By Anonymous

Translated from the German

I found myself in the hospital in traction after I broke my leg while skiing. I don't know why but in the 1930's everybody in the hospital who had anything broken seemed to be in traction – at least as shown in the newspaper cartoons of the time. Perhaps it had to do with blood circulation and fear of clots but that was then. Nowadays it's a cast and we're off – even perhaps to ski again. At that time we were immobilized for a substantial amount of time, usually in a very uncomfortable position. Naturally, bodily functions got out of kilter, particularly those of the bowel. A person who went to the hospital under any circumstances, to whit – a sore throat, expected to get enemized. That was the norm. Enemas in the hospital were de rigeur in those days. And for the Schwestern, it was the specialty of the house.

The nurse came to me with her equipment tray as I lay immobilized and she spoke kind words to me about the nice ‘einlauf' she was going to give me. I really had no idea about what she was talking about. I had vague remembrances as a child of a small syringing given me by my mother to get my bowels moving but there were no overtones from those memories. And so Schwester began her ministrations. I was flat on my back with my left leg lifted in the air, held there by weights. I was dressed in a nightshirt, completely open at the bottom. Schwester slipped a rubberized sheet under me and proceeded to Vaseline my rectum with her rubber-cotted finger. The hospital setting tends to erase normally embarrassing situations. One tries to grin and bear it. Yet still for a young 18-year old, when somebody sticks a finger up his butt, it's disconcerting to say the least.

After the oiling, Schwester held up her equipment for me to see. It was as if she were showing me a new dress for me to ooh and aah about. I'm afraid I did not give proper response to her about her enema equipment, which meant nothing to me at the time. It consisted of a large funnel and attached to it a long red rubber tube and at the end of the tube an additional flexible tube of a different red color which she called a colon tube.

She lay the apparatus on my belly and then proceeded to insert the colon tube into my rectum from the foot of the bed as I spread my leg to ease her way. After inserting an inch or two of the tube, she strangely, so it seemed at the time, changed her position from the foot of the bed to my hip area. She turned, facing my toes, bent over and leaning between my legs from on top continued to insert the tube. But now the insertion was by feel and both her hands were brushing my nether parts. The whole complexion of the enema had now changed from a clinical procedure. For me the enema had now become sexual. Her fingers and hand continually flicked and touched my testicles and penis as she continued to insert the colon tube slowly up to the hilt. And my 18-year-old penis reacted. It became rigid and I began sweating. I wanted to masturbate and relieve my highly charged state. Obviously I could not.

Then came the enema. The enameled pitcher that held the sudsy enema solution was slowly poured into the funnel that was raised on high, the complicated ebonite spigot in the middle of the tubing was opened and the solution started to flow. Once the solution started to pour into me, Schwester lowered the funnel to a slow flow and then began manipulating the colon tube in and out thus keeping my hard-on hard even though the warm solution had begun to cause cramps. Nurse continued the enema flow until the pitcher had been emptied into the funnel and into me. My complaints were met with a shrug. "Nur ein bisien mehr." was her answer. "Just a little bit more." After the enema had been completed, out came the snaky long colon tube and a bedpan was slipped under my behind. Nurse left. I let go first the bowel system and then I relieved my turgid state with a wonderful ‘cum'.

This enema playlet became a daily occurrence while I was in the hospital. Always the dramatics – the presentation of the equipment, the greasing, the use of the colon tube, the changing of position by the nurse after partial insertion and the stimulation of my sex organs. And after the enema, the great relief of the bowel elimination, and the wonderful feeling of ‘jacking off'.

As I now think back on this powerful memory and the lifelong effect it had on me, I also see another side of the equation. Nurse, herself, was getting sexual feelings from giving me an enema. I was a young man reaching toward manhood yet not sophisticated enough to understand the ramifications of what was happening. I would certainly not complain about my treatment and in fact did not even tell my mother of these daily procedures. (Actually she did know about them, as I will further write). For Schwester, she probably was a single woman who had limited sexual outlets and found sexual satisfaction in enema giving. Perhaps she even masturbated herself after giving me the enema or perhaps took an enema herself.

This is not the end of the story – by half. When the time came for me to go home, Schwester spoke to my mother about my bowel problems and how she had helped me. Neither my mother nor I knew that I had a bowel problem and in fact I didn't. It was, in a sense, a made-up story. I cannot say that Nurse lied. She spoke about my spastic colon and how my bowels had to be carefully tended to. Perhaps she wanted to believe that I really did have a bowel problem in order to alleviate some guilt feelings about the way she had treated me in the hospital. She had, in fact, treated me most kindly but the sexual aspect of her enemas must have engendered some guilty feelings on her part. Schwester suggested to my mother that she begin a regimen of enemas on a weekly basis and more often if necessary. My mother was not averse to the idea. Schwester promised to purchase the equipment, visit our home and demonstrate correct enema procedures to my mother.

Sometimes a story cannot be told without some background. And even though the enema's the thing, it has to be told in context. Of my father I knew very little. My last name has a ‘Von' in it and at that time (perhaps even today) society recognized that my family had social status. My mother was often referred to as ‘gnadige Frau'. Men would kiss her fingers. She had ‘presence' in a group setting. I believe my father was somewhat of a black sheep in the family. He had died when I was very young and I suspect that he had died from some venereal disease. I was never told clearly about him and I have never really been too curious about his death. (I think I'm afraid to find out what really happened). My mother also came from aristocracy and I'm sure it was a match not made in heaven but between and among the upper class. There was also money involved and we always lived well – never lacking the wherewithal.

So here we were, mother and son and a 18 year old to boot. My mother as far as I knew had no male intimates and her love was focused on me. Even though I was rather old to be a mommy's boy, my mother treated me as her little sonny. She washed my hair and still helped to bathe me. I had become a little uneasy about that intimacy but I had yet not rejected Momma's ministrations. When Nurse had suggested enemas as a health-giving procedure my mother was all for it. What could be possibly better than to keep her son in tip-top health ?

So nurse showed up at the house with the enema paraphernalia and immediately proceeded to demonstrate how to give a proper enema. My mother was all ears – and by the way, so was I. I had now been hooked on the enema and had wondered how I was personally going to follow up in a post-hospital world of no enemas. Wonder of wonders. Enemas just fell into my lap or more precisely up the ass. The enema bag that Sister brought was a huge red, heavy rubber bag. (Later I measured its capacity – almost 3 litres). Nurse understood that a funnel would have been too much for a lay person to manipulate and thus the rubber bag. The red rubber striated tube must have been over 2 metres long and ended in a long black ebony tapering rectal nozzle, perhaps 6 or more inches long that included a black ebony stopcock that was part of the nozzle and that could adjust the flow of the solution as well as turn it off or on. For sure, one cannot buy such a wonderful enema bag and its accouterments nowadays.

The best way, of course, to teach about enemas is to actually demonstrate its use on a willing volunteer. And of course there I was. The whole drama was in fact all for me. Nurse mixed up the mixture of light soapsuds and quite warm water in a similar enameled pitcher that Mother had in the house. From the pitcher the solution was poured into the enema bag. She let a bit of the soapy water run into the sink and then from the bathroom we all proceeded to the bedroom. Nurse had bought a rubberized half-sheet, which she spread on my bed. She had also purchased an I-V stand from a medical supply house and from which she hung the heavily laden enema bag.

After stripping completely, I was placed in a knee-chest position to more easily insert the long, tapered enema nozzle on which ointment had been smoothed. I was then told to lie flat on my stomach as the enema began to flow. My erection had been growing since I had gotten undressed.

Both women must have seen my tumescence but neither acknowledged the boner nor did I. But when I lay down flat on the rubber matting, its gentle roughness made enough friction so that I could actually masturbate by making small movements as I took in the enema. I fooled neither Mother nor Nurse. My moans and groans were not of pain but of great pleasure and they surely knew. They surely knew but did not let on. Here were two loving adults really introducing a young man to the joys of sex. And they both were rationalizing their behavior by saying to themselves that the enema was health giving and good for me.

I am very thankful to them and particularly to my mother for permitting a young man's natural sexual outlet at a time when medical opinion and folklore deplored masturbatory behavior even to the point of saying it caused blindness. Surely it was not blindness for he who jerked-off, but there was much blindness for those who believed in such old-folks tales.

Schwester came once or twice more to our home to supervise Mother as she gave me an enema. She suggested castile soap for the solution and afterwards there was always some castile soap soaking in a deep dish with water in the bathroom. The soapy liquid would be poured into the ever-present white enameled pitcher and then warm/hot water was added to fill the pitcher. One very nice fillip that Nurse taught my mother was to apply the Vaseline directly into my rectum as well as putting it on the nozzle. That feeling was tremendous for me and I once actually ‘came' from the internal anointing.

Mother had always been casual about dressing in front of me but I never saw her in a totally nude situation. However when she gave me my enema she always took off her dress. Her undergarments usually consisted of a bra and corset with silk stockings attached to it by garter straps. Sometimes the corset would come off and a sigh of relief would inevitably be heard. Of course she wore panties beneath her shaper. Obviously for me, her partial nakedness was a further stimulant as was her beauteous femininity. I knew no other woman until later in life. My weekly enema was given to me by my mother with enthusiasm and sexuality. The sex part was from my side of the equation. My mother never masturbated me. There was never any sex between us. But for me the setting was highly sexual. I'm also sure that my mother was somehow sexually stimulated by the enema sessions but not in any overt way. Sometimes I would ask her for an additional enema or even two during the week and Mother was always obliging. It was her pleasure and she felt that she was doing good for me. She was in her mind somehow helping me keep healthy.

An additional point – after a short while of enema treatments given to me by my mother, I noticed that the enema bag was not in its usual place in the bathroom. I asked my mother whether she had taken an enema for herself. "Yes", she said. "I'm a little constipated." I suggested that she purchase her own enema equipment. And so she did. I only regret that she never asked me to give her an enema nor did I offer to service her. That, we both understood, was out of bounds. Still, taking an enema by oneself is certainly not as pleasurable as one given by a partner.

This completes the story of my earlier years.