My First Revenge Enema

When I was 18, my best friend/teammate and his family were out of town on vacation when they called, asking me to go by their house, let a service technician fix to a faulty alarm system, and then lock the house after he had installed whatever. These were the days I was horny all the time, and I had developed a lifelong lust for the enema about the age of 8. Believe this: I adore everything about an enema to this very hour.

My friend’s mother was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. Much more elegant than sensual, and whenever I would see her at a dress-up event, you could notice a garter button on each of her thighs underneath her dress or slacks. After the service man left, I casually wandered through the house and spied the huge bath area for the master bedroom.

For a huge part of my life, I can just look at a bulging enema bag and get an erection, and as I prowled, I peered in several drawers, and even looked under the sink for the familiar red bag but saw nothing. Understand, I was obsessed with enemas, just as I am today, and some mothers when I was growing up would display them on the back of the bathroom door.

Yet as I was leaving, I spied a high drawer in a cabinet over the toilet, well out of the reach for children. In it were three enema bags, one that was twice as large as the other two. On each was a different non-nonsense nozzle, larger than average douche bulb, and I got my first look at a pair of dildoes -- one was cherry red, the other thicker and a touch longer that was light blue. There were some clothes pins, a snake of a what I later learned was a colon tube. I also learned later there was a gadget called a speculum, an ample package of rubber gloves, with four or five tubes of K-Y.

My cock was immediately harder than dammit, and I focused on the bags. There was a red Faultless, with a customary curved douche nozzle of the day, a collapsible 2-quart amber bag with a straight nozzle, maybe 6 inches long and thicker than any I had seen, and a larger dark green “pumpkin” bag – I can attest well over 3 quarts -- with its hose wider than most.

On its end was a black hard-plastic nozzle about 10 inches long. It had the acceptable bend, yet it was curved instead of angled. It was about an inch wide yet about 3 inches from the fluted tip there was a substantial widening on the shaft. This increased the nozzle width to 1.6 inches, I later learned to helped ease retention. The tip was about a 1½-inch ball, and there were about 20 ports for water to be injected between the tip and the prominent bulge on the shaft.

Then the size reduced to about an inch wide down the last four or so inch before the hose was attached. I later found out it was a custom design in shiny Deldrin plastic that had come from Germany and that the owner had about 20 exquisite nozzles. It is, to this day, the most traumatizing thing my young eyes had ever seen and in the years that have followed may be my most beloved nozzle.

Damn right I shucked my khakis off to try it. But I was scared the large nozzle might hurt me, so I opted for the two-quart bag with curved nozzle. At the time I could easily handle almost three quarts. I took the nozzle easily, but my testosterone was off the charts. I had a hard orgasm about halfway during the fill and another came after I had removed the nozzle but was in a timed 10-minute hold, the slight cramping adding to the second shuttering climax.

On late Saturday of that week, my friend and his family returned home. I dropped by after we played had golf on Sunday and my friend’s mom called me aside. “Why is my enema equipment still wet?” Oh my gosh, I stammered I had no idea what she was talking about, but both of us knew I was caught. She told me she knew I liked enemas – her son and one of her daughters had secretly laughed about it -- to my horror.

I told her I was “sooo sorry,” and said that she would decide what to do about. “Please, don’t call my mother,” I said mortified, “or tell my friends.” Hell, I could imagine her holding up the bag during some church service and commanding me to step forward! “No, I have been guilty of a few indiscretions when I was your age … this will remain just been us three if you do exactly as I say.” Three? Who is the third! She smiled back … “my enema bags.”

You can imagine what the new few days were like. Was she going to tell any of her friends? Or tell her family, whose daughter had told her mom I had more than a passing interest in all things enema. About midweek she called and told me to come by the next day after lunch. She was very pleasant but told me “It seems you have a bill to pay.”

She took me into her master bedroom, locked the door and told me to strip. “After today’s deposit, I have decided you should visit once more to make sure you will never do anything like again.” With that she told me to follow her to the master bath, where I saw the two-quarter amber bag with soap forming at the top. As she snapped on a rubber glove, she very casually grabbed my erection, massaging it and commenting on its hardness. She squeezed it near the top, the precum visible, and I mumbled that if she didn’t stop it there was going to make a mess. She just softly giggled because she knew exactly what she was doing.

She ordered me over the tub and draped the hose and the nozzle beside me, lubricated her finger and wiggled it inside of me. “Has anyone every told you that your rectum is very elastic.” No ma’am,, I answered to hear one word: “Two.”

A second finger joined the first inside of me, and I was too naive to know I was soon to get my first ever prostate massage. She knew exactly what to do. I immediately exploded, my dick looking like a fire hose that had been dropped and leaving strong bursts of my jizz in several puddles every way I wiggled.

“While you clean that up, I need to change to a larger nozzle that will allow you to hold your enema a little easier.” She returned with a slightly bent black one, about as thick as my erection but longer, almost nine inches. and an empty water pitcher. She turned on the bath faucet, adjusted the water, and as she filled it, she vigorously rubbed an Ivory soap bar inside the pitcher, causing the warm water to turn cloudy.

“Are going to give me a second enema?” Yes, she said, “but this is part of your first as the bag empties I will add this solution to your enema as needed. “Ma’am, I don’t believe I can take this much water …” Well, we are going to see. If you can’t get enough of this solution … we will start your first enema again from the beginning, then give you the cleansing water.”

She inserted the thicker nozzle, which hurt only seconds as she slid it back and forth before. I believe I took all but about two inches of the black pipe before she paused for what seemed to be a minute before, in the stillness of the bathroom there was that distinctive “click” that enema lovers around the world know separates an aficionado from an amateur.

The bag was hanging higher than I prefer, the rush of the water intense, and twice she poured solution from the pitcher. Several time she would stop, deep breaths helping maintain the fullness, and the second time she massaged my abdomen to make more room for “my” enema. When she finally withdrew the nozzle, she had a plug already lubricated and while it felt like my anus was torn as she shoved it in, the “hold” was much easier. I ended up taking just under 3½ quarts.

I thought I might pass out during my “hold” and after about seven minutes, she helped me sit on the toilet, told me to spread my legs as wide as I could and on the command, “Deep breath!” she expertly removed the plug as Niagara Falls began.

Let me say here that good enema etiquette is very important to me. Have you ever noticed before you have intercourse your help the other remove his/her clothes, but afterwards everybody just dressed themselves? I have found the same is true with the large majority of enema lovers who I have enjoyed. Expel in private – flushing immediately after each burst – and then take that shower together.

The cleansing enema was easier to take than the first on my first punishment day, but this time she sat on the edge of the tub, with me lying across her lap. She hiked her skirt just high enough to capture my flaccid cock between her nyloned thighs, and as she lubed my bottom again in a way the made me squirm, I started getting to stiffen once more, “Aren’t you a little man?” she whispered.

I swallowed the second enema quickly and was allowed empty after I crawled off her lap and she left the room. My erection gone and my humiliation at a zenith pitch, I walked in her bedroom and dressed quickly. She was sitting calmly in the den. “Did you clean the bag and the nozzle.? I had left them in the tub and after I washed them with some castile soap, I dried them and returned them to the drawer.

I found a new roll of toilet paper under the sink, policed the room as best I could and was walking the empty pitcher back towards the kitchen. “I am pleased with your behavior and more than pleased with how well you take an enema. I love the fact you arch your back when the nozzle begins to enter you.”

“Next week I’ll be busy but the following week, I think I’ll be alone one night … can you ‘cum’ around 5?” I can spend a little extra time as you settle your debt.”

Oh great, I thought, the prospect of an 11-day waits for my fate for my date with her bag every bit as nerve wracking as awaiting the first game of the season regardless which sport. The time the love-hate sensations were bigger and as I pictured that large German nozzle entering me, little did I know what lay in store. One day I’ll tell it. And you will like it.

Take a deep breath, try to relax, and listen for the “click.”

Ciao.