There was a small divan covered with a rubber sheet in one corner of the room. It was a foot or two from a basin with running water and, above, was an enema can fixed to a hook on the wall from which a long tube, fined with stop-cock and nozzle, was suspended.

I just couldn’t make it out. I had come back with Cynthia to have sex with her and never expected to see an otherwise well-furnished room looking a little like a clinic.

But worse was to follow.

‘I am going to give you an enema, she said, ‘that’s to begin with.’

‘An enema? What do you mean?’ I asked her astonished.

‘What I say. I always insist on giving a man an enema first,’ she replied coolly.

‘An enema first? Whatever for? I don’t need an enema,’ I told her.

‘Well, it’s up to you. Either an enema or nothing. Make your choice.’ She was insistent.

Had it been any other woman but the very dark attractive sexy-looking Cynthia I think I would have turned towards the door there and then, and left. But Cynthia was a remarkable woman and I had been chasing her for a month or more. That morning we had had lunch together and then we had come back to her flat. She was too good a catch to let slip through my hands, and I began to see that I might have to let her give me the enema. But I would play for time, try to find out her reasons.

‘Oh, if you insist,’ I said, ‘then I’ll have to agree. But why do you make such a strange stipulation? I’m very curious.’

She eyed me through her long lashes, slipping off her dress as she did so, presumably to put the pressure on me for in her bra and knickers she was even more irresistible.

‘Well, I like men to be clean for one thing. Inside I mean. But more important it gives me a psychological advantage, and I like to have that with men.

‘Psychological advantage? ‘I don’t quite understand you, Cynthia. You have that already,’ I insisted.

‘That’s what you say,’ she said, ‘but in fact you don’t really believe that. A few things you have said in the last month tell me that you aren’t so very different from other men: you think you are superior because you are a male, and that women are inferior. Now when a man has an enema the proper word is “submits” to an enema – it begins to put the balance right. He begins by submitting and thereafter things are never quite the same. Do you see?’ She smiled as she took her lipstick from her handbag and filled out her lips afresh.

I was really amazed to hear that she saw the administration of an enema as a means of getting an advantage over a man. It struck me as rather extraordinary, especially from such a girl as Cynthia. I didn’t see that there was much I could do any more to avoid the inevitable, nor did it seem much good continuing the argument. Also, she was looking so ravishing in her satin bra and matching knickers, suspender-belt and black stockings that I thought I had better do what she wanted and get it over with.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘Then let’s get on with the enema.

Now I had never actually seen an enema can in real life but I knew about enemas from a medical book that I used to see in my father’s study. I also knew enough to know that the enema can was usually filled with warm water about the same temperature as the body – and that it went into the colon.

I began to undress, not really looking forward to being put in such a humiliating position.

‘Take all your clothes off,’ said Cynthia.

Well, the flat was warm enough and I saw no objection to being naked in front of her! I stripped quickly and then stood near the divan with the rubber sheet waiting for her instructions.

She had unhooked the can and was filling it with warm water from the tap. When she had filled it she took the temperature and was apparently satisfied for she put the can back on the hook and then turned to me.

‘You lie on your left side,’ she said.

‘Why the left?’

‘Because that’s where your lower colon is. The water runs out if you lie on your right side.’ She seemed to be quite an expert on the subject of enemas so I decided it was best not to argue.

I got on the divan and lay on the rubber sheet facing away from her. Then she told me to flex my right leg, presumably so that I exposed my anus.

Then I felt her start to insert the nozzle attached to the free end of the tube, gently easing it through the anal sphincter and then pushing it to the upper end of my rectum.

‘Now,’ she said. ‘I am going to turn on the water. It will flow into your colon and when the can is empty I shall take the nozzle out and leave you with the enema inside. It shouldn’t run out, but there’s a pan here if it does. What you must do is keep the enema inside you for about ten minutes and then make your way to the loo. That is the door over there,’ she said, pointing to a door on the same side of the room as the wash-basin.

She released the stop-cock which had so far prevented the water flowing from the can and immediately I began to feel the flow of liquid inside me. I lay there slightly anxious about the whole thing and also worried that I should not be able to hold the water inside me. I thought it would make a pretty disgusting sight if I let it out and it ran all over the sheet and onto the floor.

‘How much are you giving me?’ I ventured to ask her as I felt the weight of the water in my colon.

‘Only two pints this time,’ she remarked. And then she switched the stop-cock and pulled out the vulcanite nozzle from my rectum, and I lay there, perfectly still wondering what would happen next.
 
 
 
 

It was an extraordinary experience. For one thing it was very peculiar to have a girl, who had never even seen you naked before, pushing something into your exposed anus. She had not even seen my genitals except briefly, and here she was asking me to expose my anus and pushing something inside!

Then the water which I began to be conscious of more and more as the minutes ticked by filled my colon, almost anchoring me to the bed.

In the next ten minutes or so – by the end of which, of course, Cynthia had left me alone – I learnt what it was really like to have an enema, and I began to see that there was something in what Cynthia had said about it giving the woman a psychological advantage. You felt inadequate lying there, almost dependent, completely submissive. It was undoubtedly a way of putting a man down, especially if he has hidden masochistic tendencies.

That night I slept with Cynthia but it was to all practical purposes the last time I did. For Cynthia began to insist on an enema on each occasion I returned with her, and as time went on my sense of submission towards her grew and I became more and more ready to let her have her way.

There were times when I revolted and then Cynthia showed her true colors. But as I began to adore her in some way I could not really understand – it had little or nothing to do with sex – the more she revealed her true intentions the more I liked it.

The last time I objected to the enema and then, afterwards, tried to seduce her, she won hands down. She talked me into the enema and afterwards she got me to dress in a pair of her panties and a bra. This was a very clever move indeed for I had always been interested in women’s clothes, rather fancying my appearance in them from the time, dressed as a girl, I had won a fancy-dress competition in aid of charity. I don’t know how Cynthia had found out. It was possible I had given my interest away by some sort of gesture or mannerism. But once in her undies I no longer felt the same strong urge to make love to her, at least not in the usual manner.

That night I said no more about sex and went to sleep, still wearing the undies.

I did not see Cynthia until the following week, by which time I had almost forgotten about the fact that I had put on a bra and panties. When I went round to see her I was feeling in a very randy state and I looked forward to going to bed with her.

‘Enema first,’ she said as I sipped the sherry she had given me.

‘Is that necessary?’ I asked her.

‘I thought you were beginning to be addicted to enemas. Anyway you know all about the rule I make.’

I remembered the underwear and thought I would do a deal with her.

‘What about me putting on some of your undies instead?’ I asked her, quite sure that I would feel just as randy when l got them on. My main intention was to sidetrack the enema for once.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘That’s an excellent idea.’ She seemed to understand me better than I did myself for she did not insist on the enema, being sure that I would drop my aggressive male sexual desire for her body as soon as I got onto some of her clothes.

‘I’m not insisting on the enema this time,’ she said. ‘But that doesn’t mean that I shan’t insist on giving you one another time.’ But if she had found an equally good or better way of denying me sex then of course there would be no need for enemas. That was what Cynthia wanted to find out.

She led me to her bedroom and I was quickly dressed in a bra and panties, suspender-belt and stockings. ‘If you wore a wig you’d look very feminine indeed,’ she told me. ‘Unfortunately I haven’t got one that would fit you.’

I certainly felt that wearing feminine undies made me less randy and that was to prove the case later on. But that particular evening they did not work so miraculously from Cynthia’s point of view and when I started to slip my arm round her and seek her lips she insisted on an enema. If you still want me afterwards,’ she said, ‘I will consider it.’

That’s how it came about that I was given an enema wearing women’s underwear. Cynthia had to remove the knickers, of course, but otherwise I was dressed as I had been in the bedroom: I lay on my side wearing bra, suspender-belt and stockings as Cynthia inserted the nozzle of the enema tube into my anus.

I find it hard to explain in detail what it was that happened to me that night. But a transformation took place in my feelings towards Cynthia. I had already begun to adore her in a special kind of way but up to that night I still fancied her sexually, though not with the brutal urgency that I did at the beginning. But lying there dressed in her undies with the enema inside made me feel completely passive and submissive in a way, and to an extent, I had never experienced in my life before. I felt like a girl in the presence of a man, rather than the other way round, and it seemed to me almost symbolic that she had inserted the tube inside me.

It had been ‘Enema First’ and I had really believed Cynthia when she said this was necessary if one was to be clean inside. But now I suspected that the idea behind the enema was something else. It was a way of getting dominance over a man and, when combined with other things, such as dressing him in undies, it ultimately led to his complete submission to her demands.

The interesting thing is that I was – and still am – happy to take on this role in relation to Cynthia. Nowadays I never suggest sex with her, for she has persuaded me that sex for most men is simply an aggressive attack on a woman’s body and that if you really respect a woman you don’t demand sex from her.

When she herself requires sex then she is able to insist on it in her own way. In our case it is never with Cynthia underneath. I am the woman, as far as we two are concerned and I naturally assume the woman’s position – underneath.