In the mid 1980s I returned to grad school with the intention of getting a doctorate and then pursuing a career in university teaching. It was early in the Fall semester of my second year when I took the required statistics course. Fortunately, statistics came easy to me and I was able to spend class time ogling an attractive young student with strawberry blond hair and a very pretty face. She had a very nice figure and I was always happy to observe her whether she was in jeans and a sweatshirt or in a skirt and blouse. Michelle, as I soon learned, was a new MBA student who was 3-4 years younger that I was.

After several weeks we took our first exam. Not surprisingly I did very well and got the highest grade in the class. Michelle was not as fortunate and approached the professor for tutoring. Not wanting to do it himself, the professor suggested that I, being the top student, might make an appropriate tutor.

Michelle and I began with several meetings in the library and soon I was sure that she was starting to understand. The results of the second exam were happily better than the first, but it looked like she’d only be able to earn a “C” in the course, but that was not acceptable in grad school. We decided that we’d need to intensely work on problems for the third exam meaning that we’d meet at Michelle’s apartment later in the week.

The day before we were to meet I stopped at the supermarket on my way home from campus. I wasn’t ever certain what I’d have for dinner, but like many other days I would just stop by and see what would looked really good to me. As I stepped out of my car, Michelle was just emerging from the store with two brown paper bags. She looked terrific in a gray college sweatshirt over black tights. I yelled a “hello,” waved and walked over to her. But I sensed that something was wrong when she didn’t seem overly pleased to see me. Nevertheless as I said “goodbye” out of the corner of my eye I couldn’t help but notice in one of the bags a large flat box plainly marked “Comfy combination syringe” and then realized why the encounter was less than enthusiastic.

For the next couple of days all I could think about was what it must be like to see the hose from that enema bag going up her cute little bottom. The next day after my last class I drove to Michelle’s apartment. It was located in a series of apartment units that obviously were occupied mostly by graduate students. Michelle came to the door looking like she’d just come from the gym dressed in a white T- shirt, navy blue shorts and bright blue tights. I could make out every curve and even could see the silhouette of the stitching of her bra. She let me in asking, “I hope you didn’t have any trouble finding me.”

“No, your directions were fine,” I said. Getting immediately down to business, I headed for the kitchen table and exclaimed, “We need to cover a lot of material if you are to be prepared for this exam.”

“Oh, there is just so much to remember. I can’t believe I’m doing this badly, but parts of this make no sense to me. I’ve never had this much trouble with any course. I’m spending a lot of time and getting no where. So much that it’s even making me physically sick. I’m getting so worked up over it.”

“Like how?” I inquired. “Like are you sick to your stomach or headaches?”

“Well, kind of. I guess some of both of those. But that’s not all. It’s well, ah more than that.”

“Like what? What’s wrong?”

“Well, I’m getting ah, how do I put this, ah, very constipated, too.”

“Oh. So what are you doing about this?” I figured I’d continue the line of inquiry.

“I’ve already been to the University Health Services twice. The first time they gave me a prescription to calm me down. Then they also told me to take Metamucil every night before bed. The prescription seems to be working, but the Metamucil hasn’t had any effect even after five days.”

“Five days?”

“I went to Health Services again yesterday and they wanted me to have, well, ah er, oh gosh, OK, I’ll just say it, an enema. I haven’t had one of those for over ten years and always hated them. They’re just so embarrassing. The nurse was really very nice and told me that they could give me one there or if I wanted I could do one on my own. I decided to do that and so I bought an enema bag on the way home yesterday. That’s when I saw you.”

“I guess that’s one thing that women can do that guys can’t. You can buy things like this and not have everyone wonder about what you’re doing.”

“Well, not quite. Just so everyone in the supermarket wouldn’t think that I bought the syringe to give myself and enema, I also bought a bottle of liquid douche.”

It was all coming together now. But I couldn’t help but wonder if she’d tried it, so I asked, “So last night you took care of the problem when you got home.” Again those visions came back to me of the hose leading up to her sweet little bottom. What thoughts!

“Well, not really. I decided to give the Metamucil another day to work, but it didn’t.”

“So it’s enema time? Do you remember enough to be able to give yourself one?” I asked.

“Maybe I should give the Metamucil one more day to see if it will work.”

“And if it doesn’t, then you’re over at Health Services tomorrow asking them for an enema? That just doesn’t sound like a plan to me.”

“Maybe you’re right. But . . “

“But do you remember enough to give yourself one?” I asked pressing the point.

“I don’t know. When I was younger I just wanted to get it over with and so I didn’t pay that much attention to what Mom was doing. But it can’t be that difficult.”

“I could tutor you, if you want,” I offered.

“No, you’re doing enough tutoring me with statistics. I couldn’t ask you to do that, too. Besides it is embarrassing enough to even talk about it. Maybe the best thing to do is to take Metamucil for just one more night and hope that things will be better in the morning.”

“And it they’re not, then you’re back at Health Services asking them to give you an enema?” I said knowing that the idea was not a favored one.

“Well, maybe you’re right.”

“It’s OK. I think I remember enough. Show me what kind of bag you bought,” I instructed.

Michelle disappeared into her bathroom and seconds later re- emerged with the box I’d seen yesterday. It was still wrapped in cellophane. I peeled the wrapping off and opened the lid. The smell of new rubber immediately permeated the room. What I saw was the very familiar red rubber combination syringe and hot water bottle. It was exactly like my mom had at home and what was to be used by so many other families.

“Can you remember how it goes?” she asked.

“Sure. This will be no problem,” I said confidently. “Why don’t you go spread some towels down on your bed and I’ll go get this ready.”

Much to my surprise, Michelle didn’t say a word and headed off to take care of the towels. I went into the bathroom and ran the water at the sink. While waiting for the water to get warm I opened the door to the small linen closet hoping to find some kind of lubricant. As expected the linen closet contained all the usual items. There was a large partially used box of Tampax regulars, a box of Kotex minipads, lots of stuff for hair care, and various items for contact lenses. Without being too much of a voyeur, I also found a little pink pouch, which upon opening revealed a compact expandable douche syringe. Fortunately there was also a small jar of Vaseline.

Taking the jar from the closet my attention returned to the sink. I held the bar of soap in the stream of running water and filled the syringe bag half way. After securing the stopper end of the hose in the neck of the bag, I attached the rectal pipe to the other end, and holding the bag up and opening the clamp let the air from the hose. I was finally ready and was about to leave the bathroom when Michelle returned. “What’s next?” she asked.

“We need to go into your bedroom where you will have to take off the tights and shorts,” I explained. Michelle flushed but didn’t say anything. When we got to her bedroom she carefully kept her back towards me, took down her shorts and peeled off the tights. Then placing her thumbs in the waistband of her bikinis, worked them to the floor too. Her bare little bottom was cuter than I could ever imagine and I could feel an erection starting to rage in my pants. Michelle laid down on the bed.

I opened the jar of Vaseline, took a generous amount on my index finger, and inserted it in her tight little rosebud. Michelle flinched and tensed immediately.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Relax, it’s just a little Vaseline,” I said wiggling my finger around a little and sensing her ease up a little as the orifice dilated. I wondered if she’d actually started to enjoy the feeling. After a couple of seconds I removed my finger and inserted the rectal nozzle. “Does this feel OK?” I asked.

“I guess it doesn’t feel bad. It’s just like it doesn’t belong there, that’s all.”

“OK, here goes, but let me know if it’s uncomfortable,” I said clicking open the clamp and letting the enema flow. To make certain that the pressure would me minimal I held the bag no higher than three feet off the bed.”

“I can feel the warmth,” Michelle said in almost a purring tone. “It’s no where near as bad as I thought it would be.” I couldn’t see Michelle’s face, but somehow suspected that at this point she might even be smiling.

After several minutes the bag was flat. “You did fine. You took it all, but just to give it time to work, I’ll leave the nozzle in for a couple of minutes.” To pass the time I gently rubber her back.

Deciding that she was ready to expel, I removed the nozzle and without any encouragement Michelle got up off the bed, went into the bathroom and closed the door. After several minutes I heard the toilet flush and the door open. When I got to the bathroom still holding the red enema bag, Michelle was standing at the sink washing her hands. “That really worked pretty well,” she confessed. “But it might not hurt if you gave me another one just to make sure. I wouldn’t want to have to go to the Health Center for a follow-up.”

I couldn’t believe my ears, but was I lucky or what? Michelle managed to get back to her bedroom without ever exposing anything other than her back to me. Back in the bathroom I refilled the bag all the way with plain warm water and returned to the bedroom. Michelle was already lying on the bed waiting for me.

Like the first, the second enema went without incident and Michelle managed to take the whole bag without the slightest complaint or protest although she did not know that it was nearly double the quantity of the first enema. Also just like the first one she unceremoniously walked to the bathroom, again closed the door and spent several minutes expelling. This time when she emerged, there was a noticeable change. Still dressed in just the T-shirt Michelle seemed to have lost any sense of embarrassment and walked directly towards me. It was immediately apparent that she was a natural strawberry blond. The erection in my pants returned now stronger than ever. Michelle had to have noticed, but didn’t say a word nor show any reaction whatsoever.

“You did really well. Feeling any better?” I asked.

Michelle came over, put her arms around my neck and gave me a very sisterly kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for being such a good tutor,” she whispered in my ear. “You can come over and give me an enema any time. It was nothing at all like I used to get from Mom.” We hugged and I knew that she had to have sensed the erection this time, but she still gave no indication.

“Oh, it was nothing,” I stammered almost not able to gain control of my voice.

Michelle pulled on her bikinis and shorts. She looked up and gave me a glowing smile and said, “Come on we have a lot of statistics to cover yet tonight. I’ve got to do well on that exam.” We left her bedroom and returned to the kitchen where we went over statistics problems for several hours. Unfortunately from this moment on I had totally lost all concentration. The only thing that could occupy my brain was the sight of Michelle’s bottom and that enema bag.

The next day we took the exam. It was really very difficult. What shocked me most was that a couple of days later when the grades were posted Michelle had earned an “A-” and I had only gotten a straight “B.” My ego was shattered, but I was also startled at how well Michelle had done. I expressed the disbelief of my grade.

“It must have been the tutoring. After that last tutoring session I knew I had a good grade in the bag,” she said with an impish smile and her face perhaps flushing just a little bit.

After a moment I sort of got the double entendre and we both had a good laugh. “Maybe I need someone good to tutor me I joked. Now that my “A” is in jeopardy.”

“I’d be happy to help however I can,” she volunteered. “It’s never too soon to start. Why don’t you come over tonight and I’ll see what we can do. Besides, I really have to repay you for all the help you gave me.”

“OK, I’ll see you later,” I stuttered with a little sense of apprehension. I now had a new understanding of the value of statistics, but it was one that I was certain the professor had never intended.