Mother's punishment did it for me. It's weird how something like this affects your mind for the rest of your life. I'm what most consider an alpha male, but I become completely submissive if a woman tells me she's going to give me an enema, which has been part of every relationship I've had over the years.
I was 7 or 8 when this began, sometime in the early1950s.
When I came through the door, Mother was waiting. I can't remember now what I'd done, but I knew I was in trouble. Mother told me she was going to spank me.
"No Mommy, please don't spank me," I pleaded.
"What else can I do?" she asked.
"I don't know. But, please don't spank me." I was desperate.
"If not a spanking, what shall I do?"
"I don't know Mommy, please do something else."
"Well, since your spankings seem to be soon forgotten, I've been thinking of trying something else. Would you like me to try something different?"
"Yes Mommy, anything."
"Okay then, I'm going to give you an enema."
My stomach lurched and anxiety washed over me. The enemas I had received were terribly humiliating and distressing. I hadn't thought of that possibility. "Oh no, Mommy," I wailed."Please, not one of them. They're worse than a spanking."
"It's too late. You asked for a new punishment, and you are going to get it. Go get undressed and put on your pajamas." She turned and started for the bathroom. "I'll call you when it's ready."
I was afraid to argue further. So, I went into my room and changed into my pajamas. My stomach churned as I listened to her making the preparations in the bathroom. I was filled with dread. Yet, I was feeling a strange sense of anticipation. When she finally called, I replied that I didn't want to come. "Get in here!" was her firm response. I knew better than to openly defy her.
Reluctantly, I entered the bathroom. I couldn't take my eyes off the bulging semi-transparent latex enema bag hanging from the shower curtain rod. It was filled to the brim with two and a half quarts of warm soapy water. I know how much it held, because I actually measured it once when no one was home.
The scent of latex and ivory soap filled the room. Soapsuds trickled down the outside of the bag. She was holding the biggest black nozzle that I'd ever seen. It looked menacing. I learned later that it was a feminine nozzle. A jar of Vaseline sat on the counter. A towel was spread on the floor. Though she was very business like, her expression betrayed her enjoyment of the situation.
Later in life, I realized that she had been wanting to give me enemas for punishment for a long time. But, in her mind she needed my permission to make it acceptable. I think it sort of turned her on, and she felt somehow wrong about it. However, once I had given her permission, there was no turning back. As an aside, she never did anything sexually inappropriate, and I have always felt that her guilt was unfounded.
She told me to take off my pajamas. One last protest was met with a very inflexible "Mind me!" My embarrassment was intense as she quietly watched me strip. She waited until I was naked, then let some water flow out of the nozzle into the bathtub to expel the air from the hose.
It sprayed out from several holes, giving me a preview of what would soon be happening inside of me. Then, she applied Vaseline to the nozzle. Seeing these final preparations did nothing to curb my apprehension. I'm certain she knew it, and did it that way on purpose.
She made me get down on my knees and chest over the towel, facing away from her (I had always received enemas in that position). I was totally exposed. She knelt down between my legs.
The embarrassment was nearly unbearable as she spread my cheeks and looked at my most private opening. My breath caught as she put the nozzle against it and slowly slid it all the way in. It was big, but it didn't hurt. It felt shamefully pleasurable.
In a curious way I sort of wanted the enema I was about to get. At the same time, I hoped for a last moment reprieve. When I heard the "click" of the clamp being opened, all hope of escape vanished.
At that moment something peculiar happened inside of me. The warm water forcefully gushing into me felt good. I was enjoying being forced to experience these sensations. Even the shame was enjoyable.
All to soon, the cramping began. It quickly went from mild to severe. I clenched down, trying to stop the source of my distress. My effort was futile. I began to cry and beg her to let me up. She stopped the flow, but refused to release me.
She told me that a punishment enema was supposed to hurt, and I had only taken a little. She said it in a way that meant she was going to give me more; a lot more.
When I settled down a little, she asked me if I felt better, and was ready for more. I knew that if I tried to trick her, it could be worse for me. So, I said "Yes," Click! The enema gushed into me again.
The cramping began quickly. It was bad. When my crying became desperate, she paused once again. This dismaying scene was repeated several times. The last time she paused the flow, the cramping only eased up slightly.
After a few moments, she told me there was only a little water left and I was going to take it all. Click! The cramping was severe. Helplessly, I squirmed and cried.
My pleading fell on deaf ears. Instead, she made me look up at the semitransparent enema bag and watch the water level go down as she continued my enema. There was more than just a little left in the rubber bag. Relentlessly, she allowed it to flow as I bawled. Finally the bag gurgled empty.
She closed the clamp and removed the nozzle. As I jumped up for the relief I needed so desperately, she left the room. As the pressure subsided, I gazed in fascination at the empty enema bag dangling from the shower rod. The glistening nozzle that had felt so wickedly pleasurable, rested on the bottom of the bathtub. I felt a pleasant tingle.
When I came out of the bathroom, she was waiting. "Do you think that will help you remember to be a good boy?" she asked. "Yes," I replied. I knew I wouldn't soon forget the humiliation and cramping of that enema. Besides, I was afraid to tell her anything else. If she thought it didn’t work, she might do it again. Alas, my reasoning didn’t work.
"Good," she replied. "I've decided that from now on when you're naughty, I'm going to give you enemas instead of spankings. They're not only good for punishment, a cleansing is good for you. Now, let's go back in the bathroom. We're not finished. You can watch me get your next enema ready."
She had a bit of a smile on her face as I abjectly followed her into the bathroom. My stomach was in turmoil as I watched her re-fill the enema bag with warm soapy water. She hung it back on the shower curtain rod. Then, she cleaned the nozzle, re-applied Vaseline, and burped the nozzle.
Before she began my second enema, she said she knew this was embarrassing for me, and that if I didn't want her to tell anyone about my enemas, it could be our secret. The last thing I wanted, was for anyone to know I got any enemas at all, let alone punishment enemas. So, that was our agreement.
It surprised me how quick I was to get down over the towel and present my bottom for the nozzle. Mother and I both discovered that enemas made me very docile and compliant. There was no use in complaining or trying to avoid enemas. My mother was a true dominant. When the enema bag was full, I was going to get it.
The nozzle still felt good going in. The cramps were a little slower to start, but she made up for it by not stopping the flow as often. The intense cramps were endless. I wailed and pleaded almost continuously once the cramps began, until she finished my enema. Then, we did it all again. I received a total of four enemas that day.
I got into a lot less trouble in the future. But, like most boys, some forbidden things were just too much fun to avoid doing. Besides, with my mother’s discovery that enemas made me more obedient and manageable, I was in for it. Any time I became a little defiant or smart mouthed, we were in the bathroom for some enemas, as soon as we were alone in the house.
I got enemas once or twice a month every year from then on. I always got at least two enemas, and sometimes as many as four, especially if I had been really naughty, or made the mistake of being defiant. I learned to be quite obedient during my enemas. I knew Mother liked giving me enemas, and I wasn’t going to give her an excuse to give me more, or make them worse.
Enemas always made me cry and bawl. Many times, I began crying well before the cramping began. Sometimes, I started crying at just the sight of an enema, before I even had to present for it. That was especially true after the first one, as my emotions progressively became more open during each enema. Mother always encouraged crying, telling me that she expected it.
As I said, she never did anything sexually inappropriate. But, when I started into puberty, I started to get erections before my enemas. It was horribly humiliating to have my body betray me like that. They went away as soon as the cramping began, but they came right back for the next enema.
Mother mostly just ignored them. One time she did make a comment that since I seemed to enjoy enemas, maybe she would tell my future wife about my enemas, so that she could continue them. She never did, but I always wished that she had.