I still remember it like it was yesterday. I had applied to go to college, and one item marked on the college’s response was “required physical exam.” I didn’t really know what that meant (I was soo naive!), so I asked my Mom about it.

“Why Amy,” she said, “it means you will have to go to the doctor and have him check you over.”

On further inspection, I saw that a specific doctor’s name was listed on the exam – the college’s physician. I called the office and set up the appointment. My girl friends all told me “He’ll examine between your legs!” Every time they said that, I turned bright pink. I was terrifically embarrassed at the idea, and I certainly did not want ANY strange man looking at me down there.

I voiced my concerns to my Mom, who reassured me, saying, “Don’t worry, Amy. The doctor is a professional, and he won’t do any more than he has to see that you’re in good health.”

“Mom is an optimist,” I thought to myself. I knew how the boys at school talked. They were always whispering about the girls they thought were pretty, and they talked a lot about “snatch,” and “pussy,” leaving no doubt about what they meant. I noticed the boys looking at the girls as the girls bent over – some of the girls wore REALLY short skirts so that the boys could see their rears when they leaned over, and those girls liked to know that the boys watched them that way. I always wore “nice” clothes. I liked to have boys look at me (what girl doesn’t), but I was always embarrassed when I caught one of them looking up my dress.

This was a long time ago, but the most popular thing that year was flared skirts and button blouses – with stockings and garterbelts. I often wondered why the boys liked to look at us the way they did – I knew WHY, of course – they were boys, we were girls, and they wanted us; but I could never see that much attractive about a girl. I saw them all the time in gym, naked, running through the gym – and I knew that the boys would have done nearly anything to see us that way; but I couldn’t understand what they saw that was so interesting. I was soon to learn what boys liked in a way that I never thought possible.

As the day approached, I got more and more apprehensive, but I “buried” it, just choosing to think about something else. The exam was to take place on the college campus (it was about 75 miles away), so I bought a bus ticket for the commuter bus that went between our town and the college’s.

I had been briefed over the phone by the school nurse, a Miss Adlequist – she told me, “Amy, you’ll really like the doctor, he’s very nice; and since you’re coming so far, we’ll arrange for you to stay here overnight, and you can be on your way in the morning. It was my first time away. It was also pretty traumatic, thinking about that doctor poking around all over me, but I really wanted to go to that school… “Besides,” I thought, “it’ll probably be fun. I get to play college girl for a day (my bus didn’t leave until the following afternoon), watch the boys, and so on.”

The day finally arrived. I got up, made my bed (Mom made us do that), brushed my teeth, brushed my hair (noting with pleasure that it was getting longer – that was my ambition when I was a youngster – long blonde hair, in a ponytail. The boys always watched “those” girls, and I thought I would get their attention by imitating them).

It was time for me to go to the bus station. Mom drove me in our old station wagon, let me off at the station (things were safer in those days), and drove off. I was overwhelmed by the aloneness of all of this, and a bit hurt that Mom had not even offered to take me. But I determined to take it all in stride, and got on the bus, showing my ticket, purchased two days earlier, with my own money.

The ride took forever. We must have stopped at every town in the WORLD! Finally, the bus pulled up to the college, and about a half-dozen of us got out. I was the only girl. The rest were boys, planning to try out for various sports. I had stayed to myself, not wanting to tell the boys what was going to happen to me (little did I know!), so I had nobody to talk to the whole way.

I went to the building Nurse Adlequist had designated, and entered. A sign on the door said “Free College Clinic.” The receptionist was a striking brunette, about 21 or so. Her nametag said, “Velva Softitz, RN (Trainee).”

She smiled at me (I thought, “What’s that smile mean?”) in a knowing way, and handed me a clipboard with a couple of sheets of paper on it. The sheets of paper were a medical questionnaire. “You’ll need to fill these out, Amy,” she said. “The doctor has your chart, but we need some additional information for the tests we need to do.”

“TESTS?” I thought. “WHAT tests???!!” I was truly spooked by this revelation, and almost walked back through the door and called Mom. But I did so want to go to that college. As if sensing my discomfort, the receptionist said, “They’re routine. Not to worry.” I sat down and began to fill in the blanks. I must have written for about 15 minutes. I had just finished when the receptionist entered the room and called my name – a formality, because I was the only person in the waiting room.

The first stop was the scale (I hate that!) – 140 # (height, 5′ 6″) – then the exam room. It was like all the doctor’s offices I had been in as a child – except for the exam table, which had an ominous-looking pair of posts rising from one end, to which were attached a couple of footrests. I had heard the other girls talk about “pelvic exams,” and “putting your feet in the stirrups.” Now I understood – or thought I did. The receptionist handed me off to the Nurse, Mrs. Adlequist, who was a chubby redhead about 35 – very professional, all business, but with a nice manner.

“Now, Amy,” she said, Doctor wants me to explain the details of what you’re here for while I take your vital signs and blood pressure.” She continued, “the point of this exam is to determine two things: first, that you’re healthy enough to handle the difficulties of college, and then to see if there’s anything major that we need to know about while you’re here. Doctor will examine all of your major systems – lungs, cardiovascular, muscular, glands, digestive, and reproductive (I shuddered at the word “reproductive” – I knew what THAT meant), and so forth. We’ll take a blood sample, a urine specimen, and then that’s it.”

I could tell there was something she wasn’t saying – she was looking at me very strangely, as if to gauge my reactions. But I passed it off as the fears of an overworked teenage girl’s mind. She was done with the blood pressure, and gave me the cup and asked me to go pee. I took the cup from her, and went to the bathroom. I closed the door. I dropped my panties, sat down, and reached under myself with the cup and began to pee.

Only then did I look up. Hanging on a hook on the door was the biggest enema bag I had ever seen. I almost choked, nearly dropped the cup, and peed all over my hand. I had received an enema or two from Mom. The feelings were unpleasant, strange, and stimulating. I knew such things were “medical,” but that was the LAST thing I expected to see in the bathroom! I couldn’t help but look at it. It was red, open at the top, smelled of rubber, and had a long black rubber hose with a clamp near the end. Attached to the black rubber hose was a shorter hose, about 3 feet long, that was as thick as my thumb, and had a hole in the end and on the side near the end.

It looked new, but the bag had recently been used. The bag was wet (apparently had been washed), and little water drops had formed on the bottom, as if it had been dried in haste. I couldn’t help but remember the enemas Mom gave me – the little white nozzle sliding into my butt (how would that great big hose feel?? how far would it go in?), the pressure of the water, my moans (and sometimes sobs)as my belly filled, the cramping, and how it hurt at the end, and how the bag never seemed like it would empty (God, that bag on the door was big!), Mom telling me that I had to take it all: everything came back to me in a rush, even though it had been at least four years since she had given me an enema.

All this took less than thirty seconds to think and experience – and the old feelings of stimulation, strangeness, and desire took over. However, I had to get out to the exam room to finish up. I shuddered. I was already frightened, stimulated, almost weak in the knees. And, I noticed, as I wiped myself, I was also “wet.” The last time Mom had used the enema bag on me, I had gotten that way – my “organs” had gotten all slick and gooey during and after the enema, and for days after, whenever I thought about it. I didn’t think Mom had noticed, and she had never said anything, but I certainly noticed. It felt sort of good, but it was embarrassing – like I was in my period, but the fluid was clear. I wiped it off when it happened, and that felt good, too, but I was NOT about to masturbate (good Catholic girls don’t), even though I wanted to.

I re-entered the room, and found the doctor standing there. He was an older man, large. He wore a smile like it was part of him, and reached out for my hand as I entered the room. Not the most propitious time for a meeting. My right hand held the “pee cup,” and I realized I hadn’t washed. I immediately blushed, and he smiled even more, and said, “That’s all right, Amy. A urine fetish is one thing I DON’T have.”

I could tell he knew what I was thinking: “I can’t shake hands with this doctor with piss on my hand!” He patted me on the shoulder, and led me to the exam table, pulling out a “step” so I could get up easier. I sat on the edge of the table, and he looked in my ears, in my mouth, palpated the glands in my neck, looked in my eyes, wrote. He talked as he wrote, discussing my plans (accounting or technical writing), talking about the college (wonderful place!!). He had me unbutton my blouse, and listened to my heart (from the front), and my lungs (from the back). I was getting relieved. This wasn’t too bad!

Then he said: “Amy, you’ll find a hospital gown behind the screen over there (gesturing to his right); I want you to disrobe completely, and put that on. I’ll be back in just a few minutes to complete my examination.”

I swallowed, my Adam’s apple as big as a baseball in my throat, and whispered, “OK.” The doctor went out. I concentrated on the floor as I removed my bra (all the girls thought I had nice breasts, I thought, looking down at myself). My nipples stuck out. It was cold in the room. I put the hospital gown on, and then I unzipped my skirt, removed my garterbelt, stockings, panties (I removed that last item with a real twinge of apprehension).

As I removed my clothes, I found myself idly listening to the sounds coming through the ventilator. I could hear faint sounds coming through the ventilation system. They sounded like…like ..whimpering! I strained, putting my ear up to the ventilator. I heard, “Oh, doctor, please!! It’s too much!! OoooOOHH!! AAaahaahhhHH! OMIGOD!”

And then, (the doctor’s voice) “It’ll be OK, Pammy. This is well within your capacity. Just try to relax. Here, let me stop the flow for a sec.” (silence, then gasps) “All right, Pammy, let’s finish up. I’ll elevate the bag a little so it flows in quicker. That way it won’t be as long till we’re done – and when we’re done, you can get up right away. You don’t have to hold it.”

Silence for a moment. Then whimpering and whining: “Doctor, pleeeaaasssee! I just can’t take anymore!” Then OOOooooHHHAAAaahhh!! OH! GOD!”

“That’s right, Pammy, almost done now.” The next sounds I heard were not really sounds of pain, but grunts and moans, rhythmic in nature. I know now that they were “sex sounds.” Even then, I instinctively knew that “Pammy” was not altogether hurting – some of the sounds I was hearing were pleasure-sounds. These sounds, and all the others, drained away gradually. I sat down on the chair behind the screen, my face flaming, breathing in gasps, clenching my hands. My underarms were drenched. What if the doctor found I was constipated? (I often was, a fact I carefully hid from Mom – and this particular day was one of my worst in ages) What would he do?? I could feel the wetness spreading between my lower lips, threatening the chair underneath. I stood up. It wouldn’t do to have a wet spot on the doctor’s chair, I thought to myself. I completed getting ready for the doctor, fluffed my hair, shook my ponytail, and stepped out from behind the screen with a shudder.

I stepped over to the exam table, shaking my ponytail nervously from side to side. Nobody was in the room. I sat down on the table, feeling the paper they used to protect the surface of the exam table on my bare bottom. I shuddered. A tear escaped from the corner of my eye, as I thought what might be next for me.

Dr. Ben strode into the room, smiling.

“And how are you now, Amy??” He asked.

I choked out: “O-okay.”

“All right, young lady, time for the rest of your exam. Lie down on your back, legs together.” He helped me up on the table, and then stood at my head. “Put your arms over your head, Amy,” he said.

As I did so he began to feel the glands under my arms and down the sides of my breasts, palpating to see if there was any swelling. “All right, put your arms at your sides, Amy,” he said, and as I did so, he lowered the gown so that he could see my breasts.

I watched him peering at me (“I wouldn’t even let Sammy Boyle look at me like that!” I thought, randomly); he felt my left breast all around the outside; then the gland on the inside; then the nipple. Next he did the right breast. I was unaccountably getting wet. I hoped he would start his pelvic exam with plenty of lubricant – I was certainly producing enough!

“All right, Amy, I see that Nurse didn’t take your temperature,” Dr. Ben said, stepping over to the counter beside the exam table and removing a thermometer. Then he bent down and picked up a jar of…VASELINE! I thought, “OH. MY. GOD. This Doctor is going to take my temperature in my bottom.” I was mortified.

“Bottoms up, Amy,” the Doctor intoned, helping me turn over on my belly and lifting at my hips to show me what he wanted. I have to tell you, I was too embarrassed to even speak – besides, it was all happening so fast I didn’t have time to protest. I stuck my bottom in the air (and saw Dr. Ben’s satisfied smile). I watched in horror as he twirled the thermometer in the Vaseline, put it against my poor bottom hole, and pushed. It went in. Easily. “AAAaagghh!” I gasped, unable to stop myself.

The thermometer kept going in. It was cold. I could feel it poking into the “stuff” inside me – the fecal matter, which Dr. Ben would certainly see when he removed the thermometer. He held the thermometer in me with one hand, which he rested on my vaginal opening, touching me casually (but not so casually, actually), occasionally twirling the thermometer in me. I laid there choking with embarrassment and lust, exposed to this man who now had laid all my secrets bare (or so I thought), bottom skyward, nearly dripping wet with excitement. He left the thermometer in a long time.

I was embarrassed. Stimulated. Wet. Scared (what could be next?). “All right, Amy, that’s enough time with that thermometer in you – Oh oh! What’s this on the thermometer? He held the thermometer down to my face (remember, I was still in the “bottoms up” position). It was covered with fecal matter.

“We’ll have to do something about this, Amy. I can’t let you go home like this. We would be responsible if we sent you home constipated like this.” I almost started to cry with the humiliation.

“But let’s finish the exam before we treat you for the constipation. Turn over on your back, and put your feet in the stirrups.” I complied. By this time, I was so utterly humiliated and cowed that I could do nothing else. I felt Dr. Ben’s hands on my pubic area, moving up my belly, palpating the organs inside. “All right, Amy, scoot down to the foot of the table. Set your bottom juusst at the end of the exam table. That’s right (I scooted down). Now let’s adjust these stirrups” (farther apart, further in, so that my thighs were held wide, and my knees almost on my chest. I was totally exposed – even more than just a moment ago – at least then, my knees had been relatively close together. Now my legs were spread, my knees were on my chest.).

“Ok, Amy, that’s fine now.” I felt him down there – could see him between my thighs. “Look up, Amy!” There was a mirror above me, and a mirror behind me, angled so that when I looked up, I could see Dr. Ben sitting on that stool of his, between my naked legs, staring at my sex organs. I knew that if I kept looking, I could watch the whole examination. I wanted to stop looking. But I couldn’t. I saw him take something from a drawer, and then put it on a shelf. He removed something else, a tube. Then a pair of gloves. He put the gloves on. Then he squeezed some clear jelly-stuff from the tube on to his fingers. I watched in fascinated horror as his fingers first separated my lower lips, then began slowly to enter my most secret place.

“UUuunnggghhh!!”

Just relax, Amy! You’ll feel a little pressure down here, and then I’ll be done.” His fingers felt like they were a foot long. They went in and in and in and in. Then he put his other hand on my belly and poked up inside of me as he pushed down on my belly. It felt good. I didn’t dare react. His hand withdrew, and he picked up the instrument he had removed from the drawer. It also slid into me. It was much larger than his fingers, and when it was in, he squeezed it and it opened inside me. I felt myself stretch.

“OOOooohhh!” I whined.

He patted my thigh. “Just a minute more, Amy.” He looked at me inside. Then, with the instrument still in place, he separated my lips and began to touch me just above my vaginal opening. I shuddered and moaned. It felt wonderful. But I was too embarrassed to like it. “That’s your clitoris, Amy. Can you feel that?”

I managed to choke out a “Yes.” he rubbed it for a moment or two more (don’t stop!), then closed the instrument and withdrew it. It felt like he had shoved a grapefruit up inside me. I was really stretched out down there. Suddenly I felt another invasion – two fingers, at my bottomhole, invading me down there, sliding in (soo big, soo slick!).

“OOaaahhhHHHSSSSsss!!” I gasped, involuntarily lifting my hips up to try to move away from his probing fingers. It didn’t work. The fingers continued to enter me back there.

“Amy, you’re constipated worse than I thought!! (his fingers began to move in and out, stroking my bottomhole). You need an enema!!”

“Oh, Doctor, NO! I can take care of that myself!”

“No, Amy, I have to treat you! I can’t send you home like this. As full as you are, it may take several enemas to get you cleaned out!” Two tears oozed out of my eyes. I was humiliated, scared, full of fear and longing.

I remembered the cries I had heard through the ventilator. “Please, Doctor, I really don’t want one!”

“One what, Amy?” Dr. Ben asked, pretending innocence.

“An enema, Doctor, I don’t want an enema!!”

“Well, Amy, there are going to be times you get what you want in life, and times you get what you don’t want. This is one of the times you will get what you don’t want, because I’m the Doctor, and you need an enema.”

I sobbed. “O Please, No!”

“Sorry, Amy. You have to have an enema, and I’m going to give you an enema.” He kept saying that word. I hated to hear it, but wanted to hear it. I wanted this, and feared it. I hated the thought, and longed to have this strong man give me the enema he had promised. I was full of confusion. I was sweating. Weeping. Wet.

“Nurse Adlequist!” Doctor called, through the intercom.

“Yes, Doctor?” came the reply.

“Prepare 240 cc’s of olive oil in a plunger syringe and bring it here.”

“Yes, Doctor!” In a few moments the nurse appeared, holding an obscenely large hypodermic syringe that ended, not with a needle, but with a short rubber tube about a foot long and an inch in diameter.

“Over my knee, Amy! Doctor said, placing a towel on his slacks, and motioning to me.

I blushed again, furiously. “OH, Doctor! Please, just this once, you don’t have to treat me!! I won’t tell anybody.”

“Amy, one last chance. If you’re not down off that table by the count of three, I’ll have Nurse prepare another syringe, and we’ll put both of them inside you.”

I knew I couldn’t fight him, and all I would gain by objecting any more is another enema, so I got down (besides, I secretly *wanted* this, even though it humiliated me, and I hated it.) off the table and lowered myself on to his lap. I could feel the roughness of the towel on my belly. His legs were muscular, not bony, so I didn’t feel too squashed, but face-down over a man’s knee is certainly an ignominious position, especially if your butt’s bare. I felt his thumb and forefinger separate my cheeks. I could tell he was looking at me, because he also separated me lower – to reveal my vaginal opening (hadn’t he seen enough?). I felt the nozzle pressing against my anus. (God! It was BIG!) Wet (Oil?). Sliding in. Invading my bottom. Thicker than his two fingers. Looonng. The tube on the end was semi-rigid, and as he pushed I could feel it pushing the fecal matter deeper into me, and actually penetrating the feces inside of me. He kept pushing.

“UUUnnnggghhhh!” I groaned.

“Just a little deeper, Amy; I have to get it in far enough to break up the mass of feces in you.” he kept pushing. Finally he stopped. Then I could feel him reach up to grasp the plunger. He pushed. The warm oil flowed in. PRESSURE!!!

“OOOOAAHHHHaaaaAAAHHH!” I groaned, winding up as he pressed the plunger home, filling my bowels with hot olive oil. Nurse Adlequist had been standing there the whole time, a curious smile on her face.

Doctor looked up at her. “Didn’t you have something to do, Nurse?? Or would you like your turn next?” The nurse left. I was left alone with the doctor, a huge nozzle stuck up my backside, my bottom full of oil. He gradually withdrew the tube, squeezing my buttcheeks together as he did so. The tube was covered with feces, and stank. He laid it aside.

“Now for 15 minutes of relaxation, Amy,” he said. “You have to hold this enema for a while. Then you can expel, and we’ll continue with your treatment (CONTINUE!!!???).

Dr. Ben began to massage my belly and my bottom. The oil gurgled inside me, moving around. I wasn’t too full (not like Mom’s enemas!).

“Your next enema will be with warm water and soap, Amy!” he said. “Did you see the bag in the bathroom?? (tormenting me); it holds a lot. I’ll insert the nozzle all the way in, and then fill you fuller than you can believe. How’s that??”

“Pleeeassseeee, Doctor!” I sobbed, “Pleaassseee Dooon’tt!”

“Sorry, Amy, but you need a thorough cleansing, and you’re going to get it.” I moaned and wept, but I didn’t struggle. It was pointless. In just a few minutes I would be LIVING the cries and begging I had heard through the ventilator. I had begged and pled, but to no avail. I had struggled, but it didn’t help. My only hope was that he would stop with one enema. I had heard that some doctors gave enemas in series. What if Doctor Ben did that to me?? What then??

Finally I was given permission to get up. I ran for the toilet. The fecal matter/oil/gas came spraying out of my bottom. Some of the feces were hard, almost like uncooked beans. Those came out first. Then (as I continued to empty), partially formed feces came out, and finally liquid and gas.

I actually felt much better (though Dr. Ben would never know), and I sat there on the toilet for another 15 minutes, or so. At last I got up, after wiping myself as clean as I could. I was upset to the max when I heard the water running again, but I knew I had to face this, so I left the bathroom with a little shiver. I left the bathroom to find the exam table laid out with the stirrups back in place, and a vertical bar rising about 4 feet from the top of the table, with a hook on the end. It looked ominous – like a device from which to hang an enema bag(!!)

I shuddered with dread as Dr. told me: “Up on the table, Amy, and put your feet in the stirrups and scoot down to the end. You know the routine.” The stirrups were set so that my knees almost touched my chest, and my thighs were spread wide. Dr. came in holding the bag. It looked even bigger full than empty. “This is a 4-quart bag, Amy!” Dr. Ben announced proudly.

I shivered. Mom had never given me even half that much. Connected to the bag was a black rubber hose, about 1/2″ in diameter, and attached to that (by way of a hard plastic connector) was a long tube that was about 3/4″ in diameter at the top, but which tapered to about the thickness of my index finger at the end. Water was dripping from it. I didn’t want to look, but couldn’t stop myself, as Dr. hung the bag from the hook, unrolled the tubing, and began to coat it with that slimy stuff he used as lubricant (K-Y, it’s called). In just a moment he had inserted his two fingers in my bottom, lubricating me as I laid there helpless. Then he began to insert the tube into me (a “colon tube” he called it).

As the tube found its way into my bottom about 6″, he opened the clamp and the water began to flow into me. It was warm. It felt good, but it also felt like I could never take all of it. The tube continued to snake up inside me, Dr. Ben adjusting the flow every so often to that the water was just barely flowing.

“OOOOoooohhhh!!! OooWWWWwww!!” I whimpered, as the tube entered me deeper and deeper, the water continuing to flow.

“Just relax, Amy,” Dr. Ben intoned. “This is a large enema, I know, but you’ll do fine, and you will feel MUCH better once we’re done.”

“Oh, Please, Dr. Ben, don’t! I-I-It’s too much!! I’m already full! I can’t take any more!” I was almost screaming by this time, sobbing and whimpering as the water continued to flow, filling me, never stopping, pushing everything out of its way, the tube continuing to go ever deeper into me.

Finally the tube was in. Dr. Ben stopped pushing it in. But the water didn’t stop.

I was gagging and gasping with the pressure. “OOOOoooooHHHHhhhh, Please, Dr. Ben!! Stop!! Please Stop!” I wailed.

Instead, Dr. Ben inserted two fingers in my vagina, and began to massage me in there, rubbing my clitoris with his thumb. “There, there, Amy, this will make you feel better!” he announced.

Now I was not only getting an enema from a man, he was also touching me in such an overtly sexual way that I couldn’t help but understand that this was indeed intended as a sexual experience. I shuddered. The pain and pressure were incredible. But it also felt good. As Dr. Ben rubbed and massaged me, it actually began to feel almost entirely good. I now understood the wails of anguish that I had heard through the ventilator – the wails that fell off into grunts of pleasure and rhythmic gasps. The pressure and warmth of the enema in my bowels, the invasion of my anus/rectum/colon with the long tube, the massage of my genitals – it was all incredibly sexual, and even though the pain was there, it lessened dramatically as he continued to masturbate me with his large, strong hands. I could do nothing but let him. I could do nothing but yield.

And so I yielded to him – and to orgasm after orgasm as the last of the enema flowed into me. Dr. Ben helped me up, and I ran for the bathroom. I expelled (forever, it seemed).

Finally I was done. Dr. Ben watched me as I came out of the bathroom. “Amy, you’ll need weekly treatments here at the college,” he said. I nodded, transformed from shame to desire.

“Yes, Dr. Ben. I certainly will.”

I received two degrees from that college, and I took a long time to get them. My mother could never understand why I took ten years to get 6 years worth of education. But then I never told her about Dr. Ben.