I don't remember any from Mom that weren't with Ivory soap. My very earliest memories are of me over her knees, Ivory floating in the sink, the vaseline slipperiness of the nozzle as it slid in, and the wonderful feeling of warmth as she squeezed the bulb. I don't ever remember not really liking getting an enema, but even as a little kid I felt I had to hide that I was born kinky and it was best not to reveal my pleasure.
When I "graduated" from the bulb to the bag, I was still over Mom's knees, and though I couldn't see it floating in the sink, I knew from the smell that the simultaneous feeling of comfort and discomfort from the soapy liquid would soon be coming from its' flow into me.
The next thing I remember vividly was moving from Mom's knees to a towel on the bathroom floor with my little butt sticking up. I missed the warmth of Mom's knees, But in this new arrangement, the volume of the Ivory flow noticeably increased - and I liked that a lot. I began having "enema cramps" as more soapy water warmed my innards. Little kinkster that I was, I enjoyed the cramps and looked forward to them as an added pleasure to my experience. I wouldn't say anything until I'd reached the edge of what I could bear before I'd say, "It hurts." Mom was good about stopping the flow and reaching under me to rub my tummy until the cramps subsided. Then saying, "Just a little bit more," she'd restart the flow. I'm not sure that she ever realized how much I looked forward to the contractions starting again.
A bit later, I'm not sure how old I was, I noticed that the volume had increased to where soapsuds were over the top of the bag. I think I was 10 or 11 when I started getting "punishment" enemas for being "out of sorts." These were a full bag of hotter than usual Ivory soap solution, with some other differences from Mom's medicinal enemas. Instead of the rectal nozzle, she'd use a long, slightly curved douche nozzle with an egg shaped ball on the end. She wouldn't lube it with vaseline, but rather would scrape it along the soft bottom of the bar of Ivory in the bath tub soap dish, giving it a thick crust of soap along its' length.
Looking suitably penitent, I'd assume the position in the tub and Mom would ever so slowly slide the nozzle in . Moving it back and forth, she'd keep going (it seemed like it took forever 😄 ) until I could feel the base up against my anus. The soap would be tingling my sphincter with that Ivory burniness I liked so much. Still no flow, because this was a major part of the "punishment" 😁 . Finally the flow would start drawing my attention to the new sensation of hot soapy water filling me. When the cramps started Mom would take her time to stop the flow. No rubbing of the tummy, just waiting until my uncontrolled whimpering subsided and she'd open the floodgates again. For awhile, I wasn't able to deal with the level of cramps, the volume of soapy water and the hotter temperature, as well as the extra soap coating my back entry, and I'd start to leak.
In a stern voice, she'd say, "Hold it."
I'd try my best but then I'd "blowout." 😳 Mom knew this would happen. That's why I was in the tub.
"Well, I see you've still got that meanness in you, so we'll start again."
When this happened, the bag would be finished and then refilled, though with less solution, and the nozzle would be lubed with vaseline, not soap. We'd keep repeating until I could finish without a "blowout." Mom was kind in her stern way in that with each refill she'd reduce the volume until I could handle it all with only minor leakag
I liked the beginning of these "punishment" enemas, but enjoyed them less as I approached "blowout." Over time though, I learned to relax and go with the flow (pun intended). I got to where I could take an entire "punishment" enema with only minor leakage and no refills. Then, they became my favorite.
Shortly after this I began to self administer my enemas. Nothing was ever said, but Mom just stopped giving them to me. Other forms of punishment replaced the enemas for being "out of sorts" and I was doing enough on my own to cover any possible medical benefit. The bag always hung on a nail by the bathroom window and I certainly made frequent use of it. The only mention of enemas to me, was if I was in the bathroom and somebody else needed to go, I'd be asked, "Are you taking an enema?" With embarrassment I'd just say, " I'm busy.' and they'd use the other bathroom. There was no follow up questioning or advice. Good Times!!!