Something was missing in my life. At night I dreamed strange and confusing things. During the day I had strange yearnings.

The day I was supposed to enroll for the ACT had been a disaster all around. We had meant to sail straight from our cabin across the lake to town. But I had miscalculated when to tack when the wind shifted and we had been blown off course. Molly had decided to drag me into the woods and give me a quick lick of my belt. I had had it under my dress against the skin.

When we were secluded a few dozen paces into the woods, she had bent me over, pulled the belt off me, bent it double and hit me three times across the thighs. It stung only a moment, and it wasn’t really a new feeling, aside from the fact that my new belt had been broken in.

Then we had set off again, with my sister manning the tiller. Promptly, once we were out in the middle of the brackish lake, we were becalmed. The wind was dead, and we sat there rocking for no less than four hours. My sister sat and read “A Wind in the Door,” and I read National Geographic, occasionally glaring at her and wishing I could do to her a couple times over what she had done to me in the woods earlier.

A little before the wind picked up, I had to sit there and avert my eyes while Molly kneeled in the bottom of the dinghy and pissed in a tin can in her hand, then poured it overboard. She giggled, and I resented her presence the more.

When the wind came, slowly then increasingly ruffling the sail, she did not feel like another hour of tacking, and we ran downwind straight back to the house, as the cicadas started up and the sun was on the treeline.

When we got there, Molly went inside without a word while I put the sail and mast up. She came out wearing a different dress and carrying something in her hand that I recognized a moment later as a three-inch floppy disk. “I still have to go into the library and do some work. Be good.”

I knew she would be gone until long about eleven thirty, so I felt a rare sense of security. I would have the house to myself for a number of hours.

I spent some time on the computer, playing Rogue, but I was dogged by a nagging sensation. I traced it to my guts. There was an empty feeling, one I couldn’t attribute to hunger.

I had put a pencil up my ass before, but suddenly, I needed something big inside me down there. It was unlike a normal sexual yearning–it was like hunger in that it came from the guts, but it was charged with sexual passion.

Quickly I had found where my sister kept the enema bag. I had had it only once, but I suddenly knew I needed it again.

I took it to my bathroom and ran water. I found myself naked but for the leather belt worn high on my waist. I ran my hands around my hips, feeling the gentle compression where the flesh sloped to the edge of the belt. I found it strangely thrilling, wearing the thing that might be used to punish me at any time. There was a strange sensuousness about the leather next to my skin.

Absently, I unbuckled it and felt that thrill of true nudity. I draped it over my shoulders and rubbed it back and forth gently, feeling its touch against my neck and breasts. Then I gingerly placed it on the toilet lid, feeling like I was breaking the rules.

In front of me, the tub was steaming. Mostly, I showered back then, and a really hot bath was well outside my routine. I slipped one foot in, felt pins and needles, and suddenly plunged myself in, feeling the tingling and paradoxical chill of piping hot water spread all over my lower body. I covered myself with my hand, feeling it most of all there.

A few moments of gasping and panting, and I remembered what I’d come for. I sat up, got the enema bag from next to the tub, and sitting hunched over the faucet, filled it with modestly warm water.

Next I figured out the hose and clamp, and feeling the little nozzle, assembled it all and let a little water run out of it, before clamping it back down.

The next part took some anxious, feverish back-and-forth to really figure out. At first I intended to bend over on my hands and knees and take it that way, but found it uncomfortable with my bony knees on the hard surface. I ended up almost submerged on my back in the cast iron tub, my legs pulled up, sticking the nozzle into me without lube. The bag was hanging on the towel rack nearby. A moment later, I took a deep breath and released the clamp.

It was at that moment that I heard the front door unlock. I nearly panicked, but I held my position. What else could I do?

A while later I heard Molly’s voice. “I’m home. The library shut down their computers for maintenance. Where are you?” she asked with disinterest, only halfway shouting from the living room.

“In the bathtub.” At this point I was starting to be aware of the flow.

“Well, I suppose I didn’t call dibs on the hot water. A shame, I could have used it after sitting in the boat for so long.”

“It’s been a while,” I shouted. “You can probably run some now.”

“Alright, it’s fine either way.”

I knew she was about to go in her bathroom and see…

“Maggie, do you have the enema syringe?”

“Yes.”

“Constipated?”

At this moment it really hit me. The pressure inside me, rushing into me, was suddenly extreme. I felt my ability to be a normal human, to lie, to dissemble, to judge the social situation–all of it was gone with this massive pressure in my bowels. “No,” I said, frankly.

“Ah, alright. Just wondering where it was.”

And that was the end of the conversation.

I relaxed further into the water, trying not to squirt some brown liquid into the tub. I noticed that my stomach was swollen. I was full.

Involuntarily, I felt a hand go to my pussy and start gently stroking. It was desensitized by the hot bathwater but I think the gentle bliss of it helped me hold the enema inside.

I lay there a little longer until I began to feel faintly nauseous, then got out and, dripping wet, got on the toilet and let it all out over the next ten minutes. I panted for a moment, felt clean inside and out, pure, somehow, and touched myself just a moment longer before I stood up.

I washed myself off and thought about how best to clean out the equipment.

At a loss, I called out. “Molly, how do I wash this bag out?”

“Just run piping hot water through it and leave it hanging to dry,” she shouted. “I’ll come get it later.”

It was as if it was the most normal thing in the world to her.

Before I put the bathrobe on to dry off, I wrapped the leather belt around my ankle, criss-crossing it four times and buckling it at the first hole. This was not too much of a punishment to bear, but in my newly hypersensitive state, fresh from the hot water, it felt very different than wearing it before the bath.

I walked to my room, put on a nightshirt and panties, then sat back down at the computer.

I realized that I still needed something. Whatever it was, it was still nagging at me, though the enema had helped some.

It was like that the rest of the week, strange dreams and all. I had another enema on Monday, with permission this time, and made it a little hotter, more like a punishment. I had not gotten the belt again, but I had not been told that I could stop wearing it, so most of the time it was around my waist under my clothes.

Finally, on Wednesday, I went to my sister and said “I need a spanking with the hairbrush, please.”

“Why, what did you do?”

“I got used to it, I guess.”

“You are responsible for yourself now. I told you already that I believe when you need a punishment, you’ll come to me and ask for it. And if you still need it weekly, I’ll do it weekly for as long as it takes. Go take your clothes off and bring me the hairbrush.”

Ten strokes later (I asked for more after five), I was sitting in her lap, telling her about what a good girl I would be in the coming week.

She kissed my eyes and later made me supper. The leather around my waist… I think that was the day I knew I would wear it forever.