illustration – Intimate Invasions

Discipline Enemas, With More Than One Person To Help Give Them

I debated whether or not to present these images en bloc or one-at-a-time; as you see, I ultimately decided it was better to let them stand together than to present them separately. These are from a videotape of a session I conducted some time ago (some of the hands you see are mine); what you’ll immediately be able to tell (if you can count) is that I had help in the enema-administration.

There are some very interesting effects that can be accomplished in a setting with multiple hands; in this case, the effect was even greater because the person actually giving the enema is a woman friend of mine — here doing her “mommy” best to make sure the recipient is cooperative during her washing out.

There are a variety of ways to ensure cooperation — have no doubt that there was a spanking that preceded what you see here. But we’ve also adopted a more soothing method of keeping the patient still, as you’ll see from all the frames that have one or more warm hands between the legs to counterbalance the nozzle firmly planted between the cheeks. And I think no one could doubt that being rubbed while taking an enema is comforting … if you were to hear the audio from this session you’d hear a lot of nice girlish moans, and not the kind that come just from that increasing pressure in the backside.

I hasten to add that, since this was a discipline enema, masturbation wasn’t allowed to continue to the point of release, making the entire experience somewhat bittersweet for the recipient. Also, as I’m sure all my female readers know, women are much stricter than men — they can’t be swayed by a lovely behind (as we have here) or soaking wet girl parts (as were also present). So those later stills that show the culprit in a more upright position — mommy had to give quite a lecture at that point about staying down like a good girl and taking the whole bag.

Perhaps most interesting to me was the whole sensation of being unusually peripheral to the activities taking place — usually I’m in the thick of things, not just helping out. But watching is actually quite nice, not that I had nothing to offer in the way of opinions, and I certainly remember walking with the enema recipient to the bathroom and making sure she was releasing before I left the room to find the Vaseline for the sodomy that followed.

Well that’s another story, for another occasion.

To The Basement Room Of The Reformatory, Where Punishment Enemas and Sodomy Are Performed

I often wonder to myself how few words it takes to craft an image of sufficient power to arouse and terrify. While I most often practice this art of conjury by phone as part and parcel of preparing someone for discipline or release (as I choose), I thought it would be worthwhile to see how it comes out as writing instead of talk. What you read below is the result — since this is the kind of short piece that really lends itself to reader participation, I invite comments, or additions, which I’ll have my webmaster pick from to put up.

She’s taken from the classroom by the matrons, they come to get her early in the afternoon just after lunch, just after she and the other girls have taken their seats and the teacher has begun to write on the blackboard at the front of the class.

They come in through the doorway of the classroom and make their way down between the rows of desks to where she’s sitting, the room going suddenly silent the moment they enter, the two of them, the two matrons, black-clad, silent and grim.

She has no idea they’d come for her, no idea what she’s done. Only the certain knowledge as they raise her to her feet and march her out of the class that she’s going to the place she’s heard so much but never visited: the basement room the other girls whisper about after the lights are out in their dormitory. The basement room with the heavy door and the soundproof walls from which not the slightest whisper will escape. Not the sound of the underpants being lowered, not the sound of the cane applied to bared cheeks.

Not the sound of a greased nozzle penetrating past two blistered buttocks into the tight aperture between, or the pleas and cries that accompany a larger entry, as the headmaster bends forward behind his charge and places himself at the entry to her schoolgirl rear.

She’s never experienced any of that, only heard about it with the lights out and the other girls whispering to each other in their beds around her. But now, as she’s escorted out the door past the watchful eyes of her fellow students, the images are in her mind.

There are butterflies in her stomach and her head is light as the door closes behind her, the other girls disappearing as it swings shut, only the long stretch of the usual corridor before her, the stairs at the other end marking the descent into the darkness beneath the school building that she’ll soon be dragged down into.

The basement room of the reformatory waits in the gloom, the door already opened, the punishment stool that stands bare and alone in the middle of its emptiness waiting to receive her.

Having To Kneel For The Soapy Discipline Enema, The Punishment Administered Without Pause

I admit to having a longstanding enjoyment of a female bottom suitably presented in a frame of stockings and garters (or “suspender belt” as our relations across the pond put it). While a hospital gown has the advantage of emphasizing the accessibility of the bottom without playing up its attractiveness (“your bottom isn’t here to be admired, it’s here to be *used*”), stockings and garters not only emphasize availability, they also help accentuate the *desirability* of making use of that which is so conveniently presented.

As a case in point, consider this first picture of an enema I gave some time ago — or rather, of the culprit that I gave the enema to, suitably presented on her side displaying her spanked bottom to my view as she waited for me to open the clamp on the quite full bag. The nozzle was the hard plastic barium nozzle, the bag full of plain water for this first enema — but note how lovely she looks with her behind thrust out, her underpants artfully arranged (by me) just below her cheeks, thereby further delineating her bared backside and the nozzle thrust deep into it.

A photo is only a momentary glimpse into a continuously unfolding tale, and not long after I’d taken this one, I’d sat down behind the miscreant you see here, put one hand between her legs and, while I flipped the clamp on the hose on and off, began to rub her between her legs, all the while promising that she wouldn’t get to orgasm until she’d taken — and held — the entire contents of the enema bag.

Now I’m sure there are those of you out there who wonder why it might be that I’d masturbate the culprit — surely that’s adding pleasure to what ought be an unpleasant occasion? Well, thing is, having an orgasm while being given spurts of water up the behind isn’t so easy, even for the most orgasmically inclined. And so the *promise* of release (which you’ll note I never made) and the *reality* of that release are, almost inevitably, divergent. Or to put it another way, rubbing alone wouldn’t bring her to climax, and, the more full her bowels, the less inclined to orgasm she’d be. So whatever promise of pleasure I might have made, it was, at the very least, punishment tinged.

In the instant case, enough time has gone by that I don’t recall whether she came or not; if she did, her orgasm didn’t change the fact that I wanted her to have a *good* retention, i.e., at least 10 minutes on her side with her bottom out and the warm water working to purge her bowels. In this case a good retention was all the more important because I intended her to have a soapy enema immediately afterwards, and it’s much easier to retain soapy water if the bowels are already mostly cleaned out.

So, if she did come, she still had to lie there and try to balance what would otherwise have been the warm afterglow of release with the fact that I was still introducing water into her behind, and insisting that, regardless of the pressure, she wouldn’t get to go potty until ten minutes had passed.

Ten … very … slow … minutes. At least for her.

Now we move on to the second enema, in which I’ve positioned her on her hands and knees with her head down and her bum raised well up in the air. A lovely exposed position, I get to see everything between her legs as well as between her cheeks; and its also a position in which the soapy water rushes in much faster than if she’d been on her side.

Looking at this particular photo brings back quite a few memories. Closing my eyes I can smell the odor of KY that filled the air as I applied it to the nozzle — at that time I was partial to KY, now it’s Vaseline or, for naughty girls, Vicks. We all change our favorite wines as we age, why not lubricants as well? I can also recall how warm her cheeks were from the spanking I’d just given her, and how resistant her bottom was to the entry of the lubricated nozzle. And how I made her have it even so, pushing in slowly, but ignoring the little pleading noises she made as I pushed.

Once the nozzle was in, I made her wait, head down bottom up, waiting for me to open the clamp and let the soapy water surge into her. I don’t honestly recall how long I made her kneel, but I do remember enjoying every moment of that wait, my hand on the clamp, her cheeks tensing every time she mistook some background noise to be the opening of the clamp.

I’ve given many enemas in this particular position; in every case I’m told (in pleading tones) how quickly the water runs in, and how deep. Certainly I can vouch for the fact that the bag empties quite rapidly, and I can also attest that the pleading begins almost immediately after the CLICK of the clamp.

It’s really quite unfortunate that there’s no audio to accompany these photos; if there were, you’d be able to hear all that I describe. Oh well, you’ll just have to imagine it. But the imagination is an underrated sexual organ.

The Schoolgirl’s Cup Of Tea

The young woman sits at the table in the hotel room holding the cup of tea, trying her dutiful best to keep her hand from shaking and any of the precious liquid in the cup from spilling.

For this is not an ordinary young lady, nor an ordinary cup of tea, and there are serious consequences to be had should any of the contents of the cup she holds fall to the expanse of white linen covering the table at which she sits.

The man across the table from her watches her calmly as she sits holding up the cup, hearing the ticking of the clock on the wall behind them as she sits there, working hard not to move, her fingers squeezed unnaturally tight on the white porcelain.

She’s such a pretty thing, he thinks, long hair, fine features, fresh healthy face. Pretty looking and prettily presented, as she’s dressed in the white blouse and checkered skirt of a schoolgirl half her age, her legs attractively encased in kneesocks, with girlish Mary Janes enclosing her feet.

Although he can’t see them now, he’s sure her legs are trembling, and that her feet are moving from side to side as she struggles to keep herself still, struggles against the needs that are building in her body as she sits there, holding the cup aloft for him to see.

As she sits there trying to control herself, trying her best to be a good girl for him.

And he wonders how long her goodness can last, given the circumstances.

When they first talked she’d had no experience, only the years of desire that make the need to learn unceasing and unbearable. No experience whatsoever, and at first she was unsure if she could submit to everything he told her she’d receive, that she’d have to have if he was to tutor her. But with talking came a receptiveness that surprised her, perhaps because she couldn’t imagine becoming so comfortable with real events that she’d never experienced but only heard about from him, as the talked on the phone about them.

And he’d made her listen, only his voice at first, for she found herself mute at what he described; and then, as time passed, he’d had her participate, repeating the words and then phrases that he dictated, “I need to be spanked, I’ve been a naughty girl,” and, “I know you have to sodomize me as further punishment for my misdeeds.” And with each repetition she found herself pulled further into the images he’d painted for her, found it easier and easier to visualize herself going over his lap, feeling her panties being pulled down, feeling him do to her the things he’d only talked to her about over the phone.

And now here they sat, in person across the table from one another, with her holding up the cup of tea to his inspection. Trying her best not to let her hand tremble, trying her hardest not to let any of the tea slop out of the cup. Watching his smiling face and his hard eyes as he scrutinizes the cup, looking to see whether any of the tea has spilled.

He’d promised to start by spanking her, the way a headmaster of the Victorian age would a schoolgirl called from the classroom to his study. He’d told her he’d make her come to the room dressed in a school skirt and white blouse, kneesocks and the appropriate shoes. That he’d treat her as a naughty pupil, and that, after he’d scolded her he’d proceed to a more physical chastisement, with her bare bottomed up across his lap. Feeling the flat of his hand across her juvenile cheeks, and then, after time spent with her nose in the corner, back over his lap for a long session with a school paddle.

He’d promised her those things, and then he’d talked her through the events he’d described, made her repeat what he’d said, made her listen as he detailed how he’d enjoy pinning up her skirt in back, how he’d look forward to pulling down her plain white knickers once she was bent across his knees. Made her listen as he told her how he’d make her wait as he slid a finger slowly down the waistband in back, tickling her down the crack between her cheeks as he made her wait for him to yank her underpants down, made her wait for him to bare her behind to his eyes and, soon enough, to his hand and then the paddle.

And now, as she sits at the linen-covered table in the hotel room, holding up the cup to his gaze, she feels the after-effects of that discipline, feels the red hot fire of her nether cheeks, feels how hard it is for her to sit on her spanked behind. And is grateful for the occasional gust of cold air across her bottom, still bared, skirt still pinned up, air gusting across her backside as she sits holding up the cup, trying to keep her hand steady, trying not to let anything spill.

“You’ll get spanked, but that’s not all you’ll get,” he’s said, “for we have to clean out your schoolgirl bottom properly before we bend you over the sodomy stool to feel the thick masculine gristle fed slowly up your bowels.” And, having introduced her to the principal of a washed-out behind, he’d driven the thought home as, night after night, he’d described to her in excruciating detail how he’d give her the enemas that would prepare her virgin ass for the sodomy he intended to impose on it.

Over and over he’d described the sequence of events, having to stand in the corner and wait, or, if he chose, having to bend over a stool or lie face down on a bed in a similar period of unbearable anticipation. Not being able to see what he was doing, but her imagination working overtime even so to connect the noises he made to the events she was sure must be unfolding. “The sound of water running in the bathroom,” he’d told her, “and you with your nose in the corner wondering if I’m only washing my hands or if it’s the sound of the enema bag being filled to overflowing.” He’d repeated those words to her so many times that she’d gotten to the point of visualizing a filled enema bag every time she’d washed her own hands, a Pavlovian response he’d created in her, and only one of many such reflexes he’d built up inside her over the months he’d talked to her about their meeting.

She’d never had an enema — never had anything in her behind — but, with his words, the thoughts of her backside being cleaned and taken came to obsess her. What does it feel like, she’s wondered, the finger heavily coated with Vaseline, the moment when the nozzle is presented, the moment before it’s pushed in? What does it feel like to have to lie there impaled like that, trying not to squirm if he chooses to move the nozzle before the enema is administered?

How does it feel when he snaps open the clamp and the water begins to flow? Will it be warm water? Will it be cold? Will it be soapy? Will she be able to take it like a good girl, or will she squirm and cry and tense her buttocks on the nozzle to stop the water from going in? And, will that make the slightest bit of difference?

She knows the answer to that last question — no, it won’t matter, not the slightest bit at all. However much she tries to stop the enema going in, she has no choice in the matter, and no ability to resist what he chooses to do with her behind.

For some strange reason, she finds that complete loss of control to be incredibly comforting. Whatever happens, whatever he chooses to do, her job is simply to be a good girl and submit to it.

Her hand is visibly trembling now as she tries to keep the cup still, tries to maintain calm in her trembling body. Tries to fight the urges that are beginning to overwhelm her.

“There will be an obedience test,” he tells her, but he won’t tell her exactly what form that test will take, only that he’ll expect her to do her best to pass it. “It might be a circle in the middle of the room that I’ll expect you to stand in and not leave, whatever I might do,” he says, his voice calm over the phone as she shivers thinking about what he’s describing. “Or it might be my instruction to keep your hands gripping the rungs of the sodomy stool and not let go no matter what happens, no matter if I plunge my Vaselined finger into your bared behind, or if I strap you until you cry, or if I choose to spread your cheeks to insert a large nozzle and then administer a soapy punishment enema.”

“I expect you to be obedient, I expect you to submit. Not the kind of submission that comes of actual restraints; no, the submission that’s more profound, the kind that comes from your desire to please, and to be pleasing. The kind that comes from within rather than being something I impose. I expect you to submit, but I won’t tell you what form the test will take, only that there will be one.”

His voice trails off into silence each time he talks about the obedience test, gently trailing off so she can think about what he’s said. And then, to drive the point home, he makes her masturbate while he describes her loss of control and the intimate humiliation he’ll have her experience.

She sits at the table holding up the cup, her hand now trembling violently, the Irish Breakfast tea in the cup sloshing back and forth, drops beginning to rain over the rim as she holds up the cup to his forgiving eyes.

He looks into the mirror he’s set up behind her, sees her bare behind positioned on the bedpan he’s set on the chair, sees her cheeks spread, sees the marks of the strap across the reddened buttocks, knows that, when he gets her up, there will be a round circle on her bottom to mark the mouth of the bedpan she’s been sitting on.

He looks at her hand shaking, knows that the punishment enema she’s retaining is causing cramps that she can’t fight much longer. He smiles at her, inviting her to choose between spilling the contents of the cup of fine white china and voiding the contents of her bowels as she sits in front of him.

He sits there, inviting her to pass the test by loosening her bowels in front of him. He sits, waiting for her to choose the path he’s set her on, waiting to hear her bottom misbehave, the sacrifice that will allow her hand to steady.

All of her pride and self lost in that delicious release he’s helping her to experience. And the cup of tea mostly complete.

The Second Meeting

She prepares herself for the second meeting, changing into the pencil-skirt and the demure white blouse, watching herself in the mirror, thinking how subdued she appears, how professional. Only the high-heels are anomalous, the only overt sign of the battle inside, the war raging between her desires and her reluctance to admit to them.

“But he’ll see my shoes and know I want this,” she thinks, turning in the mirror for a third or fourth assessment of her backside. “The shoes will do it, he won’t need to see the stockings and garters and see-through panties underneath,” she thinks, even though she has to admit that it’s been a long time since a man paid that much attention to her shoes.

As she turns before the mirror her watch falls; reaching down to retrieve it, tottering slightly on her absurdly high heels, she catches the sight in the mirror, her ass presented beneath the thin fabric of the skirt, the outline of the plug she’s wearing almost visible.

She straightens with a start, feeling worse for the attractiveness of the view, feeling her shame at preparing herself for this, for what might come if she wants it to, for what she desperately wants to have, even though he’s reassured her that she need not have it. “It’s your choice,” he’s told her, and she feels her shame and desire spike at the words, for she knows that, as much as she might deny it, she’s already made up her mind about what it is that she wants, and “choice” is something that’s long since ceased to exist.

As far as why you’re more nervous, it’s because you could pretend to yourself last time that you were just going to have coffee and nothing more. Now you know that, although we absolutely could just have coffee, you want more. And admitting that want to yourself is very … intrusive, revealing. Scary, perhaps, because it’s you admitting that you want it, not just me taking control and giving it to you.

She’s finishing up her preparations, feeling the plug in her behind, wondering why she’s choosen to put it there, it’s certainly nothing he’s asked her to do.

She feels the plug inside her as she attends to her appearance, feels how empty her bowels are, for she’s spent the last few days taking enemas every evening — something he’s explicitly forbidden her from doing. “I want to you to be clean there,” he’s told her, “but I want the cleaning out to be at my hands, not yours, and I want you to fear the possibility — however remote — that I’ll demand to see the state of your bowels as we progress to that purity.” She knows she’s forbidden to take them, but, even so, every night she’s knelt in the privacy of her bathroom, head down, behind in the air, feeling the water filling her. Feeling relief at the fact that she’ll be immaculate there when they meet, even though she knows she’ll be spanked for disobeying him.

She checks herself in the mirror again, sees herself dressed, imagines herself unclothed — or rather partially unclothed, for she’s had fantasies about what he’s told her about having to wear the hospital gown.

“I’ve decided you might have to wear the gown,” he’s said, “but when you do, it will only be to be sodomized while you retain.” She’s thought about what she’ll look like, having seen the pictures of other women dressed that way, behinds bared, cheeks red, sometimes with a plug in, sometimes with the nozzle inserted. Several times she even took a nightgown and put it on backwards so that she could see what view he’d see when it was her bared backside before him, knelt on one of her chairs to match the pose of one of the girls in his pictures, knelt bending with her ass up and her plug in, imagining having to do that before him.

She’s terrified of actually having that happen, of taking him back there while holding an enema; she’s not even sure when she’ll be ready just for sodomy, as much as she desires that. She knows that the choice will be hers, that he’ll have the gown hanging in the bathroom when they meet, but that it will be up to her to put it on. The thought doesn’t comfort her, she’d rather not be able to choose, she’d rather it all happen at his hands. For choice reveals desires, and having to admit to those desires shames her, even though she knows he’s aware of what she wants, knows what’s inside her head as well as she does, perhaps better.

But the option of choosing … he’s given it to her, and now she carries it like a curse. Each night she’s taken an enema, each night she’s expelled imagining voiding in the hotel room, sitting on the commode feeling the relief of her body emptying, imagining expelling and having to look at the gown hanging there as she does so, having that choice presented to her each time she’s finished taking the water and he’s given her permission to use the toilet while he refills the bag …

She doesn’t even know if they’ll go to his room, and, if they do, if anything will happen there; he’s already told her it’s all up to her. But each night she’s knelt, slipped the nozzle inside and let the water flow while imagining what might happen, whether he’ll make her kneel on the bed again or over the back of the couch, or if it will be different this time — perhaps on a side-table with her head down on the floor so the water can rush higher into her bowels, perhaps with the curtains opened this time so that she might be seen …

She takes the enemas and wonders if they’ll be warm when he gives them, or if they’ll be colder so that she’ll feel the intrusion of the water deep into her. Will they be plain water or soapy — perhaps she should ask to be given punishment enemas to make up for her taking ones without his permission?

She returns to the picture of the girl’s reddened bottom with the plug in it, scrutinizes the view between the legs of the victim, trying to see if there’s arousal. She wonder’s if she’d be aroused; should she be, would he allow her that? Would he want it, or, if it’s to be punishment, should that be forbidden. She’s not even sure what she wants; in her own fantasies her thoughts are always on the exposure of the events, at the shame of having to be undressed, of being penetrated in that secret place “against her will,” of having to be good and cooperate when the enemas are administered, of having to stay in place as she’s told she’s going to be fucked in the ass while she keeps her behind tight and keeps what she’s been given inside …

She uses the commode, and as she does she thinks about having to take him in her behind and hold the water as he uses her ass. She looks over at the tub, thinks about how he’ll position her for the final enema, the one he’ll make her hold during the sodomy — will he bend her over the side, or will he make her kneel on its rim, head down against the cold floor, behind obscenely high and spread to his view? Will he make her stay like that while he fills the bag and hangs it from the curtain rod high above her, will he scold her and make her wait with her cheeks spread and her rectum Vaselined while he attaches the large nozzle, brandishing it behind her before he puts it in?

Will he make her bend over the tub and wait for him, behind striped from the strap, having to wait like that as he walks around in the other room, occasionally passing by the open door to look in and see her, ass-upwards, waiting for him? Will he enjoy that sight of her bare-bottomed, legs spread, ass greased? Perhaps he’ll make her wait like that after he’s given her the enema, make her wait, bending, clenching her behind to keep the soapy solution in her bowels until he’s ready to come in and fuck her ass. Perhaps …

She’s finished with her preparations in front of the mirror, it’s time to go to meet him. Perhaps for coffee, perhaps for more; the choice will be hers. There’s so much she’s wanted to ask him, but she hasn’t because she know he won’t answer, because he’s told her quite explicitly that this time it’s going to be her choice, and that there’s nothing that they need to discuss.

As she closes her car door behind her and turns the key in the lock, she feels the plug pressing into her behind, feels her arousal and her dread. Well it’s only coffee, and nothing need happen; the choice is hers.

As she drives off, she realizes how much she hates those four words.

The Punishment Enema

I’m frequently asked what the difference is between a “regular” enema and one administered for punishment since, however threatening a regular enema might be, the prospect of a punishment enema is much more so, even to the uninitiated.

The short answer is that a “punishment” enema is one that I administer as the concrete physical manifestation of my disapproval, to correct the culprit for her misdeed – or misdeeds, since it’s usually an accumulation of bad behavior that earns a punishment enema. And, because the enema is for a real sin, not something make-believe, the effect on the recipient is severe regardless of the discomfort caused by the enema, the length of retention, the possibility of privacy for expulsion … or indeed the real question of whether there will be merely one such punishment enema administered or more than one, in order that a “thorough” cleaning out be obtained.

It’s true of course that a punishment enema is in general of larger volume than a “regular” enema; it’s also true that a punishment enema is invariably soapy. But a soapy punishment is appropriate not simply because it’s likely to cause discomfort (cramping) but, more to the point, because it *must* contain soap in order that the recipient be thoroughly cleaned out of her crimes, both literally and – equally as important – psychologically.

As am example consider a current member of the “discipline project” who, as of the time of my writing this is due to receive a series of punishment enemas for the continued commission of a number of behaviors that we’ve previously discussed, and that I’ve already warned her (repeatedly) must stop or there will be real consequences. In this case, these consequences will take the form of a strapping to tears followed by a *thorough* cleaning out while I discuss her behavior with her. In other words, she’ll be receiving a series of punishment enemas as the central part of a corrective session that will also include spankings and, undoubtedly, disciplinary sodomy at its ending.

I don’t as yet have a clear outline in my mind of the exact sequence of the events, and in fact I don’t script discipline sessions, as I’ve found over the several decades that I’ve been doing this (actually I guess it’s closer to three decades than it is to two) that it’s far better to let the circumstances control. But, for illustrative purposes, let me paint at least a plausible scenario of what may transpire over the coming weekend when we meet. Again, please remember that the the specific actions are not critical – what *is* of central importance is the catharsis, the achievement of spiritual cleansing. The punishment enemas cause cleaning out, but are only a convenient (and rather effective) vehicle to the cleaning out that I’m really after, which is psychological.

The session is likely to start with a discussion of the misdeeds, in order to put the culprit into the correct mental space as rapidly as possible. I don’t yell – in fact the members of the Project are always surprised to discover that I actually *never* yell. Why should I, though, even if I were so inclined; my being in complete control is at the same time more terrifying and more reassuring. Which again serves to build that delicate balance of dread and release that must occur in order for the correction to be effective.

So, a discussion of behavior, calm, low voice, no harsh or demeaning words. The goal is to achieve release, and calling someone a bi***, a c***, etc., will not achieve that even if such words were otherwise acceptable – which they emphatically aren’t.

And then the disrobing, and the donning of the gown. Yes, it’s unflattering, but that’s the whole point, the reduction of the culprit to a behind to be dealt with. And a vulnerable behind at that, as the part to be disciplined is now completely exposed through the open back of the gown. Available for my hand, the nozzle, and my cock, as the situation demands.

So now the march to the corner, to wait while I prepare the bag. Anticipation is a huge part of the process and having to wait while the punishment enema is being mixed, having to listen while I run the water in bathroom (will it be warm or will it be cool and therefore crampy?), having to strain to hear whether I’m just mixing in plain white soap or – as a much more severe correction – using one or more pre-mixed packets of special enema soap … that waiting is almost punishment enough, almost enough that I could dispense with the trips over my knee for the injections of the soapy water, the time in the corner retaining, the expulsions, the sodomy.

Well, perhaps not. It’s important to understand that, while my goal is catharsis for the culprit, I’d be lying if I were to claim to be the Mother Teresa of enema-givers, a truly disturbing image for a large number of reasons, not least of which is the obvious aesthetic one. No, I’m hardly a pure altruist with only the interests of the recipient in mind. The truth, of course, is that I find enormous enjoyment in the control I wield over the person I’m correcting; I am usually sexually aroused when I have her over my knee with the nozzle in her behind, when I casually open the clamp to release the soapy water into her bowels as I continue to scold.

But on the other hand, it’s also important to realize that I keep myself neat and tidy and in my pants until catharsis is achieved, and in fact I frequently keep myself in my pants through the whole session, so that there is nothing sexual at all that occurs. The only ending being cradling the head of the exhausted recipient – now well punished – in my lap, and rubbing her hair as I tell her that the crimes have been dealt with. And will presumably not be repeated.

The time in the corner can be varied with the circumstances, and with the culprit. I have to say, though, that as appealing as the idea of 15-30 minutes there may be, the reality is that after about 10 minutes the waiting stops being the productive kind of agony, and instead quickly transitions to boredom and then resentment, at least when the culprit is merely waiting to be given the punishment enema, rather than standing in the corner retaining it. Under the latter set of circumstances there may be a variety of emotions experienced while facing the wall with the reddened bottom on display and the hose hanging down from between the martyred cheeks like an obscene tail, but boredom is rarely – if ever – one of them.

So, the ritual of changing into the gown and being put in the corner to wait while the first punishment enema is prepared. And then, when sufficient time has passed, out of the corner and over my knee, behind bared, for the first spanking, and then the insertion and administration of the first enema.

At this point it is probably worthwhile to point out that under many circumstances it may be better to make the first enema a plain water cleansing, rather than a soapy water punishment, as a pre-cleansing allows the punishment enema to be retained longer (purged bowels) and also is wise preparation against any less aesthetic aspects that might occur should the penitent be unable to retain the soap solution for the requisite time, i.e., should the penitent leak. I often leave the choice of such a preliminary cleansing up to the culprit herself, which both provides her the relief of knowing she’ll do better at the retention, and the misery of knowing that she’s asking – of her own accord – to be given that additional enema, which of course does not count in the total number that I have already decided she is going to have.

Now between administration and expulsion is of course the period of retention, and the question that I’m sure the alert reader will wish to have answered is, quite simply: how long? How long *can* she retain; and, as a rather different matter, how long should she be *made* to retain? As for most other things in life, there’s no simple answer to this – of the many enemas I’ve given (and believe me, there have truly been *many*), in some cases the recipient has managed 20 minutes, in some cases only 30 seconds, but I think it’s fair to say that 5-10 minutes is obtainable, especially when the enema is plain water (soapy water is usually much harder to hold).

And those 5-10 minutes are likely to be a fascinating display of self control – or the lack thereof. Should she stay across my knee, squirming and shifting as the pressure in her bowels builds, as he discomfort and need increase? Or would it be better to get her up and march her to the corner, to stand there with her nose against the wall and the hose hanging down from between her red cheeks, swaying back and forth as she does an increasingly vigorous version of the potty dance as the pressure builds.

Or perhaps head down behind high in the air, either kneeling in this position on the floor or, for maximal exposure, on a table? Or if the punishment is to be particularly severe, will I have her walk up and down the stairs to the second floor, tube hanging, bottomhole tickled with each motion of the hose, tummy cramping as she climbs to the landing, pauses, ascends to the second floor, waits, and then descends to repeat the process over and over.

Finally, the expulsion. For most people this is the part of the process that’s most terrifying, especially if I plan to be in the room to witness it or, worse, insist on having the culprit look me squarely in the eyes as her behind misbehaves. The Expulsion really deserves a completely separate discussion, but suffice it to say that I invariably allow the first voiding to occur in private (although there may well be a video camera pointed at the girl’s bottom as she does so, and an audio recorder too, in order that the process can be recorded for her to listen to afterwards to remind her of what had to happen), and that thereafter she’ll use the commode or a bedpan or a special “expulsion chair” that I’ve designed for the purpose, and that, because its a punishment session there will be no privacy allowed at any point in the process.

I should also add that I’m a great believer in humiliation, as it refers to the process of taking the culprit outside herself, but *not* in the sense of degradation. So while I may scold her the entire time she’s releasing the punishment enema, while I remind her that “we’re not done with just one” while her bottom empties, indeed while I may refill the bag with yet more soapy water while her sits gingerly on her paddled behind on the expulsion chair with the timer ticking down the minutes she has to void before she gets the next volume of water forced up her bottom – all of that should be considered humiliation with the goal of mental release, and not degradation.

Finally, after the spankings and the punishment enemas, I give the girl the chance to apologize to me for her crimes. This is always her choice and I leave her a period of time for solitary reflection before I come into the bedroom to see what decision she’s made.

And I have to say that I am almost invariably pleased to find that the girl, having been punished and purged, has now reached the decision that she does indeed wish to make amends in the way I prefer.

And so I enter the room to find her bent over the sodomy stool, her hands perhaps trembling a bit as she holds her sore cheeks apart to present me with her Vaselined bottomhole, waiting to receive my cock deep in her now clean bowels, waiting to endure an additional scolding, waiting for the discomfort of penetration there but also the pleasure of knowing she’s thanking me in the way I most prefer for the time and energy and caring I’ve expended to take her to task for her sins.

An Illustration

Over the years I’ve come to discover that there are many women out there who self-administer enemas. Perhaps for the vast majority that’s done under the excuse of “preparing for anal sex,” but I rather suspect the underlying reasons have more to do with the sensations enemas produce and the headspace they cause the recipient to enter.

I’ve also found that a lot of that cleaning out is occurring with some heavy self-pleasuring going on, and that it’s not uncommon for the woman so engaged to manage to view herself as she does so. Certainly I require that self-viewing when I’m punishing a miscreant; the view she sees is the view I see, or the view I intend to see. The nozzle she sees in her backside is the one I see or intend to see, the goosebumps on the cheeks (preferably red cheeks) are hers to display and mine to survey.

Below I’ve reproduced an image from a set of watercolors that were done c. 1930, I found them many years ago while perusing the ‘net, you’ll note that the originals are all in color, I’ve redone the image as black and white because … well because the absence of color invites the mind to fill in the blanks, for example, is her behind white, or is it bright red? They’re done by done by “Julie Delcourt” … see down towards the bottom of this page: https://dangerousminds.net/comments/the_art_of_the_enema

I’ve also done some cropping, so you, the viewer, can use your own imagination to consider whether the girl in the illustration is, perhaps, not alone? And if she’s not, is the watcher there in the room with her, or peering through a keyhole or window? And what is that watcher thinking? Is he (she?) just there to watch, or to engage in some more active role? Is he (she?) empty-handed, or perhaps holding a cane, a strap or a double-bardex? Is …

Ah, the mind is such a lovely thing. Enjoy!