I was fairly often spanked by my ex-wife, but as intense foreplay that led to the inevitable enema. I never received a spanking while holding an enema, so technically, I'm deviating a bit from the question as it was asked.
Sorry for the length of this thing, but it depicts a scene. A scene requires detail and adjectives to be of interest -- try too hard for brevity, and it can get mistaken for an opinion, idea or principle. The richness is lost, and the question comes up, "Does this have a point?" With a written depiction, the answer is the same as for a drawing or photo of an appealing or unusual place: NO! It's for the imagination, not the intellect. Also, there's an old Marine Corps quip: The difference between a true story and a sea story is that a sea story begins with, "This is no shit. . ." Well this is not that; it's as true as my memory can make it, 20+ years after the fact. I can leave out the Marine's code in good conscience. There's also the Shakespeare quotation about protesting too much; hopefully, I haven't given the impression of doing that here.
So. . .
The spankings I received were never carried to an extreme in either brutality or duration, but they certainly made the point that my wife was "angered" by the "disgusting thoughts and habit" I apparently made no attempt to kick, as I repeatedly "promised" I would. These spankings never involved enhancements -- they were always administered with her open hand. But nothing was lost in terms of erotic effect by the omission of hair brushes, paddles and the like. The fact that it was HER flesh on MINE, and that contact between the two was a bit violent, with a residual sting and rosy glow, excited me more than if she'd used an instrument of some kind.
Obviously, in this scenario, we were in the dom/sub realm from the outset, with clear roles to play: She asked the questions; I gave the answers and "suffered" the consequences. The enema was still the centerpiece -- always the coup de grace -- but the play began with her expressing "outrage" over my continued masturbation, the vile thoughts I persistently indulged in while doing it, and the childish belief that I'd finally sneaked some great self-pleasuring past her. These sessions would begin with a series of questions harshly stated by her, with that tone of complete confidence that a no-nonsense mother adopts when she knows exactly what her child's latest infraction has been. . . and then doubles down on the opportunity for an object lesson by setting a trap for a lie in the offender's response. No guarantees of protection from self-incrimination in a maternal autocracy!
I would be questioned about whether I had been masturbating (again!), and when I'd deny it, I'd be told to drop my pants. I'd comply immediately, but leave my underwear in place. The question would be repeated -- a charitable chance at recantation. Of course, I'd blow that opportunity as I had the first. . . and her instantaneous reaction then would be to pull my underpants down, push me head and torso, face down, onto the bed. My feet still on the floor, she'd give me a half-dozen sharp, noisy cracks on the cheeks, and as she swatted, she'd nearly spit out her indictment: She SAW me, and/or HEARD me, and/or FOUND UNDENIABLE EVIDENCE of my little self-gratification on a wash towel. I'd then be asked what I'd fantasized about. When I'd whimper out the absurd answer, "Nothing!", I'd get another sharp swat, and be told to remove everything from waist down, then to lie supine on the bed -- all NOW! Glaring at me in the ordered position, she'd shake her head, eyes snapping, as she'd comment on my state of excitement: "Look at you! You're hard just thinking your dirty little thoughts again!" More denials from me, and I'd be ordered to raise my legs, bent at the hips and knees, so as to have my ass more or less facing the ceiling. More swats, single ones, after each new question and false or vague answer.
After probing for a while, according to her suspicion, her accusation was that I'd been indulging in my cuckold fantasy again, had lost my sick little self in the mental image of watching her in full song, being fucked by an eager stud. She'd supply many of the answers along with the questions, much like these: "What did he look like -- young, old; rough, a little on the effeminate side?" "How did he fuck -- long and hard, I'm sure! Did he do the hinged-at-the-waist thing that fascinates you so much -- so his ass bobbed up and down, while his torso barely moved? You comment on that ass motion every time you see a guy who does it to your liking in those nasty flicks you bring home -- I'm beginning to think you're bi!" "He was well-endowed, I'll bet, with his balls wagging and slamming my clit with every plunge!" "Great style, great endurance, I'm sure -- giving me long strokes, going deep, making me sing out and chirp and moan!" "And I suppose I met his thrusts, one for one, with my nails digging into his cheeks!" "You had the bed squeaking and thumping with the action in your little fantasy, didn't you? And his tummy slapping my ass loudly as he finished his thrust. I know how you love the "sound track" of sex!" And on and on. My job was to confirm the accuracy of her verbal depictions, admit to her accusations, embellish or flesh out any description that needed it for a full, vivid, honest rendition of my fantasy. I'd go on confessing, step by step, as the grilling and swatting continued, giving in to the chiding until the imaginary scene of her getting fucked, with me standing sheepishly by, was complete with all the juicy minutia. The power of the microscope was always turned up when we reached the imagined stud's climax. And that image always had her working him orally with determination. . . and with perfect table manners, lips closed tightly around his shaft, just below the cockhead, when he reached his "magic moment" and fed her his load. With my storytelling then over, she'd make an emphatic verbal denouncement of the whole thing, saying that as a cultured, educated woman, and wife, she'd never get over how "shocking, disgusting and, degrading" it was to have her husband think such perverted and disrespectful thoughts!
Her objections expressed, she'd go on to say, "OK. You know what this means!". I did. It meant enemas, probably two -- warm, soapy large-volume enemas, given slowly, with "supervised" expulsions. While she was administering the enemas, she'd be in a more calm state than at first, the peak of her "anger" having been vented. The spanking has ended, though some of the warmth remained. But she'd still be stern -- just more "mothering", more benign in tone, as she explained how it was disrespectful for me to even think such thoughts, and admonished me to be careful what I wished for: That, if I was not in the safe world of fantasy, where no irreversible harm was ever done, but was ACTUALLY with her and a stud who was ready to mount her and go to work, she was sure I'd cry real tears and beg her not to go through with it. I'd say that she was right, that I'd try my best not to entertain such naughty thoughts again.
Some folks might feel that the only thing to say, after these revelations, is, "No wonder she's your EX-wife!" True, it was role play, the substance and spice of an exotic, erotic time in our sex lives. But with my fantasies running in the vein they did, what was she to think of her place in my heart? Valid question! I've spoken to her a number of times since our divorce, which was years ago, and she said she felt the same about the later phase of our marriage as I did: crazy-making times; delicious memories! Still, at the time, my "wanna watch you do it" fantasy might have brought with it some less than pleasant feelings, maybe suppressed. Somewhere down inside, she might have felt objectified, not fully valued by me as a person or a cherished life's companion. It might, in fact, have had a detrimental effect on the marriage, which eventually dissolved. I don't know, because we're in deep emotional territory here, which I'm not qualified to speak on with any authority. But I believe this territory has little connection to rationality and often, struggles with internal contradictions and conflicting feelings. All I can say is, in one of our post-marital conversations, she said she had a fantasy of her own, in which I was the stud who mounted another woman. Actually several women she knew, who in her fantasy she brought into our bedroom one at a time. In her fantasy, she was an active participant. That did not surprise me; I had sensed her arousal over other women as together, we watched the meager selection of taped porn that was available back then.
In real life, I went on to find one (and only one) other partner for enema play after our divorce. And while my experiences with the new woman were wonderful and thrilling in their own right, when I dwell on them, they don't give me the same lightheaded feeling and butterflies in the chest that I get from memories of being "caught" by the "ex", forced to confess my sins, and submitting to her scolding, righteous indignation and just punishments. When I think of the times with her, in her role-playing tight jeans, cashmere sweater and black high heels, I still get goosebumps. Even now, after a few minutes with the lights out, recalling the sound of her heels on the hardwood floor as she moved about, oozing dominance and meting out corrections to an errant husband, I can start shivering like a man with a fever of 104! Probably my favorite image is of her striding out of the bathroom, amber latex bag held chest high, bulging with a rich, warm solution of Ivory, and the hose and nozzle jiggling to her steps. YIKES!