I need to go "none of the above".
My very first enema (that I have any surviving memory of, and that's only the memory of sensation, not a narrative of the
event) was an immediate love/hate relationship with enemas.
It was the pure distilled essence of masochism, because it
began like forced, painful invasion, and became too good not
to want, even as the discomfort continued. The abrupt (but
not quite brutal) pressure coupled with the somewhat hot, stinging sensation was delicious and an outrage in equal parts, inseparable from each other. I never had another one given to me throughout the rest of my childhood, and it was a continual source of sadness.
As for now, I have to impose discipline on myself or I'd take too many. I like my enemas often, on the hot side, often soapy (so I get that sting again) and under the most pressure that the equipment can give me. A little bit (or a moderate amount) of discomfort adds spice.