Love (2)

She lies on her back in front of him, panties pulled down to her ankles, knees spread wide, one hand between her leg rubbing herself as he sits there, watching.

She lies there, head up on the pillow, eyes opened to watch him. Watching him, watching his expression as he sits there looking at her masturbate, watches her hand rub her freshly shaved sex, watches the fingertips caress her clitoris. Watches the expression of pleasure and of pain as she lies there on her back, masturbating while he observes her.

Pleasure, for obvious reasons: the electric shots of arousal that surge through her body with the repeated motions of her fingers on her innervated button. Pleasure, that she knows after a point will not be denied, but which she must deny even so. For orgasms are allowed, not assumed, and she must ask his permission to cum, must face the consequences if she cums without his consent.

Pleasure, yes, but pain as well. Why pain? From the Vicks he’s had her apply between her legs before she’s rubbed. From the throbbing heat of the Vicks there, each light brush of her fingertips a combination of arousal and heated agony.

Even so, she rubs, wanting to be a good girl, wanting him to enjoy the sight of her, feeling herself soaked down there at the thought of what he sees. Her legs spread, her freshly shaved pussy visible, as bare as a child’s. Her fingers rubbing, quick, then slow, quick … then slow, as she forces herself to deny the pleasure she seeks.

He sees all of that. And, he also sees the tip of the nozzle he’s forced deep into her bowels, sees the tip between her cheeks as she lies on her back masturbating, sees the nozzle protruding from her ass, sees the hose rising from the nozzle to his hand, where he grasps the clamp.

He sees her, smiles. Her hand rubs faster as she watches in dumb terror as his hand tenses on the clamp he holds, watching to see his hand tighten and loosen. To hear the click of the clamp opening.

To feel the sudden surge of the soapy solution in her behind.

Her hand moves faster, compulsively, as she waits in fear and arousal for the punishment enema to begin.


She watches in fear as his hand moves on the clamp, anticipating the enema in her behind. She knows the sensations all too well, the first rush of the water, the cold and then the warmth as more of the soapy solution shoots inside.

She fears those sensations, but the arousal her hand feels between her legs tells her that there’s more to it than fear. The humiliation, the ritual of the submission and of the preparation, those thoughts arouse her. Make her want it, as much as she dreads it.

She watches his hand on the clamp, thinks about the warmth spreading inside her. Filling her. She tightens her cheeks on the intruding nozzle, feeling her anus grasp it, as it will grasp his cock later on, when he decides to put her on her tummy and violate the tightness of her behind, use here there, thoroughly.

Her anus grasps the nozzle, and she feels the sting of the Vicks coating it, for he’s insisted that she receive a punishment enema while she masturbates, and punishment enemas always involve Vicks in her behind, as well as between her legs.

She rubs frantically, feeling the dilation of her sex, feeling her wetness, feeling how her arousal changes the sensations between her legs and between her cheeks. Yes, the Vicks stings, but it’s almost a pleasant sting, an ache of arousal. Yes, the enema discomfits and shames her, but the swelling of her belly, the pressure in her bowels, and the overwhelming need to void herself in front of him excites her so much that the discomfort and shame are transformed into something else.


She lies there, caught in that moment of maximized anticipation, helpless in his hands, her whole body under his control, waiting for the clamp to be opened. She knows what he sees – her naked body on the bed, the glistening swollen lips of her sex, the thick nozzle buried deep in her behind.

Her nipples erect. Her face flushed, her hands rubbing herself, frantically, perhaps hoping to come before the enema starts, although she knows that an orgasm before the punishment is something he will never allow.


She wonders if she’ll have to suck him while she retains, having to take him in her mouth and move her head on him, all the while feeling the pressure in her behind, feeling the nozzle penetrating her. Feeling the nozzle move with each motion of her behind, the hose hanging down like a long rude rubber tail.


She thinks he’ll make her stand in the corner after he’s made her have the bag, a little girl on display, in disgrace, waiting, shifting back and forth as the need to expel becomes unbearable.

Unbearable, but the potty dance does not displease him, and she knows he’ll keep her there until the pressure is almost beyond her; and then, he’ll march her to the potty or to the sodomy stool, a choice he alone will make at that moment. A choice she dreads, whichever conclusion he chooses.


To the potty chair, to have to sit on it while he watches, looking into her eyes as she waits for him to grant her permission and, when he finally does, to have to continue to look at him as she voids. He’ll stroke her hair, she knows, offering words of encouragement; but that comfort is offset by the humiliation at what he sees, and at the knowledge that, before she’s done, he’ll refill the bag and hang it in front of her, telling her that there’s always more than one purge in a punishment, and that the only delay in the second administration will be the period he spends checking her to see how clean she is from the first washing out of her bowels.


To the potty chair or, worse, the forced march to the sodomy stool, bent over it and strapped down for violation, feeling the withdrawal of the nozzle; the moment of emptiness when she must struggle with all her might not to leak; and then the spreading of her cheeks and the intrusion of his erection deep into her behind.

Bent over for an ass fucking, feeling him moving inside her, struggling to accommodate him without leaking the enema he’s making her hold during the penetration. His weight, pressing down on her; his thick stiff cock plugging her; his motions, driving her forward against the stool, forcing her cheeks further apart as he uses her bottom, as he plugs himself into her there.


She masturbates, feeling the nozzle inside her, recalling the first time he spread her cheeks and deflowered her behind.

She remembers how he undressed her: slowly, casually, making her come to stand in front of him, lifting her skirt and lowering her underpants to her knees.

She remembers the shame she felt having to stand in front of him like that, bare bottomed, cheeks exposed to him as he talked to her, as he calmly opened the jar of Vaseline, showed it to her, described how he’d need to use it so that he could better force himself into her virgin bowels.

“It’s for punishment,” he told her, “so I’m going to make sure you don’t enjoy it … there won’t be pain, but there will be discomfort.” He’s talked to her at great length about that, about the appropriateness of having her cheeks spread and her bowels used, about having to bend to him and submit her behind for sodomy, spreading her own cheeks apart and asking him to take her there.


She remembers the fear she felt while waiting to be impaled, and how that fear grew when he made her get the paddle and bring it to him, how she felt as she waddled to the dresser, panties down, and brought it back to him.

She had to stand and watch him as he held it, made her look at it: heavy wood, holes drilled into it to increase the pain in her behind. She stood, behind thick with Vaseline, feeling an overwhelming sense of dread as he described the paddling she’d get before he put her over the pillows and had her spread her cheeks to take his cock deep inside her.

And then he’d paddled her. Without warning, he’d pulled her over his knees, head down, behind elevated. Brought the paddle down across her buttocks, again and again, turning her bottom red, bringing tears to her eyes. Smacking her bottom over and over, while she lay there in shame, in pain, in the desperate hope that he’d be moved by her submission.

And perhaps he was moved; but even so the paddling continued, the rise and fall of the wood crisping her buttocks, filling the room with the sound of the impacts, and of her wails of misery. The sounds are burned in her mind – as is the image, for he’d set a camera up before he’d begun the correction, made her watch the tape after, commenting on each step in the process he’d taken her through.


She lies on her back in front of him, panties pulled down to her ankles, knees spread wide, one hand between her leg rubbing herself as he sits there, watching.

She lies there, head up on the pillow, eyes opened to watch him. Recalling what he’s done with her in the past, eyes on the clamp in his hand, thinking about what he’s about to do to her tonight.

She rubs.

And she waits for his hand to squeeze the clamp open, and the soapy water to surge into her behind.

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