That morning started a little earlier than usual. Curly Boy got to his feet, slightly nervous; it was chilly outside the warmth of the bed. He glanced at the clock: 6:30 AM—half an hour earlier than their usual wake-up time. Redhead had already been awake for 5’. He had come home late after dining out, offering only vague excuses; his girlfriend had been worried at first, then angry. That anger had translated into moving their "dawn" up by 30’. The sun hadn't risen yet—only the artificial glow of streetlights filtered through the window's narrow slats—but a faint light was visible from the open bathroom door: a small nightlight, since Redhead, still half-asleep, had no desire to turn on the main light. She had just finished peeing when she saw him and gave him a solid kiss... though she made it clear her mood had yet to improve. Her usual questions—"Did you sleep well?" and "How are you feeling?"—were followed by a blunt "We know what what’s coming now," a statement to which Curly Boy could only respond by swallowing hard. He was instructed on the position he usually takes before receiving his well-deserved punishment. It was very early, but it was the agreed-upon time. Curly Boy pulled his red pajama bottoms down to his knees, knelt on the floor, and leaned against the bathtub. His backside was exposed. The hearty dinner and the wine he’d consumed the night before were occupying the space usually reserved for coffee during these moments of discipline... and that space was about to be emptied. Unpleasantly so. Redhead, having already prepared the first part of the punishment, reached for her ever-reliable jar of suppositories. Curly Boy couldn't see a thing, of course, but he was keenly aware—first—of his anus being carefully lubricated, and then of two of those glycerine suppositories being inserted. This time, although the movements were slow, the process didn't take long. "I don't know what else to say, love..." he said, feeling the medicine slide deep inside his ass. As for his girlfriend's response: he would come up with something else—he surely would. Or, at the very least, he would be more insistent.

The suppositories weren't the main punishment—just the "warm-up." Literally. Redhead left the bathroom, but Curly Boy had to stay put. Half-asleep, he began to feel the familiar itch of the suppos lodged in his rectum, contrasting with the slight but noticeable cool air brushing against his buttocks. He reflected on the situation as a familiar urge stirred within him. He listened intently as water ran continuously from the kitchen tap... then it stopped, followed by the sounds of Redhead busying herself with something. He knew exactly what. And the glycerine was reacting to the boy's growing agitation. 5’ or so later, Redhead returned from the kitchen. Curly watched her holding a full enema bag—a whitish colour he recognized all too well. Curly Boy hadn't known what an enema was until he received one a few years back as part of the agreement with his mistress. Now, the sight of that bag filled him with dread. The young woman hung the bag at the right height and lubricated its black nozzle. Curly Boy’s rectum was already primed for action—as evidenced by a small, brief, yet audible fart he couldn't suppress due to his nerves. She was satisfied: her boy already felt the urge to use the bathroom. "Can't you reconsider, love...? Oh, really... Have I been that bad?" he pleaded. No, he clearly didn't want the enema. But her answer was emphatic: "YES." She ordered him to stay silent until she gave the next command; while he obeyed the rule about not speaking, he couldn't stifle a whimper. Once instructed, he spread his buttocks—feeling utterly ashamed—and his exposed anus gradually received the black nozzle; the stimulation only heightened the effect of the glycerine coating his bowels. Once properly positioned, he was told the enema was beginning. "Oh, God..." was his only reaction as the water descended from above to profusely irrigate his intestines. It was warm, free-flowing—moving at a moderate pace; he soon discovered it also contained a certain amount of soap. Redhead never overdid it: she used a green, additive-free brand that wasn't overly harsh, yet it was potent enough to leave a lasting impression—especially on a boy who received such doses from time to time. In short: enough to teach him a lesson. While holding the nozzle in place inside her boyfriend's anus, she—now more composed—began to explain why she was upset with his behaviour; she spoke more calmly than the day before, yet with the same underlying reasons that had led her to "prescribe" the enema in the first place. She raised several valid points. Being "more composed," however, didn't mean she was actually calm; a distinct note of tension and anger coloured her words. The message reached his ears at the same pace the solution from the bag filled his colon; deprived of the chance to speak unless asked (such is the nature of discipline), the young man nodded or answered when required, though he struggled to fully absorb her words as the urge to expel the incoming liquid became increasingly undeniable. He knew full well that his girlfriend was right to be pissed off—and he told her as much—but he couldn't really elaborate, as cramping spasms kept interrupting him whenever he tried to string a long thought together. Redhead, who could clearly sense how her boyfriend’s body was reacting to the punishment, didn't mind this much; for one thing, it was obvious he understood what he’d done wrong, and for another, he was getting a much clearer idea of the consequences awaiting him if he repeated such childish behaviour. "Babe... How much... How much is left? I'm really full..." he remarked. Not much. Redhead didn't administer massive enemas—usually just three-quarters of the bag, which was enough to have him—like now—begging and trying to convince her he’d behave better. She confirmed he was almost empty... and a subtle bubbling—noticeable especially to the guy on the receiving end—confirmed that he was done... receiving, that is.

The 2nd part was holding in the enema. The hard part. Unlike his mother, Vic—who actually used the term "cleaning out" when administering an anal remedy for bad attitudes—Redhead made it crystal clear that this was a punishment, no sugar-coating or euphemisms, and that the correction would come from the discomfort he felt... either during or after. Actually, it was both, though Curly Boy would start feeling it pretty quickly during the "during" phase. Right then, for instance. Between the glycerine suppositories and the enema, the boy was desperate to sit on the toilet, but that moment was going to be delayed. To ensure the boy held it in properly, the enema nozzle had a small balloon she would inflate only at the end, knowing full well he wouldn't be able to hold it on his own due to his lack of practice. 2 pumps were more than enough to seal the liquid inside her boy’s ass, and there he would stay—leaning over the bathtub with his bare backside exposed. As for how long he had to hold it? She would decide that while applying her makeup right next to him; might as well make good use of the time. She stepped out of the room for a moment, dressed in white trousers and a blue blouse, and returned. Even in his desperation, Curly Boy’s brain managed to tune out the pressure in his colon for a second to admire his girl’s beauty. She turned to the mirror and began her meticulous beauty routine, this time giving Curly Boy permission to speak up if he needed to... provided he didn't become a nuisance. In other words: he could ask for relief or complain about the urge, but without becoming a pest—that would only mean a longer wait. She suggested he focus instead on coming up with a good apology—for being ambiguous, inconsistent, and inattentive—since that might actually shorten his punishment. Curly Boy—without being a nuisance—did it all: he complained bitterly about his need to empty his bowels, groaned at the varying pressure his body exerted on his anus to get it to respond (unsuccessfully), and tried to find a position within the limits of his situation that might make life a little easier... without much luck. He was too uncomfortable; the enema was doing its job all too well. So were the suppositories. Amidst sighs, groans, and rectal contractions, the guy tried to craft an apology that acknowledged what he felt he’d done wrong—which genuinely aligned with the reasons his girlfriend had left him there with over half a litter of laxative fluid in his ass—while also sounding convincing. Unfortunately, stupid excuses kept slipping out regarding certain points, forcing him to correct himself on the fly: 2 steps forward, 1 step back, all while the enema sloshed around inside his gut. He spent roughly 10’ in that position before finally managing to convince her of his genuine remorse. He wasn't lying, of course. Redhead knew that, naturally, but she couldn't be magnanimous until she had made the nature of his offenses sufficiently clear. She let him sit on the toilet, removed the deflated nozzle... and waited. Curly Boy knew he needed explicit permission. He asked for it vehemently because he couldn't hold it anymore: "My love... I really need to poop... Please, can I?" The outcome would have been the same even if Redhead had said no, but the request was a gesture of submission to her authority, and for her, that was enough. She agreed. The boy’s expression shifted; he rested his hands on his red pajama bottoms—right over his knees—and, with a sigh, released a thunderous torrent from his innermost opening, the sound echoing through the room from the toilet bowl. It was sheer relief to finally purge three-quarters of that punitive liquid—along with his dinner and a bit more. A fresh apology followed, delivered from the comfort of the toilet seat after enduring ten minutes of the enema, leaving them both at peace again. Just another day of effective discipline. Nothing works better than a dawn appointment—beneath the soft glow of that lamp—with the enema nozzle.