Hospitalcare,
You asked for our "favorite enema fantasy". Don't know whether to call my favorite mental images fantasy or memory. I was not given enemas as a child; in fact, I can't recall ever hearing the word mentioned in the family home, or seeing enema (or even douche) equipment in our midst. My experience began not in my foggy past, but when I was somewhere in my mid-30s, at the hands of my ex-wife. Won't go into the transformation (of the wife and marriage) that led to her introduction of the enema to our sexual repertoire, because if I gave that in enough detail to be interesting, it would run to several paragraphs by itelf.
So. . . here's my memory or fantasy, whichever. Since eroticism's in the details, this is going to be l-o-n-g enough!
First off, an enema was never inserted (no pun intended) into the middle of our "conventional" sex play, as a way to kick things up with a little extra spice or voltage. Wouldn't have worked; wouldn't have synchronized with the momentary balance between domination and submission, which was normally between 50:50 and 60:40, 60 going to me. The stage had to be set for an upset, a balance more like 10:90, 90 going to her. That meant an enema as the main course on the menu, and right from the get-go. You can imagine, putting that much twist in the sexual "norm" meant that things would soon have to become ritualized, if only because there aren't very many smooth paths available for such a drastic shift in roles.
Our ritual was this, and even though we've been apart for many years, it's still the one I "obsess on" to this day. . .
On a weekend afternoon -- average, twice a month -- she'd appear in whatever room I was sitting, and ask with authority how I was doing with my regularity. No matter what my answer, she could not be "convinced" that I was "going" like I should. And, of course, she had the remedy. After some "protest" on my part, she would order me to our bedroom, telling me to be ready for what I needed by the time she came back. That meant, be nude -- from waist down, anyway -- and be on the bed, on my back, towel under my rump. After what always seemed an eternity, she would appear from another room in her "administering" garb -- tight blue jeans, black patent high-heels, provacatively made-up, topless. Breezing past me and into the vanity lav, she'd begin her magic act. Grabbing Vaseline (always; no substitutes), glycerin suppositories and baby oil, she'd strut to at the bed. No rush -- she'd spend many minutes leisurely caressing and massaging me, at first avoiding the Hot Spots. Thighs, tummy, groin would all feel the pleasure of her warm, slender fingers, which seemed tireless. Gradually, her attention would move more and more toward Ground Zero: I'd feel her finger brush lightly over my anus repeatedly; she'd move in close and exhale on it with pursed lips. She'd begin working her middle finger subtly into my anus, with a delicious combination of probing, undulation, orbiting. (Incredible! I've never been able to duplicate the effect!) Once in all the way, she'd dwell for a brief moment, then withdraw and go for the blue jar. In slow succession, I'd have 4 or 5 suppositories inserted as far up as her finger could push them, with a long pause each time to make sure they were accepted and stayed in place before she retracted. Constant eye contact, minimal conversation and lots of oohs and aahs from both of us. . . that pretty well covers the relating done between us during this part of a session.
Finished with the suppository insertion, she'd excuse herself, and go back to the lav to prepare the enema. I had only a partial view from the bed, but I could hear everything. She'd fill the bag -- amber latex, matching 10-foot hose added by me -- with hot water from the tap, and hang it on a towel bar. (I never felt that preheating the bag was actually necessary, but because it was part of the ritual, it got a permanent place.) Then, very warm water was run into the clear Lexan pitcher she used to make the solution. She'd "swish" a bar of Ivory in it, rotating it in her hands maybe 30 times. After making the soapy concentrate, she'd top off with more water, adjusting the final temperature to something like 104 degrees -- definitely warm, but not hot. Some of the pure hot water temporarily in the bag would be run through the hose, the rest dumped, and the bag filled with real-deal solution.
The bag was then hung on a long, bent-wire hanger I rigged for a closet door; it put the bottom of the bag right at 16 inches above the mattress -- ideal. It also used just about all of the extended hose. Watching her prance out of the lav, bag in one hand, nozzle in the other, breasts and hose all coiled and wiggly. . . well, you can imagine the butterflies! I'd be told to draw up my legs, feet still on the mattress. An extra gob of Vaseline would be worked into my rectum. Wiping the excess on a tissue, she'd tell me that I was going to take the full bag no matter what -- but if I took it all "like a big boy, without whining", she'd reward me later on (I always whined, but always got the reward anyway).
Insertion was always a wonderful part of the experience, though it was over pretty quickly. The nozzle was nothing special, just the straight white plastic version that came with a retail combination syringe. Sitting on the bed and approaching me from the left, she'd assist me in lifting my folded legs and feet off the mattress with her left forearm, and then work the lightly lubricated nozzle in by twirling it slowly between her fingers while pushing ever so gently. Never a scrape or twinge when she inserted -- hers were perfect -- definitely felt, but never uncomfortable. Once insertion was made, she'd waste no time: the clamp was immediately snapped open. Steady eye contact was resumed at this point, and as soon as I'd let out an ecstatic ohh or aah, as the first dull thud and warm surge reached my bowels, she'd begin with soft verbal prods and encouragements: "Breathe deep, Sweetheart"; "That's it, relax and just let it flow in"; "Halfway there"; "Say something if you start to cramp". . .
When the bag was empty, I'd get a "Very good!", and she'd pinch the clamp, remove the nozzle unceremoniously, and drape the hose over the hanger. Immediately, she'd "attack" -- absolutely smother me with affection while I worked to retain. She'd climb all over me, thrusting bare breasts into my face, knees into my thighs, scratching and dragging her fingernails all over me from shins to shoulders, breathing heavier and heavier through her nose as she latched on with an endless, open-mouth, tongue-probing French kiss. After 5 minutes or so, she'd break and ask, "Ready to go?" -- to which I'd answer, meekly but sincerely, yes.
On my way to the toilet, she'd give me another instruction: "Don't release anything until I tell you to!" Once again taking a gob of Vaseline, she'd have me slide as far forward on the toilet seat as possible, and then reach around and go as deep into me with her finger as she could. She'd tell me to push, push her finger out. At first, this wasn't easy for me -- embarrassment, as you said. But I overcame the inhibition, mainly because she was insistent and taunting, and offered assurances like, "Oh, stop being such a baby about it -- if I can stand it, you can -- anyway it'll all wash off!"
I'd grunt as told, and spend the next 10 minutes spurting on command, all the while being stimulated by that invading finger.
Once we were done on the toilet and cleaned up (minimally), we'd retire to the bed, and usually make out softly until we drifted off into a nap.
So that's it. That's my fantasy, or reality, as you please. I'd give a million to make it a reality again, but that's not likely to happen. Too bad.
Cheers, Rafter