Strangest place for an enema

Just read all of this string. I'd forgotten, but about 30 years ago I was in Sydney for business meetings and promotions and I carried a 1 1/2 later bag. A few times when I had time, I ducked into a public bathroom in office buildings. I still remember the apprehension as I stood at the wash basin filling the bag. As luck has it, I never got caught.

An air enema at the public swimming pool

I fill my belly with air in private so nobody know it.

It was very easy to swim.

This topic triggers memories of a campground bath house enema that I got as a child. Our family was somewhere in the Blue Ridge. Older brother and dad had gone canoeing. I was not along because mom had other plans for me.

As soon as dad and brother left, mom started preparations for our activity. She put a pot of water with a chip of Ivory on the Coleman cam stove. After the water warmed, she poured it into a quart mason jar filling it to a little over half way, wrapped it in a towel to keep it warm, stuck into her canvas tote bag and off we went to the bath house.

It was now mid-morning and the woman's bath house was empty. Going inside, 3 sinks faced us, showers were to the left, and a row of 3 toilet stalls were to our right. Mom picked the stall farthest away on the end. once inside, I pushed my pants down and sat on the toilet waiting. Mom took a plastic bowl out of her tote, sat it on the toilet tank behind me and filled it with the soapy water. Out came her little bulb syringe and a small jar of Vaseline.

After 3 bulbfulls in private, a camper came into the building and entered the first toilet stall. Characteristic of public bathrooms, the stalls offer visual privacy but little if any sound privacy. As I was listening to the lady peeing in the first stall, mom wanted to “enema chat” with me: “Are you starting to feel a little full? Do you think you can hold one or two more for me? you know the more I get in you, the better it will work.” The only thing missing for the lady in the first stall was a video feed of me bending over with mom squeezing the enema into me.

Going on with the story, the woman left, the plastic bowl was empty after two more bulbfulls, and the desired result was achieved without being overheard by anyone.

Finished with our intimacy, mom opened the door to our stall to leave just as another lady entered and clicked the latch on the first stall. We moved to the sinks, washed our hands , and mom took the bulb syringe and bowl out of her tote and started to rinse them.

My ordeal was not over as the lady exited the stall and moved to the sink beside ours just as mom was vigorously squeezing the bulb to dry it. The lady looked at the bulb syringe then at me. A wide, knowing grin spread across her face. A crimson wave of embarrassment spread across mine. Turning back to mom and smiling she said, “I see that I'm not the only well-equipped mom in the campground.” Mom looked back, also smiling, saying, “it's not as nice as my big one at home but is nice for traveling.” Then they exchanged the necessary polite adieus, and the lady left.

After several years of erotic enema enjoyment I have been able to decode mom's conversation with this lady: The two moms were secretly exchanging credentials as members of the Klismo Club. Their brief chat was like the storied secret handshake between fraternity members.

But for me at that time, even at age 8 and still a couple of years before puberty, the experience in the bath house was unforgettable. I remember a growing awareness that there was something more to this enema thing than just making me poop.

@Enoma After several years of erotic enema enjoyment I have been able to decode mom's conversation with this lady: The two moms were secretly exchanging credentials as members of the Klismo Club. Their brief chat was like the storied secret handshake between fraternity members.

Interesting way to think about it like this. Yes, reminds me of my mom chatting with the nurse who lived a couple of apartments down the hall about enemas..

@Enoma

Your post jogged my memory about an incident, many, many years ago, when I was perhaps 10 years old. During the summer, we stayed at a public campground on a rocky island. The island was not very big and was pretty remote, so the facilities were pretty primitive. There was no running water or electricity, for example. The toilets were all in a single building, perhaps 10 feet square, with a floor to ceiling divider down the middle. There were a pair of benches, back to back, on each side of the divider. Each bench had two holes as toilets, about 4 feet apart. On one side was the women's toilet, on the other the men's. The doors were in the centers of the walls, opposite the toilet benches.

We'd been at the campground for several days and I don't think I'd pood. Mid-morning mom called me to accompany her and we went to the women's toilet. She was carrying a smallish bag. When we got to the toilet it was vacant. She told me to drop my shorts and sit and try and poo. Nothing happened. After a couple of minutes of trying without success, she told me to stand up, bend at the waist, and put my hands on the toilet bench. She opened her bag and took out a filled hot water bottle, removed the stopper, attached the hose and nozzle, lubed and inserted the nozzle, and filled me with soapy water.

As this was going on, another camper, a middle aged woman walked in. She said “Oh, excuse me. I'll come back” but my mom said “It's fine. Come on in” which she did. She lifted her short skirt, lowered her panties, sat down and started to do her business.

By now, my bowels were really cramping with the enema, so mom removed the nozzle and I sat down. Usually I simply cannot poo or pee while being watched, but not this time. As soon as mom could hear I was pooing solids, she packed the bag and left me sitting there. After a while we'd both finished and we got up and left.

It was a different time

When I was in my early teenage years I did not a actually do a real enema but poked around my bottom with a pen a church in a dark Sunday school room. My mom was at choir practice and she thought I was working on school work in the church library. Little did she know. I remember being so scared someone would find me on the floor with my pants down to my ankles and me poking my butt with a pen. I quickly got off and pulled my pants back on. The best part was being scared of getting caught and of course the raging orgasm I had. LOL