by Helen Fromme

In our early married days we lived in a mobile home in a really nice park where there were several other young families. Although some of the girls regularly got together for coffee, I joined them only rarely. Although I tried to make it a point not to get clubby with any of them, I had a next door neighbor, Martha, who preferred to be called "Marti," whom I liked really well. I think she had the same idea I had that familiarity among neighbors very easily breeds contempt so, despite the fact we enjoyed each others' company immensely and had several interests in common, she would invite me over for morning or afternoon coffee only every couple weeks. I picked up on that and invited her about that often.

One evening when both of our husbands were out of town, she came over for a visit. Suddenly, in the middle of a discussion about home-made bread she asked, in an urgent tone, to use my bathroom. I barely said, "of course," when she dashed in. A few minutes later she returned to the kitchen and said, "false alarm." She then went on to tell me she'd taken some Milk of Magnesia the night before and thought she had to "go" but expelled only gas. It happened I'd had an enema just that afternoon and the bag was hanging in the shower drying in such a position it was obvious to anyone sitting on the toilet. I took advantage of that fact to tell her for constipation the only thing I take is an enema and I added I had, in fact, taken an enema that very day.

"Really?" asked Marti. "You have to do that when you're constipated?"

"No," I replied. "I choose to. I find the enema solves the problem and does so on my schedule, not when a laxative should decide to kick in."

Marti nodded.

"Plus," I added, "I enjoy the enema."

"You, what?" she asked, smiling, but nevertheless incredulous.

"Sure. I find an enema thoroughly erotic."

"Oh, my God," she said, still smiling, in a manner that communicated my last statement didn't compute. "I had a couple enemas when I was a kid for belly aches and they were so miserable," Marti offered, "I never admitted having a belly ache again. I hear they give them to you in delivery. That wouldn't keep me from wanting a kid when we're ready, but it sure wouldn't be my favorite part! I do not see how you can begin to enjoy an..." Like so many, she had trouble speaking the word.

"Tell me about yours," I asked.

Marti proceeded to tell me how her mom had a black folding syringe. Describing it with her hands, it had an open top about five inches on a side. It was old and leaky with a black hose and black nozzle. From a box of soap flakes, she'd shake a good handful of soap into the bag then she'd fill it with water that wasn't very warm. She then hung it on the back of the bathroom door and had Marti lie on her tummy on the floor. She had Marti insert the nozzle into her own rectum and, as far as Marti could recall, there was no lubricant available. Then Marti's mom would open the clamp and she didn't shut it until the poor girl was so full she leaked. In tears then she was allowed to get on the toilet and empty what she'd had up to that time and was made to lie down and take some more until. eventually, the bag was empty. That turned out to be four or more very soapy, cool enemas given from a height of maybe five feet.

I sympathized. Surely she had an enema nurse from hell who had no idea. I then explained how I mix a little Ivory bar soap in warm water, I hang the bag not higher than 24 inches and I lie on my back. I told her, when I get a cramp and feel full, I just stop the flow and take a few deep breaths through my mouth. In a few seconds the full feeling leaves and I can take more. One needn't take a whole bag; half, just one quart, will do. I stressed the enema can be pleasant if taken slowly. I went on to tell her I love an enema given by my husband, Eric and he, too, enjoys them from me. The secret is TLC.

"Do you have a good movement from a quart?" Marti asked.

"I would, but I can take the whole two quarts and usually do."

‘Helen, I'm so miserable and I know if I take more M O M I'll have to wait another day and even then it could be like just now - only wind. Before I change my mind, I'm on my way to the drug store where I'll buy an enema bag."

I reminded her the pharmacy was closed, but I had a spare, unopened folding travel syringe she could have and could replace when it was convenient and I offered to give her an enema right then.

"No, thanks anyway, Helen. I think it's pretty simple. All I have to do is mix up a soapy solution in the washbowl, fill the bag with it and get it in my bowels."

"Yeah, but remember, hang the bag no higher than two feet. Got any Vaseline?"

"Oh, no. But I have KY."

"That'll do. Any problem, call me and I'll be right there."

Next morning I stopped at her place and asked how it went. It hadn't gone well. She'd tried to take the enema sitting on the toilet with the bag hanging from a coat hanger hooked to the shower curtain rod.

"Come over to my place and lie on the bed in our guest room - it's a short walk to the toilet - and let me give you a proper enema. In fact, I think you need a soapy enema and I'd like to follow it with a tap water rinse."

Marti's face flushed, she looked away then looked back and said, "Okay. I'm really miserable and I'd like you to help me out here." Marti went into her bathroom and collected the enema bag then to her bedroom where she grabbed a terry bathrobe and accompanied me to our mobile home. Once there, I lay a plastic trash bag on the guest room bed, covered that with a towel and, from the closet, took an IV pole. In the bathroom, while Marti was getting undressed, I prepared a good, warm, Ivory soapy enema. By the time I came out and hung it on the IV pole, Marti was undressed and in her bathrobe, lying on her back on the bed.

I asked her throw back the robe and she opened the lower part, leaving her breasts covered at the top. I had her tilt her pelvis and, without warning her, I got a dollop of Vaseline on my finger, stuck it under her bottom and began rubbing it across her anus. In a minute, I shoved my finger up her rectum. That made her gasp and I thought for a few seconds she was about to complain. But she didn't. Instead I thought I felt her sphincter tighten.

I must explain that, although my motives were clearly to give my friend a good enema, I was very aroused at the possibility. So, when I stuck my finger up her rectum, it was as much for my own enjoyment as for her enema. In fact, I was enjoying myself so much I got another gob of Vaseline and inserted that. Marti smiled and made a small noise of approval. I thought it was time I got my finger out and got down to the enema so I then inserted the vaginal nozzle about 5 inches. I had my hand positioned where it was pressed between her warm, soft thighs. "Ready?" I asked.

"Yes, please Helen."

I opened the clamp and slightly pinched the tubing. At first the tubing was cool, but shortly it got warm and, at that time, I saw Marti's eyes close and her face relax. I stopped the flow just to contemplate her lovely face, slightly tinged with blushing pink and her nostrils slightly flared. I was surprised she was that relaxed and obviously enjoying the experience.

"It feels good, Helen. I must admit I've fantasized another woman giving me an enema and this isn't far from my fantasy. Ohhh, yes," she said, now more softly and smiling, that's as good as I expected it would be."

My insides were writhing in excitement. I concentrated on the hand that held the nozzle as it felt the softness of her thighs. In a minute Marti said she felt a little light-headed. I thought we should stop, but she said she thought it was only her low blood pressure and asked for a damp washcloth over her forehead. I produced that and lay it across her eyes.

"I don't get to see this?" she asked, kindly.

"Of course you do, " I said as I moved the cloth.

"No, on second thought," said Marti, "I rather like the sensations without interference of visuals."

"Feel good?" I asked as I positioned the washcloth back across her eyes. I sure felt good. I was just hoping I wasn't so wet my white slacks would show it. I'd been excited since the minute Marti agreed to let me give her an enema.

"My God, yes!"

Marti soon felt full, and I stopped the flow for a little while then, when she said she felt she could take more, I let it flow. She was doing very well and had most of the bag when she said she felt pregnant.

"I like the part where the skin across my tummy's taut," I supplied. Despite the fact her breasts were covered by the robe, the nipples were so erect, they poked into the terry cloth. Changing the subject drastically, I asked, "do you feel like you could have orgasm?"

"What?" she demanded, smiling as she removed the washcloth.

"Like you could cum, Marti," I insisted.

"No, not really. Although, truth to tell, I could probably bring myself to orgasm with very few strokes." Then she changed the subject. Good naturedly she said, "Damn you, Helen, you do ask the most personal questions!"

The enema bag was completely empty and I slid the nozzle out. I tried to get her to retain for five minutes, but three was all she could do as she got off the bed and shuffled into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. I opened it, followed her, wrung out another damp washcloth and placed it on her forehead. "Go ahead," I said, "let go." Because she couldn't help herself, she did. "I'm going to stay here with you," I said, "to make sure you don't feel ill then I'll go sit on the bed, but we need to leave the door open.

"My God, Helen," Marti said as she passed more and more waste, "I had no idea I could hold this much."

"You're doing well," I said, "but you have a lot of constipated waste to empty. What we need is a really offensive odor and a few big bubbles of gas. I guess, even if that doesn't happen, it will still be a good enema, but if it were me and I didn't see those signs, I'd repeat it."

"Well, you are going to give me a rinse, anyway, aren't you?"

"Yeah and that will probably be okay. Just give it some time. Sometimes I can sit here a half-hour before really good movement happens. Constipation hardens the stool and sometimes it takes a half-hour for the enema to soften it sufficiently."

Nothing happened for a while, but then when it did, Marti was surprised she still had so much more to pass and that it smelled so rancid! Then she broke wind. Using the toilet bowl as a sounding surface, the noise was loud!

"Oh, my God, Helen. I'm embarrassed. Close the door!"

I did and, in another five minutes or so, I heard the toilet flush, water run in the washbowl and, finally, air freshener swishing in the room.

When Marti came out, she was smiling broadly. "I never thought it could be so good! I now know exactly what you mean by enemas working on your schedule. I will never take a laxative again. And, I guess it's a bit indelicate, but I enjoy a good shit! Do you agree?"

"Indeed, I do. I agree with those who say it's one of life's more underrated pleasures."

We had coffee and then got back to the guest room where I prepared a clear enema. This time Marti knew what was coming and she tilted her pelvis without my having to ask her and she closed her eyes and allowed a smile to come to her lips. He complexion reddened and her nostrils dilated. In a breathless tone, she said, "take your time, Helen. I don't want it to be over too soon." She flipped the top of the bathrobe open making her erect nipples obvious.

"No, honey, I won't hurry." Slowly the bag emptied and, when it was about all inside Marti, I told her she'd about had it.

She reached for my hand, squeezed it, looked deeply into my eyes and held them for a full minute or more then gasped and wailed a sound I'd not heard from another woman since my college days. Then she sort of grunted and her abdominal muscles flexed. It went on for several seconds. Then, a quiet sigh. "I think the towel's wet," she exclaimed.

"Probably," I assured her. "When I cum taking an enema, I leak."

I removed the nozzle and stuck it in the top of the syringe. Then, not letting go of the hand with which she'd given mine such a loving squeeze, I helped her to her feet. She walked into the bathroom, this time leaving the door open.

Through the open door, as I sat on the bed, I heard more sounds of a good bowel movement. Despite the soapy enema having been so very effective, this one was doing even more. We talked about enemas, orgasms, marital sex, bowel movements and other taboo subjects openly and freely.

After Marti was dressed and we were again in my kitchen drinking coffee, we agreed she'd give me my next enema.