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"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 owered 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’t!"

"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.

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