my behind”
K__________:   no
K__________:   it hurts
M.R. Strict:   then i guess you have to wait
K__________:   i’ll wait
M.R. Strict:   it’s supposed to. a spanking hurts more
K__________:   i’d rather a spanking I think
M.R. Strict:   you’ll be over my lap a long time
K__________:   well then again i never felt yours
M.R. Strict:   and yes, i spank hard
K__________:   its been 9 months since i’ve had one
K__________:   today will be a better day
M.R. Strict:   yes. because you’re going to study today
K__________:   i wont get in trouble
K__________:   how long does this sting for
M.R. Strict:   good. because next time it will be a
               soapstick
M.R. Strict:   for a while
K__________:   soapstick?
M.R. Strict:   yes. a suppository shaped piece of soap
K__________:   ack
K__________:   i’ll study
M.R. Strict:   i’m counting on that
K__________:   when i catch up want to help me make a study
               plan?
M.R. Strict:   yes
M.R. Strict:   i will be glad to
K__________:  
M.R. Strict:  
K__________:   i think I’m going to go to campus so i have
               no distractions
M.R. Strict:   good.
K__________:   sit in the boring reading room
M.R. Strict:   have a productive day
K__________:   i will
M.R. Strict:   yeah. well still its what you need to do
               sweetie
K__________:   i know
K__________:   i just wish the texts were more interesting
K__________:   ugh 3pm

——————–	——————–	——————–

I started posting my stories in 1999, so the likelihood of someone already having stolen this COPYRIGHTED material is high.  Even so, remember this material is COPYRIGHT MRSTRICT1@AOL.COM and cannot be reproduced or sold without prior express written permission.

Also note that, if you're going to steal this and repost it, at least don't claim it as your own writing; credit me, and put up a link to this website!

She lies over his lap, feeling his fingers in the waistband of her panties. All too aware that, once he has pulled them down, she is going to receive the first enema of her life.

She knows she presents a tantalizing view, her crack visible to him through the transparent seat of her underpants, her behind framed by her raised skirt above, the garter straps to either side, the black stockings below.

She groans with humiliation knowing how much of her is on display, knowing that, despite her dread of the enema she is aroused, and that her arousal is apparent to him. He’s commented on it, put his fingers between her legs and pushed into her sodden sex through the fabric of the underpants, told her how naughty she is.

He’s told her that he intends to masturbate her while she gets the enema, a fact that terrifies her even more than the enema itself, for she doesn’t know if she can retain during orgasm. She pleads with him, but his resolve is apparent. He tells her that naughty girls get punished, and that her punishment is to come while the soapy water rushes into her virgin bowels. To come while bent over his lap, panties down to her knees, the thick nozzle pushed up her Vaselined anus, squirming and shifting as the water rushes into her bowels and his hand tickles her between her legs.

To come while she is getting her first enema, over his lap crying and squirming to retain while he describes to her how much he enjoys the sight her bared bottom presents with the nozzle inserted into it.

To come while he tells her that the enema is only the first, and that she’s going to get her bottom thoroughly cleaned before he enters her there, fucks her ass hard for the first time in her life.

She is understandably nervous at this thought.

And she is also very very wet.

**

The panties are coming down now, and she feels their descent. He is unhurried in his motions, toying with the thin fabric, toying with her as well. She knows this, resents it. But at the same time is aware that its all part of the process, a rainbow arc, a rocket’s trajectory that starts at the ground, climbs slowly up through the stratosphere, and, finally, reaches the zenith of orgasm.

He has emphasized the importance of ritual. Has told her that each step leads inevitably to the next, and that the progression is important, will help her locate herself in the process, helps her prepare herself mentally for what’s coming.

He’s told her that it’s a natural human need, this ritual. He’s emphasized the childish aspects of what he does, emphasized the loss of control he’s going to make sure she experiences. The sense of regression, of being small, cared for, looked after … all thoughts she’ll feel that will comfort her as he bares her behind, spreads her cheeks, puts the nozzle in, opens the clamp. And rubs between her legs and she squirms and shifts over his lap, feeling the pressure in her bowels grow.

**

She feels him pulling her panties down, feels the slow descent, the gradual baring of her behind to the cold air and, worse, his gaze. She feels childish, having her bottom exposed, feels like crying out, pleading with him, “daddy, please …,” but keeps quiet, realizing how much more humiliating it will be when she breaks down and begs.

She lies there, feeling the solidity of his legs under her, feels the lump in the center of his lap that she knows marks his own excitement at what he’s having to do to her. Somehow this excitement of his is comforting, makes her feel loved. It also increases her own arousal, to know how much he’s enjoying the baring of her behind, how excited he is to be in control of her, of her little rear hole and what has to go in it soon enough.

She bends over his lap feeling her panties come down, listening to him scold. Her focus is imperfect; at times she is able to concentrate on his words, but often she drifts off into a mental fog, where all she can do is feel, where speech is beyond her capacity. He is all too aware of her mental state, it seems, for every time she begins to lose herself he punctuates his scolding with a sharp smack to her behind, the impact shaking her back into the reality of her situation.

She imagines that reality for a moment. Bare bottomed, panties half-way down her thighs, behind stuck up, legs too far apart for comfort. She imagines someone looking in the window and seeing her this way, a naughty girl about to be taught a lesson.

He is hard, she is wet … and the nozzle is something she can already feel entering her, forcing its way up her virgin behind, lodging itself deep in her bowels, the discomfort as palpable as the excitement she expects it to bring. She can already feel it there, deep in her posterior, intruding and teasing. She can feel it, even though in fact its still on the table by her head.

She is almost inclined to look at it, too see its thickness, and the thick coating of Vaseline he’s applied to it. Instead, she puts her head down and focuses on the descent of her panties, and the sight her bare bottom presents to him.

She feels his cock grow even harder underneath her.

**

He leans forward to the table beside them, and retrieves something. Bent over, head down towards the floor, she is unable to see what it is that he’s picked up, but she knows from what she’s seen on the table, that it can only mean more embarrassment for her.

This conclusion is confirmed when she hears the sound of a package being opened, and then the snap of a rubber glove. He’s told her he’s going to do an examination first; in fact, this was one of the things he emphasized when they first talked, when she asked him why he would give her an enema, how he would know she had to have one.

“I’ll do an examination, of course,” he replied, so matter of factly that it took a moment for his words to sink in. “An examination …” she repeated, aware suddenly of her burning face, “an … examination …?”

“Yes, of your behind, the state of your behind,” he replied, “with a gloved finger while you behave yourself and keep still.” She hesitated, asked him what he meant, but the phone in her hand was silent for a long time before he replied. And, when he finally did answer, it was to tell her that it was something she would just have to find out for herself when the time came.

The conversation was distressing, she recalls; more distressing still was the fact that she ran through it time and time again in her mind as she lay in bed in the weeks that followed. Imagining him undressing her, or at least her bottom, baring her so that she was ready for it. Perhaps he had a stool or table she would have to bend over to have her panties pulled down, as they did it in the doctor’s office. Or would he take the more juvenile approach and put her over his knees? Or — the worst she could imagine — would he have her get on the bed or a low table with her behind up and her head down. She’s ashamed to admit she actually tried this position a few times, reached back and pulled her panties down, imagining it was his hand doing it, and then knelt there feeling how opened her rear cheeks were, knowing he would be able to see between them, see the tightened little hole, waiting to be penetrated, so small, so vulnerable.

And now, its not just her imagination, the snap of the glove behind her is real, and she feels the cold feeling of his gloved fingers going between her cheeks, spreading them.

She knows what he sees: her virginal bottomhole, tensing, waiting for its first penetration.

And, his finger teasing that bottomhole, just the Vaselined tip intruding, pushing slightly, just enough to cause her to moan slightly.

She knows that moan gets louder as the finger pushes in firmly, disappears inside her tight behind.

She shifts over his lap, for some odd reason coming to rest with his knee more firmly between her legs.

He chooses to ignore her presumptiveness. The finger goes deeper.

And the moan? It gets louder still.

**

He’s scolding again, moving his finger in and out as he chides her for her behavior, picking one embarrassing topic after another for his lecture.

He’s right in what he says, each point he makes a fair one. Much worse, however, he drives his finger home into her bottom to emphasize each statement, his voice rising and falling, his finger moving in and out in synchrony. She is red faced, and recognizes those familiar feelings between her legs that demonstrate that blood is flowing to other parts of her as well. She feels humiliated to be over his knees like this, panties down … but the arousal offsets the humiliation, and she finds herself pushing up off his lap to get more of his finger inside her each time he withdraws it. She realizes she’s sodomizing herself on it, realizes the humiliation of that act. Once again, the humiliation, instead of quenching her arousal, inflames it.

On and on he lectures, and she knows he sees her moving, feels her rise and fall over his knees. She also knows he feels her behind tighten on him each time he pushes his finger in, knows he smells her arousal. She should be ashamed — and she is, really — but that shame only feeds her desire, only pushes her on to even greater acts of depravity.

On and on he lectures, letting his finger move freely in her behind as he does so. She feels him begin to move it from side to side slightly, and she knows he’s inspecting her, assaying her cleanliness. With this knowledge an even greater mortification overcomes her.

In and out his finger moves, and she knows he’s checking, trying to determine how many enemas he’s going to give her. It’s her first time, she’s never had one before, and she’s pleaded with him to limit the treatment to a single bagful. But he’s refused to negotiate; instead, he’s told her that it will be up to him. The whole topic has caused her enormous anxiety; still, she trusts him, knows he is careful. And, deep down, understands that its all part of that process of letting go, of giving up control to him. However many he ultimately decides she needs to have.

In and out, in and out. Finally, he stops, holds it in, all the way up her behind.

He says nothing. Just keeps her there, impaled on his finger.

He says nothing; even so, she knows its time.

This knowledge is confirmed when he withdraws his finger, lifts her off his lap and leads her to the corner. Has her wait there, bare bottom on display, nose to the wall, as he walks out of the room.

She hears him in the bathroom. Hears the water running in the sink.

And knows that, when he returns, he will be holding the enema bag.

She wonders how big the nozzle will be.

And how it will feel sliding up her behind.

**

There’s a certain feeling that overcomes her in the corner. This is the first time she’s been with him, but he’s had her in the corner often enough in their phone conversations, and she’s felt it even then. Embarrassment, the knowledge that she’s on display. The short blouse, the panties down, the stockings and garters framing her backside. Even when he’s not in the room, she imagines his eyes on her, on her bare cheeks. Even when he isn’t behind her, she feels as if he is, or could be there. Able to reach out and place his hand on her buttocks, between her legs, even between her cheeks if he wants.

She stands in the corner now, waiting for him to come back from the bathroom.

I started posting my stories in 1999, so the likelihood of someone already having stolen this COPYRIGHTED material is high.  Even so, remember this material is COPYRIGHT MRSTRICT1@AOL.COM and cannot be reproduced or sold without prior express written permission.

Also note that, if you're going to steal this and repost it, at least don't claim it as your own writing; credit me, and put up a link to this website!

As you read this, I expect you to be in position for the final part of one of our “conversations.” Face down on your bed, bare bottom over the pillows, pajama bottoms down around you knees, legs spread as far as the bottoms will allow, waiting. Waiting to hear my footsteps, knowing what that sound means, dreading and anticipating at the same time. The sudden clenching of your cheeks, feeling the thick smearing of vaseline between them. Recalling how I made you watch in the mirror as I lubricated you back there, my gloved finger approaching, the thick blob of vaseline on the end, and then the forcible penetration of your most intimate tightness. “Your face to the mirror as I prepare you. Imagine how much a man enjoys preparing you there.” My words still echo through your imagination don’t they? Your imagination … And your sex.

As you lie there, reading what I’m writing, you are hearing me behind you, looking down at your bare bottom, your tight round buttocks red and sore from the strapping I administered, the horizontal marks of the strap still emblazoned across your rump. You and I are both recalling your pleas, your protestations .. And then the sound of the strap meeting your upturned posterior. How many times did it take? More than 20 — and you were so sure that it would only be 20 weren’t you? — more than 50, for I *require* that your behind is on fire when I take your pants down. Was it 100, so many that you thought you couldn’t bear it anymore, but of course I knew that you could. That you HAD to, because your pleasure of release would be all the greater for the pain and severity of my control. Your release, more extreme when I am deep inside your resisting behind, when the touch of my hips against your chastised backside is unbearable, but you are made to bear it anyway. Is the belt laying on the table at the side of your bed? Does it hang in your closet, so that you see it ever night as you undress, thinking about how it is used?

Your mind slips back to the events of the day, remembering my call in the early morning, my flight arriving at 6 … And the shudder of anticipation and fear in your tummy when I told you that it would be a “difficult” session that evening. Dressing for work, stockings and garters, skirt, the panties to come off as soon as the day was done. Cleanshaven, front and back, between your cheeks. Knowing that I would slip my hand down between your legs and slide a finger up between your cheeks to check.

Did you moisten thinking about what would happen when we met? Our trip to the drugstore, for you to purchase the instruments of your correction. Did I make you bend down to get the enema bag? Were you painfully aware of your vulnerability as you did so? Your skirt rising up in back, showing me the backs of your stockings, then the soft white flesh with the garters attached, then rising higher still to expose the lower cheeks, still white, soon to be crimson?

Lying face down, are you thinking about the enema? Having to go over my lap, face down, to feel the nozzle sliding into your behind? A washout, did I make you repeat the word? Lying there, waiting, completely under my control, knowing that only the clamp on the tube stood between you and the warm soapy water swelling the bag above your head. Hearing me tell you that a complete cleaning out was a necessary prerequisite to sodomy, and that I expected your best behavior.

Do your cheeks involuntarily tense when you hear the CLICK of the clamp opening? The rush of water invading your bowels. Do you imagine the sight you present to me, bare bottom red, the large plastic nozzle impaling your behind, the hose rising at a lewd angle to the rapidly emptying bag above you. Are your eyes on the bathroom door already? Wondering whether I will allow you privacy for the expulsion, or whether I will have you do it in front of me while I refill the bag, convinced that you are not yet clean enough for my purposes. My soft kind voice, the knowledge of my control and the incredible excitement and fear it causes.

And now you feel me coming towards you, preparing to sodomize you, long and hard and deep. I intend it to last a long time, and I expect your orgasm to be fierce. I want to feel your behind spasming on my stiffness, arousing me to even greater tumescence, feeling the swelling back there as you writhe from peak to peak, the intensity of your eruptions growing with each mountain you climb. Coming, coming, coming, a pattern that continues without end until MY eruption, deep into the condom in your violated bottom.

You are thinking about it. Face down on the bed, with your pajama bottoms at your knees …

I started posting my stories in 1999, so the likelihood of someone already having stolen this COPYRIGHTED material is high.  Even so, remember this material is COPYRIGHT MRSTRICT1@AOL.COM and cannot be reproduced or sold without prior express written permission.

Also note that, if you're going to steal this and repost it, at least don't claim it as your own writing; credit me, and put up a link to this website!

She comes home from work expectant, rushes to the computer and dials in. To retrieve his message, the one she knows he will write. She knows he will describe it to her, how he will punish her, what it will be like.

It has been in her mind all day, her discipline, her punishment, the words circling round and round in her mind. She has imagined his voice, which she does not really know, his stern warning, “You are going to be disciplined, tonight. In your bedroom when I come home, upstairs waiting for me to come.” Her heart flutters as she remembers the pause, and then the words she fears most, “And, when I am done explaining to you why you have to be punished, you are going to assume the position, bare bottomed with your panties down.” It has become her mantra, “punished … bare bottomed … panties down … punished … bare bottomed … punished … punished … bare.” She sits down to read, her throat dry, butterflies in her tummy, her sex swollent, the *words* still echoing through her consciousness. She moves on the chair, feels her tight skirt moving against her bottom.

She feels the hard cold wood and, unbidden, “the position” flashes into her mind, feeling her bottom thrust up bare, over the pillows, the humilation of him having pinned up her skirt in back like a naughty schoolgirl waiting in disgrace. Her silk panties crumpled at her ankles, she feels the angry red heat in her bottom, hears herself crying into the pillows … hears the *whoosh* as the strap descends …. mercifully, the letter appears on her screen and she begins to read.

“I am pleased by what you wrote me last night,” he starts, “and by the image I had of you lying there in the center of your bed. Face down, waiting. Your white t-shirt ending at your waist, your cheeks virginal white, bare, tensing already, prominent and vulnerable up over the pillows.” As she reads, her hands slip, of their own accord, down, down, between her legs, down to her sex. She imagines him watching her furtively masturbating as she reads his letter, as she sucks up his words. She imagines him watching, knowing that masturbation is not allowed before discipline, knowing that his displeasure at her actions will only add to the severity of her punishment … and the extent of her rapture after, in his strong capable hands. Her hands move faster inside her white panties.

“It pleases me that you did as I said, that you positioned yourself for me, exposed yourself to me, prepared yourself *for* me …” She imagines his smile as he adds, “even though I wasn’t there. As a reward I am going to tell you about your punishment.” Her hands move with renewed vigor. “And, you are going to *practice* what I describe.”

“It starts in the morning, with the vaseline and the thermometer. Set out for you the night before, for you to think about.” She gets up, slowly unzips and removes her skirt, then walks to her bathroom, gleaming white, clean, every bit of feminine perfection evident, from the perfectly arranged bath towels, to the immaculately clean porcelain sink. She reaches up on tiptoes to get them out of the cabinet, imagining him behind her, watching. Seeing her t-shirt rise in back, seeing the erotic band of white smooth skin separating the coarse white weave of the shirt from the smooth gleaming silk of her panties. She feels his eyes on her behind, on the fabric stretched tight over her heavy well-separated cheeks. As she reaches higher to the top shelf she feels her cheeks tightening, feels his eyes feasting on them, imagines him there behind her, the look of arousal tempered by disapproval as he waits for her to get down the first instrument of discipline, of intimate invasion.

“Once I’ve woken you, you are going over your pillows, with your panties down for me to take your temperature before I leave for work.” Walking back to her room, alone in her apartment, wearing her shirt and panties, shivering slightly in the morning chill the words run through her mind. She sees herself on her bed, assuming the position, even before she comes back into her room. She feels the cold glass intruding deep inside her tight bottom, feels its cold insistent probing even though she has not yet positioned herself. Soon though she is there, and as if in a dream she finds herself face down, her panties down to her knees as he likes, her legs fettered by them, the cold tickling in her bottom a reality now as she lies there with the thermometer in her bottom, peeping out from between her pefect white buttocks. Lies there in abject submission, humbly waiting, pausing before she returns to read, lying there thinking, feeling. Feeling her skin against his hand and he sits by her holding the themometer inside her, his hand pressed against her warm bottom, cupping one cheek slightly, knowing how much he enjoys seeing her bare, feeling her skin, feeling his mastery of her, anticipating what she knows is coming. Feeling the thick slippery feeling of the vaseline, she pauses, her hands working hard between her legs as she lies there. Then her body tenses, a cry escapes her lips, she goes limp, and then slowly rises to go back to her computer and his letter, waiting.

“Now,” he continues, “when I come home from work you will have had all day to think about it, all day to prepare yourself for it, and think about how I expect to find you when I come in to do it to you.” And she knows what he means. “Assume the position,” how many times has she heard the words, or waited in dread and anticipation to hear them. She knows what he expects, what he will see when he comes home. Her eyes blur, the screen recedes and her thoughts slip to a different place …

… where she is in her room waiting. Sitting on her bed, partially undressed, wearing a fresh white shirt and clean boxers. “A virgin waiting to be sacrificed,” she tells herself. Waiting to go to the altar of the Volcano God, to drop into the cold waters of the Sacred Cenote. The young woman sacrificed, the supplicant throughout history. Only this sacrifice is more personal, more intimate, the ritual white clothing of the young victim raised, the sacrifice administered with the victim over the high priest’s lap. Face down, her bare bottom facing back towards the audience of devotees, the instruments of ritual on the table by them, the paddle and strap, the enema syringe, the rectal plug and the large jar of vaseline, already opened … all elements of the ritual, removed from their reserved spot in preparation for the ceremony he is to perform …

She thinks about that ritual now, sitting back from the computer, rising slowly to go to her bed. On its edge, she perches, nervous, even the softness of the matress painful against the discomfort she imagines in her behind. He is a master of ritual, he has studied them all, Jewish, Catholic, Eastern Orthodox, Muslim, Buddhist. He has told her that, showed her the books … but she knows his devotion and dedication from his actions, not his studies.

“In the Catholic Mass there is a priest, an assistant, and an audience to bear witness,” he has told her, leaving her to worry that he will recruit others to witness their private ceremony. “The penitant walks slowly down the center aisle of the church towards the altar and the ritual of purification and forgiveness that she must undergo at his hands.” And she does not hear his words as much as *feel* them, seeing herself slowly walking in front of him from her bedroom to whatever room in the apartment he has decreed as the place of execution, the tools of redemtion set out, waiting for her.

She recalls his description of the first enema he will give her, how she will feel standing in front of him in her bedroom, head bent, listening to his lecture, feeling the dumb shame rising within her as he discusses the ritual of her purification. She looks up from her bed and sees the things she has hung in her wardrobe at his command. The man’s belt he has had her buy, the one he will strap her with after he is done using his own. The white hospital gown he made her buy, abject shame as she picked it out at the store and brought it to a male clerk to pay. Knowing the clerk imagined her in it, bottom bare peeping out from the open flaps of the gown. Knowing he could not have imagined the complete scene, how red her bottom would be as she waited, the gown hanging open in back as he filled the bag in the bathroom.

She gets up from her bed, walks past the computer and his waiting letter and goes to her closet. And feels the belt, feels its reality, for she *has* bought it. She looks at it every day. She opens the drawer of her dresser that contains her punishment clothes, as sacred as the contents of a reliquary, set aside for their rituals, not everyday dress as he has emphasized to her again and again. She looks at the black garters and stockings inside, the ones he has he wear when he wishes her to be a seductive temptress, when he takes her out to torment other men, the hint of bare thigh and stocking top, knowing he will punish her later for her flirtation, watching her from a distance as she bends to pick up the coins she has purposefully dropped. Bending further and further until the back of her skirt lifts like a curtain to a stage, aware of the eyes burrowing into her, male organs growing erect as the curtain of her skirt rises on her stocking tops, the taper of her firm shapely legs, sliding higher to reveal the bands of stocking, the garter tabs, and the bare white flesh of her upper thighs grading into the secret crease that demarks her thighs from the base of her succulent buttocks. White and smooth … or ruby red.

She picks up a pair of black thong panties, remembering how he had her bend in a mirror and look back to see the sight she presented, the skirt high, her buttocks bare, only the stretch of black fabric running tightly between her cheeks, the two white moons framed by the garter belt above and the wicked black stockings below. She feels her wetness when she remembers how he will take her to a mall, have her bending many times, and then how he has promised to punish her after, out to the car in a secluded parking lot, over his knee as he stands with one foot in the open door. Skirt up in back, his hand slapping her behind, worse than bare because of the thong. Facing into the car, nightime, feeling the hard slaps, feeling his other hand in her wet greedy pussy, not knowing who is watching, who is hearing … trying not to scream as she shakes from orgasm to orgasm.

“For tonight’s ritual, you will wear your punishment panties and blouse.” The words stare out at her from the computer screen. Her white cotton panties, chaste, virginal. The ones she has to change into when she is sent to her room to wait. Once a friend of her’s, visiting, opened her special drawer and commented on the conservative cut of these particular panties, wondered that she ever chose such reserve. You didn’t have the nerve to tell her that the purpose of these panties was not to cover, but to serve as decoration. “Useless, really, mostly they’re around my knees, keeps me from kicking my legs during discipline is what he says.” You think to say the words, but they catch in your throat. Only you and I know about your punishments, although you wonder what summer passerbys must think with the windows open.

And your blouse? White cotton, or is it silk, buttons in back, longer than usual, ending at mid-thigh. Like the gown only more fetching. “The gown for a complete clinical treatment, a *thorough* cleaning out. The blouse for simpler discipline, although in either case the garment, opened in back, allows appropriate accessiblity to your behind.” As you slip on the panties, change into the gown, my words echo through your mind. You turn to look in the mirror to judge their truth. And, as you see your tight cheeks between the flaps of material, any uncertainty you might have … disappears.

And now, standing before your bed in the special panties and blouse, you think again about the Catholic Mass, the ritual, the preparation of the penitant. The trip from your bed where I lectured you to your closet, chaning under my watchful eye, knowing how I feasted on your body, on your submission, on the fear you experienced as you slowly, leadenly changed in preparation for your punishment. You feel my presence now, feel my hands cupping your face, feel me pulling you in to me, holding you against me. Feel my strong fingers running up your legs … feeling you between your legs, feeling the wetness in front. Standing there, nestling into me as I examine you, slowly, intimately, the sacrifice, the virgin, feeling my gentle fingers slipping inside the fabric of your panties. Sinking into me as I begin to rub, rubbing the throbbing button lightly, harder, lightly, your legs bending as you push yourself onto my fingers, feel me push you back. Knowing that your release, while inevitable, is under *my* control, not yours. Feeling my other hand in the waistband of your punishment panties, in back, my hand slowly slipping down inside, feeling your cheeks, my middle finger dipping down into the crease between your buttocks, sliding down slowly towards the little vent, an inexorable pressure there from my finger as I rub harder between your legs. You are standing there in front of your bed, as if in a dream, the computer screen glowing with my instructions, feeling your own hands between your legs and between your cheeks. Rubbing yourself towards your second release as you prepare to read more of my instructions.

**

And now your hands are pulling down your panties in back as you imagine me doing it, feeling your panties descending down your legs underneath your blouse. “You are going to have a bare behind for this,” you repeat the words out loud don’t you.

You stand there, letting the dread and fear wash over you. feeling the anticipation….the part that is one of the most sexual parts of it for you. you told me after, “I dropped my shorts and stood there with my bottom exposed and my hands folded in front of me. I imagined the scolding you would no doubt be administering to me…..time ticking by…the air on my pristine white bottom.” Only your hands would be at your sides, not in front of you. So that I could see your bare sex, see the gleams of excitement still on it, commenting on the inappropriateness of arousal in a penitent, how penence requires sacrifice, and how you are about to be sacrificed, how your bottom is about to pay the price of your bad behavior.

“It’s time for you to assume the position.” And you told me after how you did it. “I climbed up on my bed, slowly, feeling how my panties hampered my movements, aware of your eyes on my bare bottom. I climbed up on my bed and placed myself over my pillows, so that my bottom was raised and vulnerable. I hid my face in the bedding as I felt the anticipation coursing through me, tingling as I felt the cool air on my soon to be firey bottom.”

“I could not help but touch myself, Sir, as I thought about your eyes on my bareness. I quickly came, Daddy … within seconds. I thought about how you wanted my release under your control, how you were the one who determined the ritual, how I was a willing suplicant to your will.”

“I spoke the words out loud, ‘It’s your choice not mine, my bottom belongs to you and I deserve to be reminded of that.’ I knew what form the reminder would have to take, and, slowly, hesitatingly, I reached over and picked up my butt plug.”

And you know that you and I thought, independently, of how you looked at that moment. Alone in your room, the penitent waiting to be punished. Bare bottomed, face down on your bed, punishment blouse open, punishment panties down to your knees, or perhaps all the way to your ankles. Waiting to subject your bottom to the reminder, the sensual pleasure of submission, my ownership of your behind and your erotic submission to that ownership.

We both know your actions, “I plunged the plug into the vaseline jar and with one swift stroke inserted it into my waiting rectum. It took me back for just a moment…I felt like I could once again cum, but this time held it back.” As you should. The penetration quick and sure, as my penetration of your bottom will be. My mastery will be sensuous, overpowering, gentle but unforgiving.

You return to my message, “In that position you will rub yourself to a third release,” rubbing yourself thinking about how it will feel to have me inside you after the strapping. Feeling my weight as I press down on you, holding you, whispering in your ear. Is it pure sensual release, punishment, control? You listen to the sounds of the strapping … “I got up again and put the strapping file on , quickly resuming my position. I imagined you pulling your belt out from the loops of your pants, standing over me with a look of disapproval on your face as you raised up the broad strip of leather. I saw you in your suit, I felt my own nakedness more for your own sartorial splendor. I felt myself slipping away … I found myself crying out…..I could not stand it any more and reached over for my vibrating dildo … I did not need to lubricate it, as I was soaking wet … I inserted it hard and fast, the complete 9 inches, after rubbing it around on my clit….my third, and final for the night, orgasm was the best one of all….i screamed out….muffling the sound in my pillow….the plug filling me from behind and the vibe from the front.”

You have assumed the position, and we both know the consequences.

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“I’ve heard enough to reach a decision, counselor,” he says, leaning forward, impatiently pushing his heavy black robe away from his hand as he reaches towards his gavel. “Step back from the bench, all of you …” Unwillingly they trail off into silence, an uncomfortable state for any lawyer, trail off and slowly, resentfully drift away from the bench. If left to their own devices they’ll carry on all day, into the night and on past the sunrise, animated by demons perhaps. “No, by their client’s money,” he thinks, leaning back, gavel in hand to survey his courtroom stretching out below him. Far and away back from the purposeful mountain of his edifice over the hills and valleys of the tables and chairs of counsel, back through the gates to the “sheep pens,” his words for the spectator and witness area, back to the dimly seen bailiffs against the walls. His gaze resting for a moment mid-kingdom, on the plaintiff, the girl at the table, her dress short, her legs long, almost as long as his attention on her.

**

He calls for a recess, and hurries off to chambers, walking awkwardly, for once grateful for his long robes, grateful for what they conceal, his stiffness an indignity to the majesty of his office, he thinks, recalling the words a friend used once. “An indignity to the majesty of my office,” his friend had said, laughing as they sat in the conference room at the back of the courthouse, the one reserved for members of the bench. They had laughed at that too, laughed at the double entendre. “I certainly had a stiff member that day,” his friend had said, “you remember, when I had to handle that obscenity case, the one with all the bizarre sex videos?” And he does remember, recalling the sounds through the thin courtroom walls, the high-pitched screams of feigned orgasm turning his court reporter’s face red. “The most prudish woman I’ve ever seen,” he thinks, “she can’t even type ‘fuck,’ and what kind of sex she has … I bet she even finds the missionary position exotic.” He shakes his head, his mind drifting back …

He remembers the sounds, first the identifiable ones of sex, of women reaching orgasm, but they didn’t last long; and soon, the entire courtroom was quiet as the rhythmic WHACK WHACK WHACK reverberated through the walls, through the hallways, perhaps even down to the guard’s desk at the entrance. A strange sound at first, puzzled faces straining to place it, familiar, remembered in the dark dusty recesses of the mind.

WHACK WHACK WHACK, they all hear it, and suddenly, all at once it comes to him, to them – a spanking. That’s what it is, they suddenly hear her pleading, high pitched wail now, the sounds of a girl being punished suddenly clear. Juvenile pleas, “daddy I’m sorry,” no cessation of the rhythm as the actor – it must be an actor musn’t it? – continues to apply his hand to her bare bottom.

He assumes it’s a hand, and that her bottom is bare. “That’s how I would do it,” he thinks, suddenly feeling himself stiffen as he imagines it, “her bottom bare, so that I can see … everything, between her legs, between her cheeks.” In fact she was mostly wearing panties, his friend told him later, disinterestedly, although at the end she had to stand up and pull them down. “How far,” he asks, choking the words out, but his friend had already turned away to other business, leaving him standing there, beet red and foolish.

“Hey, if you’re interested, go down to impound and see if they’ll give you a private screening,” the judge replies, chuckling to himself, and he watches him go, feeling silly, knowing he can’t do that, ashamed … and at the same time excited. Imagining himself doing it, the girl squirming as he lectures her, reading her the same riot act he has recited for hundreds of lawyers, in his office, standing up from behind his desk while they cower in front of him.

**

He thought about it again the next day, when he found himself in chambers for an unscheduled conference with opposing counsel. “A new one,” he thinks, looking at her, young, fresh out of school perhaps, unwise about protocol and how far she can safely go with a judge. “That’s not fair your honor,” she begins, the moment he closes the door, but his mind flashes back to the sounds he heard, and he finds himself cutting her off with a curt, “be quiet … young lady.” She cowers as he lectures her, telling her about the respect that is his due, and the sanctions he can impose if she doesn’t obey his rules. As he talks he walks back and forth behind his desk, slapping his hand on the oak to emphasize each point, imagining the oak her bare skin, looking down at her legs, clad in thin white stockings. Imagining her bent over his desk, that thin expensive wool skirt pulled up over her waist, panties down her bottom red, as red as his stenographer’s face he thinks, when she heard the spanking. He finishes his lecture, letting his words trail off into silence – then, a pointed look at her and the command comes out of his mouth, unbidden, “get up and come here.” And she does, approaching him, and he finds himself moving to the side of the desk, standing there impotently, imagining her submissively bending now as he mutters some ineffectual parting remark and watches her behind swaying underneath her pencil-thin skirt as she walks unsteadily away from him. Out of his office and to freedom.

**

And he’s thinking about it now, staring at the attractive plaintiff shifting out there in his kingdom, short skirt, nice legs, “great ass,” he thinks, rolling the word around in his mouth. A word he never uses, incommensurate with his office, like so many other pleasures he’s set aside or cut himself off from altogether. “Her ass,” he mutters under his breath, “there’s a lot you could do with an ass like that …” And he’s slipping off into another erotic daydream, his head tilting up slightly as he’s carried away. His stenographer, Miss Prude, looks up briefly and mistakes his expression for one of diligence. “Pondering the law,” she thinks, unable to comprehend a life beyond work. Her life is the courtroom, and the transcripts she works on at home to the exclusion of the world outside. She is going on a cruise with them, the judge and her friends from the court, her first venture outside the small lifeless town where she lives. “I wonder if he’ll work there too,” she thinks, dreamily. She worships the judge, a fact he’s all too aware of, too many nights spent with her, alone in his chambers going over transcripts, aware of her pleasant body, pretty face … and cheap perfume. She sighs, swept away in her own dreams, hoping to be noticed by him as he slips further into his own thoughts, now completely oblivious to the routine instructions the court clerk is reading to the jury …

**

“There are some other tapes you might go see,” his friend told him later that afternoon, “they’re even wilder than the one you asked about.” His friend chuckles, mistaking his red face for prudishness. “You should have seen them,” he says, shaking his head. “Anal, how can anyone like that stuff? And not just anal, enemas for God’s sake!” His friend leans back and looks at him. “Your dad was a doctor wasn’t he? Did he ever say that that kind of thing was exciting, that anyone liked it?”

“No, of course not …” he begins, his face reddening as he recalls his childhood, recalls assisting at his dad’s practice when he was 16. Recalls the supply closet, medicines stretching up to the ceiling, how it was practically his second home, his first kingdom before his courtroom, “a smaller humbler territory,” he thinks to himself, “but one with its own riches, its own bounty of delights.”

**

He remembers being sent there for supplies as well as drugs; he can still place their locations in his mind, arranged for convenience, accessibility determined by frequency of use. His father always was a practical man, he thinks. OB/Gyn supplies high up, full operating kits slightly lower, but still requiring a ladder, even given his size at 16. “How many operations like that you think I get in a GP, boy,” he remembers his father asking? “Pregnancies, now more of those, but most of them go off to the hospital and don’t need me. I’m lucky, I get the ones with nothing major wrong.” And the closet bears him out, bandages and antiseptic at eye-level, burn kits … all the accoutrements for the minor stream of problems that his father and his lone nurse confront every day. And, he remembers, next to the burn kits … the thermometers, the child ones, the suppositories … and the enema bags.

He didn’t know what they were at first, thinking that they were another set of I.V. bags, so he moved them up to the top shelf with the major surgery supplies. He still remembers the afternoon a few days later when his dad’s nurse came looking for him, annoyance written clearly on her face. “Where’d you put the bags, boy,” she said, “your father sent me to get one in the closet and they’re not there.” They always called him “boy,” he remembers, and being scolded in the same sentence only added to his embarrassment.

“The enema bags,” she said, reading the confusion on his face, “don’t you know what those are?” He shook his head from side to side, a dumb gesture that he’s seen a thousand times since in his years as a judge. She sighed and walked off to the closet, not looking back to see him dutifully trailing behind her, as obedient as a dog, he remembers with a little laugh.

He followed her through the narrow white hallway towards the closet, past his father’s office, which also doubled as his examining room. He remembers the door open, his father with his back turned away from the doorway, talking to his patient. He feels his heart racing a bit, just as it did that day when he saw the girl sitting on the table. Her clothes folded up neatly in a pile on a chair next to her, her long pretty hair streaming down over the white gown, her face the same shade of white as she saw him, refusing to acknowledge his presence. His presence there as mute witness to her embarrassment and shame, for she has been told what they’re going to be doing, once the nurse comes back with the bag.

“Julie Coombs,” he thinks, “she was the prettiest one in high school, a senior, pretty enough to be a cheerleader if she’d wanted to be.” Which, he recalls, she hadn’t, preferring to spend her time quietly, out of the public eye. A shy girl, given to conservative clothing, never wearing a skirt above her knees, even though most of the other girls in the school did. He remembers seeing her once at the pool, wearing a bikini. “She got lots of stares, enough that she wore one-pieces after that,” he remembers, thinking about her body, staring at her behind when she turned, seeing the lower curves of her cheeks protruding from the suit, which had ridden up as she walked away. He had looked hungrily at Julie’s bottom, he recalls; it had been after the incident in his father’s office, and her behind had taken on a new meaning for him.

It had only been a glimpse of Julie there in the office, but it had been enough. He knew she was naked under the gown, apart from her panties, which he knew his father would have had her retain. “They keep on as much clothing as I let them,” his dad had said at dinner once, in response to a question he can no longer recall. “They usually keep on their underthings, that damn room is cold enough when you’re fully dressed.” He had thought it funny at the time, but the picture of Julie in her white cotton panties spun through his mind now, dispelling every thought but his aching desire. He found it hard to concentrate as the turned the corner of the hall and walked into the supply closet.

“There they are,” the nurse exclaimed, craning her head upwards, “why’d you put them on the top shelf when we use ‘em so often?” He tells her that he thought they were I.V. bags, and she laughs. “No, boy, look at the nozzle on this thing!” By this time she has pulled one down and, staring through the plastic wrapper he sees the large, molded cylinder at the end of the hose.

Hollow, as big around as two fingers laid on top of each other, it’s ribbed, he notes, the end large, smooth, pear shaped. “Green,” he thinks, for no good reason, realizing now that its become his favorite color, green, indelibly etched in his erotic memory.

“You think this monster goes in someone’s arm, boy?” She laughs, ripping open the wrapper and holding the nozzle up for him to see, waving it in his face, the hose dangling down from it to the clear plastic bag below. “Believe me, it goes somewhere entirely different.” She laughs again, but he doesn’t notice it, for his eyes are now focused on the nozzle, and for the first time he sees the holes in the side of the cylinder, sees that water will come out of them when the bag empties. Water, or whatever is in the bag.

“That girl in there, Julie, you know her?” Again he shakes his head dumbly. “Well, boy, let me tell you, she’s not going to be very happy in a few minutes.” The nurse shrugs and bends down to pick up a sealed packet that’s fallen out of the wrapper. “Only one dosing of soap now,” he hears her mutter, “well, he won’t like it but I guess he’ll just have to use Castile for her second one. That’s what he gets for going with cheaper equipment.” He find himself staring at the woman’s behind, thinking of Julie in the other room, looking at the tight white pants straining over her bottom, seeing her panties showing through, imagining what Julie would look like in the same posture, her gown hanging open in back, her white panties all too visible to his gaze. The nurse was only 25 or so, he realizes now, impossibly old for him then, but even so an impressive sight. “But nothing like what I saw after,” he reminds himself.

He remembers trailing the nurse out of the closet, standing next to her as she ran water in the sink outside, watching her methodically adjusting the temperature until she’s got it just right. He remembers her holding the bag under the faucet, letting it fill half way, then handing it to him while she rips open the soap packet and squeezes its contents into the bag. The water turned milky he remembers, and stayed that way when she filled it up to the top. He held it again while she opened the clamp on the hose, watching in fascination as the solution streamed down the tube and shot out the end of the nozzle, as well as the holes in the sides of the cylinder. “Now you be a good boy and get me a tube of vaseline,” she told him and, when he had delivered it, she turned and walked off to his father’s office, holding the bag high, the dangling hose swinging as she walked.

**

“Now, it’s a funny thing,” he thinks, “that hole in the back of the closet, it’s the sort of thing that you’d see in a dirty movie or read about in a book.” He had known it was there of course, and had even used it once or twice, but most of his fathers patients didn’t interest him. Farmers from the surrounding community, with normal aches and pains. Housewives, mothers of his friends, women he had no interest in, except to know whether they had baked a pie for the evening dinner.

This time was different though, and, as soon as the nurse had disappeared into his father’s office and shut the door, he rushed back to the closet. Flipping off the light switch, he carefully moved the containers in back, easing himself down to the ray of light coming in through the hole. “It was a bolt hole for the pegboard,” he reminds himself, “but the bolt had come out, leaving the perfect little opening.” Peeping through he sees his father’s back, the girl on the table, and the nurse coming towards her, bulging bag hanging down from her hand. She hooks the top of the bag to an I.V. pole, wheels the pole over to the side of the table, and looks to his father for guidance.

He sees his father dragging the chair out from behind his desk, the same sort of large oak desk he has now; the same sort of chair too, when he thinks about it. He watches his father pull it to the middle of the room and walk to it. He turns to Julie, motions quietly with his hand for her to come to him, which she does, slowly lowering herself off the table …

**

She comes to stand besides him, his father, and he sees himself as a teenager peering through the hole at her, at her face, at how her long hair hangs down. He is watching the nurse, who stands behind the girl, envious of the view she has, Julie’s behind visible to her through the gown, not yet bare, but vulnerable nonetheless. “You know what I have to do, Julie,” he hears his father say. “Just come over here and stand by me now, and let my nurse open up the back of your gown.” Slowly the girl moves to obey. He remembers his excitement, and the growing bulge in his pants.

And now, his father is directing the girl to move to the other side of his chair, her bottom facing towards the peephole. The gown is open now, he watched the nurse do it, saw her standing behind the shivering girl slowly undoing the ties at the back. Her panties are still up, he notes, white cotton, virginal, exactly what he had expected she would wear. They are tight on her bottom, tight, taught fabric stretched over the erotic twin moons, and he clearly sees the deep crevice between them, the outline of the plunging indentation that he’s soon to see so clearly, when her panties come down.

His father sits down on the chair, pats his lap, and the girl goes slowly across his knees. As if in a dream he watches as his father puts his hand into the waistband of her panties and begins to draw them down. As he does so, his nurse slowly lubricates the nozzle with vaseline. He watches as his father pulls Julie’s cheeks apart, slowly, exposing her most intimate orifice to him, watches as the nurse approaches the prone figure of the girl, places the thick greased pearhead of the nozzle against her intimate opening and slowly begins to push it in …

**

Back in his courtroom, staring down at the young woman before him, his mind is still locked on those events, many years earlier. He remembers her small moans as the water rushed in, how she shifted over his father’s knees. How she looked there, white bottom, smooth skin, thick nozzle between her parted cheeks, hose rising to the emptying bag above her. Lying there, shifting slightly from side to side, clenching her cheeks tight to keep the nozzle firm between them.

**

He remembers her lying there, waiting for permission to get up and go to the bathroom, the small one just off the examining room, much like the bathroom he has in chambers, he realizes. He saw her rise, awkwardly, the hose still dangling down, saw her turn away and walk off, slowly, the thick green nozzle protruding from between her cheeks. He saw her the next day at school, smiled at her as she walked past, head bent in shame when she saw him. He turned to watch her go, his eyes fixed on her behind, tight white pants now, but in his mind he sees her walking away to the bathroom, gown open in back, the hose hanging down. “She got two more when she came out,” he recalls, revisiting the images, “the second of Castile soap, same position, the third plain water with her up on the table, head down and bottom raised.” His father had put a glove on his hand after the second, he recalls, slid it into her while she bent over the end of the table, the examination to see if she was completely cleaned out,” as his father put it.

Thinking about it now he realizes that he can remember almost every event of that afternoon, the first of many he thinks. For there were others, some with Julie, others with different girls, older women. The procedure was always the same, the first two given over his father’s knee, then the examination and, if the diagnosis was good, a final cleaning on the table. A few times his father had given more, used stronger soap, or put in a suppository and had the patient retain it.

He remembers how much he looked forward to work after that, how every time the front door of the clinic opened he held his breath. And usually let it out with a sigh as some grizzled farmer fresh with shit from the fields came in, “back pains today, Doctor,” or some such complaint. But every so often they came, the angels of his teenage years, young pretty girls, embarrassed, walking by him quickly, escorted into the office.

Door shut, voices overheard, then his nurse coming to the closet, taking down a bag, giving him a little smile – at least he swore afterwards that she did, swaggering her bottom slightly as she walked away from him, bag in hand. Feigning indifference as he watched her stand at the sink, filling it, adding the soap, letting the air run through the tubing. She leaves and he runs to shut off the light, crouching down, moving the boxes away from the hole; he stares through and watches the little drama inside unfold. Another girl over his father’s knees, the nozzle going into her bottom preparing to take her medicine.

**

Which is what the one in front of him needs, he realizes. She’s there for no good reason, wasting the court’s time, “My time,” he reminds himself. “And her own money too, on all those miserable lawyers.” A nuisance suit and nothing more, the kind of thing that would never have been allowed in court in an earlier, stricter age.

He thinks about that word, “strict.” He remembers his 20s, when the image of his father’s ministrations came back to him, over and over, reinforcing themselves in a kind of harmonic resonance. A string of girlfriends during law school, each one more difficult than the last; and he remembers himself becoming sterner and sterner with each. Tolerating less, demanding more, until the day that he finally snapped and, thinking of Julie over his father’s knees, took his girlfriend of the time across his lap. “Not for that kind of treatment,” he laughs, “but an altogether different form of medicine.”

The sounds of the pornographic tape ring through his mind as he recalls that night, his hand descending on her red rump, slapping out his own rhythmic WHACK WHACK WHACK. The spanking, and then, afterwards, the girl now obedient, kneeling before him taking him in her mouth. With gusto. After that it became a regular thing with him, with many girlfriends in the same position, over his lap, bare, feeling his hand first, then, over time, his belt, a paddle, a hairbrush.

It wasn’t until later that he bought an enema bag, “the ultimate punishment,” he thought to himself. But he never used it, although he would swear now that more than a few of the women he knew deserved it. “Miss Priss, to say the least,” he thinks, staring down at his court clerk reporter. Finally, for some reason that he still can’t quite fathom, he took it to his office, putting it in the bathroom of his chambers. Feeling, perhaps, some sort of closure, some spiritual connection with his father. Ready to perform the same ministrations his father had, although the when and how eluded him.

**

But now, staring down at the woman below him, looking at her short tight skirt and black stockings, an idea begins to form in his mind. He leans forward.

“Miss T,” he says to his reporter, his tone sugary, “tell the lawyers I want to adjourn for the day …” He pauses a moment, looks at the girl sitting, waiting, sees her smiling at him, feels her submissiveness, waiting to be released like so many others before her.

“Tell her,” he points to the girl, “that I want to see her in chambers.” His reporter looks at him, quizzically. “I want to discuss her suit with her, see if I can convince her to drop it.” She hurries off to do his bidding, and he watches her go, her shapely behind swinging as she scurries across the courtroom floor.

“She’s next,” he thinks, as he rises, turns, and, slowly and sedately walks out of the room, down the corridor to his chambers. To wait.

To wait for her to come, to be escorted there, his “victim,” homage to his father and the parade of girls that entered his office. He walks down the hall, sits down at his desk, touches the cool oak surface thinking of its twin, long ago, in his father’s office.

He sits there, behind his desk. Waiting to hear her hesitating footsteps in the hallway, waiting to hear her hand turning the doorknob, entering his office, for the medicine he will be giving her.

He sits there, waiting patiently for her to come.

This story is copyrighted. It may not be reproduced or distributed in any form, including electronic distribution, without prior express written permission of the author. This story may not be transmitted or reproduced in shortened form. E-Mail comments to Mrstrict1@mrstrict1

This story has got to be one of my first ones, written c. 1999, it's so old that I've chosen to leave the copyright indicator as I'd originally written it.  I'll save you the eye strain of putting it in the original visual format, which was white text on a blue background, probably in comic sans font or something like that.  If you're from that era you'll know exactly what I'm talking about and, if not, be glad!

“They’re only a pair of panties,” she tells herself, as she turns the garment over in her hands, standing there in the middle of the store. “Just a pair of panties,” she thinks, but she knows it isn’t true, for they’re far more than that. Not simply revealing underpants, but a sign of her submission, of her eagerness. Of her desire to follow him down this road of humiliation and exposure that he’s set her on.

She turns the garment over in her hands, examining the flimsy white cotton carefully. Observing the lacy front and, of greater significance, the sheer seat.

She thinks about that, running her hands over the material. The sheerness, and of how she’ll look in it with her skirt hiked up, bending forward in front of him, bent over the sodomy stool to show him her ass. Revealed, though clothed; more naked for being covered, to whatever extent the thin material covers her crack, the deep crevice between. To whatever extent it covers her shaved wet pussy below, and the tight portal of her soon-to-be-used anus above.

“Bending before buggery,” he’s told her, “bending, with your skirt lifted, to show me your ass through the thin sheer seat of the underpants I’m sending you to buy.

“Bending in front of me to show me your ass, to show me what you want done to it. A slow revealing strip-tease in front of me, Amanda, lifting your skirt slowly to show me the bottoms of your cheeks peeking out from below, raising it higher to show me the whole of your backside.

“And then, bending down, down, to touch your toes, sticking your ass back at me, inviting me to deal with it. Sticking it back at me, and you know what I’ll see, because you’ll have seen it yourself in the mirror, so many times. Two tight cheeks with the crack revealed, Amanda. Two tight cheeks with the crack between, and we both know what’s hiding between those cheeks, don’t we.

“Your bottomhole. Say it now, Amanda, ‘my bottomhole, Daddy, the entrance to my bowels. The tight hole I expose to you when I have to be punished, the hole I have to have Vaselined when I’ve been bad. The hole I have to expose as I bend over the sodomy stool in front of you, waiting to have my underpants yanked down to my knees, waiting to have you spread my cheeks and stick your cock in hard, forcing it up my tight ass as I kick and cry and plead with you not to have it.’ Say that, Amanda, and think about how its going to feel when I do it to you, do it to your bottom.”

**

She buys the underpants, and then walks into one of the dressing rooms, closing the door slowly, feeling her stomach churn as she locks it, turns, and faces the full-length mirror she’s thought about so many times as she’s masturbated.

“They’re sodomy panties, Amanda,” he’s told her, “and, after you’ve purchased them, you’re going to go immediately into a dressing room and put them on so you can see what I’ll be seeing when you strip in front of me.”

She’s imagined this more than once, lying on her bed with the lights off, feeling the pillows beneath her hips, thrusting her behind up to expose her ass. She’s imagined it, thought about seeing herself in front of the mirror, undressing and then putting the garment on. Thought about this as she lies over the pillows, feeling her regular panties banded down at her thighs, feeling the teasing intrusion of the rectal plug deep in her bowels as she lies there, thinking, feeling her wet pussy tingling beneath her.

She’s thought about it so many times that its almost by habit that she turns to the mirror, slips her hands down and raises her skirt. She does this slowly, watching the fabric rise up, sliding up her thighs, sliding higher still to expose the wet patch at the front of her usual underpants. She thinks about him chiding her for her arousal, thinks about him shaking his head slowly, the way you would with a child who’s misbehaved. Thinks about him shaking his hand, and then gesturing to her to come closer, to come to him so that he can slide a finger or two into the sodden material there, so that he can question her about her behavior while he tickles her between her legs.

Tickles her, adding to her shame. And to her arousal.

**

“Now turn and face your behind to the mirror,” she imagines him telling her. And she does, watching in a distracted fascination as the girl in the dressing room pivots, faces her cheeks to the mirror. She watches as the hands grip the waistband, lower the panties slowly, exposing the seductive curve of the lower back, then the top of the crack and, finally, the deep cleft itself as the panties go lower and lower down her bare bottom cheeks. Finally, they fall to the floor.

Now the part she’s been dreading. Slowly she bends, leaning forward as if to touch her toes. Turning her head to watch in the mirror as her cheeks spread, further and further, giving a clear view of her dripping sex and, ultimately, the tight vortex of her as-yet-unused behind.

She stares at her asshole, imagining him watching her, watching it, seeing it tighten under his gaze. She thinks about him making her wait like that while he gets the Vaseline, about how it will feel when he presents his cock at the tight entry to her bowels and instructs her to push back to take it inside. About how it will feel when he impales her ass on his cock, and how he won’t tolerate her complaints and pleas. About how he’ll make her tell him that she’s a bad girl who deserves this and, as she does so, she’ll feel him sliding deeper and deeper inside, finally coming to a rest as far up her vulnerable ass as he can go. Her rectum gripping him so tightly that she can feel every heartbeat of his as a sudden swelling of his fat cock in her tight used ass.

**

She reaches back with her hands to spread her cheeks, giving herself a long look at her rectum before she lets go, stands back up, and puts on her new purchase.

Once more she leans forward, now craning her head to see her behind in the sodomy panties. As she’s imagined, there’s very little of her backside that doesn’t show; the thin fabric of the seat gives a clear view of her crack, of her pussy, only her anus is hidden.

Again she rises, this time to open her purse and withdraw the rectal plug. Another long pause as she imagines a store employee watching her from behind the mirror, watching her as she goes back into her purse for the tube of Vaseline. She coats the plug, sets it down on the bench. Her underpants come back down, to her knees, and she picks up the plug.

In the mirror the girl is holding the blunt end of it against her bottomhole. The cheeks spread, her face as red as her bottom will be, she grits her teeth and pushes it in. slowly the anus distends as the plug intrudes into the resisting bowels. Slowly it enters her, a parody of the relentless sodomy she’ll take when she’s with him. When she’s underneath him, behind up over the pillows feeling his weight pressing down on her as he forces himself inside.

The girl in the mirror is getting the plug in her behind, inch by inch. Slowly it enters her, stretches her until, finally, it comes to a rest, seated completely inside her, only the base visible.

The hands move down, gripping the new panties, pulling them up over her hips, up, over her cheeks until her behind is once again covered.

The base of the plug is clearly visible through the thin fabric.

The girl stands, lowers her skirt.

Before she leaves, she bends over again in front of the mirror. The skirt raises in back, just enough to show the base of the plug.

As she walks out of the dressing room, she knows he’ll ask her how many times on her trip home she had to bend over.

Her pussy is wet at the thought.

I started posting my stories in 1999, so the likelihood of someone already having stolen this COPYRIGHTED material is high.  Even so, remember this material is COPYRIGHT MRSTRICT1@AOL.COM and cannot be reproduced or sold without prior express written permission.

Also note that, if you're going to steal this and repost it, at least don't claim it as your own writing; credit me, and put up a link to this website!

The seated girl on the subway is nearly indistinguishable from the other passengers around her, at least at first glance. Petite, pleasant face, neatly and conservatively dressed, she appears no different from any of the other young women who fill the seats.

Nearly the same as the women who surround her, yet, on closer examination there are slight deviations that point to distinction. The flush on her face, unexplained; the rigidity with which she holds herself on her seat, despite the rocking and swaying of the cars as the train thrusts itself forward; and, the telltale swelling of the nipples of the large breasts, swelling that can’t be explained by air temperature, swelling that speaks only to animal arousal.

Aroused in the subway; and the men around her notice that arousal, to her shame and further excitement. Her nipples outthrust through the thin blouse she’s been made to wear; and, when the hot breezes through the open windows of the swaying carriage are opportune, the musky scent between her legs that confirms the suspicions of the strangers around her examining her over their newspapers.

The young woman sits there in the subway, hands fluttering on her lap, reaching back when she thinks she’s not being watched, The hands reach back, towards the behind. Towards the buttocks in the tight slacks; towards her two twin rounds that she holds gingerly on the seat, as far above the seat as she can keep them, in order to keep herself from settling onto its surface.

It’s an odd uncomfortable position, and people wonder at it, wonder at the reasons for it. But whatever guesses they might have would be off the mark, for the truth – the rectal plug intruding deep into her distended anus – is not one that would occur to them, looking at a nice girl like her.

“A nice girl,” she tells herself, unconvincingly. “A nice girl.” But then, if she’s so nice, why is she sitting there in the subway as instructed, a rectal plug inserted tightly in her behind, and her pussy wet at the discomfort, and the humiliation that she’s enduring for no other reason than his pleasure.

Or could her own pleasure be reason enough, she wonders, distracted for a moment from the intrusion of the plug into her behind.

**

The train rushes forward through the tunnels, slowing down now and then as it approaches a station. Slowing, decelerating, grinding to a sudden lurching halt.

With each motion she feels the plug in her bowels, feels her ass fucked by it, a taste of sodomy with each sway of the carriage, a thorough buggering with each sudden change of trajectory as the train strains forward along the underground tracks.

She’s never experienced it before – sodomy – but she imagines it as she sits there in the subway, feeling the plug push into her every time the train moves, every time she settles down on the seat. She thinks about it, about how she’ll be bent over for it with her behind bared, having to hold her own cheeks apart and ask for it, telling him that she’s misbehaved and deserves it.

“But I’m a good girl,” she says to herself, out-loud she realizes, when she feels the stares of the men around her. “I’m a good girl,” she thinks, but she realizes that her wet pussy and willing insertion of the plug in her own backside puts the lie to that claim; puts the lie to any argument that she shouldn’t get what she has coming. Shouldn’t get what she knows she wants and needs. Her underpants down, her behind exposed to his gaze. The punishment she needs, the submission she wants.

The train rounds a hard curve, tilts to the left, and she’s thrown to the side and then down onto the seat. The plug intrudes even deeper between her cheeks, inserted to the hilt the way his cock while be when he fucks her ass for the first time.

The smell of arousal in the car is greater, and she wants desperately to rub herself. But she can’t, for she has no way of concealing her actions from the watchers and, even if she did, she knows that rubbing isn’t allowed.

And so she sits there, feeling her inflamed lips rub against the fabric of her pants, letting her behind move on the plug slightly, as she tries to convince herself, yet again, that she’s not a bad girl, and so can escape what she’s been told she has coming.

She tries to convince herself that she doesn’t deserve it, but she knows that she does. And every time she recalls his words, she tightens her behind on the plug.

**

“I’m going to make you take your pants off in front of me, or,” he adds, after a momentary pause, “better yet, I’m going to make you hold up a pleated school skirt you’ve bought and worn just for the purpose.

“And then, Amanda, when your panties are exposed I’m going to lecture you while I run my fingers over your behind, through the underpants, so that you feel examined and investigated even though you’ve not yet been undressed. Imagine that, having to stand there while I run my hand over your behind, knowing that soon I’m going to lower your underpants or, better yet, make you do it, undressing in front of me, feeling the humiliation as you disrobe, as you expose yourself.

“When we have you with your panties down to your knees you’re going to be examined, front and back, to see exactly how bad a girl you are. A rubber glove on each hand, Amanda, the fingers of one hand in your pussy to see if you’re behaving yourself there, the fingers of the other hand teasing your anus, tickling you there before one slides in deep to see if your behind is clean.

“And, Amanda,” he concludes, “you know the penalty for having a wet pussy or a dirty bottom. For the former, a spanking between your lips as you lie on your back with your legs spread. And, for a dirty bottom,” he says, “a long session over my knee with a thick nozzle forced between your cheeks. A punishment enema for you to take and retain while Daddy spanks you, and reminds you that, when he’s done, he’s going to use your behind to conclude the correction …”

**

The words swirl through her mind as the train pulls into her station. She jumps up, heads for the opening doors, all too aware of the intruder between her cheeks.

As she leaves the train and heads for the street and her apartment, she feels the wetness between her legs, a wetness she knows will increase when she reads her mail. Reads the next set of instructions to her from him.

A bad girl, reading about her punishment. Wanting to make it real.

I started posting my stories in 1999, so the likelihood of someone already having stolen this COPYRIGHTED material is high.  Even so, remember this material is COPYRIGHT MRSTRICT1@AOL.COM and cannot be reproduced or sold without prior express written permission.

Also note that, if you're going to steal this and repost it, at least don't claim it as your own writing; credit me, and put up a link to this website!

She lies face down on her bed, her robe opened behind her, revealing the tight cheeks of her posterior, her vulnerable bottom.

She lies there, feeling the wetness between her legs, thinking about him watching her, commenting on the bareness of her buttocks as she lies there, submissive, waiting for the discipline to come.

“You know why we had to expose your ass, Amanda,” he says, calmly. “Because you’ve been a bad girl, and bad girls have to be punished. On their bare behinds.”

Her hand slips down between her legs and she closes her eyes as she thinks about him delivering the scolding. The scolding that precedes the inevitable punishment that she knows she’ll get afterwards.

“I think we’ll start with the rectal thermometer,” he says, “the cold glass rod inserted deep into your bowels. Bare bottom up over Daddy’s knee with the thermometer ticking your rectum, feeling the shame of being bent over like that as Daddy spreads your cheeks and slides it in.

“You’ll have to help me, of course; my naughty little Amanda pulling her underpants down and then walking to the bathroom like that to get the thermometer and the big jar of Vaseline. I’ll watch as you walk, I’ll see your bared bottom, your tight little cheeks moving against one another as you walk.

“We’ll both be thinking about your bottom, and what’s going to happen to it. We’ll both be thinking about it, Amanda; about what a bad girl you’ve been, and how bad girls have to be disciplined.

“You’re lucky that this time you’ll be getting the thermometer in private. Because when Daddy has guests over and you’ve been naughty, or act up, you know I’ll put you over my lap and take your temperature in your behind while they watch. They’ll smile when your face turns red when I tell you to get the thermometer and the Vaseline. You’ll have to stand there and look them in the eyes as I take your skirt off and pull your underpants down to your knees; and if your gaze falters, if your eyes drop, you’ll get Daddy’s belt across your buttocks while they watch, and then you’ll still have to have that cold thin glass rod inserted deep between your hot red cheeks as they watch.”

Her hand is rubbing her pussy hard now, as she thinks about the thermometer sliding in. She feels his hand on her bare behind, holding her cheeks firmly for a moment before he separates them to expose the tight portal to her bowels. She thinks about her humiliation when he spreads her there, exposing her rectum to his gaze.

She is dripping, and she realizes he will want to know that she wore something in her behind while she masturbated, so she gets up and get her butt plug and the Vaseline. Coats the plug with the greasy lubricant, imagining him doing it. Imagining him making he stand there, wearing the open-backed hospital gown, in front of him, in front of his friends, having to watch as he methodically coats the plug with the Vaseline.

“It’s going deep into your naughty bottom, Amanda,” he tells her, “deep in, in front of me, in front of our guests; and then you’ll stand in the corner with it in plain view until it’s time for me to sodomize you. And, if it falls out before buggery, you’ll get Daddy’s belt across your cheeks until you howl, and then you’ll get it back in and you’ll go over each of our guests laps for a paddling.”

She pushes the plug in, thinking about this, thinking about her mortification and shame, having Daddy punish her, having the guests watch, or, worse, participate. She thinks about it, pushing the plug in as she imagines her shame.

Feeling the thickness of it against her rectum, feeling that initial tensing as it slides in, imagining it’s Daddy there, penetrating her behind for the first time.

She wonders if he’ll be gentle; knows he won’t be, that bad girls get their asses fucked, hard. She knows it will be uncomfortable, that she’ll feel the entire bulk of his cock in her behind. But she knows she needs that, needs to feel stuffed by him, needs to feel sodomized, needs to be pressed down hard on the bed, her cheeks spread, his entire length insider her – moving inside her – thrusting, scolding, not stopping despite her struggles and pleas.

The plug is in her behind now, and she’s lying on her tummy on her bed thinking about him inside her, about being buggered by him, unrelentingly, until he gives her the sperm enema that she longs to feel there.

She feels how stretched her ass is, feels how wet she is between her legs. She closes her eyes tight, reaches back and moves the plug, trying to time the rhythm of its motion to the movements she’s seen on the videos he’s sent. She thinks about the girl on the bed in the video, gown opened, her ass being fucked, and imagines it happening to her.

Feels him there, feels how thick he is, how she’s pinned to the bed beneath him, his voice in her ear as he scolds, “Amanda, naughty Amanda, this is what you get for your bad behavior and disobedience,” and all the while the motions of his cock deep in her virgin bowels, the motions of sodomy, the deep thrusts into her ass as she tenses her legs and cries.

Wanting him to stop, not wanting him to stop. Knowing that, whatever she wants, he won’t end it until he thickens, stretching her rectum tight on his swelling cock, holding her tight as he forces himself further up her behind, as deep into her bowels as he can before he groans and discharges, the sperm enema shot as deeply into her bowels as he can manage,

Imagining his discharge there, imagining his use of her body for his pleasure, she comes. Feeling the tensing of her rectum on the plug, imagining its him she’s tensing on.

She keeps the plug in. For she knows another orgasm with it inside her will please him.

And, more than anything else, she wants to please her Daddy.

I started posting my stories in 1999, so the likelihood of someone already having stolen this COPYRIGHTED material is high.  Even so, remember this material is COPYRIGHT MRSTRICT1@AOL.COM and cannot be reproduced or sold without prior express written permission.

Also note that, if you're going to steal this and repost it, at least don't claim it as your own writing; credit me, and put up a link to this website!

The infamous ski bandit, who terrorized citizens by breaking into homes and giving enemas to females, may be operating again. The police reported five different incidents of a man breaking into two apartments and administering enemas to five different girls in the early morning hours, Friday.

The first incident happened at 2:54 a.m. There are three girls living in the apartment. Two of them were given enemas.

The second incident happened at 3:30 a.m. at another apartment complex, where the masked intruder walked in and gave three girls enemas.

Police said the intruder walked through doors -- which the residents had left unlocked -- tied the girls up after asking them to strip, talked gently to them, took their temperature and gave them enemas with a hot water bottle.

The Police reported all of the girls were students. At the first apartment all three girls were preparing to take a roommate, who complained of being sick, to the hospital.

As they walked out of their bedroom, they saw the man in the middle of their living room. The girls described the man as wearing a pillow case over his head with eye holes cut out.

After giving the enemas to two of the girls, sparing the girl who was going to the hospital, he cut the telephone line in the apartment and said not to call the police for five minutes.

At the second apartment two of the four occupants were studying when they heard someone walking in the front room of their apartment.

Moments later a man, with a pillowcase over his head, walked in. The intruder had the girls wake up the two who were sleeping. He told them what he was going to do and told them to relax, that ``he had done it before,'' police were told.

He then tore up a pillowcase and tied the girls, and gave three of them enemas. One girl in the apartment was spared. The intruder then fled.

The Police Chief said Friday morning the intruder told the girls he had done this before and he asked them if they had ever heard of the ski bandit, which was the popular name given the intruder who did similar acts years earlier. He further told the girls he had been ``out of town for quite some time,'' the Police chief reported, and that "he would be back."

**

I’m not surprised to find that the key turns easily in the doorlock, and that no alarms go off as I carefully step in through the back door of the house and wipe my feet on the doormat. Her doormat. I close the door and lock it behind me, step into her kitchen and look around, noting the position of every chair, every pot every pan. I don’t want anything to be out of place when she comes home in a few hours.

Nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing to let her know that I’m here. Waiting for her to come home.

**

I take my shoes off and put on rubber soled slippers from the large bag I’ve brought with me. I’ve thought long and hard about what to bring and what to wear; early on I opted against a ski mask — that seemed too unaesthetic — and instead settled on black pants and a black shirt, appropriate for my furtive activities. I put the bag down on the floor, and look around the kitchen.

There’s nothing unusual about it; fairly spacious, clean, the usual array of pots and pans, dishes and cooking utensils. It seems a waste of time to examine anyway; he did it in living rooms and bedrooms, and I’ve already decided that I probably will too. So I walk out to the dining room, and from there to the living room. I’m glad to see the blinds are closed. Really she’s been as careful about this as I have, leaving her house neat for me, the tables straightened, the blinds drawn. I wonder if she’s organized her panties in her drawers upstairs. I’m sure she has.

I spend a fair amount of time in the living room. There are a couple of nice big couches, and I inspect each one carefully, sitting on it, standing at the end of each; even bending over the arm to see what the positioning might be for her. I know what she looks like, from pictures and from watching her eating her lunch at the restaurant near where she works. She knew I was there, or at least that I might be present; she was informed that I’d be watching her within a three day window. Three days of nervous eating, trying not to look around, wearing clothes that were unusually revealing. The idea was that the bandit picked his targets, and on one of those days I would be picking her as mine. In point of fact there was never any evidence for or against this theory, but it got her in the right frame of mind for what was going to happen. Edgy.

I bend over the ends of the couches, trying to decide which I’ll want her over, and then I inspect all the chairs with the same thought in mind. I look around the room, trying to determine where I’ll hang the bag: from that picture hook on the wall; from the top of the lamp in the corner; or perhaps I’ll hold it up the way it appears he did. I assume that’s what he did anyway; he must have because when he had one of the girls over his lap in the front room and was about to give it the two roommates walked in and he dropped the bag. Or so the reports say.

I inspect the living room carefully, admiring her taste as much as her housekeeping skills and her attractiveness. The room is pregnant with possibility, and I’m weighing different scenarios in my mind as I head for the staircase to the second floor. I turn for one last look at the living room, looking from it to the foyer off the front door, wondering what she’s been thinking every night as she’s come home, wondering if she’s alone; and then I look back to the living room.

As I climb the stairs, looking down at the clean carpeting covering each tread it occurs to me that she’s read the same materials I have. Read them? Probably obsessed over them would be a better statement, reading and rereading each report, each witness account. Thinking about what I’m going to do of course; and then I wonder if she’s positioned herself over each piece of furniture in her house just as I’ve done a moment ago; imagining herself in that position when I’m there, when I’m dealing with her. It makes the couch, the chairs, the tables all suddenly much more interesting, and I find myself smiling as I climb, reach the landing and see the second set of stairs receding up into the darkness of the second floor.

I realize how much I want to see what her bedroom is like. And of course her bathroom.

We’ll be spending a considerable amount of time there.

I imagine she’s thought about that too.

**

There’s a long corridor connecting the stairs to the master bedroom, and as I walk quietly down its length with the lights off, my flashlight strays onto the outline of a closet halfway down the hall, a linen closet. Past it the outline of a door comes into view, and when I gently open it I see a study, book-lined, a comfortable leather chair in the middle facing a heavily papered desk. I close the door and continue down the hall, drawing closer and closer to the closed door that I know must be her bedroom at the end.

My feet make faint noises on the carpeting as I walk, and I wonder if she’s laid in bed the last few days hearing the sounds of my feet coming towards her, imaging them, projecting herself forward to when it happens, imagining it happening.

How must that feel? I always wonder most about emotions; I try to project myself into the mind of the other person, imagining what she’s imagining, trying to feel what she’s feeling. When I’m going to discipline someone I have her wait, facing the corner, skirt up and panties down; and I try to imagine the thoughts that I know are there, that I can see manifested in the shifting legs, the tensing buttocks, the heavy intake of breath.

So listening to my feet dragging softly on the thick carpet, walking down the hallway towards her room I think about that, I think about her there in her room, imagine her behind her door hearing me. Hearing me approach, even though she’s still at work; hasn’t even gotten into her car for that long drive through the dark, past other drivers headed for home, heading towards her house. And tonight, towards me.

I think about here there, behind that door. What is she wearing: a nightie; plain white pajamas, the bottom demure, girlish; something sexual, garters and stockings? Where is she on the bed: lying with her head on pillows at the headboard; on her tummy looking at the white cotton of the pillowcase as she waits to hear her door being opened; kneeling, her bottom bare and facing towards the door?

I pass a second door along the corridor — the bathroom, I wonder? — but no, it’s a guestroom, a small bed neatly made, a small desk and chair, a closet. More possibilities, I think to myself — a punishment room, perhaps, where a juvenile offender is sent before correction. But then I correct myself, realizing that the thought, although exciting, isn’t what tonight is about. It’s not what’s going to happen to her tonight, it’s not what I’ve planned; it’s not what she’s expecting, to the extent that she knows what to expect at all.

And now I’m at the bedroom door, and I turn the handle, open it, and step inside.

A large room, a canopy bed in the center, against the back wall and facing towards me, towards the door to the hallway I’ve just come though. A large bed, a girlish bed, white canopy, heavy bedposts rising to support it. I imagine she lies in it and looks up towards that white fabric covering and sees images of the events to come unfold across it; to me it’s pleasing simply because I can hang the bag from one of the posts if I choose.

The bed in the center of the room; off to the left, windows, also shuttered. Underneath them, a long chest-of-drawers. On the other side of the room a walk-in closet, a big one, something that only a woman could truly appreciate. Mirrored doors, and I look at my reflection in the glass, medium sized man, all in black. I find myself interesting to examine, because I see myself though her eyes, imagine her in the bed waking up and looking out past the bedposts to see me emerge from her closet, a finger raised to my lips to indicate silence; the other hand holding up the bulging bag.

I walk to the closet and slide back one door. Very large, and a lot of the space inside is empty. Good. Now I know where I’m going to wait for her. Where I’m going to wait patiently for her to come home

Oh, and in case you hadn’t realized it by now, this rather edgy little fantasy I’m playing out is that, quite simply, I’m going to be the Enema Bandit for the evening. She knows I’m going to be in her house waiting to give one to her, but the thing is she doesn’t know when it’s going to happen. It was arranged for any one of ten days; potentially ten days of incredibly anxiety and excitement for her. But I’m not so cruel as to make her wait that long; this is the fourth day, so she’s only had three days of expectation.

It’s planned enough in advance for her to know through the friend that arranged it that I’m safe, and experienced, and that nothing bad is going to happen. But look at it from her point of view: if you knew that somewhere in a ten day period you were going to go home after work to find someone hiding, someone who at some point was going to step out and give you an enema, and several other things that had been discussed in advance, wouldn’t you be a little nervous?

I have no doubt she has been. Well, the mind is the most powerful sexual organ. And I have several hours of preparations to make before she comes home.

I step inside the closet and draw the door closed. I stand still for a moment, imagining her coming home, hearing her come in the front door, walk up the stairs, change, taking her clothes from the dresser, and then go back down to eat. I think about hearing her downstairs in the kitchen, hearing her washing up the dishes. In my mind she’s coming back upstairs, performing her evening ablutions in the bathroom that opens into her room; and when I hear the toilet flush and the water run in the sink I know she’s going to be in bed soon.

I imagine her settling down, hearing her breathing ease as she slips into slumber. And I imagine reaching forward and gently sliding the door open, stepping out into her darkened room and seeing her lying on the bed, asleep. I raise my hand high as I walk towards the bed, holding up the bag I have in my duffel downstairs, and as I advance I imagine her stirring at the soft sound of my feet slipping across the carpet.

She sits up and sees me there. Holding up the enema bag.

Yes, I realize, the closet will do just fine.

But I still have plenty of work to do before I can go back to it to wait.

**

I walk out of her bedroom and back down to her study. I put the light on, low, and look around. I look at the papers on the desktop, studiously avoiding anything that I think I ought not see. It’s funny, isn’t it: the well-mannered intruder, about to engage in the most intimate of treatments, making sure not to pry too deeply into the intimacies of his soon-to-be-victim. It’s funny, but maybe it’s in character; after all every old newspaper article I could find said that the bandit was nothing if not polite. Never anything overtly sexual, just the thermometer and the enema. When he was caught it turned out he had gotten them from his mother growing up and it affected him in … peculiar ways. I can’t say I approve of how he dealt with his desires, but I also admit to feeling sympathy for him. I’m also glad they caught him; and I assume he’s out in the world now somewhere, leading a reformed life.

I’m still in her study, looking around, studying her books, the stacks of papers, the signs of an active mental life. She has a good imagination, which is why she wanted to do what we’re going to be doing soon enough; she’s one of those people who can take a little bit of anticipation and make a lot of it, one of those people who can take the tension and anticipation and fear she must be feeling about what’s coming and make it sexual.

And so am I. I find that the anticipation, the planning, the wait, is all almost worth as much as the experience itself.

And I’ve been anticipating and planning tonight’s events for a long time.

**

In my fantasies I’m hiding in a closet in an unknown woman’s house, waiting for her to come home. I don’t know her, but somehow I know that she’s consented to my being there, even though she and I have never met, have never talked about my being there, about what’s going to happen.

And so I’m hiding in her closet, an intruder, waiting for her. And I have one thought on my mind, one thing which I think about over and over, obsess about as I look down into the duffel I’ve carried inside with me. As I look into the duffel, I see the red enema bag there, hose, hard ribbed barium nozzle. I put my hand down to feel that nozzle and return again to the thought that’s been going through my mind over and over as I wait, as I lie in wait in her closet.

I’m going to make her take an enema.

I’m going to catch her undressing, watch through the opening in the closet door as she takes off her shoes and skirt, and then I’m going to spring.

I’m not going to let her get out of it. I’m going to be polite, but still, she’s going to get it.

I’m going to make her take an enema.

And, unlike the Bandit, I’m going to spank her if she doesn’t cooperate.

Or even if she does.

**

I poke around for a while in her study, and sure enough I find what I’ve been looking for, a box at the bottom of a drawer filled with newspaper clippings and correspondence: the clippings of the bandit’s activities, so many years ago; the correspondence with her friend, the one who contacted me and acted as our intermediary.

I should put it back, I know, but instead I sit down to read. The clippings are all familiar; but unlike the ones I have, hers are highlighted, and as I sit on her chair at her desk I feel myself knowing her mind that much better for seeing what she’s marked, which phrases she’s returned to, over and over again. “He asked me to turn over on my stomach,” I read, “and he said I wasn’t going to be hurt. Then he asked if I was a student, and he asked if I had ever heard of the Enema Bandit. After he had asked me if I had ever heard of the Enema Bandit I told him that I had heard of him. And at that time he said that that was who he was.”

I close my eyes and lean back on the chair, hearing the clock ticking as I think about what I’ve just read, what I’ve read and she’s marked. I’m a believer in consensuality, and part of me is ashamed at how I feel about what I’m reading. But mostly I’m turned on. At the thought of that girl and what she was describing, and how she must have felt. And more to the point, about how the woman I’m going to be dealing with tonight must have felt reading and rereading the text I’m looking at now.

So I keep my eyes closed as I wonder if she took the clipping to bed with her. If she read it there and imagined herself a college student, asleep, suddenly waking to find someone next to her. The terror and then the dawning realization of what was coming. “He asked me to turn over on my stomach,” I read, and I wondered if my quarry did that, if she turned over as she read what came next. “After he told me he was the Enema Bandit, he asked if I had ever had an enema and I said yes I had. And then he was quiet for a little while and he said, OK then you know what it is like. Then he said, would you pull down your pants please. I didn’t say anything or do anything, so after a few seconds he said it again. And at that time I pulled down my pants.”

I wonder if I’ll do it that way, almost clinical, calm and detached as I have her turn over, letting her feel like a patient in the hospital with the nurse standing there telling her what to do, what’s expected of her. “Turn over on your stomach now,” I think to myself, speaking the words, wondering if she’s said them to herself in bed, imagining hearing someone else deliver them, imagining herself obeying, actually turning over after she says the words.

“Turn over on your stomach now. I’m not going to hurt you. Have you ever heard of the Enema Bandit? That’s who I am.” I imagine saying that, standing there, looking down at her, at her bottom through the pajama bottoms I imagine she’ll wear. Looking at it, knowing it’s going to be bare soon enough.

“Have you ever had an enema,” I imagine myself saying. “Yes? Then you know what its like.” I imagine a long pause while I let the words sink in, and then the phrase she and I both know is coming next, one that has more power perhaps for her having heard it in her mind so many times before I actually say it.

“Would you pull down your pants please.”

And I imagine watching as she does it, as she slowly pulls down her pants.

**

I think a lot about watching her from behind the closet door, peeping out through the crack as she comes into her room and undresses, prepares for bed. She crosses back and forth across my field of view, pacing to one side and then the other, for some reason never approaching my closet. I don’t focus on this aspect of the fantasy; like dreams, what I imagine has distinct ground rules, and the forbidden nature of the closet is one of them.

First it’s the shoes, and she sits on her bed rubbing her feet, and I watch as her toes move back and forth through her stockings. She sits that way for a long time, and I sense her nervousness, almost as if she knows I’m hiding there watching her.

The shoes first, and then she takes off her skirt. When I stop to think about it I realize I have no idea how a woman undresses. For a man it’s the shoes, if he’s in touch with his feelings, or his shirt if he isn’t or there’s a woman there. For a man it’s his shoes so that he can get his pants off, but with a woman? I realize I don’t know. In the fantasy it’s always the shoes, and then she sits on the bed massaging her feet. Something that makes her more human, fleshes her out beyond an adolescent’s stroke fantasy. She rubs her feet as she sits on the bed, and when she shifts I see the tops of her stockings and quick intriguing glimpses of her smooth inner-thighs. And then of course she takes off her skirt.

She walks out of my sight, and I hear water running in the bathroom, and when she comes back into view she’s washed her face and hands and is in her stockings, white panties and blouse dangling down over them. Back and forth she walks, attending to various odds and ends, the usual things that you do before sleep. I don’t like the wait, but I accept it as part of the ground-rules of my fantasy; the wait, the anticipation, me hiding there trying to hold myself back for just the right moment to step out.

She disappears for a long time, and when I see her again she’s in pajamas, ready for bed. I can see her though the opening in the door as she climbs into bed and pulls the blankets up. Turns out the light.

I think about telling her to turn onto her tummy. Telling her to pull her pants down.

Think about the moment when I step out of the closet.

**

After a while I’m done with all the clippings she’s kept in her secret box, and I turn my attention to the correspondence.

I’ve talked to her friend enough to know the skeleton of what’s planned and why she wants it to happen, but I don’t know much beyond those basics. And so I begin to read her letters, wondering as I do if I should. It’s not morality, a matter of prying into her affairs. It’s more a question of whether I want to know much about her. After all, I’m immersing myself in the role, hunter pursuing his target, a target that he doesn’t know at all. An apartment or house he can enter, the coeds he’s seen going in and out. But how much does he study them? They’re anonymous, and that’s what I decide I want her to be too. So I put her letters back in the box, and the box back into the drawer.

And I close my eyes again and think about it, me, the hunter, and her, the hunted. I can guess at her motives, the excitement she feels at the thought of it, and a lot of that comes from not being in control of it. Not being able to control any of it, once the initial agreement is made.

That’s exciting, the lack of discussion, the sensation of nonconsensuality, although if I wanted to examine it I’d realize it’s as consensual as anything else I’ve done. I’m the hunter and she’s the quarry. I’ve scanned the horizon and she’s blundered into my sights, and that’s as personal as it gets. I’ve seen her, I tell myself, and known from the minute I did what she’s going to get. I followed her home to see where she lives, and now I’m here waiting for her. I couldn’t do it in real life; but in the confines of our mutual fantasy I can. I can let myself go and get into my role, become for the evening who I’m supposed to be.

I put her box back in the desk drawer and get up from her desk. I check to make sure that everything is as I found it, and I go back out to the corridor, closing the door behind me.

She’ll be home in an hour, I realize, and I haven’t finished my examination of her house.

So I head back towards her bedroom.

And into her bathroom. It’s time to see what it looks like.

**

I think I’m most struck by the bathtub: large, one of those sauna-tubs, with water jets in the sides, a tub for luxuriating, not the usual utilitarian catch-basin for shower runoff.

A tub this big offers up possibilities all its own, and I study it carefully, sitting on the side looking down into it, imagining her kneeling there, head down, rump high. In that position the cheeks spread apart, and I imagine her looking at me pleadingly as I take her into the bathroom and stand her in the tub, telling her what I’m about to do as I fill and hang the bag from the towel rack.

The curtain is pulled back as she stands there watching me hang the bag, and she blanches when I calmly tell her it’s time for her to have her pants down. I have her face the wall and I take a long minute to study her backside through the thin material of her pajama bottoms. The cheeks clench and loosen, and I enjoy looking at their heavy round fullness.

I put my hand out, flatten it on the surface of her backside, rub it up and down as I talk to her. I’m telling her to be calm, that I won’t hurt her, and all the while I’m letting her feel my hand rubbing up and down her rump, letting her know without saying it how much it turns me on, focusing all her attention on what’s behind her. In my mind she’s letting her head hang down, but I can see a little bit of her face as I smooth my hand over her bum and tell her what I’m going to have to do; I watch her expression as I calmly describe the procedure, how in a minute I’m going to have to take her pajama bottoms down to her knees and then have her kneel down in the tub with her head down on its surface and her bottom up high. I pause my hand as I talk to her, and begin to push my finger gently into the crack between her cheeks as I talk, letting her feel it intruding slightly there. I tell her that, when she’s kneeling, her cheeks will spread of their own accord for me, and that I’ll have her wait there patiently as I prepare the nozzle. I imagine holding up the nozzle, showing it to her before I have her kneel, showing her the nozzle, and the jar of Vaseline. I continue to tickle between her cheeks with my finger as I hold up the nozzle, close to her face and let her look at how thick it is, how long it is. Let her look at it. Let her think about where it’s going.

I stand up and look down into the tub, and imagine her standing there. I have both hands in the waistband of her pajamas now, fingertips pressing lightly into her warm flesh, having her face the wall as I tell her that it’s time for her pants to come down. And the do come down, slowly; I watch as they come down exposing the bottom curve of her back, and then the top of her bottom. I pull a little more and both cheeks come into view, two round cheeks with the hidden valley inbetween. I pull the bottoms down slowly, letting her feel more and more exposed as the fabric descends, letting her feel examined, knowing how carefully I’m scrutinizing her bare backside. Down the fabric comes, slipping down over her cheeks and then down her legs, until I let them come to rest at mid-thigh.

And then I have her kneel down in the tub, and I watch as she does it, watch as she puts her head down and lifts her bottom up. I sit back down on the side of the tub, and Vaseline the nozzle and tell her that it has to go in her behind. I have her turn her head to watch as I Vaseline it. And then I reach out with one hand and spread her cheeks, making her wait for a minute like that before I put the tip of the nozzle against her rectum. I make her wait a bit longer , and then I begin to push the nozzle into her behind.

It goes in slowly, and I watch as it disappears between her spread cheeks, her behind slowly swallowing it. I watch her body to see how she’s reacting to this slow penetration. Finally it’s all in, I tell her that it’s time. And I reach for the clamp on the hose.

**

Apart from the bathtub the room is pretty usual, a toilet, a sink, a laundry basket in one corner. I walk to the sink and look at my reflection in the mirror; what I see is hardly shocking, hardly bestial. An ordinary enough man, an ordinary enough face, nothing out of the ordinary in the eyes.

I pull on the mirror to reveal the medicine cabinet behind it, and again there’s nothing out of the ordinary there. The usual pills and potions, lotions and salves. What exactly am I looking for? I don’t know.

There must be something, though. Like the box in the study, there must be something here, some secret place. I’m not a policeman, but I take a cop’s approach to her surroundings; there must be something there that will reveal her to me, something covert that will open the door to her innermost thoughts. I could have looked carefully at her letters, but somehow I know that I will find other evidence of her desires, other insights into her innermost thoughts.

I close the medicine cabinet door and reach down and open the cabinet underneath the sink. A small plastic trashcan, empty. To its right, tile cleaner. Abrasive, sponges, all the usual cleaning supplies. I can see the rolls of toilet paper behind; nothing out of the ordinary, everything in its place. Which doesn’t feel right to me somehow, so I take the trashcan out, and move the toilet paper. And behind it I see a plain box, pushed all the way to the back of the cabinet.

I pull it out and open it. Inside is an enema bag, a rectal plug, and a large jar of Vasline. I open the jar, and see that it’s half empty, that there’s a crater in the center where a nozzle has been dipped, many times.

I close the jar. Suddenly, I have a much better insight into her state of mind, and what she’s been doing to prepare herself for my visit.

**

It makes sense of course, her preparation. In my fantasies I think about what she’s feeling, what she thinks. “What will it feel like, the enema,” she must wonder, and I know she’ll realize she doesn’t have to wait for me to find out. And so I imagine her working up her courage to go to a drugstore and buy one, a combination bag, hot water bottle/douche/bag enema. How long does she fret about it, how long does it take her to work up the nerve? Lying in bed at night touching herself as she thinks about it, wonders what it will feel like, night after night climaxing to those fantasies, until she finally can’t take it anymore.

On the day she goes to the drugstore, what does she feel, how does she dress? Does she masturbate before she goes, does she masturbate after? In the store she has that feeling in the pit of her stomach as she walks down the aisles to where the bags are kept, a place she knows well from previous trips. Does she blush when other customers walk by? Does she imagine them scrutinizing her, seeing into her soul, seeing her desires, seeing her guilt at what it is she knows she wants, knows she needs? Does she blush as she imagines them seeing her at home, kneeling in the tub, rear up with the nozzle in it?

She goes to the shelf where she knows she’ll find it, scoops it quickly into her cart and then conceals it with other purchases. At the register she hangs back, trying to pick the least threatening cashier. A woman, she thinks, will be less intimidating than a man, but when it’s her turn with the clerk — an indifferent teenager, gum chewing, unaware of her surroundings — she still feels as if the spotlight is on her. She feels the eyes of the older man behind her scrutinizing her purchases: soap, aspirins, other odds and ends; and then the combination bag.

There’s no price on it, and the barcode isn’t recognized by her register. “Price check, register 13,” the girl calls into the microphone, and she stands there, mortified, until a manager comes to question the girl, to inspect the suspect merchandise. He holds it up to examine it, and now the whole line sees what it is. Oddly (but then this is my fantasy so nothing is odd; that’s the ground rule of erotic fiction, anything that you want to be true, miraculously, is), no one seems to notice the hot water bottle use of the apparatus; she knows everyone sees the word “douche,” though, and somehow “enema” glows in hot pink letters in their eyes.

After what seems like forever she finally escapes from the drugstore, her purchase in her bag. She will go elsewhere for the Vaseline; the rectal plug arrived in the mail that morning.

And when she’s finally back in her house, she goes to her bedroom, and takes out the apparatus. Her hands shake a little as she sits and looks at it, but she is very excited, acutely aware of her backside on the cold rim of the large bathtub. She thinks about what’s been arranged, thinks about me, although she doesn’t really know me except by reputation. But in most ways that lack of knowledge is even more exciting. Just as I decided not to read her letters for fear I would come to know her too well, she has purposefully withheld knowledge of me. She wants it all to be unexpected. When will it happen? She doesn’t know. What I will do she knows only in the most threadbare way; in fact there is no guarantee I will even keep her in her house for it, although, if I stay in character I will, because the Bandit himself never took a girl away from her apartment for the procedure he performed.

It’s my fantasy, but I’ve known enough women to know that, in reality, she has been thinking about me, wondering what I’m like. Not just the physical details of what I look like, but how I act. How I sound when I talk: is my voice slow and comforting, harsh when she fails to obey? She must wonder what I sound like and what I’m going to say. “Please take your pants down now,” is that what it will be when it’s time? Or something else, more intimate, “I’m going to take your pants down.” Or, harsh: “Take your pants down; it’s time.” There are so many permutations, each a window into a different soul, and she knows me only from my writing and from the reassurances of her friend.

And now that I’ve seen the contents of the box under the sink, I know she’s connected the two, the physical acts with the wonder of what I’m like and what I will do. I know that because of the plug; it’s something the Bandit never did, but that we’ve agreed might happen. Bottom sex. Sodomy. A buggering. Or, in the crudest but most powerful way it can be described, “ass fucking.”

I wonder which of the phrases she uses as she masturbates at night, as she finds her hands slipping between her legs in the early morning before work. I have my own fantasies on the matter; I think the one I like the best is that she thinks about my giving her “a good hard ass fucking, hard and deep.”

But that’s only my fantasy. I wonder which is hers.

**

I realize that time has passed, and that I’ve seen all of the interior of her house I need to see, so I close the box containing the bag enema and the plug and put it back in its hiding place at the back of the sink. I put back the contents of the cabinet and close the doors. And I walk out of her room and back downstairs to the kitchen to get the big canvas bag that I’ve brought in with me but left there for safekeeping.

I look inside to see if I have everything I need, and I wonder for a moment if the Bandit did this too, and if so, when? Was it before he left his house, or apartment or wherever he stayed when he was committing his crimes? Was it in his car, after he’d picked the targets, made the decision and was about to act on it? Or did he wait, as I have, until he was inside?

I can’t help but think about him and what he did, and it’s both a disturbing and exciting thought. I don’t condone it, but it excites me even so. As I walk from her kitchen upstairs to her bedroom, I know full well that I could never be here if it weren’t prearranged, that I couldn’t even enjoy the thought of it if it weren’t agreed upon. But since it is, I’ve given my imagination free rein and I wonder often what he did, and how he did it.

I wonder what it would be like to give enemas to five girls in one evening; and then I try to think about how many people I’ve dealt with in one night, under any circumstances. Certainly more than one. More than two? Yes of course, but I have to think a while to recall the exact number, and when it comes to me I smile at the recollection it brings with it. Not of a cramped closet and unsuspecting prey; no, previous circumstances have been both more comfortable and less edgy. Pleasant circumstances, pleasant in their own way. A way very different from what’s happening tonight.

Which is edgy, I won’t deny it. Edgy for her, edgy for me, even with all my previous experiences. She’s been preparing herself, and so have I, thinking and rethinking every enema I’ve given, reading the reports of the Bandit’s activities and trying to combine the two, to put myself into his shoes, to the extent that I want to anyway. It’s an odd kind of method acting, but not exactly an extrapolation. I’ve been allowing myself to slip into that role, the man who gave five coeds enemas on one night, allowing myself to feel the emotions I imagine he must have felt.

And what would those emotions have been? The first thing I imagine him feeling is sexual arousal. I always feel that, even when the enema is being given for disciplinary reasons alone. It turns me on to do it, after all, and the excitement starts when I see a woman walking down the street — any woman — and imagine her bare bottom with the hose in it and my hand on the clamp. Part of it is just that physical thing, the plain physical pleasure that comes from seeing a woman’s bare backside, from feeling my hand on her warm supple skin and feeling it moving beneath my hand as I pull her cheeks apart and see between them. The physical feeling I get as I place the tip of the nozzle against her tight little opening and push it in.

But that’s only the beginning. I think another big part of it is guessing what she’s feeling, what she’s thinking, how she’s responding to everything I do. I’m pretty perceptive anyway, and if you’ve done it as many times as I have you see common responses you can use as milestones to your progress. But even without the squirming and the pleas, even without the body language that tells me what she’s feeling, I know the sensations she’s experiencing. The feeling of the nozzle, intrusive. And the enema, filling her. Her bowels expanding as the solution flows in.

I imagine that the Bandit’s excitement must have started when he knew he was going to give one. That’s what I feel, even if I don’t have anyone in particular in mind yet. I know that it’s time, and that once I’ve made the decision I’ll find someone soon enough. I feel it from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. I’ve felt that way for years, about enemas, about spankings, and all the people I’ve talked to experience the same reaction. “I’m going to give you a spanking,” I say, and the culprit reacts, the excitement spreads throughout the body, no matter how close or how far the spanking is from happening.

And then after I’ve absorbed that initial excitement, my next thought is who it’s going to be, the recipient. Suddenly the behind of the woman at the next table takes on new significance, suddenly the skirt-covered backside of the girl leaning over at the counter captivates me in a way it didn’t before. Suddenly there’s a new erotic potential that exists that wasn’t there moments earlier, and I can follow that potential for hours, drifting along on it, fixating on this rump or that one, with no special need to single out any one at this point.

Now of course unlike the Bandit, what I do is consensual, so after I know I’m going to give one, I have to find someone who will agree to what’s going to happen. I can’t just pick someone the way the Bandit did — I wouldn’t want to — instead, I have to let her agree to being picked.

And how do I get someone to agree to taking an enema, erotic, disciplinary, whatever it is? I have to convince her, of course. I have to work at it, embark on a journey through her mind, leading her from refusal to downright capitulation, since I won’t use force to bring her to that point. Later on in this book I’m going to talk about crying, and how getting someone to cry shouldn’t be a matter of forcing them there, of using whatever means it takes to induce the tears. For me, nothing so crude — nothing so unexciting — as brute force. I use subtler tools. My aim is nothing less than her collusion in her submission. If I wanted someone on her knees, I’d guide her there on a path she follows of her own accord; she’ll kneel because she wants her to, not because I ever forced her. And my pleasure comes in knowing that what I’ve offered up is so inviting that she’ll follow of her own accord. And what could be more exciting than that?

And that makes me think about the box under the sink and what’s in it. I realize that I have this woman captivated, and that turns me on, even though I won’t admit it. I’ve never met her, and yet I know all she thinks about is me. That hoarded clippings, the box under the sink. I know she thinks about me during the day. I know she masturbates when she gets home, and I’m pretty sure I can guess how she does it too. I’m sure she’s used that enema bag before, and after she’s taken the solution she’s pushed the plug into her ass thinking about me fucking her there. That’s something she’s thought about a lot, I’m sure of it; and after all I’ve thought about it a lot too.

I’m sure that she thinks about meeting me, and she thinks about that meeting as she wanders through every room of her house. I bent over the couches downstairs; I know she’s done the same thing with her behind bared. Thinking about being spanked, thinking about being given an enema. If she were reading this now, she’d have the overwhelming desire to do everything I describe. To practice doing it. Not because I’m using force to get her to capitulate; no, her submission comes out of her own desires, and my only talent is to feed those desires. So there’s no ego on my part in knowing she thinks about me. It doesn’t make me feel bloated with pride or self-importance. Mostly it just turns me on to be able to bring someone so much pleasure without even having met in the flesh.

Why did she buy that enema bag and the rectal plug? To get ready for what I’ve made her want, to get ready for me, and I take pride in knowing that I’ve played so much of a role in it all. Every night she lies in bed and masturbates thinking about what’s coming. Sometimes she takes an enema, sometimes she uses just the plug. On her knees, head down and bottom up, reaching back and pulling her cheeks apart, imagining it’s me doing it. Imagining her cheeks are sore, and that she sees me Vaselining my cock as she spreads herself open for me. Sometimes she takes an enema and thinks about me doing it, punishing her with one, giving her one just because it pleases me. Giving her one because, after all, I’m playing the role of the Enema Bandit.

And that statement brings me out of my reverie there in the kitchen, and I look up at the clock and realize that it’s time to get moving upstairs. So I hoist the bag onto my shoulder, go up the staircase and back to her bedroom, shutting the door to leave the house looking completely undisturbed.

I open the door to her closet, walk inside and close it behind me. I settle myself down in a back corner, moving clothes and boxes so that I won’t be visible if she opens the door. I’m relatively comfortable here, and if I lean forward I can see out into her room through the open crack I’ve left. It reminds me so much of the vantage point I’ve written about in my stories; this time, it’s real. Well, nothing to do now but wait.

I look at my watch. I have just enough time to collect myself before she gets home.

At any moment I expect to hear her car pulling into the driveway.

**

As I wait I think about my fantasies leading up to this night, fantasies where I am the Bandit, perhaps even more so than the original Bandit might have allowed. I’m the Bandit, a Bandit of my own choosing, with a particular set of desires and plans that are different from those of the genuine article. So I spend a lot of my time thinking about things the Bandit never did, never saw.

As I sit in the quiet darkness of the closet I think about watching as she undresses and gets into bed. And about what she’s going to do. Even before I found the box underneath the sink I thought about that, and the box only makes the fantasy stronger. So in my imagination I watch from the closet as she undresses and gets into bed. The lights are low and I can barely see her, but I hear her shifting as the minutes tick by. I listen, waiting for her breathing to settle as she slips off into sleep, but it doesn’t happen. Something is keeping her awake as she lies there, something is keeping her from slumber.

I imagine seeing the light come on, watching her get out of bed, heading towards her bathroom. A late-night emptying of the bladder, I think, and indeed I hear the telltale sounds, and then the toilet flush and the sudden rush of water into the sink as she washes her hands. A long pause, and then I hear a cabinet opening. And finally she comes back out of the bathroom and back to her bed, carrying something in her hands. Now that I’ve been in her house, I know what it is that I only fantasized about before; it’s the box with the plug and bag enema, of course, and she’s looking at it as she sits down at the side of her bed, the beside lamp illuminating her face, the excitement I can read in her expression quite apparent.

And I watch from the closet as she opens the box, and takes out the enema bag and the jar of Vaseline. She does it in slow motion, as if she’s rehearsing her actions. Or is it that she’s imagining me doing it, with her watching from her tummy on the bed while I prepare it?

She takes out the bag, and holds it, turns it over and over in her hands, scrutinizes it, and then turns her attention to the long rubber hose and the nozzle on the end. She holds the nozzle in her hands, running her small fingers up and down the thick nozzle of ridged plastic, feeling the ridges, thinking about how it feels when it slides into her behind as she kneels on her bed with her head down. For a long time she holds the nozzle, as if she’s watching me holding it, as if she’s hearing me scolding her, chiding her, telling her what’s about to come. As if she’s working up her resolve. And then she suddenly stands up, and faces the bed. Puts her hands in the waistband of her pajamas and slowly — agonizing slowly — pulls them down to her knees.

I watch as the pajamas descend, revealing the two rounded moons of her behind and the darkly shaded crack that separates them. Down, her pajamas come, down the fabric goes, slowly revealing her rump, a curtain falling, a slow striptease just for me. I imagine the vulnerability she’ll feel when she does it in front of me, knowing what’s coming next. Seeing the thick nozzle stiff in my hands, knowing something thicker and stiffer still lies in wait in my pants.

And then, when her pajamas are at her knees, I watch her climb up onto her bed, her cheeks parting as she puts one knee on the bed and pushes herself up. Soon she is kneeling there, her head down her bottom high. The pajama bottoms at mid-thigh and the top coming down to just below her waist, a frame for the “target.” She reaches for the Vaseline and begins to lubricate the nozzle as I watch. And then she shuffles her knees as far apart as the pajama bottoms will allow and puts the head of the nozzle against her rectum. For some reason she’s turned her head to the side that faces me as she holds the nozzle there, and I can see her face tensing as she works up her courage. I watch her teasing her anus with the tip of the nozzle, tickling herself with it as she presses it in, pausing a moment before allowing it to fully penetrate her.

As I watch this scene in my mind I imagine sensing a smell, a warm musty smell of arousal, and I know that, although the room is too dark for me to see it, there’s a wet patch growing between her legs as she teases her rectum with the nozzle. I wonder if she’s ever been penetrated there before by anything other than the nozzle and the rectal plug she keeps in the box. Will my cock be the first to plumb that dark, tight, forbidden passageway to pleasure? Will I be the first to spread her cheeks and thrust myself into that warm Vaselined passage? Will I be the first to look down and see her upthrust ass, her red cheeks spread around my cock as I fuck her there? Will I be the first to fuck her backside, the first to fuck her ass? I hope I will be.

And as I think about that I imagine watching her slowly pushing the nozzle in, watching the thick white tube disappear up her behind. I hear her moaning now, a soft low moan that gets louder and more plaintive as the tube goes in. Louder and louder it gets, the sound growing, swelling as she masturbates in front of me, head down on her bed, her bottom up high with the nozzle in her rear.

Louder and louder, and then — suddenly — I realize that it’s not my fantasy, that noise. It’s the sound of a car pulling into her driveway.

She’s coming home. In a few minutes she’ll be inside the house.

**

I hide in her closet upstairs in her room as I listen to her come into her house. I hear her walking into the kitchen, the rustle of packages, the thump of the refrigerator door. Soon I hear her coming out into her living room, and the TV goes on. I hear the downstairs toilet flush, and I know she’s on the couch watching TV.

What is she thinking? She knows I could be upstairs, is that why she hasn’t come up yet to change out of her work clothes? Is her mind on the evening news, the parade of nightly gore? Or is it on her room, on her closet perhaps, and who might be hiding there, waiting for her. Is she downstairs because she has no reason to come up yet — or is it because she’s afraid to, because she has to work up her courage to what she knows might be up here. Me. That’s what might be up here, me, hiding in her closet waiting for her.

For a long time I listen to her downstairs, first watching TV and then, from the noises I hear in the kitchen, cooking a quick frozen dinner. She’s downstairs, and I’m upstairs, and the physical gap that bridges us is small, but the emotional one she must be feeling is vast. She’s coming to terms with it, I think, putting herself in the right frame of mind. Perhaps imagining she’s one of those coeds on that fateful night, the night the Bandit struck. Whatever it is, I’m waiting for her to finish, to come upstairs to where I’m waiting.

And eventually she does. I hear the TV go silent, I hear her footsteps into the kitchen, the sound of washing dishes. I hear her back out in the living room now, straightening, and then I hear her footsteps moving across the room to the stairwell.

I hear each step on each tread, or at least I think I do. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot, right foot, and I hear her pause on the landing, and I know it’s not a shortage of breath that’s making her wait there but the fear in her guts. The butterflies in her tummy at what might be upstairs in the dark. I hear her pause. And then I hear her footsteps again, coming down the hallway to her bedroom door.

The sound of the lock turning, and I hear that low whisper as the bottom of the door glides across the thick carpeting of her room. I can almost feel the slight change in air pressure as she walks inside, and I am holding my breath now as I hear her feet walk towards me, towards the closet. I hold my breath, waiting for the door to open … and then I exhale silently when I hear a thump outside the door and realize it’s a pile of clothes that she’s dropped there. I hear her go to her dresser, hear the drawers opening, and I know it’s clothes she’s dropped outside the closet, and that she’s changing now into something more comfortable.

The water runs in her bathroom as she brushes her teeth, and then I hear the door shut with a bang. Who closes the bathroom door when they’re alone in their own house? Force of habit? Or does she think I might be there, is she seeking privacy from the possibility of my gaze. I hear the bathroom door close and, eventually, I hear the sound of the toilet flushing, the sound of water in the sink as she washes her hands.

I hear the sound of a cabinet being opened — the one over the sink or the one under it? — and a long silence. Faint rustling noises, and now the cabinet door closing again. I hold my breath, this time in anticipation, and as I keep myself from breathing I inch forward until my eye is at the crack in the closet door.

I can see the room, the lamp on by the bed, the low illumination throwing fearsome shadows into the corners. I see the outline of the bathroom door, and I wonder what she’s doing inside. The outline goes dark, and I see the door opening.

She’s coming out now, wearing white pajamas, matching top and bottom, white socks on her feet. It’s too dark to see her at first, but as she comes closer to her bed, I see she’s holding something in her hands.

It’s the box from underneath her sink. It’s open.

And as she tips it forward under the light from her bedside lamp I see she has the jar of Vaseline uncovered. And her hand is on the thick plastic enema nozzle.

She gets into bed. I lean forward and press my eye tighter to the crack in the closet door to see what she’ll do next.

**

And, for all my experience, what she does now surprises me. No, floors me actually — I, who have seen it all, done it all, I thought I know what she would do.

But I realize I’m wrong; and the enormity of my mistake jumps out at me as she reaches over and picks up the phone by her bed, punches in a number and lies back against the pillows. She waits — we wait — for it to ring, and apparently it does for she begins speaking into it, the soft sultry tone of her voice immediately confirming my suspicions.

“I’m in my bedroom,” she says, “and I’ve got my box in my hands. He might be coming tonight; he might be here now … what do you want me to do … ?” As she speaks she settles back further into her pillows, and I watch her looking at the nozzle she holds in her hand, watch her cradle the phone against her shoulder, watch her slip her free hand down to the front of her pajamas, and then down inside them. I see her hand moving underneath the soft white fabric as she talks …

I don’t know who it is she’s talking to. Her boyfriend? A disciplinarian? I’m sure it’s a man, but who it is eludes me, and I feel a momentary sense of frustration replaced instantly by anger. Anger that she should dilute her excitement with thoughts of someone else; that she should ruin OUR moment with the participation of a third party. I feel that she’s cheating on me somehow, I feel as if I’m just a pawn in a game she’s playing, and I think I should just stay there until she’s asleep and then leave. Leave, without letting her know I’ve been there at all. Or, better yet, leave her a note telling her that I know what she’s been doing, and I want no part of it. None at all.

But then I find myself beginning to be excited by what I’m witnessing. He’s not there after all; and it’s really only acting to build her anticipation about me, increasing my power, something I can’t possibly find abhorrent. I’ll just let her talk a while longer, I think, and then make the final decision about how I feel. So I let myself cool down somewhat, and keep my eye on her as I listen to what she’s saying on the phone.

And she begins to talk to the man on the other end of the line, describing where she is and what she’s wearing. She moves her hand in front as she talks, and I’m almost embarrassed at the intimacy of the moment I’m witnessing. A voyeur in her closet, watching her masturbate herself in front of me, without knowing I’m there. I’ve had plenty of culprits rub themselves before correction; and I’ve rubbed plenty more. This is different, somehow, with me in this position of concealment, watching her rub. Throughout the evening I’ve found myself in odd moral quandaries: how thorough an exploration of her house to make; how many of the letters in her box in her study should I read; should I really be there listening to her conversation now? Quandaries, but the thing is I’m hard now, very hard, and whatever residual morality I have at the moment is thoroughly overruled by that priapic principle. Tumescence trumps timidity. Each and every time.

I listen to her talking to him, and I watch as she puts the phone down so she can get both hands on her pajama bottoms. She rolls over onto her stomach first, puts both hands on the waistband and pulls them down, slowly. By random chance she’s pointing her backside almost directly at me as she does so, and I watch her baring her behind, slowly. Recalling all the fantasies I’ve had about this moment. She pulls her pajama bottoms down, stopping when they’re at her knees.

Her bottom is completely bared, and my eyes are fixated on it. I’m carrying the memory of the moment when she had to lift herself up on her knees slightly to get the pajamas down, and how her cheeks spread apart when she did so. A moment, a moment only, but I caught enough of a glimpse between her legs to know she’s shaved down there; to see the glistening smoothness of her inner thighs and the bare folded fig that lies at the base.

The pajamas are down and she’s picked up the phone again, and as she’s talking she’s holding the Vaselined nozzle in one hand, bringing it back towards her behind as she talks. I wonder if she’s directing him, or if she’s simply telling him what she thinks I’ll be doing later; that night, or whatever night she thinks I might be there waiting for her. I can’t figure it out but I don’t suppose it matters much; what’s she’s doing is much more engrossing than who’s running the show, and I watch quietly, intently, as she slips the nozzle into her behind, pushing back with her bottom to slowly take it up her ass.

She begins to move the nozzle in and out, and I hear her telling the guy on the other end of the phone what she’s doing, I hear her say “I’m getting my ass fucked,” over and over, and I can tell from how slowly she’s moving the nozzle that she’s enjoying the sensation terribly, that she’s tightening her ass on the nozzle to get the maximum effect from the penetration.

She pushes the nozzle in and out of her ass, and I watch her, imagining it’s my cock back there; and then she stops suddenly, and there’s a long pause as she listens to what the man on the other end of the line is saying. I watch as she gets up off her bed, the nozzle still rudely protruding from her bare posterior. She waddles off towards the bathroom, her pajama bottoms at her knees, holding the empty enema bag high, the hose dangling down from the bottom of the bag, down to lowest point and then rising again, rising up to the thick white nozzle penetrating her ass.

She disappears into the bathroom, and closes the door, leaving me there in the closet hard — oh so very hard — staring at the phone on her bed wondering if the man on the other end is as hard as I am. For a long time she’s in the bathroom, and I hear the water running in the sink, and I know what she’s doing, I know it perfectly well even before she comes back out, pajamas still down, bag still high — this time, completely filled. Back to the bed she goes, where she picks up the phone again and then shuffles off to the corner, where I notice there’s a stool.

I wonder how many nights she’s been doing this. I wonder at that as I see her hanging the bag from a hook in the wall I hadn’t noticed before, see her bending over the stool, watch her cheeks flexing apart as she bends. Watch her pajama bottoms slipping down her legs, see her two white bare cheeks with the nozzle spearing between them. She holds the phone in her left hand; with her right she reaches back and begins to fuck her ass with the nozzle, this time pulling it completely out and pausing a moment before she pushes it back in. She’s pushing her weight down onto the stool as she does this, and I realize there’s a reason for that: she’s rubbing herself against the stool, bringing herself off as she gets her ass fucked and talks to her friend on the phone.

Over and over I watch the nozzle going in and out, and I listen to what she’s saying. She’s talking about the Bandit, and the five coeds, and how she’s going to be the sixth; only her bandit is going to fuck her ass after he’s washed it out. He’s going to clean her ass and then put her over the stool for a bottoms-up-cheeks-apart, and he’s going to take his belt off and give her the strap if she doesn’t behave herself while she’s getting it.

Over and over I watch the nozzle going in and out, and I’m throbbing in synchrony with the motions of the nozzle; as it pushes in I can actually feel the tightness of her rectum sliding over the head of my cock. I watch, I hear her moan, and I see her hand moving now, up from the nozzle to grasp the clamp on the hose. And I hear her telling the guy on the phone that she feels it getting bigger in her ass and that she’s about to get a sperm enema, and I watch her hand inching up to the clamp as she says that and I can tell she’s getting near to orgasm. Totally lost in her own little world, thinking only of what she feels, lost except for the sensations she feels and the sensation she’s about to feel, that soapy water shooting up her behind as she masturbates over the stool with her friend on the other end of the line listening.

Suddenly, I realize it’s time. And I slide the closet door open, so quietly I know she doesn’t hear, and I walk out of the closet towards her, and she’s too lost in her own passion to notice.

And I come up behind her, look down at her bare bottom with the nozzle in it and her hand inching up to the clamp.

And I reach out and put MY hand on the clamp, and just as her hand slides up to reach mine and the sudden realization of my being there hits her, I open it with a loud CLICK.

As the water hits her bowels, as the soapy enema shoots deep into her suddenly resistant backside, she has an orgasm.

The first of several she’ll have that evening.

Oh and by the way, there never was anyone on the other end of the line. She did all of that for me, on the assumption that I might be there, watching.

A very sexy lady indeed.

I'm reproducing this story from my book "Intimate Invasions," which is available through Amazon and multiple other sites and, given the nature of the internet, probably for free if you search for it.

The Enema Bandit was a real person, if you search for him on the internet you'll find multiple entries about what he did and where he did it.  The to whom was basically female college students, quite a few of them by the time he was caught.

I don't recall how I came across the news stories about him when I was growing up, I was probably in my mid-teens, and already had the fully developed fetishes I write about now, although at the time I was too ashamed to admit to that.  So what he did -- although horrible and criminal -- was an incredible turn-on for me, and still is, although honestly I posted this story without having re-read it to see how well I wrote it 20 odd years ago.

I will note that over the years I've talked to many many women who were given enemas as punishment as kids, which I also find horrible, but equally as exciting as what the Enema Bandit did.  When I have a chance I'll write more about this aspect of enema-giving, I'll note that despite the sexiness of the idea, I've never talked to someone whose parents gave her enemas past perhaps 12 or 13, and CERTAINLY NOT anyone who was given them as a college student by her parents.  I know it's a fun thing to imagine, but even on the internet there ought be some basic level of truth, just so that you know.

I started posting my stories in 1999, so the likelihood of someone already having stolen this COPYRIGHTED material is high.  Even so, remember this material is COPYRIGHT MRSTRICT1@AOL.COM and cannot be reproduced or sold without prior express written permission.

Also note that, if you're going to steal this and repost it, at least don't claim it as your own writing; credit me, and put up a link to this website!

She lies face down on her bed, her robe opened behind her, revealing the tight cheeks of her posterior, her vulnerable bottom.

She lies there, feeling the wetness between her legs, thinking about him watching her, commenting on the bareness of her buttocks as she lies there, submissive, waiting for the discipline to come.

“You know why we had to expose your ass,” he says, calmly. “Because you’ve been a bad girl, and bad girls have to be punished. On their bare behinds.”

Her hand slips down between her legs and she closes her eyes as she thinks about him delivering the scolding. The scolding that precedes the inevitable punishment that she knows she’ll get afterwards.

“I think we’ll start with the rectal thermometer,” he says, “the cold glass rod inserted deep into your bowels. Bare bottom up over Daddy’s knee with the thermometer ticking your rectum, feeling the shame of being bent over like that as Daddy spreads your cheeks and slides it in.

“You’ll have to help me, of course; my naughty little girl pulling her underpants down and then walking to the bathroom like that to get the thermometer and the big jar of Vaseline. I’ll watch as you walk, I’ll see your bared bottom, your tight little cheeks moving against one another as you walk.

“We’ll both be thinking about your bottom, and what’s going to happen to it. We’ll both be thinking about it, about what a bad girl you’ve been, and how bad girls have to be disciplined.

“You’re lucky that this time you’ll be getting the thermometer in private. Because when Daddy has guests over and you’ve been naughty, or act up, you know I’ll put you over my lap and take your temperature in your behind while they watch. They’ll smile when your face turns red when I tell you to get the thermometer and the Vaseline. You’ll have to stand there and look them in the eyes as I take your skirt off and pull your underpants down to your knees; and if your gaze falters, if your eyes drop, you’ll get Daddy’s belt across your buttocks while they watch, and then you’ll still have to have that cold thin glass rod inserted deep between your hot red cheeks as they watch.”

Her hand is rubbing her pussy hard now, as she thinks about the thermometer sliding in. She feels his hand on her bare behind, holding her cheeks firmly for a moment before he separates them to expose the tight portal to her bowels. She thinks about her humiliation when he spreads her there, exposing her rectum to his gaze.

She is dripping, and she realizes he will want to know that she wore something in her behind while she masturbated, so she gets up and get her butt plug and the Vaseline. Coats the plug with the greasy lubricant, imagining him doing it. Imagining him making he stand there, wearing the open-backed hospital gown, in front of him, in front of his friends, having to watch as he methodically coats the plug with the Vaseline.

“It’s going deep into your naughty bottom,” he tells her, “deep in, in front of me, in front of our guests; and then you’ll stand in the corner with it in plain view until it’s time for me to sodomize you. And, if it falls out before buggery, you’ll get Daddy’s belt across your cheeks until you howl, and then you’ll get it back in and you’ll go over each of our guests laps for a paddling.”

She pushes the plug in, thinking about this, thinking about her mortification and shame, having Daddy punish her, having the guests watch, or, worse, participate. She thinks about it, pushing the plug in as she imagines her shame.

Feeling the thickness of it against her rectum, feeling that initial tensing as it slides in, imagining it’s Daddy there, penetrating her behind for the first time.

She wonders if he’ll be gentle; knows he won’t be, that bad girls get their asses fucked, hard. She knows it will be uncomfortable, that she’ll feel the entire bulk of his cock in her behind. But she knows she needs that, needs to feel stuffed by him, needs to feel sodomized, needs to be pressed down hard on the bed, her cheeks spread, his entire length insider her – moving inside her – thrusting, scolding, not stopping despite her struggles and pleas.

The plug is in her behind now, and she’s lying on her tummy on her bed thinking about him inside her, about being buggered by him, unrelentingly, until he gives her the sperm enema that she longs to feel there.

She feels how stretched her ass is, feels how wet she is between her legs. She closes her eyes tight, reaches back and moves the plug, trying to time the rhythm of its motion to the movements she’s seen on the videos he’s sent. She thinks about the girl on the bed in the video, gown opened, her ass being fucked, and imagines it happening to her.

Feels him there, feels how thick he is, how she’s pinned to the bed beneath him, his voice in her ear as he scolds, “Yes, sweetie, this is what you get for your bad behavior and disobedience,” and all the while the motions of his cock deep in her virgin bowels, the motions of sodomy, the deep thrusts into her ass as she tenses her legs and cries.

Wanting him to stop, not wanting him to stop. Knowing that, whatever she wants, he won’t end it until he thickens, stretching her rectum tight on his swelling cock, holding her tight as he forces himself further up her behind, as deep into her bowels as he can before he groans and discharges, the sperm enema shot as deeply into her bowels as he can manage,

Imagining his discharge there, imagining his use of her body for his pleasure, she comes. Feeling the tensing of her rectum on the plug, imagining its him she’s tensing on.

She keeps the plug in. For she knows another orgasm with it inside her will please him.

And, more than anything else, she wants to please her Daddy.

**

**

The seated girl on the subway is nearly indistinguishable from the other passengers around her, at least at first glance. Petite, pleasant face, neatly and conservatively dressed, she appears no different from any of the other young women who fill the seats.

Nearly the same as the women who surround her, yet, on closer examination there are slight deviations that point to distinction. The flush on her face, unexplained; the rigidity with which she holds herself on her seat, despite the rocking and swaying of the cars as the train thrusts itself forward; and, the telltale swelling of the nipples of the large breasts, swelling that can’t be explained by air temperature, swelling that speaks only to animal arousal.

Aroused in the subway; and the men around her notice that arousal, to her shame and further excitement. Her nipples outthrust through the thin blouse she’s been made to wear; and, when the hot breezes through the open windows of the swaying carriage are opportune, the musky scent between her legs that confirms the suspicions of the strangers around her examining her over their newspapers.

The young woman sits there in the subway, hands fluttering on her lap, reaching back when she thinks she’s not being watched, The hands reach back, towards the behind. Towards the buttocks in the tight slacks; towards her two twin rounds that she holds gingerly on the seat, as far above the seat as she can keep them, in order to keep herself from settling onto its surface.

It’s an odd uncomfortable position, and people wonder at it, wonder at the reasons for it. But whatever guesses they might have would be off the mark, for the truth – the rectal plug intruding deep into her distended anus – is not one that would occur to them, looking at a nice girl like her.

“A nice girl,” she tells herself, unconvincingly. “A nice girl.” But then, if she’s so nice, why is she sitting there in the subway as instructed, a rectal plug inserted tightly in her behind, and her pussy wet at the discomfort, and the humiliation that she’s enduring for no other reason than his pleasure.

Or could her own pleasure be reason enough, she wonders, distracted for a moment from the intrusion of the plug into her behind.

**

The train rushes forward through the tunnels, slowing down now and then as it approaches a station. Slowing, decelerating, grinding to a sudden lurching halt.

With each motion she feels the plug in her bowels, feels her ass fucked by it, a taste of sodomy with each sway of the carriage, a thorough buggering with each sudden change of trajectory as the train strains forward along the underground tracks.

She’s never experienced it before – sodomy – but she imagines it as she sits there in the subway, feeling the plug push into her every time the train moves, every time she settles down on the seat. She thinks about it, about how she’ll be bent over for it with her behind bared, having to hold her own cheeks apart and ask for it, telling him that she’s misbehaved and deserves it.

“But I’m a good girl,” she says to herself, out-loud she realizes, when she feels the stares of the men around her. “I’m a good girl,” she thinks, but she realizes that her wet pussy and willing insertion of the plug in her own backside puts the lie to that claim; puts the lie to any argument that she shouldn’t get what she has coming. Shouldn’t get what she knows she wants and needs. Her underpants down, her behind exposed to his gaze. The punishment she needs, the submission she wants.

The train rounds a hard curve, tilts to the left, and she’s thrown to the side and then down onto the seat. The plug intrudes even deeper between her cheeks, inserted to the hilt the way his cock while be when he fucks her ass for the first time.

The smell of arousal in the car is greater, and she wants desperately to rub herself. But she can’t, for she has no way of concealing her actions from the watchers and, even if she did, she knows that rubbing isn’t allowed.

And so she sits there, feeling her inflamed lips rub against the fabric of her pants, letting her behind move on the plug slightly, as she tries to convince herself, yet again, that she’s not a bad girl, and so can escape what she’s been told she has coming.

She tries to convince herself that she doesn’t deserve it, but she knows that she does. And every time she recalls his words, she tightens her behind on the plug.

**

“I’m going to make you take your pants off in front of me, or,” he adds, after a momentary pause, “better yet, I’m going to make you hold up a pleated school skirt you’ve bought and worn just for the purpose.

“And then, when your panties are exposed I’m going to lecture you while I run my fingers over your behind, through the underpants, so that you feel examined and investigated even though you’ve not yet been undressed. Imagine that, having to stand there while I run my hand over your behind, knowing that soon I’m going to lower your underpants or, better yet, make you do it, undressing in front of me, feeling the humiliation as you disrobe, as you expose yourself.

“When we have you with your panties down to your knees you’re going to be examined, front and back, to see exactly how bad a girl you are. A rubber glove on each hand, my dear, the fingers of one hand in your pussy to see if you’re behaving yourself there, the fingers of the other hand teasing your anus, tickling you there before one slides in deep to see if your behind is clean.

“And,” he concludes, “you know the penalty for having a wet pussy or a dirty bottom. For the former, a spanking between your lips as you lie on your back with your legs spread. And, for a dirty bottom,” he says, “a long session over my knee with a thick nozzle forced between your cheeks. A punishment enema for you to take and retain while Daddy spanks you, and reminds you that, when he’s done, he’s going to use your behind to conclude the correction …”

**

The words swirl through her mind as the train pulls into her station. She jumps up, heads for the opening doors, all too aware of the intruder between her cheeks.

As she leaves the train and heads for the street and her apartment, she feels the wetness between her legs, a wetness she knows will increase when she reads her mail. Reads the next set of instructions to her from him.

A bad girl, reading about her punishment. Wanting to make it real.

**

**

“They’re only a pair of panties,” she tells herself, as she turns the garment over in her hands, standing there in the middle of the store. “Just a pair of panties,” she thinks, but she knows it isn’t true, for they’re far more than that. Not simply revealing underpants, but a sign of her submission, of her eagerness. Of her desire to follow him down this road of humiliation and exposure that he’s set her on.

She turns the garment over in her hands, examining the flimsy white cotton carefully. Observing the lacy front and, of greater significance, the sheer seat.

She thinks about that, running her hands over the material. The sheerness, and of how she’ll look in it with her skirt hiked up, bending forward in front of him, bent over the sodomy stool to show him her ass. Revealed, though clothed; more naked for being covered, to whatever extent the thin material covers her crack, the deep crevice between. To whatever extent it covers her shaved wet pussy below, and the tight portal of her soon-to-be-used anus above.

“Bending before buggery,” he’s told her, “bending, with your skirt lifted, to show me your ass through the thin sheer seat of the underpants I’m sending you to buy.

“Bending in front of me to show me your ass, to show me what you want done to it. A slow revealing strip-tease in front of me, lifting your skirt slowly to show me the bottoms of your cheeks peeking out from below, raising it higher to show me the whole of your backside.

“And then, bending down, down, to touch your toes, sticking your ass back at me, inviting me to deal with it. Sticking it back at me, and you know what I’ll see, because you’ll have seen it yourself in the mirror, so many times. Two tight cheeks with the crack revealed. Two tight cheeks with the crack between, and we both know what’s hiding between those cheeks, don’t we.

“Your bottomhole. Say it now, sweetie, ‘my bottomhole, Daddy, the entrance to my bowels. The tight hole I expose to you when I have to be punished, the hole I have to have Vaselined when I’ve been bad. The hole I have to expose as I bend over the sodomy stool in front of you, waiting to have my underpants yanked down to my knees, waiting to have you spread my cheeks and stick your cock in hard, forcing it up my tight ass as I kick and cry and plead with you not to have it.’ Say that, and think about how its going to feel when I do it to you, do it to your bottom.”

**

She buys the underpants, and then walks into one of the dressing rooms, closing the door slowly, feeling her stomach churn as she locks it, turns, and faces the full-length mirror she’s thought about so many times as she’s masturbated.

“They’re sodomy panties,” he’s told her, “and, after you’ve purchased them, you’re going to go immediately into a dressing room and put them on so you can see what I’ll be seeing when you strip in front of me.”

She’s imagined this more than once, lying on her bed with the lights off, feeling the pillows beneath her hips, thrusting her behind up to expose her ass. She’s imagined it, thought about seeing herself in front of the mirror, undressing and then putting the garment on. Thought about this as she lies over the pillows, feeling her regular panties banded down at her thighs, feeling the teasing intrusion of the rectal plug deep in her bowels as she lies there, thinking, feeling her wet pussy tingling beneath her.

She’s thought about it so many times that its almost by habit that she turns to the mirror, slips her hands down and raises her skirt. She does this slowly, watching the fabric rise up, sliding up her thighs, sliding higher still to expose the wet patch at the front of her usual underpants. She thinks about him chiding her for her arousal, thinks about him shaking his head slowly, the way you would with a child who’s misbehaved. Thinks about him shaking his hand, and then gesturing to her to come closer, to come to him so that he can slide a finger or two into the sodden material there, so that he can question her about her behavior while he tickles her between her legs.

Tickles her, adding to her shame. And to her arousal.

**

“Now turn and face your behind to the mirror,” she imagines him telling her. And she does, watching in a distracted fascination as the girl in the dressing room pivots, faces her cheeks to the mirror. She watches as the hands grip the waistband, lower the panties slowly, exposing the seductive curve of the lower back, then the top of the crack and, finally, the deep cleft itself as the panties go lower and lower down her bare bottom cheeks. Finally, they fall to the floor.

Now the part she’s been dreading. Slowly she bends, leaning forward as if to touch her toes. Turning her head to watch in the mirror as her cheeks spread, further and further, giving a clear view of her dripping sex and, ultimately, the tight vortex of her as-yet-unused behind.

She stares at her asshole, imagining him watching her, watching it, seeing it tighten under his gaze. She thinks about him making her wait like that while he gets the Vaseline, about how it will feel when he presents his cock at the tight entry to her bowels and instructs her to push back to take it inside. About how it will feel when he impales her ass on his cock, and how he won’t tolerate her complaints and pleas. About how he’ll make her tell him that she’s a bad girl who deserves this and, as she does so, she’ll feel him sliding deeper and deeper inside, finally coming to a rest as far up her vulnerable ass as he can go. Her rectum gripping him so tightly that she can feel every heartbeat of his as a sudden swelling of his fat cock in her tight used ass.

**

She reaches back with her hands to spread her cheeks, giving herself a long look at her rectum before she lets go, stands back up, and puts on her new purchase.

Once more she leans forward, now craning her head to see her behind in the sodomy panties. As she’s imagined, there’s very little of her backside that doesn’t show; the thin fabric of the seat gives a clear view of her crack, of her pussy, only her anus is hidden.

Again she rises, this time to open her purse and withdraw the rectal plug. Another long pause as she imagines a store employee watching her from behind the mirror, watching her as she goes back into her purse for the tube of Vaseline. She coats the plug, sets it down on the bench. Her underpants come back down, to her knees, and she picks up the plug.

In the mirror the girl is holding the blunt end of it against her bottomhole. The cheeks spread, her face as red as her bottom will be, she grits her teeth and pushes it in. slowly the anus distends as the plug intrudes into the resisting bowels. Slowly it enters her, a parody of the relentless sodomy she’ll take when she’s with him. When she’s underneath him, behind up over the pillows feeling his weight pressing down on her as he forces himself inside.

The girl in the mirror is getting the plug in her behind, inch by inch. Slowly it enters her, stretches her until, finally, it comes to a rest, seated completely inside her, only the base visible.

The hands move down, gripping the new panties, pulling them up over her hips, up, over her cheeks until her behind is once again covered.

The base of the plug is clearly visible through the thin fabric.

The girl stands, lowers her skirt.

Before she leaves, she bends over again in front of the mirror. The skirt raises in back, just enough to show the base of the plug.

As she walks out of the dressing room, she knows he’ll ask her how many times on her trip home she had to bend over.

Her pussy is wet at the thought.

**

**

She is wet all day, thinking about what she’ll do when she returns home. Thinking about the ritual, about the anticipation, she feels her pussy throb; wishes she could touch it, knows she can’t. Because she’s at work.

And, more importantly, because she knows he wouldn’t like it if she did.

**

On the subway home, the reality of it is greater; so too is the slickness she feels between her legs. She is all too aware of her behind as she slides on the seat, all too aware of her rectum tensing and tightening as the train rushes forward, as the minutes slip away and her apartment draws closer.

She’s aware of her behind, particularly aware of it because of the thick coating of Vaseline she applied to her rectum before she left for the train; standing there in the bathroom, her skirt raised, her panties yanked down, her finger pushing the greasy lubricant into her ass.

A first insertion, then more Vaseline on her finger and back in it goes for a second and then a third time.

She imagined him doing it, his voice telling her to put her hands down on the seat and stick her ass up for him. She imagines it’s his finger intruding into her behind; tenses herself each time the finger slides in, imagining him smacking her cheeks as punishment for resisting him.

She’s aware of her behind as she rides the subway home, feeling the Vaseline inside her, knowing its making a greasy spot in the seat of her panties.

A greasy spot in back, and a wet spot in front.

The train jolts and jostles its way through the dark.

**

Her stomach is in knots as she opens the door to her apartment, her bottomhole tensing and relaxing in spasms, her nipples hard, her lips dry.

She goes into her bedroom, finds it as it was when she left in the morning: the two pillows plumped in the middle of the bed, the jar of Vaseline she used that morning still opened on the nightstand.

She showers, comes back to her room, and puts the shirt on backwards. Goes to the mirror to see herself, looks for a long moment at her behind, bared and exposed through the opening in the back of the shirt.

She gets the jar of Vaseline, removes the rectal plug from its hiding place, stands there in the middle of her room lubricating it, her stomach rumbling as she sees it coated with Vaseline, the thick coating of grease that’s prepared it for enforced penetration into her tight resisting bowels.

“I want your ass,” he’s told her, and she knows he means it. And she wants it too, wants to be like the girls in the videos, the last one in particular, bent over the tub, crying as she has her rectum used.

She climbs up onto her bed, slowly, imagining him watching her mount it, imagining him watching as she positions herself, tummy down, bottom up over the pillows so that her behind is readied for him.

She thinks about not wanting to have it there, about it being punishment, about it being against her will, enforced. She puts the head of the plug against her bottomhole and pushes it in suddenly, abruptly, thinking about him violating her bottom, matter-of-factly using it, using her.

**

The plug moves in her ass, and she thinks about how she looks, behind up over the pillows, cheeks spread on the fat intruder.

She wonders for an idle moment about the restraints he’s threated to use, wonders why the loss of control of being tied down for it, helpless, excites her so.

She feels the plug moving, images it’s his weight thrusting it forward. Imagines crying as she has her ass used, crying as she has her tight bowels invaded.

She thinks about not wanting it, and having to have it anyway. “A punishment ass fucking, sweetie, Daddy using your behind to punish you, only a small amount of Vaseline so that you’re sore when he’s done, so that you feel the results of that half an hour of intense friction all day long.

“A naughty schoolgirl, called into the principal’s office to have her panties removed. Bent over the little desk he keeps there, her face towards his open door, her behind Vaselined for his use. A long session with the wooden paddle on those bare rear cheeks, and then the entry, the penetration of your tomato-red bottom, while you cry and plead with me not to have it, and I tell you to keep still, that you’ll get a sperm enema, and then you’ll go back to your classes, everyone knowing what you’re carrying in your behind.”

**

She is close to coming, knows its time to stop, so she gets up and changes. Takes the white shirt off and puts it on again, this time correctly, puts on a short skirt, and, in front of the mirror with it hiked up, watches as she slides her see-through panties on.

Leaves her apartment, feeling the intrusion of the plug in her ass, feeling her pussy still dripping, wondering if people can smell her arousal.

**

She arrives at the drugstore, her stomach in knots, her bowels tensing. Goes in slowly, wondering what it will be like to go there with him, to be lead to select the implements of her correction, the methods of her discipline and preparation.

She walks to the laxatives aisle. A jar of suppositories, two fleets enemas, her throat is dry as she puts them into her basket.

She loiters there, waiting. Finally, another customer comes by, and she bends to look at the items on the lowest shelf.

She knows what he sees, for she’s practiced this motion in front of her own mirror. The young lady bending, the skirt coming up in back, the curtain rising, revealing the tight cheeks of the behind, the lower curves, then the seat of the panties, and the base of the plug visible between the rounded cheeks.

The man saunters by behind her, and from his gait she knows he’s looking. When he’s gone she stands, her face red, her pussy puffy. Another man comes by and she repeats her actions, mortified, feeling the plug push further inside her as she leans forward.

**

Finally, she’s done and it’s almost time to go. Only one item remains, and she dreads it’s purchase, but she knows he expects her to buy it so she walks through the aisles until she finds it.

A bedpan. To remind her that her expulsions will not be in private. She adds it to her basket, and, dreading the experience, heads for the cashier.

She stand in line, knowing she’s not allowed to wait till there’s no one there but she. The humiliation of being seen with the bedpan, the suppositories, the fleets, that’s what he wants.

She keeps her head down, feeling the eyes of the other people on her. She mumbles her way through checkout, trying not to look at the young male clerk staring at her.

**

Finally, she’s done, and she rushes home to her apartment. In her room she takes her clothes off and puts the shirt on again with the opening in back.

She goes to the mirror, puts the bedpan down on a chair.

She straddles the chair, her behind facing backwards, her legs on either side of the back.

She sits on the bedpan that way, legs spread, ass and pussy both on display. She knows he wants her to masturbate like that, feeling the plug inside her, knowing that, when she finally comes, she’ll get up and see the ring on her behind from the bedpan.

“I want that ring there,” he’s told her, so that I can enjoy it as I sodomize you. So that I can be reminded of your humiliation, as you sat on the bedpan and expelled in front of me, your bottom misbehaving while you sucked me.”

**

She sits on the bedpan, watching herself in the mirror. Wanting it, wanting him there with her, wanting him in control.

**

As she hovers on the brink of orgasm, she thinks about being fucked in her ass.

Thinks about his instructions to her preparing her for it.

Thinks about what he’ll have her do next …

**

**

She waits until she can be alone in the bathroom.

Waits, until she can be alone, goes in with her gym bag, nonchalantly, the bag dangling down in her hands, heavy with its contents.

She closes the door, hears it thud. Locks it.

Goes to the sink, stares at herself in the mirror. Pauses. A long moment, looking at herself.

Then, she turns towards the bathtub and, with a sinking heart, lifts her skirt up above her waist and pulls her underpants down.

Turns her behind towards the door, and shuffles towards the tub.

Leans over the rim, over the towel she’s put across the cold lip, bending until she’s head down, bared behind up and facing towards the door.

She moves her legs, sliding her feet to each side until they’re as far apart as her lowered panties will allow. Far apart, so that he can see her shaved pussy. Far apart so that he can see her spread cheeks, and the tight vortex of her rectum between them.

She begins to count, slowly. Three-hundred, he’s told her, the time it will take for him to fill the bag enema and hang it, the time it will take to force her cheeks apart and push the Vaselined nozzle into her bowels.

**

“One … two … three …”, she speaks out loud, barely audible, but even her whisper deafens her, her trembling voice echoing around the bathroom.

“Fifteen … sixteen …”, and she imagines him watching her from the other room, watching her through the opened door, for he’s told her many times that she’ll be denied privacy in the bathroom, denied privacy when she waits to be punished, denied it when voids herself of the enemas he’ll make her receive.

As she counts she imagines him there, in the other room, looking at her, enjoying the sight of her stripping, watching her lifting her skirt, watching her lowering her underpants.

Seeing her shuffle to the tub, watching her cheeks rub up and down as she moves. Watching her bend, seeing her head disappear as she leans forward, seeing her behind rise up when she’s in position. Her behind, presented to him, waiting, for whatever he intends to do with it.

**

She wonders what he’ll think about when he sees her like that. She has her own thoughts on the matter, and she wonders if they match hers.

For her, the excitement comes from the attention she’ll get, as well as the vulnerability and the pleasure he’ll take when he uses her. She likes that word, “use,” and turns it over on her tongue as she waits there, counting.

She likes the idea of being taken, of being used. She finds the lack of power arousing, the submission and vulnerability in having him decide what she needs, what she has to have. “Because Daddy says so,” he’s told her on numerous occasions, and she likes the sound of that. Daddy wants it, and so she has to have it. She might protest, but it wouldn’t matter. She’s too small to decide what happens to her, its all up to him.

**

“One-hundred-twenty-seven … one-hundred-twenty-eight …”, and she remembers being punished growing up, how it felt not to have control, how it felt when you were bad and got your behind bared for a spanking.

She’s relived the memories many times, over time rolling the stories she’s read into the reality of her own past, creating a mixture that she can no longer tease apart into fact and fiction. But it doesn’t matter, really – the emotions count for more than the events that accompanied them.

Anticipation, first. Acting up, feeling herself walking towards a line, feeling the butterflies in her tummy when she thinks of what crossing that line will bring.

She should stop, but she doesn’t. How old is she … 10, and she knows she’ll have to go over his lap if she keeps it up. How old … 4? Even at that age she knows Daddy won’t like what she’s doing … sees it in his face, but keeps right on doing it. Keeps on doing it, knowing even then that the consequences will be his adult hand on her little bare rear, as she kicks and cries over his lap.

Anticipation, and the feeling of naughtiness, of being bad, and you know what bad girls get. That’s right, they get their underpants pulled down and their bottoms spanked. When she was young she felt her tummy lurch; now, she still feels that, but its accompanied by a throb between her legs, the telltale wetness that speaks to arousal as well as fear.

**

“Two-hundred-five …”, and she’s recalling the shame, her face red as she’s lectured, standing there, looking at the floor, and at his shoes. The polished tips, the neatly tied laces. She feels ashamed at having disappointed him, at having gotten him so angry at her.

And of course she feels ashamed at what he’s about to do, at having him watch her pull her tights down or, if she’s too hesitant, about having him put his warm hands on her and pull them down himself.

She feels that shame as she thinks about that, him seeing her in her panties, his naughty little girl, about to go over his knee. She remembers the color of his trousers, and how they felt underneath her as she was pulled across, draped there, head dangling, looking at the shoes from up close now, and the bare floor beneath the legs of his chair.

**

Arousal was not something she felt as a child, at least not the way she feels it now. She vaguely recalls a guilty thrill she’d sometimes get, mixed in there with the fear and the shame, a little spasm of something she couldn’t describe as she bent over him, felt his large hand on the seat of her bottom, his large hand resting there on the seat of her flowered cotton underpants.

It was a game of sorts, one only the two of them played, not like anything that happened with Mommy, nothing that could happen with her. He was under her control, even then, when she had no control at all. She had gotten him there, had gotten his attention by misbehaving and, even though the consequences were frightening, and shameful, she still felt a secret blush of power at being able to have all of his focus.

“Two-hundred-seventy-three …”, and she recalls how it felt when the first finger slid up to the waistband and she held her breath waiting for what came next. The moment of silence while he held her there over his lap in limbo, his finger just barely intruding, her behind about to be bared.

A moment’s pause, and the anticipation rose higher and higher like a wave sweeping in towards the shore.

And then, without warning, a sudden yank and the panties were sliding down, down so fast that, had she dared to put a hand back to stop there descent, by the time she’d reach back they would already have been pulled down to her knees.

Sliding down, Daddy baring her behind, holding her there over his lap as he undressed her, exposed her little bottom, so that he could spank her. So that he could slap one cheek and then the other while she kicked and cried and promised to be good, all the while the slaps raining down, the sounds all to audible to anyone passing by outside her room as she was punished there.

**

“Three-hundred …”, she concludes, thinking about her past, thinking about herself now, draped over the rim of the tub, behind up, ready for his use.

She slowly gets up, shuffles back to the doorway, leans down to open the bag she’s dropped on the floor.

Reaching inside, she takes out the jar of suppositories, her rectal plug, and the bedpan. She feels her unvaselined rectum resist as she pushes them in, counting out loud as each of the three that he’s instructed her to insert enters her.

She stands there, Vaselining the plug as she feels the desire to make grow within her. She does slowly, knowing that’s how he’ll do it, knowing he’ll make her wait for it the way she had to wait to have her underpants lowered when she was spanked growing up.

Finally, the plug is glistening with lubricant. She bends forward, feels the head at her bottomhole, pushes firmly, feeling it forcing its way inside. She thinks about being sodomized as she does so, imagines him forcing himself inside her, no pain, but discomfort enough to make her forget, for a moment, that she wanted him to do it. Forgetting that, allowing her to imagine she’s having to have it done, her behind’s use.

**

The plug is in, and she sits the bedpan on the toilet, straddles it, lowers herself down. She puts her hand to her pussy, begins rubbing as she twists her head to look up at the clock. “Fifteen minutes,” he’s told her, “half the time it will take me to give a sperm enema when I use your backside. But,” he adds, “just the right amount of time for you to see the ring the bedpan leaves on your bottom.”

And so she rubs, knowing that only when the allotted time has passed will she orgasm. Knowing that he’ll expect her to squeeze on the plug the entire time, so that, when her release does come, her behind will be sore from the intruder inside.

The clock ticks. Her behind tenses. Her hand rubs …

**

**

She thinks about their meeting, and of how, afterwards, she’ll no longer have a virgin behind.

“I’m going to fuck your ass, sweetie,” he tells her, “forcefully … forcibly.” And she thinks about those words, says them out loud, feels her body responding to them, feels her pussy throb as she thinks about the actions behind them.

She closes her eyes and imagines herself bent forward over a stool, her panties yanked down to her thighs, feeling his finger forcing its way up her behind, delivering a large blob of Vaseline into her tight rear portal.

He scolds her as he prepares her. “You can’t admit it, but you like being prepared like this, don’t you. You like the feeling of being bent over, of being forced into this position, of being held her with your head down and your behind up, your cheeks forced apart and my finger tickling your bowels as I prepare you for the hard ass fucking you know I’m going to make you have.”

“You can’t admit it, but you know that I’ll make you say it all the same, make you tell me how much it excites you to think about what’s going to be done to you, your cheeks spreading soon for the head of my cock, the fleshy intruder entering you, penetrating you, going in deep. Much deeper than you expected, much deeper than you think you can take. But of course you’ll take it even so. After all, you have to take, don’t you my dear.”

**

She gets up, goes to her sidetable and takes out her rectal plug and the Vaseline. Gets the bedpan from the closet and, returning to her bed stops and looks at herself in the mirror. Turns, so that the ripe curves of her behind face it, puts her hands in the waistband of her shorts, and strips them down, thinking about him doing it, his hands there, forcefully baring her, exposing her.

The shorts come down and she sees her panties – the punishment panties that she was sent to get – the thin fabric showing her crack, a tantalizing view of the deep cleft, perhaps a faint hint of the vortex between. She watches as the underpants are lowered, feeling him doing it, hearing the heaviness in his breathing, knowing that he’s excited by the thought of sodomizing her, of making her have him up her ass, of violating the tightness of her virgin bottom.

**

She walks to her bed, stopping once or twice to look back in the mirror, seeing her underpants at her knees, her bare behind vulnerable, the two heavy cheeks shifting against one another as she waddles forward towards the bed.

She climbs onto her bed, kneels, and puts the head of the Vaselined plug against her rectum, thinking about his cock there. “You’re going to get your ass fucked,” he’s told her many times, “a punishment ass fucking, hot and hard, until you’re sore, until Daddy gives you the sperm, deep in your bowels.”

She thinks about his words, turning them over in her mind as she slides the plug in. A punishment ass fucking … she wonders why that excites her as much as it does. Closes her eyes and thinks about it, the forcefulness of his cock sliding in, his view of her, bending, her hot red cheeks spread, his cock thrusting in and out as he uses her bowels, uses them as a hot tight sleeve for his cock, forcing himself in, until he administers the sperm enema, the hot sperm hard up her ass.

**

The plug is in now, and she lies forward on the bed, feeling it there, intruding. “A punishment ass fucking,” she thinks, “because I’ve been a bad girl and Daddy needs to make me have him there.”

She feels her pussy, soaked, as the words float through her mind. She knows she’ll enjoy it, but imagines she won’t. She knows she wants it but imagines herself forced to have it. Consensual but, in her mind, the power comes from a perceived non-consensuality, from being forced.

They’ve discussed the idea; forced anal, something they can pretend she doesn’t want, something she has to have even so. And she thinks about that, the shame of it, being called to him, being undressed, being bent over and made to spread her cheeks for his entry.

Having her bottom used, his pleasure paramount, her pleasure deferred or even eliminated as she submits her ass to him. The plug is deep in her now, and her hand has slipped between her legs as she thinks about this, and their meeting, less than a week away.

**

She gets up, seats herself on the bedpan, which she’s put on a chair. Feels the rim biting into her, she masturbates, thinking about his cock in her mouth as she expels the first enema, voids herself in front of him, humiliated, and wet.

She rubs, thinking about his hand in her sex as he fucks her ass, his hand there, not to give her pleasure, but instead to demonstrate his control.

He may masturbate her to orgasm, timing her release to his own in her behind. His reasons for this may be concern for her – or they may be selfish, for she knows that her behind spasms when she comes, and she knows he’ll like this feeling, her ass milking his cock as it uses her bowels.

He may masturbate her to orgasm as he uses her bowels – or, he may not. Gratification deferred, or denied, she knows it’s not up to her, its his choice, and his alone. She knows that, if he wants to deny her, he will, he’ll keep her pinned there under his weight, the bulk of his cock up her backside provoking unladylike urges that she knows he’ll force her to suppress.

**

She sits there on the bedpan, the plug in her ass, masturbating furiously, feeling how soaked she is in front as she thinks about it all.

She feels her orgasm approaching, an imminence that, under other circumstances would make her happy.

But he’s told her she can’t come until they meet, so this session, to be repeated daily, is nothing more than an exercise in frustration for her.

Frustration. Or maybe something else: his control, his way of ensuring her desire is at a boil when he comes, ensuring that she’ll meet him.

As she rubs, as she feels how wet she is, she thinks about that.

And her pussy spasms as she does.

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The corridors are quiet; through the windows the sky is dark. The grounds half-distinguishable through the trees, the lights from the downstairs refectory casting long columns of illumination out onto the withered grass, the blown leaves.

She sees the lights of the dining hall downstairs as she climbs the steep stairs to the top floor of the building; wishes she were there with the other girls, enjoying the dinner. Instead, she has been summoned from the kitchen just as she sat down to eat; the school nurse entering, her eyes sweeping the room, picking her out. “The headmaster wants you,” she says, flat-voiced and quiet. But the other girls hear her; they are on alert whenever she enters the room, sensing her presence the way a herd of gazelles sense the presence of a predator, a lion lurking in the tall grasses.

“The headmaster wants you,” the nurse says, repeating the phrase louder now. “And he asked me to prepare a tray for you, for you to take up with you when you go and see him for your little talk.” Nervous chatter from the other girls ceases suddenly; for the meaning of the tray is all too clear to most of them, a large silver tray, covered with a lid that seals down in such a way that the headmaster can tell if its been opened. A large silver tray, and no doubt in anyone’s mind what apparatus is under the lid, the only question revolving around the nature of the colored containers accompanying it.

She drags herself after the nurse, out of the dining room and into the corridor outside. She lifts up the heavy tray and follows the nurse to the base of the stairs, which she begins to mount as the nurse rings the buzzer to indicate her imminent arrival

She ascends, slowly, balancing the tray in her hands, aware the nurse can see up the back of her short skirt, can see her tight white underpants beneath, and the fear-clenched cheeks they contain.

She is all too aware of this view, knows the headmaster will see her like this when he has her mount the punishment platform in his office and bend to grip the rails before her. She is aware of the view, having seen it less than an hour earlier when, approaching the kitchen, she saw her best friend being led to the stairwell by the nurse. Saw her best friend being given her own tray to carry, watched her friend mount the stairs, begin the climb to the headmaster’s office, and to the certain chastisement that awaited her.

Now, climbing the stairs herself, she recalls her friend, and what she looked like. She things of her friend’s little cheeks clenched tight under the shamefully inadequate skirt, and wonders where she is now.

Over the headmaster’s lap with her skirt up and her bottom bared for the first part of the lecture? Or has he already progressed beyond that point and put her over the tall stool, positioned her feet on the markings on the floor, forcing them far apart, turning them inwards to force the cheeks apart still further?

Is she still waiting in that position, panties pulled down to her knees, listening to the headmaster’s voice droning on and on? Has she heard the SNAP of the rubber gloves now, felt the cold thick finger and the heavy coating of Vaseline on it as he puts it up between her cheeks and informs her of the need for the examination?

Her cheeks tighten at the thought, for she recalls the feeling of the finger going in, the slow slippery penetration, the headmaster’s right hand holding her firmly down over the stool while the middle finger of his left hand probes her girlish posterior, invades her little hole, allowing him to obtain the information he needs to diagnose the number she’ll need before she’s sufficiently cleaned.

She recalls it, nearing the top of the stairs, the sensations so vivid that she can feel the anal goosing even as she climbs. She wonders if that’s what her friend is experiencing, bent over the tall stool, or has he progressed past this point, shifted his right hand down between her legs as he probes her bared behind.

She reaches the top of the stairs and approaches the door to the headmaster’s office. It’s open, a clear indication to her to enter, despite the fact that what is happening to her friend inside is – or should be – a private matter. She slowly goes to the entrance, listens carefully, but fails to hear the telltale groans of arousal that would indicate the headmaster is in the “examination and manualization” phase of the proceedings she’s just recalled.

She draws a deep breath, enters the room. The shades have been drawn back, something she always notices, always wonders if the reason is to allow the occupants of the boy’s dormitories across the park a view of the proceedings, or if the distance is so great that its simply the possibility of that audience that the head wants to convey to the victim over his knee with her strapped posterior facing the window.

The shades are drawn back, the table lamp is turned on, the punishment platform has been moved into position, but is unoccupied. She’s relieved to see it empty, for that means her friend has been spared a session on it. Her relief, however, is short-lived, for as she scans the room she suddenly sees her friend, in the corner, with her panties down and her behind tomato-red.

But this is not what causes the involuntary tightening in her throat, and the butterflies in her tummy. Those sensations are produced by what she sees hanging down from the wall hook by her friend: a large enema bag, filled, the hose dangling down and ending in a large, ribbed nozzle, clearly covered with shiny Vaseline.

The headmaster clears his throat now, and she slowly shifts her gaze to him. To where he’s sitting, at the edge of his desk, the wooden paddle in his hands, the jar of Vaseline and the thermometer beside him.

He scans her face, observes her eyes shifting back and forth from him to her friend. He clears his throat again, and speaks.

“You’re correct, she hasn’t had it yet. Normally she would have, but tonight … I’ve decided to conduct a double punishment.” He tilts his head towards the punishment platform, nods.

“That’s right. Two naughty schoolgirls, and the platform is wide enough for both of you over it, side by side.”

“And there’s a hook thoughtfully provided for each of your bags,” he says, now looking at the tray she’s carrying. “Set that down next to your friend’s, over there.” She slowly crosses the room, sets her tray down on a side table, notes that the empty container on the tray is blue. Blue, some cramping, but bearable unless he decides a prolonged session is required before he’s ready to offer relief.

“Lift the lid,” his words breaking into her reverie. She does so, slowly. Underneath, her enema bag, threatening even when empty, a heavy latex bag, with a long hose and, she notes, a nozzle identical to the one her friend’s bottom is going to receive.

And then the moment she’s been dreading; her eyes fall on the container next to her bag, the filled container.

Red, and she stops breathing for a moment. The punishment will be hard then, and she knows the penalty for failing to retain. She’s never experienced it, but she’s heard it often enough.

They all have, first in the assembly room outside the punishment chamber where the day part of the discipline is administered, and then again that night when they hear the culprit being attended to a second time in the small room at the end of the dormitory corridor.

They are called into the assembly room, the culprit’s whole class. When they’re all there the girl is brought in, wearing the discipline gown, open in back, and the tight transparent underpants that only accentuate the reddened rump inside, and the thick plug firmly inserted into the anus inbetween the martyred cheeks.

She is led past them, her sore bottom on display. Into the room next door, the door closed behind her, the nurse preparing her.

They sit shifting on the chairs, waiting for the headmaster’s entrance, trying not to hear the girl in the other room crying as the nurse puts her over the stool, pulls the underpants down, removes the plug, applies a thick layer of Vaseline between the cheeks, and then inserts a suppository.

They shift in their chairs, and when the headmaster comes in and lectures them on their own behaviors, they shift still further, heads hung down.

Finally the headmaster finishes speaking, goes to the closed door, opens it, steps inside and locks it behind him. A hush falls on the girls.

They strain to hear. The scolding, the harsh male voice.

The instructions to the nurse, who they know is there to add to the humiliation by holding the culprit’s hands while it’s done.

And then that moment they feel as a strange combination of envy and dread, when the sound of the zipper is unmistakable.

Inside the room, the headmaster is taking off his trousers, folding them neatly on the chair, and then his boxers. The girl is bent so far over the stool that she can’t see him, of course, but she can hear the sounds; worse, she can watch the expressions on the nurse’s face, and from them divine everything going on behind her.

He takes his boxers off, reaches for the jar of Vaseline.

He prepares himself. Sometimes, if its been a long and stressful day, the sight of the bared bottom presented over the stool, cheeks spread, is not enough for him, and he draws his belt out through the loops of his pants. Applies it to the raised behind until it glows red. The girl’s hear the strapping, of course, which adds to the misery of their compatriot inside the punishment room.

Finally, the headmaster is aroused enough to attend to the culprit. He steps up behind her, puts one large hand on each hot cheek, spreads them.

As he reminds her that this will be repeated that night before bedtime in the small room at the end of the corridor upstairs, he slowly pushes forward, feeling the tight button between her cheeks resisting … resisting .. and then, finally, yielding.

He slides inside. From her vantage point, the nurse can watch the entry, the thick cylinder of flesh cleaving the red cheeks, the hard cylinder sliding further and further in between the raised and separated buttocks.

The girls outside imagine the scene too. For all of them the images are disquieting; but, for many, if not most, they will be played out all day and, at night, in the privacy of their beds, acted upon. Fingers slipping between puerile thighs as they recall the sounds, imagine the sights, think about their own behinds being put to the cock.

More than a few of the girls will fall asleep to these thoughts, the release bringing on slumber. Opinions vary, but most suspect that the same thoughts run through the mind of the nurse in her own bedroom in another part of the school …

The girl, standing in the headmaster’s study, staring at the red container, pulls herself away from these thoughts, looks at her friend’s bared bottom, at the filled enema bag waiting to go up her friend’s behind, and at the empty bag on her tray that will soon be emptying its contents into her own bowels.

“The penalty for failing to retain …”, she thinks to herself. But the thought is cut off as the headmaster gestures to her to come to him. To go over his knee for the first part of the discipline, before she and her friend go over the punishment platform to receive their enemas.

She shuffles forward.

The punishment is about to begin.

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