The Schoolgirl: A Very Soapy Enema, A Commode, A Straightforward Test Of Obedience

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

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

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

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


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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