It had been an awful day. First the math test (which I failed), then the worst stomachache I’d had in years, then a really sick feeling that made me miss the rest of my day at school. So here I was, sitting in the nurse’s office, hoping she would give me something for my stomachache and my sick feeling.

I filled out the form, and went into the office where the nurse was seated behind her desk. She was a woman of about 60, gray-haired, very friendly, but also very efficient. She read my litany

of complaints, and looked up at me. “Kelli, I think I want you to go home, and I’ll call the Doctor and see what he says. He has a nurse who can visit you and help you feel better. I’m not really equipped for what you need right here.”

That was a puzzling statement, but I accepted it, and walked home to the little apartment I had next to the college. I had barely opened the door and brought my books in (Oooooh, I felt sick!) when the phone rang. It was the Doctor’s receptionist (the doctor at our school is very good about getting back to us girls when we are not feeling well.): “I’m glad you’re there, Kelli! I’ll have the Nurse come right over. The Doctor wants you treated for that stomachache immediately.”

I sighed. I didn’t really want to have anyone come over–but I replied, “OK, I’ll be ready.” I was tired, I wanted to lie down, and just relax. I put on my bathrobe and a comfortable long T-shirt, and I was sitting on the couch, waiting (a bit apprehensive, too; the Doctor wanted me “treated right away.”

I shivered, but then relaxed as I put my feet up – and then the doorbell rang, twice. I opened the door, and before me stood a large older man (about 50), holding a black medical bag and a suitcase. “Hi, I’m the visiting nurse!” he said.

“I expected a woman,” I replied, even more apprehensive.

“Well, I’m sorry. The Doctor just hired me, and you are actually the first to find out that I’m the new nurse. Sally Harris quit just yesterday, and the Doctor hired me in her place. But not to worry. I’ve worked at half-a-dozen girls’ schools, and we always get on just fine.”

I reluctantly admitted him into my home, shuddering just a bit at the possibilities his presence might mean. He pointed toward the couch, and pulled a chair from the dining room table into the living room.

We sat. “All right. May I call you Kelli?”

“Everyone does,” I said.

“Well, Kelli, why don’t you just go back over your symptoms and tell me when they started. You can call me Ben, by the way.”

“Ummm, I guess I’ve had this pain below my stomach for about two days. It started after me and some girlfriends partied over the weekend. I ate pizza, hamburgers, and then pancakes at breakfast the next morning. By the middle of the day I didn’t feel good at all, and today I hurt and I feel sick.”

Ben reached out and took my hand, and turned it over, looking at my wrist. Then he felt my forehead. “You don’t seem to have a fever,” he said. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

I blushed. “I haven’t gone to the bathroom since before the weekend,” I mumbled.

“MMMmmm,” he grunted. “Anything else?”

“No, I guess that’s about all, except today I feel a little nauseated, too.”

“OK,” he said. “I’m pretty sure I know what’s wrong, and I can fix it completely for you. First, though, I have to do a brief exam. If you will lie down on the couch on your back, we can get started.” Ben reached into his medical bag and brought out a pair of latex gloves and began to slip them on. I laid back, panicked at the thought of this man touching me, but I knew I had to do it. He separated my robe and lifted my T-shirt, exposing my belly. He lowered my panties a bit (scaring me almost speechless), and left them on my hips, just above my pubic hair. He began to feel my tummy, pushing down on me.

“Tell me where it hurts,” he said. I pointed to a general area around my left side, and he felt down that side, humming a tune as he touched my bare skin with his gloves, feeling now and then for the organs inside. “Well, I know almost for certain what’s wrong, Kelli, but there’s one more thing,” Ben said, reaching once again into his medical bag. He came out with a thermometer, and a jar of Vaseline.

“Come put your bottom over my lap, Kelli, and I’ll make sure you haven’t got any fever. I can’t treat you if you have an appendicitis, and the temp will tell me.”

I’m sorry to say, I lost it. Here was this perfect stranger expecting to take my temperature rectally, acting like I had no choice. I yelled: “You can take that damn thermometer and stick it up your own ass, MR. NURSE!!”

He grabbed my arm and threw me over his knee. “Young Lady, I’ll have no disobedience from you!” As I struggled, he lifted my bathrobe and yanked my panties down, exposing my bare bottom. I thought he intended to forcibly insert that thermometer in my behind, and I fought. He did not – not yet. Instead he reached into his medical bag and withdrew a hickory switch. “I’m going to teach you not to fight or disobey, young lady!” Ben said, in a quiet but very firm voice.

As I struggled, he began to use the switch on my bare behind. “OoooHHHhhh!!! God!!! That hurts!!” I wailed, as the strokes descended on my quivering flesh. It DID hurt.

“This damn switch!” Ben shouted, throwing it at the wall after breaking it. When the switch was no longer available, Ben used his large, hard hand. Stroke after stroke descended on my poor reddened buttocks, as he spanked me with his hand, hitting me first on one buttock, then on the other. I was sobbing uncontrollably now, begging him to stop. He would not.

Finally, I cried, “If you’ll stop, I won’t fight you anymore.”

Still spanking me, he said, “Do you promise?” I have a riding crop in the suitcase that I’ll use on you if you’re lying.

“Yes, Yes, I promise!! PLEEAASE stop. I’ll obey you,” I wailed. When I promised, he sat me up on his lap.

“That’s a good girl,” he said, taking a Kleenex from the end table by the couch and drying my eyes. I could feel his slacks on my bare (and sore) bottom as he hugged me and held my head and rocked me for a moment.

“OK, turn over, Kelli,” Ben said, picking up the thermometer and Vaseline. I obediently knelt face-down on his lap. He separated my buttocks with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. I shuddered as he placed the end of the thermometer against my anus, and gently pushed. I could feel the thermometer go into me. I shuddered again. He twirled the thermometer with his right hand occasionally as the minutes passed–and rested his right hand against my vaginal opening casually, as if it belonged there.

I was mortified. “Are you done yet?” I moaned, still not sure how I felt about all this. It was, after all, erotic. But sooo embarrassing! Ben continued to hold my buttocks open with his left hand, and gently moved the thermometer in and out of me with his right hand, resting it on my female opening all the time. Finally it was over. He pulled the thermometer from me, and wiped it. It had been covered with sticky brown fecal matter. “Your temperature is just fine, Kelli. We can proceed with the treatment.” All this time I was kneeling over his lap, afraid now to disobey, afraid of the promised punishment with the riding crop.

“All right, Kelli,” he said, giving me a swat on the behind, “You can get up now. Go fix us a cup of coffee, and I’ll explain the treatment process to you.” I got up, relieved that I had at least a few minutes to gather my emotions.

“All right, Ben, I’ll get us some coffee.” With that, I went into the kitchen–noticing for the first time that the space around my anus was still wet with the lubricant Ben had used, so that my bottom cheeks slid back and forth. It was vaguely unpleasant and itchy, and my bathrobe didn’t prevent the air from blowing up between my legs and creating a sensation of cool wetness on my backside. In other words, I had a strong physical reminder of what had just been done to me, and a promise of what I feared was about to come.

As I made the coffee, I looked over at the kitchen table where Ben had seated himself. He had a loose-leaf binder on the table, and he was opening it. From where I stood I could see that it contained pictures and text on opposite pages.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“This? This is a ‘treatment book.’ It shows and explains the treatment I am going to give you. I will explain each thing fully before I do it, and then when I treat you, you will know what to expect.”

I thought I would choke. “Better not to know!” I thought to myself, shuddering. But what could I do? Ben was much bigger than me, and obviously determined–evangelistic in his zeal to rid me of my constipation. I shivered again, and a tear trickled down my cheek. I knew I couldn’t get out of this, no matter what I tried.

The coffee was ready, and Ben was sitting at the table. He motioned to a chair next to him, and I reluctantly sat down. The book was closed. He had his finger in a particular spot, using it as a bookmark. I handed him his coffee. “Here, Ben.”

“Thanks, Kelli. Now sit and let me explain the treatment process to you.” He opened the book. As I thought, Ben had put his finger on a particular page. He opened the book, and I saw text and a picture – a picture of a BIG hot water bottle with a hose attached to the bottom of it, hanging from a stand, with Ben standing beside it, pointing to the text, which read: “Complete internal cleansing through the enema series.”

I looked at the picture. I looked at him. I couldn’t speak. My face was aflame. I gulped.

“Yes, Kelli, Doctor has prescribed a complete internal cleansing for you to relieve your constipation problem.”

“Can’t I get a lady nurse?” I whispered, remembering the enema or two I had received from my Mom. Those were bad enough. But to have this older man give me not one, but an enema SERIES – that was too much! “

No, Kelli, you can’t. I’m the best and most thorough at this in the entire state. That’s why Doctor hired me – all you girls at the school have been having problems for a long time. He hired me to correct the situation. Now here’s what I want you to do. I’ll show you the pages and the text, and you ask any questions you wish.”

I sat paralyzed, looking at the pictures and the accompanying explanations. The first one explained the concept of an “enema series;” it was all very professional, with pictures of the colon and everything, but I knew that it was not going to feel professional at all when he did it to me. It was going to be humiliating, unpleasant, and take a long time. I was also afraid of my own feelings.

Every time my Mom had given me an enema, I found it both revolting and stimulating. I was afraid of having this man see me stimulated by the enema. I resolved not to show anything but a completely cool head. Which made the explanation much more detailed, it turned out, for Ben was a man who loved his work and believed in it.

“See, Kelli, here’s the nozzle I use,” Ben said, pointing to the end of the hose on the bag in the picture, where there was attached a large white nozzle with a series of holes in the sides. The girl in the picture looked mortified as she lay on her side, obviously waiting for the insertion and filling that was to be hers. She was no older than me. I could clearly see a tear in the corner of each eye. The next picture was details of the rectal exam that was to precede insertion of the nozzle,

“To make sure that the rectum is healthy…” it went on like that for pages and pages, details of this poor girl’s torments at Ben’s hands, her face filled with fear and pain as he forced her to take the entire bag of soapy water (“I always use soapy water for the first enema…”).

The thing is, that although I was petrified, I was turned on by the prospect. I can’t explain it, but I was definitely turned on at the idea of being manhandled (in the most literal sense of that term), speared with that dreadful-looking nozzle, then filled until I couldn’t hold another drop–and filled yet more. It made me wet. And I couldn’t help myself. I could hardly hold my coffee cup, I was shaking so much.

“Well, Kelli, we’d best get started. I’ll get the equipment ready, and you go into the bedroom and put a towel on the bed; then I’ll have you fill the enema bag and mix the soap into it. You need to learn to do this for yourself, as well. I feel sure that after I submit my report to Doctor, he’ll order a weekly treatment. OK?”

I couldn’t believe my ears. But I replied (with what voice I had left, and in a whisper), “OK, Ben.”

I put the towel down on the bed, and Ben brought in a large black briefcase (he called it a “catalog case”); he dug in it for a moment, and brought out some latex surgeon’s gloves, the Vaseline (how I remembered that!), a collapsible stand, and a HUGE red rubber bag with a hose attached. I stared at that bag, and thought, “NEVER. He’ll never get all that inside me.” Little did I know. Next came some plastic packets of a greenish liquid.

He saw me looking, and said, “Soap. A good first enema needs plenty of soap to make it work properly. This is the best kind, a real stimulant to the bowels.” Next came a series of metal tools – they looked like cones at one end, ending in a straight piece, and finally closing down to a handle. They were very smooth looking, and there were three of them. One looked to be about 1/2″ at its largest point; the next, about 3/4,” and the final one about an inch in diameter.

“What’s that?” I managed to ask, almost choking inside, and pointing to one of the cones-with-handle.

“That’s an aluminum rectal dilator, Kelli. We’ve found that an enema series followed by some aggressive ano-rectal dilation works much better than just the enemas alone.”

I honestly almost fainted. Those things were BIG!

“Not to worry, Kelli,” said Ben, seeing my frightened expression, “these don’t hurt. They are a bit uncomfortable at first, but with some gentleness and internal massage, you’ll do just fine.”

Internal massage!! I could envision what that meant! I shuddered involuntarily.

“All right, Kelli, I want you to go and fill the bag as full as you can get it, but leave room for three of these soap packets. Use water hot enough so you can just barely hold your hand in it.”

I accepted the enema bag from him. The damn thing was heavy empty, it was so big. I went to the bathroom and began to run the water. I was blushing furiously the whole time, because Ben was effectively making me do this to myself, making me an accomplice in my own torment. Somehow I wanted this. But of course, I didn’t want it. And I couldn’t believe this was happening. It was all so bizarre. Finally the bag was nearly full. I bit open one of the soap packets. The soap tasted awful – but more importantly, it burned. I knew now what Ben had meant by “stimulant action.”

I put the first, second, and third packets into the bag, and completed filling it. I brought the bag back to Ben, who took it, screwed the hose-end onto the bag, and turned it upside down, hanging it on the stand he had set up. Next he brought out a large nozzle. It was well over 1/2″ in diameter, and about 18″ long, and flexible. it had holes in the sides, and one on the end.

“This is my own invention, Kelli,” Ben said proudly. “It’s long enough so I can insert it above the rectum, into the colon. Makes the enema easier to take and retain.” He motioned me to lie down on the bed, slipping a latex glove on each hand. He deftly lubricated the first two fingers of his left hand (TWO fingers?), and said “All right, Kelli. I need you on your back with your knees as nearly touching your chest as possible. I have to examine you.”

I obeyed, and felt a sudden pressure at my bottom opening – and at my vagina. “I forgot to tell you, Kelli. Doctor wanted me to do a digital exam of your vagina as well.” I felt pressure. My sphincter yielded. His finger slid deeply into my backhole at the same time as his other finger entered my sex. With his right hand he began to press down on my abdomen, pushing now to the right in my rectum, now left, now up, now down. I grunted with the pressure. I was already full, and this was nearly too much. He pulled his fingers out. The finger that had been in my bottom was covered with brown sticky feces. He peeled the glove off his hand, and sat down beside me.

“Kelli, I want you to remove everything except your T-shirt. No robe, no bra, nothing but the T-shirt. Then I want you to come and lie over my lap on your belly, like you did when I took your temperature.”

I stood up and began to undress, looking at him seated there with the towel across his lap, looking at the bulging enema bag hanging on the stand, looking at the bed where I so recently had allowed this man to penetrate my most intimate secrets, looking in the mirror at myself, and thinking, “I’m turned on. I can’t believe it. I’m actually turned on by this.”

I laid across Nurse’s lap, and the next thing I felt was the hose sliding across my right leg as Nurse grabbed the nozzle. I felt two fingers (a thumb and forefinger?) separate my buttocks wide, exposing not only my anus but my vaginal opening. The air was cold on me. The nozzle touched my anus, and I jumped.

Ben held me down, saying, “Take a couple deep breaths, Kelli, and just relax (RELAX??!!)…” I felt pressure on my anus, and the nozzle began to make its way into my bottom. “I’m only going to insert an inch or two at first, Kelli; then I’ll start the water flowing, and fill your rectum before we go any further.”

With that, Nurse stopped the insertion. My anus felt really distended from the size of the nozzle.

“Now the water, Kelli,” Ben said. I felt a warm gush into my bottom end. Unless you’ve had it done to you, there’s no explaining the sensation. It’s an invasion, a violation, a pleasure, a torment, a ‘Please don’t stop!’ and a ‘Stop! I can’t take any more!’ all rolled up into one. Coupled with that, in my case, was the obvious fact that I had a large male nurse holding me down, giving me this enema, I couldn’t fight him, and there was still a huge bagful of soapsuds and about 16″ of nozzle left to go. I whimpered with the pressure as the water distended my rectum, and then gasped as it began to enter my colon. The pressure was incredible – you will remember, I was full of fecal matter.

“OOOOooooohhhh!!! God!! OOoooohhh!!! OOOooowwww!!! It burns!! That soap burns!!” “That’s a good girl, Kelli. The water’s going in just right! The soap will make the enema work better!” Ben said enthusiastically, as I whimpered and squirmed. Soon he began to insert the nozzle deeper into me. It was big!! It felt like a snake, crawling up inside me, bending with the curves of my rectum and colon. Of course, that just made me feel fuller, and I moaned again.

“Pleeeeaaaassseee, Ben!!! Pleeeeaaaassseee Stop!” I cried, struggling vainly.

“I’ll stop in just a minute, Kelli. You don’t have to take the whole bag the first time–just half. You’re really full.”

“OOOoooohhhh!!!” I groaned. “I really can’t take any more!” “Yes, Kelli, just a bit more. Then you can go to the bathroom.”

“PLEEEAAASSSEEE!!!” I wailed. Finally, Nurse Ben judged the bag empty enough, and turned off the flow.

“All right, Kelli, now just relax a minute and let the water and soap do its work I kept on whimpering quietly as I lay on his lap unable to resist. My tears were flowing freely right now. Finally Ben began to withdraw the nozzle. As it left my bottom, I could feel his fingers on my anus, pressing me shut back there. He took a wad of toilet paper, held it against my bottom, and guided my hand back there, helping me up. I RAN to the toilet, and my bowels literally exploded with hard fecal matter and gas. It stank. I was mortified when he walked in and began to refill the bag, treating me like it was absolutely normal for him to go into the bathroom while I sat on the toilet and emptied myself.

“Next time the whole bag, Kelli, so be sure you’re empty!” Ben said, filling the bag till it bulged. I

shuddered. I was embarrassed, turned on, felt violated, dominated, controlled…

After Ben filled the bag, I heard him go out of the bathroom (I was concentrating on emptying myself, and looking down). When I looked up, he was standing there with two latex gloves, and the tube of K-Y. I watched him as he slipped the gloves on, slathered K-Y on the first two fingers of the right glove, and finally said, “Wh-what are you doing??”

“I have to check your progress, Kelli, and massage your rectum to help you expel everything,” he replied.

“Oh, God, NO, Please. I’m fine. I don’t need you to do that. I’ll be done in just a minute!”

“No, Kelli, I have to check,” he said, kneeling in front of me, eye-level with my nipples. “Just lean forward and lift yourself up a bit. It won’t hurt, and it will only take a minute.”

I shuddered, but I did as he said, my face literally flaming. I felt the glove slide across my vaginal lips. I felt his two fingers at my “back door;” “Now take a couple deep breaths, Kelli,” he said, and inserted both fingers into my bottom. I breathed all right. I gasped.

“OOOooooohhhhhhh!!!” I could feel him deep inside me. Then he began to massage my rectum inside, toward my navel, pressing forward with his fingers. I was astonished when ALL KINDS of fecal matter began to come down. I tried to hold it.

“Just let it come, Kelli. That’s what the glove is for. I couldn’t hold it anyway, and so I emptied out with his fingers in my bottom, moaning and whimpering with the embarrassment and pressure of his fingers in me. I must have had more fecal matter than I ever imagined inside me. Ben stood up and peeled the glove off. My eyes stared at those long, large fingers of his–the ones he had just stuck up my bottom. He caught me looking at his fingers, and smiled at me. It was a knowing smile, and I knew I had been discovered. Much as I hated this treatment, I also liked it. I didn’t REALLY want him to leave. I wanted him to do what he was about to do.

He left the bathroom (relief!!) while I wiped, and washed myself. When I re-entered the bedroom, there was a towel on the floor, with a pillow at one end. The enema bag (bulging more than ever, I thought) hung from the stand at the other end. I gulped.

“All right, Kelli, get down on your hands and knees. Rest your face on the pillow and spread your knees about two feet apart.” He had no doubt that I would do it. I could imagine what I would look like with my bottom in the air like that, completely exposed for him to see–helpless, too. I blushed again.

“No reason to be upset, Kelli,” he said. “I do this every day.”

“But I don’t!” I moaned.

“Just get down there and get ready, Kelli,” he commanded. I shuddered, but I knelt on the towel. I looked back, to see what was happening, and I saw him take the nozzle (the big one he had used last time) and move it toward me. Soon I felt it touch my anus. It was slick. He pushed. The nozzle slid in. I couldn’t get the image of a man’s cock back there out of my mind. He unclamped the tubing, and the water began to flow in. I gritted my teeth, and gasped. It felt like it was going DDEEEEPPP inside me. In a moment he clamped off the flow and pushed the tube further into my rectum.

Once again, it felt like a giant snake, or hose, entering me. The water again. It was only at this point that I noticed he had his hand, the one holding the tube, resting against my open pussy. It felt good. I liked this, despite the embarrassment. I liked being told to get on my knees and put my bottom in the air–and to feel that I had no choice, that he would do what he pleased. I knew I couldn’t stop him anyway. I might as well relax. The tube continued to enter me, and the water, in alternating moves.

“I’m inserting the tube all the way into you this time, Kelli,” he said, “and to do that I have to expand your colon with the water as I insert. Otherwise, it won’t work properly.” He kept pushing on that tube. I could feel it snaking deep inside me, and the water flowing in. I felt very full.

“Can we stop?” I asked.

“No, Kelli, this time you need to take the entire bag. I’ll take plenty of time with you so it doesn’t cause too much discomfort.”

“OOOoooohhhh!!!” I gasped, a bout of cramps hitting me as the water continued to enter me.

“Cramping?” He asked, concern in his voice.

“Yeah,” I whimpered. “Can’t we stop now?”

“No, Kelli, you have to take it all. You have to have a good enema.”

“OOOoooohhhHHH!!” wailed. Suddenly the pain went away. The tube was all in.

“About half done, Kelli,” Nurse said, and began the flow again; as the enema began to enter my deepest recesses (I could feel the water working its way all the way up inside me), Nurse Ben rested his palm on my vaginal lips and began to move the nozzle in and out of me. It made me feel sick – but it turned me on more than I’ve ever been turned on. I gasped and moaned. Only this time, it was not from embarrassment, pain, or fear. I was sooo turned on. The pleasure/pressure/control/pain all mingled to produce a sensation like I had never felt before. I shuddered. I came, with him using that nozzle like a huge long cock in my bottom, filling me with warm water that I couldn’t resist.

Ben pretended not to notice. “It’s all in, Kelli,” he announced. I heard a “click” as the clamp was shut, and then I felt that long tube being withdrawn from my bowels. He pressed a gloved finger against my anus to keep me from leaking, and said, “Kelli, I want you to stay here just like this until you really have to go. I will be packing up. If you can, hold it till I leave so that the enema can liquefy everything inside you. Then get up and go. I’ll be back tomorrow at 4:30 for your next treatment.”

I knelt there, my bottom in the air, and tried to relax. I could feel the water gurgling around in me. I could hear Nurse Ben getting ready to leave. I couldn’t wait till he left, and I got up and ran to the bathroom, the fecal matter once again exploding out of me as I released the enema. I could feel my bowels draining from high up. I shouted, between spurts of water and fecal matter:

“Nurse Ben!! Nurse Ben!!” He poked his head in.

“Thank you, Nurse Ben. I feel much better. Can you come earlier than 4:30??”

“Why, Kelli?” he asked.

“Because I think I’m going to need three enemas tomorrow,” I said, blushing furiously.

“Well, Kelli, if that’s what you want, you’ll certainly get it,” he grinned. I blushed in anticipation, wondering what he would do to me the following day.