I was in my home office putting together a project report for a client. As I sat in front of my computer with papers strewn everywhere about I was more or less deep in thought thinking of the key points that I needed to make. Then I heard some noise at the end of the hall as if my wife was looking for something.
“Sharon, are you alright?” I called.
“Yeah, but I could use some help,” she replied. I got up from my work and went down the hall to find her standing there holding the enema bag.
“Oh, so you need that kind of help, do you?”
“It’s been months since I’ve had a good enema and it just feels like it is the right time to do one. Want to help me?”
Over the years we have given one another numerous enemas, both out of necessity or pleasure, but sometimes for both. I didn’t have to think twice in saying “yes” although I told her that I had to go back to the computer and save my file so that it wouldn’t get lost if the power failed or something of equal catastrophic nature occurred.
By the time I got back to the master bathroom, which is off of our bedroom, Sharon already had the bag filled with soapy warm water and was attaching the stopper into the neck of the bag.
“You certainly seem to be a woman on a mission,” I told her.
“I’m feeling a little conflicted right now. There is that little girl feeling of anxiety, but the adult feeling of “I can’t wait,” she said handing me the bag and undoing the button and zipper of her jeans. It wasn’t long before she had stepped out of them and stood before me in her bikinis. We might have been married a long time, but my wife still gets me excited, but sex wasn’t on her mind.
She led me into the bedroom where she took off her bikinis and I retrieved the KY from the nightstand. Sharon laid face down on the bed and I lubed her anus. Then after inserting the rectal pipe I started the enema. She was fine for a few minutes, but after hardly taking a pint she started to leak. “I think I have to go already,” she said surprising me. I removed the pipe and she made a dash for the toilet. I could hear her passing the enema, but then came a couple of audible splashes to say that it had dislodged something.
A few minutes later she was back in the bedroom. “That was good, but I need to take the rest of that,” she instructed. The pipe was reinserted and the enema resumed, but after a little more than a quart, and I say this because the bag was not yet empty, she had to go again. From the distance I could hear the expelling and there were no large objects this time, but I also sensed that it was much more than soapy water. When Sharon returned she said, “I still don’t think I’m through so you better go refill the bag. She laid down once more on the bed as I went to the bathroom to top off the bag with more warm water. Then I returned to the bedroom where I proceeded to administer those full two quarts without interruption. When Sharon finally went to the bathroom that third time I could hear the enema flowing out of her interspaced with moments of silence and then resuming. This took some time to achieve and then she was finally getting the cleaning out that she claimed she needed.
When she returned, I looked up and said, “Well?”
“That one sure worked. I feel much better.”
“You should. You know you have had not quite four quarts of enema?”
“I thought so because I feel like it, too. I think I need a good nap now,” she said pulling back the bedspread and getting between the sheets. I took the enema bag to the bathroom, disassembled it,, and hung it to dry. When I went back to my office I could see that Sharon had already dozed off and was asleep.