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!