"Doris! We've seen each other naked," I say, the mock exasperation evident in my voice. You don't reply. You continue to brush your shoulder-length auburn hair. In the harsh light from the hotel room vanity I can see strands of gray. I place my hands on the back of the chair you are sitting in. Inhale. Chanel No 5. One of my favorite perfumes. Not on everyone. You are one of the few whose body chemistry enhances the fragrance for me. You didn't know that. More kismet.

I continue in the same vein. "I think it would be easier to have sex with you." That gets a reply.

"Could we?" You ask, only half jokingly. "Instead."

"Sure." I launch into a graphic and very explicit description of what would transpire. Your eyes sparkle with mirth the more graphic I become. I finally wind down, out of crude metaphors and wild suggestions. "But not tonight."

I reach a decision and put my hands on your shoulders. "You know I understand," I say. My hands begin to massage your shoulder muscles, careful not to poke the pressure points with my thumbs.

"Oh I do know that," you say. I can hear the fear behind the words.

I voice your concerns. Perhaps my saying the things your thinking will give you the confidence you desperately desire.

"We've known each other a long time, Doris. I'm your friend first and you trust me. I wouldn't do anything that would make you doubt that trust."

You sigh. "I know," you say.

"Now we are taking our relationship to another level. I am going to give you an enema. In person. Together. At the same time."

"You weren't like this the times we did it over the telephone. Then you always sounded eager and I know you enjoyed it every time. Ah, but this time it's different, isn't it?

You nod.

"It's not just the fact that someone else is going to give you an enema. Your husband's done that several times. Ah, but this time, Doris, like the difference between love and sex, I know, feel, comprehend what you desire and it goes beyond the mechanics of the act."

Another nod.

I continue massaging and talking. "Doris, I understand how intimate this act is to you. How so very basic enemas are to your psyche. And how you feel about exposing your bottom. It's the most intimate thing possible for you to do. It scares you to share that because it is so fundamentally you. Vulnerable, naked in the most basic sense. Exposed. I know how you feel and I empathize completely ."

"You really weren't kidding a moment ago. In one sense it would be easier for you to have sex with me. Instead I am going to fill your enema bag and give you a series of wonderful, sensuous enemas that will make you feel wonderful." I open the zippered bag on the vanity and remove your enema bag, hose, the douche tip and KY Jelly. I assemble the hose and nozzle and turn on the taps in the sink.

"I really like this style of enema bag," I observe as I prepare things. "Douche bag, actually. I had one like it myself many years ago. It wore out from continuous use. It looks so bulgy when full, doesn't it? And the way the sides collapse in as the enema progresses. You can monitor the volume very nicely by the shape. And the way it twists side to side when the last of the solution drains out, so you know you've taken it all. Yes, this is a good choice for tonight's enemas. Where is the Dr. Bronner's? Ah, here it is." I add several squirts of the minty soap to the filling enema bag.

I hang the very full latex bag next to the bed. I get the towels from the bath and spread them out. You come to a decision. I can sense it. You will need care and encouragement, but you're willing to open yourself up to someone who knows and feels what you do. Enemas are more than erotic and sensuous to you, they are your very soul. And you are about to bare your soul. It's a fragile thing. I will take care of it, expand it, strengthen it.

I come up behind you again. "Doris," I say. "Let me give you a nice enema."

You sigh. A sigh of courage, not defeat. You turn to me and simply look into my eyes. You don't speak. I look back into your shining eyes. I see tentative trust in those azure pools. I give the briefest smile and slight nod, signaling understanding.

My hands begin to remove your clothes. You help minimally. There's nothing awkward nor erotic about undressing you. Everything comes off equally. Your blouse, your bra, your slacks and hose and your panties. In spite of the situation you're too old to be needlessly modest about your body and likewise I am old enough to be able to distinguish between undressing and stripping. I turn down the lights until the room is suffused with a warm glow.

Without prompting, and I won't rush you in any event, you recline on the bed. I put on a pair of latex gloves and take your tube of KY Jelly over to the bed. "Doris," I suggest. "Why don't you roll over onto your left side and raise you right leg some."

Doing so causes you to face away from me. That's probably for the best at this stage. I am going to have to touch you in a very sensitive and private spot. I coat the tip of my finger with KY and place that hand against your lower buttock. With my other hand I gently part your cheeks just enough for the lower hand to probe towards your anus. I purposely aim high and slide my finger towards your forbidden opening. When I reach it, I don't press. I massage around it. I remove my fingers and add more lubricant. This time the digit makes cautious probes to the anal ring. I don't go deeper. Let the enema nozzle be the first thing that penetrates your anus.

I take the douche tip in my hand and, using the lubricant already on my fingers, slick the sides and tip with KY Jelly. I repeat the dance with the enema tip. Gently part your cheeks and press the tip of the nozzle along the cleft of your rear until it is positioned over your anus. I press it past your anal muscles with a short twist and open the clamp to start the flow.

You gasp as the warm liquid enters your body. A shudder too. I adjust the nozzle until its length is three-quarters inserted. I peel off one glove in order to have a free hand to stroke your back and bottom.

There's no rush. I adjust the clamp to minimize the flow. I continuously caress/massage your back and bottom. I am silent during this. I communicate and respond solely through my hands. Half way through the enema I inch my hand away from your anus. I still maintain a grip on the end of the hose but doing so allows you the ability to further relax your bottom.

As the enema progresses I sense that you are surrendering to it. The translucent enema bag is three-quarters empty. Tiny noises escape your lips, yet you probably don't realize you are making any sounds. My large hand continues it peripatetic journey over your bottom and lower back. It ventures only to the edges of your abdomen. It will be different during your next enema.

When the enema bag is empty I don't say anything. I merely close the clamp and continue to caress and massage until you stir.

"I need to go," you say.

"I know," I acknowledge. I slip the nozzle out of your bottom and busy myself with the empty enema bag. A simple gesture that affords you privacy as you rise off the bed and head towards the bathroom.

While you evacuate I wash the enema bag and nozzle. When you are done in the toilet I will give you another enema, this time I will use the Foley catheter and you will be on your back.

You come out of the bathroom. You are reserved. Not as shy as before, but still willing. I give you a hug. Your arms tighten around my middle. A shudder passes over your body. The fact that you are naked and I'm clothed is irrelevant. My hands roam over your bare back, from tail bone to shoulders. I could caress your bottom, but choose not to. You need reassurance and strength now, not sensuous feedback.

"I've brought you a gift."

"What?" you ask, breaking away.

I display the package containing the Foley catheter. "Your own rectal tube," I explain. "You expressed an interest when I described my enemas using one, so I obtained one for you."

I opened the package and took the fifteen inch latex tube to the sink. After a quick washing, I inserted the standard rectal pipe into its opening so I could connect it to the enema hose. I mixed a solution of baking soda in the hotel ice bucket and filled the enema bag.

While I was busy with the preparations you went back to the bed. I found you lying there quietly when I carried the enema bag over. "Same position as before," I tell you.

Again I pull on a pair of latex gloves and apply KY Jelly to my fingers. The lubrication proceeds as before, only this time my index finger enters your anus once and only to the first knuckle. The tip of the tube, which is pointed making insertion easier, establishes itself into your anus on the first try. A couple of inches of the tube follows. I stop the insertion and open the clamp. I wait a few beats, to allow you to become accustomed to the flow of water, before I work the remaining length of the tube into your rectum.

I stop when twelve or so inches are inserted. I adjust the clamp to restrict the flow then tell you, "Doris, roll back towards me, on to your back."

You straighten your right leg and begin to roll. As you come over I remove the hand holding the Foley tube. Your thigh, pressing the enema hose into the bed, will provide sufficient resistance to maintain the tube's position.

"Very good, Doris," I say. Off comes the gloves. "I am going to massage your abdomen as the enema flows. Relax and take deep long breaths. There's no rush."

Your belly rises high and you let our a sigh. I place my hands flat on your tummy, palms towards your pubic bone, fingers aimed at your sides. I begin to gently massage your stomach. Beginning below your navel and circling up under your ribs and breasts. Your eyes, I notice, are closed, but your face is relaxed.

The enema bag is slowly deflating, no more than a trickle of fluid is entering your colon. My hands switch orientation, fingers now pointing towards your navel. I begin to knead the outer abdomen, near your hips. Carefully I coax the liquid expanding your large intestine to dissipate.

By degrees I can feel your abdominal muscles relax. My initial apprehension that you wouldn't be able to retain this enema evaporates. I remind myself that you have as many years experience with enemas as I do. I look at the enema bag. Almost empty. I quietly open the clamp to permit the remaining fluid to escape and then just as quietly seal it once the bag is flat.

I hold my hands on either side of your swollen tummy and wait for several breath cycles to pass. Then I begin using my finger tips to knead a little deeper into the malleable flesh. I start below your navel, at the pubic bone. Four fingers press into your stomach and slide down your left side and up under your rib cage. They return on your right side back to your pubic bone.

I rotate my hands so that my palms are pressing against your colon and my finger tips trail along outside. They brush across your pubic mound and touch the underside of your breasts. Neither contact is intentional nor is it unavoidable.

I change orientation and begin massaging your abdomen right side to left side. My fingers knead the resilient flesh of your tummy. The action results in some gurgling as the enema settles.

I continue to massage your abdomen until you indicate otherwise. Tentative initially, I notice a subtle change come over you. Your thighs part, not much, but enough to expose your vulva. Sighs of contentment are more frequent, your belly expands further with each deep, measured breath. I match my tempo to your responses. You like the finger tip kneading and the resulting gurgling. Your left hand makes a move towards your torso but stops before landing on your chest. The sighs are now mixed with tiny murmurs. Unmistakable sounds I identify from our telephone enema sessions that mean you are close to climaxing.

Fingers pointing down, my left hand slides over your public mound. Your reaction is immediate. Your thighs move further apart. My hand stops, covering your vulva. My right hand continues to press circles around your tummy. The middle finger of my left hand presses down, parting your outer, dry, lips. It encounters a very wet set of inner lips. I plunge it into your womanhood to coat it with your secretions then slide it up to your apex. I don't have to search for it. I stoke the sides of the stiff knobby protuberance and tease its tip with my larger fingertip pad.

I make no claim to manipulation expertise. My stimulation merely gave you the extra boost needed to climax. I've heard you orgasm many times but this is the fist time I am a witness. You are quite lovely in the throes of ecstasy. Your chest flushes a nice crimson.

When you catch your breath you open your eyes and look at me. "Thank you." ‘ "You're welcome." Nothing more need be said. Deeds not words are the ultimate proof of intentions.

This time I help you off of the bed and follow you into the bathroom, holding the rubbery tail dangling between your thighs. In the small bathroom I hold a wash cloth around the Foley tube as I slide it out of your rectum. Smiling you sit on the toilet as I leave you in peace.

I wash everything carefully and drape the enema bag, hose and Foley over the towel rack to dry. Only then do I switch attention to my own condition. I loosen my belt and reach into my shorts with my handkerchief. I am able to wipe up most of the fresh semen. Fortunately it didn't leak through to my pants.

"Doris," I say to the closed door. "You were wonderful."

The End