My name is Maria. I was born and raised in a small Austrian town by a caring, though at times strict, mother, and a hard-working father. When I was 18, I went to study in Linz. My mother did not want to let me go. She was worried about how I would do on my own. As she had heard that students in university dorms spent their time partying, she resolved to rent a room for me in the house of a single lady. That lady, she had learned by talking with her, had lost her parents to a car accident some years ago, and had moved back into the house she had been raised in; she had lived there with another lady as roommate, but that other lady had left to get married, and she wanted to rent a room to a female student.

Ulrike Beyer was in her late thirties. She was pleasant-looking, neatly and somewhat conservatively dressed, with her hair done in a bun. A little cross around her neck completed the figure of a respectable Christian woman that had seduced my mother—my mother had done the house-hunting, as obviously I should not be trusted with dealings with the traps of the big city. Frau Beyer lived in a nineteenth century three-storey house with a garden. The ground floor had a kitchen and a living room. When the house was built, there was no indoor plumbing, and the outhouse still stood in the garden, though it had been converted into a gardening shed. A bathroom and a “water closet” had thus been added as a low extension to the back of the house. The two upper floors each had two bedrooms. One of the bedrooms was used by Frau Beyer, another she had converted into an office and library (she worked from home as a translator), another she rented to me, and the fourth one she pondered taking a second student tenant in, but not now; she wanted to see how it went with me.

I had arrived a few days before university started, and took this opportunity to get acquainted with the surroundings and the city itself. From Frau Beyer’s house, in a calm residential peripheral neighbourhood, I could go to my college or to the city center by streetcar, which was convenient. My mother had been wise to choose such a location for me to live, at least when it came to snot wasting times at parties: streetcars stopped early. Well, I was there to study, not waste my youth in unwholesome activities! Classes started.

It was of course slightly difficult for me to adapt to the university style of work, and to living alone. Well, technically, I was not living alone, there was Frau Beyer; but I was responsible for buying my groceries, cooking my own food, fully planning my own schedule. It was exhilarating too; my overprotective mother had tended to micro-manage me. Frau Beyer too was caring, but in a different way. I appreciated how she asked me how things were going at the university, and proposed me to read her books and listen to her records. She was cultured and she enjoyed discussing arts and literature.

A few weeks later, an incident occurred, which changed the course of everything for me, though at the time I did not foresee it. At university, I often had little time to eat properly, often just making myself a sandwich (I happened to study in a building far from the nearest mensa). Since women’s toilets often had queues, I avoided drinking. Maybe these were the reasons why that I felt a bit “full” and realized had not had a bowel movement for days. I resolved to go to a pharmacy. Unfortunately, while I knew where to get groceries and other supplies, I did not know where there was a pharmacy in the neighbourhood, and going to the city center just for that seemed a bit overkill. I inquired from Frau Beyer where the nearest pharmacy was. She gave me directions (it was no so nearby), but added that she would be happy to help me with her own supplies if she had something suitable, and thus asked what was wrong with me, perhaps some headache?

I blushed and explained my predicament. Frau Beyer had a little laugh. “No need to be embarrassed, this is not an uncommon problem. When was last time you could go poo-poo?”. Her attempt at making me at ease backfired; the childish “poo-poo” (or, rather, the German version of it) made me even more aware of the ridicule. I blurted out “maybe four days”. Frau Beyer smiled. “Maybe four, maybe more. We need to do something about it. I have everything you need. We’ll deal with it after dinner.”

Why wait after dinner? Oh well. It spared me a trip under the rain.

When I had finished washing my dishes, Frau Beyer came to me. “All done? Still in need of a solution to your bowel trouble? Just wait here while I get things ready.”

I had expected that Frau Beyer would have provided me with some pills, or a spoonful from some bottle of laxative medicine, as mom used to in similar circumstances. What were the things she had to get ready? She was busying herself in the kitchen, then in the bathroom.

“Come in?”. I entered the bathroom, and saw a most unusual device: an enamel can equipped with a tap and a rubber pipe, which ended in a kind of short pipe. It hung from a hook on the wall. Although I had never seen such a device, its purpose was all too obvious. I was so surprised I did not say a word. Frau Beyer soon interjected. “I guess it’s time for you to remove your skirt and underwear.” I just stood there in bewilderment.

“Come on, Maria. It’s not healthy to stay without a bowel movement for days like that, if it goes on you will end up at the hospital, where it’s going to be more embarrassing than here.

— It’s just… I mean, I’ve never had that…

— There is a beginning for everything.

— Also er… well getting naked…

— We’re both women. Much easier than if you were at the hospital with a male doctor or male nurse.”

Her reasoning was implacable. I slowly undid my skirt, then removed my panties. I stood with my hand in front of my pubis, head down, not meeting Frau Beyer’s eyes.

“Now kneel on the mat… Head down, bottom up…”

I heard Frau Beyer move behind me.

“Legs apart and relax your behind. Don’t worry, the nozzle is well lubricated.”

I felt the device at my opening.

“Bear down like for going poo-poo.”

Again embarrassed by the childish “poo-poo”, I complied, and felt the device entering me. I realized Frau Beyer was now kneeling behind me. Her hand was on my bottom, holding the pipe. Her touch was strangely soothing. She extended her hand, announced she would open the tap, and so she did. I felt the warm liquid entering me. It was not unpleasant.

“How are you doing?

— Ok, I guess.

— I mixed a little soap into the water. This will increase the effectiveness. Tell me if it becomes uncomfortable.”

And yes, uncomfortable it became, and I spoke as told. Frau Beyer closed the tap. Then, she extended her hand under me and began massaging my stomach. “Tell me when the cramps subside. If you expel now we would have to start again.”

Her strategy was effective, and I soon was able to tell her she could reopen the tap. I was getting to the feeling of the water filling me, despite the urge to go—that soap was making my bowels work, obviously. She was still massaging me. Unfortunately, some new phenomenon was growing. I felt my rectum starting to pulsate, with some irrepressible urge to expel.

“I need to go now!”

Frau Beyer did not waste time closing the tap and removing the pipe. I hastily raised and ran next door to the “water closet”. I felt stools passing with the soapy water. The noise was so embarrassing! Yet I felt relieved not to be plugged up anymore. When it was over, I wiped and stood to flush (what a sight the bowl was) and wash my hands. The urge to go started again. When I was finally done, I wiped again, flushed, washed my hands and exited. Frau Beyer was at the bathroom door, smiling. I instinctly put my hands in front of my pubis.

“How did it go?

— A lot of things went. I still have a bit of a tummy ache.

— Not unexpected. I’m going to give you a second enema, with chamomile tea, which will soothe your insides.”

A second enema! Well, at that point, why not. Frau Beyer was now waiting for me pipe in hand and a jar of Vaseline in the other. I knew what to do, and again knelt on the mat, bottom up, head down, legs apart. She again kneeled behind me. I felt the greasy pipe on my opening, and did not need to be told to bear down. It entered me again.

The second enema was easier than the first. No soap, and my tummy had already been voided of much waste (what an embarrassing thought). Frau Beyer was massaging my tummy again. Perhaps she was not in the same place as during the first enema, for her wrist was now rubbing against my mons pubis. It was a most unusual feeling.

It’s at this point that I realized that throughout these procedures, Frau Beyer must have seen not only my anus, but also my vulva, a place that I had been taught to consider even more shameful. Dear reader, you must be thinking I was quite naive to understand so late how exposed I was in that posture; but really the cure had been sprung on me before I could really think. And now… and that I know will sound strange. I somehow enjoyed showing my private parts to Ulrike Beyer.

“Very good. The liquid is all in. I’m going to remove the pipe and keep on massaging you some more.”

And so she did, one hand under me, the other gently rubbing my behind, telling me I had been a very brave girl. My tummy was calming itself. In fact, I could have taken some more massaging when she withdrew her hand, gently tapped on my behind and invited me to go to the toilet.

“When you’re done, I advise you to wash below and get some rest.”

The whole event had indeed taken a toll on me. I felt tired, real tired. I laid in bed, thinking about the experience. I would never have believed it if someone had told me it would happen.

I soon felt a need to pee. I had not thought about it, but it seemed logical—if water could be absorbed by drinking it, it could also be absorbed if injected from the other hand. At this point, I did something I had never done so far.

As I explained, my bedroom was on the second floor of Frau Beyer’s house, and to reach the toilet one had to climb down two storeys, then cross the kitchen to the extension with the water closet. For this reason, my bedroom was equipped with an enamel chamber pot and a roll of toilet paper. I had blushed when Frau Beyer had shown them to me under the bed, and I had resolved not to use them. Well, I had not used them so far, but this time I felt so tired and so weird. I took it from under the bed, undid my clothing, squatted, peed, wiped and put it back. Peeing in this position felt strangely satisfactory. Urination and defecation, I thought, can be such basic pleasures—though one would never admit it in polite company. But, if you’re reading this kind of story, gentle reader, are you polite company?

Back in bed, I thought of how liberating it had been to show my private parts to Frau Beyer, to feel her hand on my behind. My hand wandered down, towards that place that I had been taught not to touch except for wiping and washing.

The next morning, I blushed when walking past Frau Beyer chamber pot in hand.