The following is the story of a somewhat wayward lad and his sexual awakening. This story would not be particularly unusual except that the enema overtones were so strong they encompassed what I believe was a most unique experience. Although my introduction into the world of enemas was personally an innocent one, there still remains for me certain guilt feelings for which confession might be a catharsis to help clear a memory pain.

At eighteen I was at loose ends. I was a dropout from school and in trouble with the law for petty thievery. I had never known my father and my mother prostituted herself to fund her drinking habit. I would guess that she was a lonely woman and the sexual connection helped fill her days of sadness. My home life, therefore, was not the greatest and I was mostly left on my own to do as I wished. I wished at that time to have ‘things' and therefore I stole, primarily by shoplifting. The second time I was caught, a sensitive policeman helped straighten me out. I am forever grateful to him for his insight and kindness. I wish now that I could thank him in person but I have no inkling who or where he might be, and it's even more of a probability that he is now long gone.

The time was during the Second World War and workers were needed on the home front. Officer Grant (I think that was his name) got me a job on a farm. Evidently want ads were circulated through public bureaus because of the dearth of help. I think Officer Grant wanted to get me away from my home situation – far away. Somehow, I guess through discretionary funds, he bought me a bus ticket, put twenty dollars in my pocket and saw me off at the bus station. There are human, human beings albeit few and far between who are particularly sensitive to the needs of other human beings.

I remember the bus ride as very long – a full day and a night with a local transfer to get to the farm. The town – really a burg – consisted of a general store, a dinky restaurant, a gas station and a small farm equipment business. When I mentioned Mrs. Jean Brown to the store proprietor, he smiled a strange smile (which I later realized was a smirk). "Ah", he said, "the Widder Brown." And then directed me down the road. Miss Jean, as I quickly learned to call her, greeted me coolly, showed me to my room, told me to wash up and fed me supper.

The next morning, I was shown the farm. As farms go, It was fairly large. Miss Jean was a wheat grower but she either contracted out the big work of plowing and reaping or had some sharecropping arrangement. She was alone and she needed someone to help with the truck farm and her farm animals. That help was only for the physical needs of the farm. But Miss Jean had other more personal needs for herself, which I helped to satisfy as well. There was plenty to do and I was quickly introduced to the farm's chores. For a city boy it was an eye-opening experience. There were cows that had to be milked, pigs slopped, the garden cultivated and for the first few days it was backbreaking work. But I got used to it and began to realize that farming was the basis of life and that food did not come from the local A&P.

So far, this is just the background for enema and sex stuff. But the reader has to have a setting, a picture in his mind's eye, in order to more fully appreciate the story. So now let's get down to business. In the evening of the second day I was there, Miss Jean announced to me that I was to have an enema. She spoke about the importance of internal cleanliness. But really she was only giving a rationale to what would really be a sex act as I later found out. Now, I had decided prior to taking the job that I was going to make a clean break with my previous life style and that I would do whatever it took to be successful in my new life.

My immediate reaction to the enema requirement was ‘no way!' But Miss Jean was very clear – no enema – goodbye! To tell the truth, at this point I was very vague about what an enema was. I thought that it was a little squeegee thing that went up the ass of a baby to make it go. Thus was my understanding of an enema. So with the ultimatum of either enema or goodbye, I chose enema.

Miss Jean told me to take a shower and then come into her bedroom and I did with a towel around my waist. She was sitting on a chair in her bra and panties as I approached her. She said nothing but undid my ‘loincloth' dropping it to the floor as I faced her. And there I was in my glorious nakedness.

Now before I continue, I have to tell you a little of my own personal sexual experiences. I used to go around with a group of kids my age who were all pretty bummy like myself. If you remember and I'm sure it's a common experience at least for boys, we used to brag about our sexual prowess. We supposedly knew it all and had done it all. But we were all a bunch of little liars. Yes – I had ‘felt up' girls, and I had even had a ‘between the legs fuck' but there was no vaginal penetration. The girl had let me rub my penis between her legs and I ‘came' but she had kept her panties on.

The major sexual outlet for myself was masturbation and that for me was an all-consuming ‘hobby'. Sometimes I did ‘it' two or three times a day. We also talked the talk among ourselves and one of our favorite swear words was ‘fuckin' douche bag' in reference to a girl. But I really didn't know what it meant even though my mother had two douche bags hanging in our bathroom. I guess she used them after intercourse with a customer, either for cleanliness or for birth control. But she had never given me an enema with one of those bags. Some additional data about me - one of the mild sexual activities we had among my buddies was showing off our penises and I knew that I had a large penis in comparison to the others. In fact the other kids would want to show my penis to outsiders and I was somewhat ashamed of my large penis size. Little did I know that in later life there would be substantial compensations for a large prick.

Well, now back to the story. There I was, standing in front of Miss Jean, naked as a jaybird and she's inspecting me. She cupped my ‘balls' gently and I started to grow rigid right in front of her. I was embarrassed but she smiled as I rose to full ‘flagstaff'. She then grabbed my behind and spun me around. She separated my cheeks and I felt a penetration in my rectum that was not unpleasant. That insertion gave me my first inkling that I might be anally oriented. Her finger was well vaselined and the in out motion almost made me come. She explained that she had to lubricate my ass hole well so that the enema tube would go in without irritation. Miss Jean kept on giving me technical reasons for what she was doing but later I realized that her motivation was always completely sexual. With a well oiled rectum, she led me to the huge bathroom and took down one of the enema bags which she filled with warm water adding some baking soda to the mixture.

Just an aside here. The old standard for an enema solution is the addition of some soap into the enema water. Over a long period of personal experimentation, I have found that soap in any form added to the enema, acts as an irritant. Soap is not a cleansing agent in the colon. A soap solution will cause a more violent expulsion but does nothing to add to the efficiency of a plain water enema. Both plain water enemas and soapy enemas do an efficient job of emptying the bowels. But soap remains as a residue in the bowel system and continues to irritate long after the enema has been expelled even when a follow-up plain water enema is given. After a soapsuds enema a person often feels plain tuckered out. But a good, plain, warm water enema often lifts the spirits and gives a spring to the walk. It's really not easy to change a lifetime habit particularly when ‘mom' used to do it that way but that's the way I see it. Just to finish the thought, some add a tablespoon of salt to replace the salt washed out by the enema so that the electrolytic system in the body remains in balance.

Miss Jean let some of the fluid out explaining that emptying the air in the tube would lessen any cramping. She particularly warned me to pay close attention to what she was doing because, she said, she wanted me to give her an enema afterwards. So attention I paid. Back to the bedroom we went and what I had not noticed before was a rubberized sheet on the bed and an I-V stand on which to hang the enema bag. The position she had me assume was, as she explained, ‘ass- in-the-air' with chest on the bed – the classic knee-chest position. Again I was not enthralled by the whole operation, my bare butt exposed and such, but I gritted my teeth and acquiesced. I have to say here that the sexual aspects of the situation had not escaped me. My ‘hard-on' was still hard and I'm sure Miss Jean was pleased with that manifestation. The insertion of the hard black douche pipe was pleasant and the warm water at least at the beginning was comforting. Miss Jean kept on revolving the douche pipe as well as pushing it in and out. And she kept on brushing my erection. The combination was a killer and I came prodigiously, squirting all over the rubber sheet.

Later I wondered whether the rubber sheet was for my penile expulsion or for possible enema leakage - or both. Then the cramps hit and I cried out that I had to go. Miss Jean told me to lie down on my tummy and then slowly turn around on my back. She lowered the I-V stand for a slower inflow and began massaging my belly counterclockwise. The cramps subsided and the flow became easier. Her ministrations on my penis sidetracked my concentration on my quickly filling tummy as I watched the slowly emptying bag. And then finally – finally. There was no waiting time required.

Just as an aside, I see no advantage in a waiting period after an enema. All it does is give additional cramps and pain without being a more effective enema. You shit the same with or without the waiting period. I believe part of the enema syndrome includes masochistic feelings. For some reason we want to hurt ourselves or sadistically, the giver wants to give us pain. Part of any enema is the cramping sensations we feel. If we are required to hold the enema for any amount of time, the cramps are more forceful. Perhaps our desire for pain adds to our pleasure but the psychology is too complex for an explanation and would surely be theoretical. To continue - I was immediately ushered to the toilet by Miss Jean and she remained with me as I first expelled. And I really exploded not caring a whit whether Miss Jean was there or not. I just had to go. I shat and shat with roaring oomphs as turds continued to ploonk out of me. Meanwhile Miss Jean rinsed out the enema bag, and refilled it to capacity and left. I like to think that my stink drove her out. I suspect that the long trip and my prior unsettled state had left me well constipated and that that enema (and only that enema) was a physiologically correct one.

Getting rid of an enema should be done leisurely. The complete enema process – that is from the ingestion to the total outflow – should be about a half-hour procedure. Don't take an enema if you don't have the time. It will be most unsatisfactory to you and you'll be running to the toilet time and again. Taking or giving an enema takes about 5 to 10 minutes. But emptying the enema takes over 15 minutes. That's why there should always be reading matter in the toilet for that quiet read. For that first enema of Miss Jean's, I had no magazine and I started to look around the bathroom as I emptied out in spurts and starts. I had been in that bathroom before for a pee but now I gave it a more than cursory look. Thinking back in my mind's eye, Miss Jean's upstairs bathroom was really a museum – a paean of praise to the enema. To the enema personality it was startlingly beautiful. On the wall, five enema bags were artistically hung in a carefully designed mode.

The first bag was a standard red that she used on me that evening (I think I had a taste of most of her enema bags during the course of my stay there). The second was a dark green heavily embossed bag, and the third, a white bag with a white hose and a black ebonite pipe. The color contrast of the black and white bag was a lovely contrast to the eye. Numbers four and five were fold-up douche bags even though they were used exclusively for enemas. One of the fold-ups was of latex material of an amber color. You could see the level of water in it if the light was in back of it. The fourth travel syringe was amazing. The manufacturer called it Compacto. The rubber fold-up bag had a flat metal backing to take the strain of the weight of two and a half quarts of liquid and it folded with expandable metal rods like the expandable metal gates that stores use when they close up. What was more amazing and I should have noticed it before, Miss Jean had an empty ornate picture frame with a hanging hook for the Compacto, its syringe tubing gracefully draped outside the frame.

There were three shelves opposite the toilet as you faced them sitting down. The top shelf held a variety of douche syringes, perhaps four, lined up neatly with various curving nozzles of differing diameters and lengths and colors. Later in my stay at Miss Jeans, I don't believe that these douche syringes were ever moved. They took up shelf space and were simply on display. The second shelf held enema syringes from little baby enemas to a huge syringe that had a capacity of perhaps almost a quart of solution. They also stood like little soldiers in a show of Miss Jean's rubber goods. The third eye-level shelf had a number of boxes which I later found out held a variety of nozzles and colon tubes. There was also a closet with the door removed. Again, the closet was an overt and blatant display of Miss Jean's ‘utensils'. There were neatly stacked boxes of all kinds of enema and douche equipment and during the weeks that followed I touched and inspected all of her goodies. I would like to know where she got all of her equipment. Some I suppose she ordered from mail order houses like Sears. But for some of the technical items she must have had a source with a medical supply house. The money outlay for all of these goodies must have been substantial. But this was Miss Jean's way of satisfying her needs.

After I finished the elimination of my enema, I went again to Miss Jean's bedroom where she awaited me. She had undressed completely and immediately when I saw her my erection revived. Looking back in time and with much experience in matters of women and sex, I still remember Miss Jean as the sexiest woman I have ever been with. She was in her 30's, curvaceous and exuding sexuality. She walked sex; she breathed sex. Her breasts were full and jutted out full of health – no sagging there. Her buttocks were full and screamed to be fondled. Her body was very feminine without being disproportionate. It sounds as though I'm exaggerating but remember I'm looking back with much worldliness and I still say she was the most beautiful and sexy woman I've ever met. The full enema bag was hanging on the I-V pole and Miss Jean bade me begin.

She lay on her left side and she lifted her right cheek. I vaselined her rectum with my finger as I was told – in and out – until Miss Jean told me to insert the pipe and start the enema. It was too quickly over for me as the bag emptied and Miss Jean headed for the toilet. I waited for her patiently in her bedroom. I wanted to masturbate but I was afraid that I might be caught. Good thing, too, as further events will show.

She told me to get under the covers and snuggle with her. I was astounded and thought I was in heaven. Miss Jean pushed me onto my back and then mounted me. Never in my wildest dreams could this possibly be happening to me. But it did and more. Although inexperienced, I naturally grabbed her buttocks and helped lift her as she slid up and down on me. ‘Twas a good thing I had come during my enema because I think I gave her a good ride for her money finally coming with groans and gasps. But she kept riding me until I had nothing left but a soft well cooked piece of spaghetti. We both turned over and I went to sleep almost immediately. The story should end here – a good piece of ass and goodnight. But it continued.

Around midnight the light went on and Miss Jean started fussing with my penis. I woke up to find it hardening but not hard enough for Miss Jean. And she started sucking. My buddies had often talked about a blowjob but we could only imagine it. Not tonight! She sucked until it was a solid pipe and then she told me to get on top of her and fuck her and with alacrity I did. It came naturally to me and again I exploded, rolled over and went back to sleep. We wake early on the farm and as the rooster cock-a-doodled, so did Miss Jean stimulate me for an appetizer for breakfast. I was tired but still up to it and after a proper fondling of my sex organ I again mounted her and came with some effort and with not much spewing out. Remember that this was the fourth time I had had an ejaculation in a twelve-hour period. So much for sex (I thought) and the day started with a hearty breakfast and plenty of work. I remember feeling particularly tired but exhilarated by my rather extreme introduction to sex.

I was now feeling my oats. I was a big boy. So when I came into the kitchen and found Miss Jean bending down at the stove in her bra and panties I went over and started to pat her behind. Wham! She turned around and with her open hand slapped my face as hard as she could. And it was a star-causing hit that actually floored me. My eyes saw red and I almost fainted from the suddenness and power behind that slap. I learned then very quickly that Miss Jean was in charge. She directed the show and only she. I obeyed. That was it.

I assumed that evening that there would be a break in our sex activities. But Miss Jean was insatiable. Rubber goods were the sine qua non for sexual activities. Douching or enemas turned her on. It started that evening with a bag douche, which had a bulb in the middle of the hose. I held the bag as she sat on the toilet squeezing the bulb that shot the douche solution into her vagina. She held the douche pipe within the vaginal canal, closing the lips for a good swish, emptying, and then another shot with the bulb. It was very sexy for me but the normal hard-on did not occur. I was still spent. But Miss Jean persisted. After the douche she rubbed her body against mine, turned around and rubbed her behind against my penis. I finally rose to the occasion and in the bathroom she leaned with stiff hands on the side of the tub and had me enter her vagina rearward. I came but the pleasure of coming was not great. I had had no time to build up my sperm capacity and I was hoping for a little rest. Not so. Although there was no midnight sex, the cock-a-doodle-doo was the signal for more sex.

That afternoon I was relieved to be sent to town to enjoy myself and she gave me $50.00 for spending money. Fifty dollars in those days was a lot of money and later I realized that it was a kind of gigolo pay-off. The money was not for cultivating the garden but for ‘cultivating' Miss Jean. She said that she was having some lady friends over and that I was not to return until the evening. There at the small restaurant, I met a couple of farm hands about my age and they told me that the Widder Brown's husband died from a heart attack recently. In fact Farmer Brown (it sounds like a Peter Cottontail story) was complaining to some of his colleague farmers about his overactive sex life. And folks around the area assumed that the Widder was just too much for him.

Returning in the evening I noted immediately when I went to the bathroom that two of the enema bags were hanging over the bathtub side drying out. And I assumed that there was some kind of enema party going on with her friends. It's a guess but a probable one.

The tempo of my life continued in the same manner as long as I was at the Widder Brown's home. It was a continual series of enemas and sex. Enema, then sex; enema and sex. Descriptions of sex tend to be repetitive. But a unique experience for me was the anal sex I had with Miss Jean. Oftentimes Miss Jean without any explanation told me what to do step by step. This time, she told me to give her two enemas, one after another. Then she told me that she wanted me to fuck her up her ass. Please remember that my penis was of substantial size and the normal musculature of the rectum would be hard put to accommodate me. Yet with a large glob of vaseline, my penis entered smoothly and easily. I think Miss Jean had taught herself relaxation techniques and I'm sure that the many enemas she took had well dilated her anus. I personally enjoyed the tight feelings her rectum had on my penis. Yet I have never been able again to enter anyone else via the anal canal.

One can easily think – what a wonderful life this young man is having. Oh yes – at the beginning it was great. But I was quickly reaching an impossible situation. I can understand sex on a daily basis. A young man can readily accomplish a sex per day regimen. But a two or three per day schedule, day after day, is abnormal. I could not build up my seminal fluid fast enough. Miss Jean with her clever and original ministrations could almost always cause me to erect. But when I came, it was often a dry run. No semen was ejected and sex went from a wonderful feeling, to just so-so, to unpleasant and sometimes to even painful. And I thought then to leave her. I was too young to die from a heart attack. More likely, I would probably have had serious medical problems with my prostate or other sexual organs. I just simply waited for Miss Jean's next coffee klatch with her girl friends and I simply took off never to return.

The experience of many years ago remains vivid in my mind. And Miss Jean gave me the enema syndrome that is with me to this day. In retrospect, I am sorry for Miss Jean who could never satisfy her insatiable need for sex. She was a female satyr and it was clearly a sickness for her. She lived a frustrated life which could never be satisfied and for that I am sorry. But for me personally, she introduced me to the wonderful world of sex but I am not so sure whether I should be that thankful to her for my introduction to the enema world.