I was pregnant with my first child when I learned about enemas and consequently, of their erotic potential.
During my first trimester I started having chronic constipation. I was barely in my twenties and didn't know much about being pregnant. I can tell you I was not looking forward to another six months of misery. I guess that is why when my neighbor, an older woman (gosh, she must have been in her late forties!) suggested an enema, I agreed.
Well, I didn't exactly agree, but I was willing to listen to what she had to say. She explained it all to me and ended up offering to give me my first enema.
The fact that I hadn't had a decent bowel movement in three days helped me come to a decision. It couldn't be any worse that what I was suffering through.
She took me into her apartment and told me she'd have me feeling better in no time. Without wasting time, she led me to her small bedroom for my first enema.
She told me to take off my pants and underwear. While I undressed she placed a pillow in the middle of her bed and covered it with several thick towels. She wanted me to lie on my back with my hips on the pillow.
While my breasts had increased in a cup size, my tummy still retained its original shape. I didn't look PG, which suited me fine. I had no desire to rush into the beached whale mode of “gloriously pregnant.”
Mrs. Smith fussed in the bathroom for a few minutes and came out carrying a red rubber enema bag, a coil of tubing, a tube of K-Y and some exam gloves.
I cringed at the sight of those gloves. I wasn't about to let her poke around feeling my cervix the way my gynecologist did. The idea that women docs where more sensitive to female patients couldn't be proven by my experience.
Mrs. Smith laughed at my obvious nervousness. “You relax honey, I'll do all the work.”
She hung the full-looking bag (later I found out it held only three pints) from a brass hat rack adjacent to the bed. Instead of ending in a nozzle, the tubing seemed to be connected to a another section of hose that came to a tapered end.
Mrs. Smith wiggled her hands into the latex gloves and sat next to me. “Now,” she explained. “I will do everything, all you must do is relax and not worry.”
I raised my head to see what she was going to do.
“Now lie back,” she admonished. “I explain everything as I go.”
I gave up and hoped she knew what the hell she was doing.
“I'm going to apply some lubricant first,” she began. “In your condition, you should know what that feels like.”
“Uh,” I stammered nervously. “You're not going to stick your hand up my butt, are you?” My Gyn stuck her fist in my vagina like she was stuffing a turkey.
She laughed. “Of course not! Now part your thighs, that's it. I'm simply going to rub around your anus to both lubricate it and loosen it.”
I did as she asked and felt her gloved hand probe my nether region. The taut elastic glove felt nice. Her finger tips where made smooth by the exam glove, which helped quite a bit. In spite of my apprehension, I began to relax.
Mrs. Smith could tell the difference. Wow. She actually waited until I was ready before going on the next step, namely inserting the tube.
“You noticed the tube, eh? This soft rubber tube, a Foley, is much better than those hard plastic enema tips.”
I felt the tip of the tube rub against my anus before it penetrated. I couldn't help it, I tensed up before it traveled far.
“Just relax,” she offered. Mrs. Smith held the tube with the first three fingers of her left hand. The hand, close to my anus, didn't move, nor did it feel intrusive.
“I'm going to start the flow now, breathe deep and slow.”
I gulped back my panic and tried to do what she wanted. The clamp opened, I felt warmth at first, then a cramp, like I had to go.
“I have to go!”
Mrs. Smith adjusted the shut-off clamp but didn't close it off. “That's natural, but you don't really have to go. Trust me.”
“Oh, it sure feels like I have to go!” I was certain my colon was flooded with gallons of water that would burst forth at any uncontrolled moment. “What are you doing?!”
Mrs. Smith laughed. “I'm slowly working more of the tube into your rectum. It makes it easier to take.”
She started to massage my tummy with her right hand. I tried to calm and control myself. It felt like I was going to shit any minute and I didn't like it at all.
“There, there,” she soothed. “Just relax, you are doing fine.” She rubbed my tummy and I had to admit it felt okay.
“Do I have to take it all?”
“We'll see,” she answered. “There's no physical reason why you shouldn't be able to, but we won't push it.”
Another cramp hit me and I moaned in pain. I was beginning to panic. I did not like the uncontrollable sensations this enema was producing and I told her so.
Mrs. Smith dismissed my objections. “Nothing to worry about, you will get used to them in time, you'll see. Besides,” she added, “Suffering from hemorrhoids is worse. You'll develop them in a few more months, you know. Perfectly natural, but” she continued “You can aggravate them with constipation and then they won't go away.”
Well, I didn't want that, but I couldn't imagine that taking an enema would be much better. I felt awful, bloated and crampy and I had to shit NOW.
“There,” she announced. “All done.”
“Great,” I said. “I gotta go!”
“In a moment, dear.” Mrs. Smith pulled a couple of Kleenex out of the box by the bed and pressed them against my anus after she removed the tube.
She helped me to the toilet and left me to shit half my weight out. At first it felt terrible, the cramps were so painful I whimpered. Then, after I passed most of the blockage, I began to feel better.
I thanked Mrs. Smith and told her the enema really helped.
She reminded me to call on her the next time I was constipated, but not to wait several days. “The first time you miss having a BM, you come see me young lady,” she scolded.
At first I thought I wouldn't go back and subject myself to another unpleasant enema. But the more I thought about what she said, the more I agreed with her.
I did seek her out the next time I became constipated and it wasn't as bad as I remembered. After that, whenever I ran into Mrs. Smith we'd discuss my bowel habits and if I was having difficulties I'd take her up on her offer to help me.
Around my seventh month Mrs. Smith suggested I take my enemas at home. “If you husband is willing, having your pre-delivery enema at home will be easier on you. The nurses in the maternity ward are so busy, they tend to rush those things.”
I told Frank what Mrs. Smith had said. He said he was game, joking that anything that got his hands close to my crotch these days was just fine with him.
Turned out that Frank had plenty of opportunities to get his hands close to my crotch. He gave me an enema about once a week during the last month of my pregnancy.
By then I couldn't see down there, so Frank jokingly added a running commentary on what he was seeing while he administered my enema. From there he progressed to stroking my vulva and clit.
Three children later, enemas are a recurring part of our sex life.