Only an older house can hold furniture in the quartz-and black-tiled bathroom, probably a child's or servant's bedroom in the era of the privy. We painted the sturdy second-hand dresser a brilliant Chinese red, agreeing it was opulent and somehow sexy, but that we'd still prefer cabinets and a vanity.

He spreads a thick charcoal-gray towel on the glossy surface. "Stretch out," he says, helping me up. "Your skin looks so white."

Against the intense red and near-black, I'm sure it does. I am naked, in March, and there was no winter vacation this year, no sun and sand, no almost-all-over tan he likes on me even though I feel so terribly exposed in the thong.

He caresses my snowy buttocks thoughtfully, a half-smile on his handsome face. The light touch sends shivers through me. Can he feel them as he arranges me carefully on my left side, my upper leg in front of the other? The position opens my cleft, which is pleasantly surprised when cool air touches it, more so when he dabs cooler jelly directly to my exposed anus.

"So pretty," he murmurs. "Like a Hershey's kiss on a hot afternoon."

The afternoon is hot, now. I glance over my shoulder at the enema bag hanging from one of the pegs on the door, next to my robe. I can smell Ivory soap. Before he called me in, he undoubtedly washed his hands with much lather, adding both suds and the bar to the red bag before he filled it. Minutes later the soap would be a slippery cake hard to grasp and remove, and the bag taut with a watery whiteness reminiscent of skim milk.

Very slowly, he inserts the douche nozzle, which he prefers over the smaller rectal nozzle. Its many holes deliver fountains of water, with greater sensation. It's important that I feel it fully, he always says. That's why he only pushes it just past my sphincter, where all the nerves flutter with anticipation.

"Ready?" he asks, and releases the clamp on the hose before I can reply. The water is at first tepid, as what was in the hose rushes into me, then warm. He lifts my upper buttock to better view my anus, then rotates the nozzle slowly, easing it just a little deeper before pulling the rigid plastic out almost to the point where I will have an accident. The possibility humiliates me so much that my anus grasps at the plastic. Any leakage, even a few drops, is bad.

I don't want to be bad; I'm still quite tender from yesterday's spanking, though all that remains is a faint blush on my lower cheeks. He doesn't like to mark me, only slap my buttocks stinging hot and deeply pink.

He sees my tension at his game, and continues, giving me one close call after another. I clutch tightly to keep it from happening.

As it sometimes does, my body decides it doesn't want an enema, not at all. It feels as if my internal garden hose has kinked, while the warm slippery water streams in relentlessly. In less than a minute, I have stomach cramps and my ballooning rectum aches from the pressure. Will I be able to hold it? I have to, but I'm not sure I can! He sees my distress, finally, and stops the flow at once to massage my belly.

"Thank you," I say with genuine gratitude. "I don't think I can take the whole--"

"Shh," he interrupts. "Just relax." I can not only feel but hear the water sloshing inside me as his hands knead my rounded abdomen. As usual, the water finds its way higher up after a minute or two, and the cramps ease until I feel simply bloated. The bag flexes as he opens the catch and again I experience the cool-then-warm sensation as the hose empties.

He rests his hand on my hip and leaves it there as if I might rise from my position on my side. I won't; I have learned that he will deliver the entire enema whether I am full to bursting or merely uncomfortable, whether I protest or meekly accept it, whether I thank him or try to leave. He will fill me with warm soapy water no matter what, but when my enema session is over he'll punish me if I behave badly, like last night.

Occasionally his hand strokes my bare bottom or belly, or strays to caress a nipple during the time before the red bag flops slightly one last time, drained of its contents.

The two quarts feel like more. He removes the nozzle, dabs away the traces of the lubricating jelly with a warm washcloth, then pats my buttocks dry very carefully, although I don't think I lost even a drop.

Holding my elbow, he guides me off the dresser in a courtly way. My belly, heavily weighted, bulges as large as a toddler's. He hands me the short bathrobe he bought me for my last birthday. It reaches part way down my thighs, no more, and the light blue silky fabric turns quite dark when touched by moisture. We discovered that the first time I wore it when I was too warm.

He reaches for the timer. Oh, no, I have to wait? I am relieved to see him set it for only five minutes. With an impish grin, he directs me to stand in the corner, where he tucks the silky blue cloth deep between my buttocks. That means the tiniest leakage I might have will be known and punished. Last summer he spanked me despite my insistence that I had merely perspired, and that if he'd look he'd see the robe's underarms were deep blue, too. My outraged protest earned me another spanking, although he apologized at bedtime with kisses all over my inflamed rear. At least it's cool enough today that I won't be punished unfairly.

Once, more than a year ago, our doorbell rang at this point in our session. He had me answer it, in my old bathrobe, although the urgency of my need for relief almost had me doing the hula. Heedless-or mindful?--of that, he invited the two women in and listened to their valiant efforts to have us embrace the one true faith. They stayed for nearly a half hour.

The whole time, I thought I would have a terrible accident on the low-slung white linen chair in which he had so carefully seated me. He'd spank me for that, for sure, then and probably every time he noticed the stained chair until I saved enough to reupholster it.

I remember that, just like today, I wasn't sure I could take another spanking from his big callused hand so soon, so I managed to hold it in while the ladies tried to convert us. After they finally left he laughed and laughed, imitating my grimaces and expressions of alarm, until he got me laughing, too, dangerous in my condition. I had to excuse myself. We made love for hours before he took me out to dinner at a place we couldn't really afford. When we got home, we made love again. My genitalia and anus felt deliciously raw the next day.

Nothing like yesterday, when I insisted I just wasn't in the mood for an enema. I got one anyway, and after I was empty and glad to be done with that, he led me to our bed not for love but for an over-the-knees spanking because I'd tried to refuse. He hadn't even slowed when I couldn't contain my gasps and evasive squirming another second.He hates the little noises, so he smacked me that much harder and even continued a little while after I erupted in shamed tears.

I do not want another spanking. I stand still in my corner, the hot water earnestly seeking a lower level than my anus. I squeeze the ring of muscle as tightly as I ever have, until my lower cheeks are quivering with the effort and I can feel the blue robe shimmying on my back from the slight movement. Still I fear there is imminent danger of a complete loss of control. If I were to have an accident, it would not be drops but torrents. I have never had such a dreadful lapse, and I wonder what he will do if it happens. Would he carry out his threat to use the belt?

He would never really whip my white skin like that, I know. As the minutes pass, I recall a dreaded punishment more fitting the 'crime.' He once threatened to give me a gallon enema, going so far as to fill an empty milk jug with steaming water. He had me lie on my back on the old dresser, my feet in the air, the jug resting on my belly, before sliding the lubricated nozzle into my rectum. Sheer weight and quantity impressed me so much I reconsidered complaining about the lesser amount I receive routinely.

I don't want a gallon enema. I am not sure I can contain my two quarts. I clutch tighter.

My buttocks and sphincter remain clenched and quaking, but I can feel the overworked muscles nearing exhaustion. A fine sheen of perspiration dots my upper lip. I can't last much longer; I recognize that rubbery about-to-let-go feeling from the gym. "Oh, no..." I moan.

He has spread a towel on the floor. "Get down," he instructs.

Grateful, I assume the one position that helps. Am I in time? I kneel on the towel, my legs spread the width of my shoulders, then tip over and rest my weight on my elbows, feeling my robe slide up to my ribs to expose my opened cleft. It takes only a half minute for the terrible pressure to ease enough that my insides feel very full but not uncomfortable.

"The way you're showing yourself, you're just asking for more," he remarks.

More? I can't hold more! But if I dare to object, we both know he'll punish me. Not the belt, but definitely a thorough spanking, perhaps even the paddle. I watch him with round, frightened eyes.

He unhooks the red bag from the peg and fills it again at the sink. I watch him stick his big index finger in, checking the temperature. He dumps out a little of the water and adds cold, stirring with his thick finger. When he removes it from the water, his finger is rosy and wet.

"Right where you are is good," he says. The plastic nozzle enters me again, but without lubrication, not easily; I feel a single drop of moisture escape me, roll to my thigh and down. Did he see it? Will I be spanked for it?

A glance over my shoulder shows him hanging the red bag on the peg once again, far above me. The bag bobs with its own weight and the slight motion of my hips, gently pumping of their own accord.

The hose barely reaches me. I don't see him release the clamp, but I feel it. The water is quite warm, very nearly hot, and coming it at great pressure. He likes to hang the bag so high! I close my eyes.

I imagine the force would feel just like this if he inserted the brass nozzle we use to wash the cars during summer, the water from the hose near-scalding from being in the sun. This is too much, I think. Too hot, and too much. Too fast. Two quarts already, and now the bulging bag holds two more. Too much. Too fast. Too hot. I feel myself breaking into a light sweat, my forehead and underarms beading and no doubt darkening the robe. I'm going to have to ask him to stop, and if he won't, I'll just reach back to the hose and close the catch...

He won't like that, not at all. I'm not only going to get as much enema as he wants me to have, but after I empty myself I'll get not a mere spanking which will sting so soon after the hard one yesterday but a extensive application of the ping-pong paddle which will burn. After only a few swats I'll be yipping like some nasty little dog every time the paddle bites me, which will earn me more, perhaps harder, and I won't be able to keep from yelping, so I'll get even more, until I'm so red and swollen that one more smack would mark me for days.

Even then it won't be over; I'll repent in the corner with my bare bottom on scarlet, humiliating display, then no doubt he'll paddle me a bit more to drive the point home. Near Thanksgiving when I'd deliberately defied him and wasn't the least bit sorry, he kept me naked, admiring my swollen bottom and paddling it on and off all evening, deaf to my pleas and blind to my tears.

More than once he's suggested that he'd like to punish me while I'm still full of the enema solution, and stand me in the corner that way, too. "I love the way your butt jiggles and squeezes when you're trying to hold it in," he confides, "and if it was your red butt..."

He won't do that today, not after so much hot soapy water, and with my rear already so sore! Will he? He could. He could haul me over his knees and hand-spank my ass worse than last night. My overstuffed gut would flatten on his hard thighs, making the pressure that much worse, enough that my anus would have to spew a sudsy teaspoon or two before I stem the flow--but not before I dampen his lap. He'd paddle me for sure then, wallop my butt like there's no tomorrow and marks are the objective. He could even take off his belt...

He touches me where I want him to for the first time today, just the lightest feathery stroke, once, twice, a third time. It takes no more than that; the climax is lengthy and strong. I am unaware that he has clamped the tube shut until I feel him remove the nozzle. I look at him stupidly down the length of my body, between my parted legs and below my distended belly, where I see his smile.

"That was a big one, wasn't it?" he asks innocently. "Maybe too big for somebody who didn't even make it to three quarts. I think I'll have to punish you for it. You want a good paddling, or the rest of this enema?"

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