|© 2000. The author retains sole ownership of all copyrights. Any and all further distribution of this story, in whole or in part, including re-posting to other sites as well as by paper and/or electronic means, is expressly prohibited. Whether you read it here or download it to read off-line, don't give anyone a copy--just directions to this site. Other than that, enjoy!|
This story was originally written for Enema Lover's Forum. The author has agreed to its appearance here.
With a nod of thanks to Mike, who graciously shared his youthful experience and allowed me to play "What If?" with it until it barely resembled the actual occurrence...
I try to be a good guy without being goodie-goodie, you know? So I don't say anything when I smell the joint mingling with regular cigarette smoke. Stacy's and my friends wouldn't be our friends for long if I acted like some uptight holier-than-thou asshole telling them what to do, so I go upstairs.
I have to piss like a racehorse anyway, and Steve and Caitlin locked themselves in the downstairs bathroom like half a hour ago. Not my idea of a romantic setting, especially with people who've had a few beers pounding on the door every once in a while.
Stacy's real religious and says she can wait until we're married. I tell her I can, too, but there are times when I'd explode if I didn't, you know, get some relief on my own. Imagining what Steve and Caitlin are doing in there makes me kind of crazy-itchy; tonight might be one of those times.
The idea of them kissing and touching each other, maybe even kissing and tonguing each other--and where!--has got me so worked up I can't pee for a long time. I hold myself like, forever before it goes down enough, but as soon as I'm done it's back with a vengeance. I don't zip up right away.
I lock the door instead.
Okay, I tell myself, God made my body sexually responsive for a reason, namely Stacy and the babies we'll have some day. He also gave me a brain which is telling me to take care of the awful pressure right here and now, then go down and direct the engagement party Stacy's mom is throwing us, making sure somebody drives home the ones who are drunk, and flat-out stopping the dope, because it could get Stacy's mom in trouble. The divorce was rocky enough, and legal hassles are the last thing she needs.
There's something I need. My hand seems hot and rough on my swollen cock. I could use some lotion or baby oil, something like that. The bottles would be too tall for the condo's small medicine cabinet, so I open the vanity's cupboard.
I'm just standing there, my dick in my hand and my jaw dropped at what I see, when Stacy's mom walks in on me. "Mrs. Holmgren! I thought I locked the door!" I say, knowing it's stupid the second the words are out, because I know I locked it and we both know that she had to un-lock it. I zip as fast as I can, but my shrinking excitement still shows.
"Every bathroom is locked, and I've got a house full of people celebrating Stacy's engagement who need toilets. So I'm using the keys," Mrs. Holmgren says. "At least you're alone in here, Greg."
Uh-oh, she must have walked in on Steve and Caitlin. What did she see? To my embarrassment, my cock revives just thinking about the possibilities. "Yeah, I was just, you know, I had to--"
"Had to snoop in a lady's things while you masturbated?"
Oh no, how much did she see? "No! I wasn't--"
We both know I was. "You have no business going through someone else's possessions, especially something so personal!"
"Yes, ma'am," I mumble.
"Now the question is, do I call your father?"
"No. Please, Mrs. Holmgren, don't!" When the other guys got grounded or their car privileges taken away, my dad still paddled me, right through high school. The day after graduation, he told me he'd never paddle me again. I was relieved, until he explained that as long as I lived under his roof, if I did something that deserved punishment, I'd get my butt whipped. He he showed me a thick strap. Like I said, I try hard to do what's right.
"Why shouldn't I call him? You've behaved like a nosy little boy, spying on a woman's very personal things for your own gratification."
"But I'm not a boy. I'm the man who's going to marry your daughter! You and I will work something out, like adults do. I made a mistake, and I'm sorry. I should have respected your privacy."
"Obviously you still have things to learn, Greg. And punishment is known as 'teaching someone a lesson' for a reason," she says, staring at me so directly that I'm really uncomfortable. It's like she sees right through my good-guy image to the person who was stroking it in her bathroom, looking for some lotion or something, when he came across the enema bulb. I start to close the cabinet door with my leg, but she blocks me.
"All right, if I don't call your father and tell him what you were doing up here--in detail--then I'll just have to teach you a lesson using the very things you were peeping at while you--"
"Yes, Greg. That or the phone call to your father, right now. You choose."
For something as morally offensive as Mrs. Holmgren is going to make this sound, I can expect a whipping like that time my brother came home drunk, with a big scrape on the side of the car that he didn't even remember doing. It's been a lot of years, but I remember the sounds like it happened last night: Dad's low, angry voice going on and on, the muted metal clunk of my brother's belt unbuckling, a long silent pause, then the scream of that strap's leather whooping through the air, cracking so loud on bare skin, his grunts starting with the third stroke, evolving into something louder, and after about a million years the one pathetic sobbed "Stop!" that hurt to hear.
I'm not that tough. I can't risk the strap. "The bulb," I whisper.
"I'm glad Stacy's marrying someone sensible," Mrs. Holmgren says, turning on the faucet at the sink. "Pants down, and bend over the tub."
I can't move, only stand like the mannequin at the tuxedo store while she adjusts the temperature and closes the sink's drain. She drops in a bar of soap, something oval and perfumey, and stirs the water with one hand.
"Get ready, Greg..." she says, the threat to make that phone call clear in her voice.
My hands fumble and I turn my back before I take down my pants. Naturally I don't want her to see my cock. If she knew I was still all fired up, she'd call off the wedding. Nobody wants their daughter marrying a pervert. As I bend over, my legs are shaking like I was waiting for the strap. Get a grip, I scold myself. This isn't going to hurt.
"This isn't going to work," Mrs. Holmgren says.
"Good, then we can--" I say, but her hand firm on my lower back holds me in position.
"I had no idea you were so hairy there, Greg. Stacy never mentioned it."
I feel my face heat up. "Stacy's never seen it, or anything else. She wants to wait," I say, feeling like some uptight prude announcing it like that. Stace and I keep what we do, or don't do, private; I don't think anyone knew for sure until now, including her mom. The Holmgrens aren't all that religious, just Stacy.
"Well, that's your business, but this is mine and I can't see what I'm doing. It'll only take a minute to shave you."
Shave me! Already I hear the squirt of aerosol shaving creme. "Hold yourself open, Greg. I don't want to nick you."
I'm so embarrassed! But this is Stacy's mom--what am I supposed to do, slug her? The shaving cream is cool, and her touch with the razor lighter than I do on my face. She shaves me in slow careful rays, maybe ten or twelve strokes.
"Much better. Now that I can see it, it's cute, Greg. You should keep it shaved until the honeymoon." Mrs. Holmgren pauses. "You know not to be shy with your wife, right? I bet Stacy's going to love it, so pink and... defenseless."
My face reheats, partly at her frankly talking about my asshole but more because the talking's got me harder than hard up front. But I forget my embarrassment when I hear a wheeze, then a gurgle. I can guess: Mrs. Holmgren is filling the enema bulb completely, holding it under water and squeezing out the last of the air so she can't squirt any into me by mistake.
I turn to look at her over my shoulder just as she raises the bulb, its dark red rubber glistening and dripping a few tiny bubbles. The thing must hold a pint, and the business end is as big as my thumb!
"Oops! Almost lost the Dove. It gets slimy after this long. I guess I should have taken it out while I shaved you. Oh, well. Here, let's get you slippery with it, assuming it doesn't squirt out of my hand..."
The cake is physically warm from the long minutes in the water-filled sink, and I can smell the too-sweet scent even more when Mrs. Holmgren rubs it up and down my crack.
The tip of the nozzle nudges me, dead center since she can see her target so clearly. "Easy, Greg, just let it in," she says, pushing.
"I can't!" I grunt, then force my voice to be normal. "Really, you don't have to do this."
"Yes, I do. Push out a little, honey. I don't want to hurt you, and if you don't loosen up that's exactly what's going to happen. This nozzle's going in either way. Come on, a little push..."
It seems really dirty, but the thing pressing me hurts already, so I do it. The plastic glides in all of a sudden, feeling bigger than it is. The soap's kind of bothering my insides, not hurting but irritating.
"Ready?" she asks, but she doesn't wait for an answer, just squeezes.
I squeeze my eyes shut as the soapy water gushes in. I hate it!
My cock absolutely loves it, jerking so hard the head touches the tub's cold porcelain.
"That's one," Mrs. Holmgren says gaily.
One! Oh, no, there's going to be more than one? "How many?"
"Three. A big guy like you could probably take four, but this first time..." I hear the sucking sound as she refills the thing. "Here we go."
The nozzle slides in easier, but the squirt seems more forceful. I can actually feel it spraying inside. I have to tighten up hard when she pulls the thing out. The soapy irritation goes up a notch, and the water's starting to want out. Me, too.
"Good, good. Last one, Greg. Bottoms up!"
I grit my teeth as the plastic dives in. The water practically jets, squirt-stop-squirt-stop, and my engorged cock dances to the beat.
"There, all set. Now, what will we do about the party guests?"
"We can't leave them without a hostess, and I think you're going to want Stacy to give you a ride home, with your stomach this upset. Not to mention that a few of them aren't in any condition to drive..."
"I'll give them rides, as soon as I get rid of this--"
"No, Greg. You take it home with you. Part of the lesson in self-control."
"But Mrs. Holmgren!" I'm not sure I can hold it for even one minute, much less long enough for Stacy and me to drive home the drunks.
"No arguing, young man. You don't want to get on the wrong side of your mother-in-law, do you?"
Standing, holding the soapy water is harder. Stacy's mom sees that and laughs, not unkindly, and holds out a sanitary pad big enough to soak up a hemorrhage. I feel the blush of justified embarrassment hot on my cheeks as she kneels to stick it to my underwear, then looks up, smiling until she sees the rod I got going. I yank up my pants and lurch out of the bathroom sick with what just happened. Stacy's mom caught me beating off, for God's sake, and saw my hard cock, and saw--hell, shaved!--my asshole, and the enema of course, and it's so heavy and uneasy in my gut, and oh Lord, she saw I was still hard, and what if I lose some, because man, I could, I'm barely holding it as it is...
I don't know how I get through it. I tell Stacy I've been in the upstairs bathroom all this time, because my stomach is really bad. "I have to get home," I whisper near her ear, "right now."
"Oh, baby," she says, all concerned. "Of course."
"I'm sorry, everybody, but I'm sick or something," I announce. "I think we'd better call it a night." That breaks up the party, but there's people who shouldn't drive and not enough who can to take them all. Even though Mrs. Holmgren crams three in her little Toyota, there's two for Stacy and me to drop off. At least Steve and Caitlin are going to the same place.
Stacy drives and I squirm, hoping she can't tell where or why I'm so incredibly uncomfortable. Our passengers are a little too drunk to screw in the back seat, although they're gamely trying. Once we're rid of them, I want to tell her what happened, but I can't think of a way to do it. "I'm sorry to be sick during our engagement party. Your mom--"
"Walked in on you, I bet. Don't worry about it. What matters is, are you going to be all right?" she asks, all wifely concern, as she turns into the driveway.
"Sure. I probably just ate too much or something. I need the bathroom." I peck her goodnight on the cheek. Before I can bolt for the house, she grabs my hand and smiles.
"You probably need an enema, Greg. After we're married..."
My cock wakes up, but my water-stuffed colon's concerns take priority. "Ah, yeah, whatever, but I have to go in now!" I practically run inside.
"Greg?" my dad calls. "Mrs. Holmgren called. She told me what you did."
Oh, no! Not the strap, please not the strap, I let her do the other... It's not fair! And I'm about to lose it here, holding it in so long.
"Said you had courage."
What? "She did? It doesn't sound like her."
"Well, she said 'intestinal fortitude.'"
I can't help smiling even though I'm squeezing my cheeks together so hard.
"Something about stopping the druggies and driving the drunks home when things had gone far enough. She said it took a man to take charge like that, and that I should be proud of you."
"Wow... she said that? She's going to be a good mother-in-law, I think."
She is. The morning of the wedding, only hours after my bachelor party friends had stripped off my puke-spattered clothes and dumped me on the bed Stacy and I bought for our apartment, I swim up through a pounding fog, not yet aware that I'm naked but knowing something's going on with my ass.
Then I see her. "Mrs. Holmgren?" I feel my underwear pushed down, holding my knees together like a little girl who has to go potty real bad. I know the feeling. It's nothing compared to my embarrassed humiliation when I recognize the feel of the bulb's nozzle in my butt.
"I borrowed Stacy's key and let myself in. I used one of your new mixing bowls, whipped up a batch of soapsuds. We've got to get you in some kind of shape for this afternoon," she says. "No arguing. And it goes without saying that you won't ever get that drunk after you're married."
"No, ma'am. First and last time," I croak. It's a hell of a way to wake up, hung over and with your ass full of warm soapy water, rock-hard up front from it, but she won't let me up until I take four bulbs' worth.
When I come back, wearing my ancient bathrobe, she's refilled the bowl.
"More?" My cock jerks under the faded terrycloth.
"Oh, yes, but this time just plain water. Back on the bed. Just think, after today we'll be related!"
The water in the bowl steams. I watch Mrs. Holmgren fill the bulb, my hung-over thoughts in a mess, dreading the enema, wanting it, wanting to fuck Stacy now...
"Greg," her mother says, injecting the first bulbful, "tell me the truth. Are you a virgin?"
I shake my pounding head, hoping to clear it. "No, Mrs. Holmgren. I wish I was, for Stacy, but--"
She holds up a hand to stop me. "What's done is done. Do you know how to please a woman? The truth, now." Another bulb.
God, the water's hot! I bite back the moan, but my cock throbs harder than my head. "I, ah, I don't really know. See, it was this girl I barely knew, and right in the middle--"
"Never mind that. Here we go, third bulb. So you have what you might call very little experience?"
Ah, it feels so good, so hot, I can't wait for tonight! "Yeah, I guess. Do we have to do the fourth bulb? I'm pretty uncomfortable."
The nozzle slipping in again is my answer. "Of course you're uncomfortable," she says. "You got very drunk last night. Let me tell you about the clitoris," she begins, and squeezes more into my already full rectum, slowly this time, explaining where the love-button is and what to do with it.
"That should be enough for tonight, I hope," she says. "I thought I told you to keep yourself shaved, so Stacy can see that cute little rosebud."
"--see to do it. Of course. I'll do it."
It's really hard to hold still while Mrs. Holmgren shaves me, rinsing the blade in what's left of the hot water. My ass is so full that my anus wants to squeeze, to draw in sharply, sometimes to just let go, but if I let myself move, I'll get cut for sure.
Finally she's done. "Very pretty, Greg. Really."
"Then can I get up? Because I need--"
She laughs. "I'll get the next enema ready."
My cock would like to explode, releasing its pressure the way my asshole does, but I don't let it. I'm saving up for tonight. My wedding night. Empty, I go back to my bed and lie down, keeping my cock hidden, flipping my robe out of the way, baring my ass for my almost mother-in-law.
"I think this time you can take five bulbs," she says. "It's got baking soda in it. Good for what ails you."
I can take five bulbs--just barely. I squirm as more and more streams in, worse once I'm straining to keep it there while Mrs. Holmgren lectures me on how a husband never forces his wife, how he's gentle and slow, how he sees to her pleasure before his own, how he keeps no part of himself closed to her. "Not even this," she said, and tickles my desperately clenching pucker. "Gracious, where did the time go? You've held it nearly twenty minutes already. Go use the bathroom. I'll let myself out."
By the time I get dressed for the wedding I feel almost human and hardly hung over at all. And for the first time, not very worried about the wedding night.
Sometimes when Stacy's out shopping or with her girlfriends, I help Mrs. Holmgren with lifting, repairs, like that. She appreciates it, and I appreciate bulb after bulb and the little bits of sex education that go with them. There's a lot I didn't know about pleasing a woman. Already I can tell I'm making Stacy happier than I did during the honeymoon.
We're talking about buying a house next year. Stacy hugs me so tight it hurts when I say we should look for one with an attached apartment for her mom. And I hug her just as hard at the drugstore when she says, very shyly without meeting my eyes, that we should buy an enema bag because she'd love me to give her one, the way her mom did, and would about die of happiness if she could do it to me, too.
E-mail the author, who welcomes readers' reactions, positive or negative, in complete privacy and confidentiality. You probably won't receive a reply, but the author values your opinions and suggestions.