Over His Lap

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.

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