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However, when I became concerned that because of my condition one might be ordered I became anxious and hoped that it would not be necessary.

As it turned out, an enema was never necessary and I still regret it. I would have loved to have one administered by someone else.

As I have stated in prior posts, procedures involving touching a patient's genitals is about as exciting as feeling a piece of fruit in the food store.

No, more like feeling a honeydew or a pineapple for the soft spot where the stem joins the fruit! As far as touching fruit and getting excited, well, now, I do that sometimes, but only when it's fruit that I am really hungry for, it's at peak ripeness, and it is on sale.

MMMMM, nothing better, hehehe. When and if you ever are my patient, I promise to do my best to take care of you professionally speaking.

I might even shut the door and pull the curtain to give you a bit of privacy, if I am feeling nice that is But if I ever end up in a hospital, I truly hope that I will encounter professionals such as Mashie and Switchablesusie.

For the most part, it's "paint by the numbers. That's not to say that some nurses don't enjoy that task, but from those I know, there is more often a distinct desire to give some crotchety guy a high and faster filling just for spite.

But even that isn't according to procedure and could get them into trouble. Plenty of nurses enjoy taking care of attractive men, just as many male providers enjoy taking care of attractive women.

Depends upon that relationship. Frankly, most of us are so busy that we don't take time to think about our patients except on a professional level.

I'm sure that after the shift, home, resting, some of us will have a thought like, "that was a cute bottom," or "that guy had buns of steel.

While they may or may not have been nurses by profession several colon therapists clearly enjoyed giving colonics and enemas.

One was the late Mildred Burgess in Boston, who gave some of the best enemas, had a pretty good selection of equipment and talked me into enemas rather than colonics early on.

I was in my 20's at the time. Once I told them I was the nature of the sessions changed And one of the women from a well known Los Angeles erotic enema clinic talked about being a nurses aide just so she could give enemas, she worked with another young woman also into enemas and they would conspire to make the enemas of attractive patients as erotic as they would dare.

They even went so far as to give the occasional enema without doctors orders to a particularly attractive patient.

Lucky for them they never got caught. They also said they had been very successful in talking friends and acquaintances into an enema. Back in the days when a hospital stay almost guaranteed an enema I was given one the night before sugery, and the day before discharge when it was noted I hadn't had a BM.

The first enema was good, but nothing that could be considered erotic on the part of the nurses aide. Before discharge An enema was ordered and given by a young nurses aide.

It was not as business-like, the young lady was very skilled at what she was doing, and seemed to enjoy giving it. After I was finished, bring told not to flush, she checked the results and told be there was probably more inside me and asked if I wanted another Of course I did, and her reply was she could give me 3.

My somewhat enthusiastic reply was 3 would be good because I would really be cleaned out She was fine with it, and each of the enemas was from a cc plastic bucket, and each was very soapy, two packages on enema soap in each.

When my 3 were done I commented on being a bit uncomfortable from all the soap. She told me she could give me a clear water enema, but I shouldn't mention getting more than three, so I said fine, but that I had been given enemas before and my capacity was more than cc, so she gave me the cc and asked if I could take more!

After she checked that time she told me I had done very well and again asked me not to tell anyone I had gotten more that 3 enemas. On her way out of the room she commented that I really seemed to like enemas I replied I did, I never saw the young woman again.

While im sure most enemas were given professionally, i expect many nurses were aware of the enemas effect on people, i have been in hospital before, and years ago i heard a nurse jokingly say to a nearby patient he would be getting an enema if he didnt get to have a bm soon.

Unfortunatly, i never got to have an enema in such a situation, although ive recently had a barium enema from a nurse while a female dr looked on I myself have never enjoyed it.

Work is work and it's all about the patient getting better. I separate work from play. That even goes as far as if I suggest an enema to a friend I have been intimate with.

It's like my mind switches to get them better. I had a home care nurse after being hospitalized.

I was 22 at the time. She was only She was lubing a tube from a filled hospital bag when I asked her if she liked giving enemas. I remember what she said.

The professionalism of Joseph B. Strauss is out of question, nevertheless I'm willing to bet that he has felt more pleasure in designing the Golden Gate Bridge rather than in other of his projects, such as the Longview Bridge or even - why not?

I can say that there were times when I did enjoy being asked to give an enema prior to a procedure but I really had to contain it.

All in all it just confirmed my own enjoyment for giving and receiving. There were some very quick trips to the rest room or changing room after giving a good looking guy an enema and seeing him get aroused as some did.

Those were the days. Yeah I'd have a hard time expelling some really nasty stuff in front of a good looking nurse even though I know they're conditioned for it and it's probably very routine for them.

It's a matter of dignity for me and certainly if I had a choice I'd rather not do that. As a side note, once in the hospital not too long ago I had a very attractive nurse remove a Foley Catheter from you know where and it hurt but she was very professional.

Somewhat took the pain away. I have been impressed that very few nurses enjoy giving enemas in real life.

It takes time away from other work. I don't think they are squeamish about doing it anymore than I am about doing the things I do as an ER physician.

I think that they mostly want the treatment to work as quickly as possible and the patient to feel better. Years ago I had prostate surgery, the old fashioned way I was field dressed.

The surgery was on a Thursday and on Saturday the nurse asked if I wanted shower It was then I realized she was not leaving the shower Bottom line they have seen it all and while we think we are different we are all gender wise built the same.

I am thankful for nurses because after the slicing is done they are our road to recovery. The nurses I encountered would do anything to make your life better including enemas I did not need one, but the drugs they offered were effective.

I have more compassion for nurses and teachers than any other professions. It never ceases to amaze me how many ways people fantasize about what medical professionals think about when doing their job.

This is especially obvious because of the Penthouse Letters origin of this thread. Penthouse Letters is well known for its factual information - not.

Read here more information what is bonus group membership. Various features here might not work at all. List Browse List by tags. Views: Created: Post number 1.

This is from a nurse from a letter from The Penthouse Letters: Since this first experience with the enema, I take great pleasure in both giving and receiving them.

Post number 2. The events I am about to describe occur on a Friday afternoon, late in the day at the end of the week when the headmaster steps away from his papers and steps towards the wholesome application of painful learning to his girls.

Nor indeed is then being bent unceremoniously over his knees with your bare bottom up awaiting martyrdom.

And of course sometimes by those things and other things besides, as I shall come to. Presently, but not just yet, for pacing is, after all, both an art and a virtue.

Or so I am told. A small number of inmates, neither too few nor too many, for the head likes his Friday afternoons spent as Goldilocks liked her porridge, not too many girls bared for the strap, nor too few, but rather just exactly the right number.

They go up the stairs, slowly, ploddingly, their hearts in their saddle shoes, their tummies aflutter, their dread collective and, I must say, easily sensed, even from afar.

They parade up, and the lucky man passing below as they ascend would enjoy the sight they present: white kneesocks, short plaid skirts, white blouses and, from the angle up the stairs, a clear view of five pairs of tight round buttocks in white underpants.

At this point a brief digression into chastisement is probably in order. Whether in a reformatory or in the marital bedroom or in a medical office where compliance with procedures is tanamount, throughout history women of all ages have had their behavior corrected by punishments to their bared backsides.

Consider, for example, the marital bedroom where the wife has disobeyed some instruction and now stands in a corner with her skirt hiked up and her panties lowered to her knees.

Corners are not, in general, fascinating, and the corner she occupies is equally unstimulating. Or cast your view to a medical office where a young lady has been undressed and re-clad in a hospital gown, hanging open in back to expose her behind to the humiliating procedures she is about to undergo, and that I shall come to later on.

She stands before the doctor, who is pointing to the apparatus she dreads; does he put her over his knee for it, or does he have her kneel on the examining table with her head down and her behind up in the air?

And if she disobeys, at what point has he had enough of her nonsense? At what point does his nurse hear his voice rise, hear the pleading and — soon enough — the sound of his well-seasoned hand exploding over and over again on her bare behind?

As the head could tell you, different females have different reactions and different mindsets about discipline. Some resist as much as possible, and seem to derive satisfaction or, perhaps more aptly, catharsis, via being brought by force to compliance.

Others go relatively meekly to their fate and, when called across the masculine lap comply largely without complaint. There may be moans as the underpants are lowered, there may be soft cries of protest as the hand descends — and those cries may well become less soft as the behind reddens and, inevitably, the paddle and the strap replace that hand.

And then there are those who crave discipline, and who do everything they can to place themselves in the center of the maelstrom, who beg to have their behinds subjected to the most severe discipline.

I know whereof I speak for — and I apologize for this liberty of interjecting myself into my story — I have encountered at least a few examples of this type.

One person came to me every month or so and, without communicating the desire to me in words, still made it clear that it was necessary for me to strip down her underpants and administer a very very thorough caning to her bared and spread cheeks.

Those sessions were quite an experience; her original perturbation on presenting herself diminished with each loud impact of the cane.

But of course we can look through the keyhole to see most but alas not all of what occurs inside. The first girl called by the headmaster is … call her Suzanne.

Hardly the ringleader of the bunch, medium height and every bit of her petrified. If you put your eye to the keyhole you can see them all in the outer room, and you can see the inner door open and the head gesture Suzanne inside.

The girl enters, closing the inner door behind her. For the minor sins, girls are marched out into the hallway and spanked by two of the older women who tend to them.

One to hold the girl bending and the other to administer the strap, either on the underpants or, more regularly, with the underpants down.

The strappings are hard, but the punitive effect comes more through the humiliation of being taken to the hallway and overheard pleading and crying.

This is a feature both the matrons and the head appreciate, and its something they maximize through as many rituals of correction as they can arrange.

I have always wondered how much these good women look at discipline as something they simply do as part of their duties, and whether any see it as something more, something they look forward to.

I admit the act is tedious, the crying and pleading young lady led or dragged into the hall, skirt yanked up and white underpants pulled down while she cries and begs.

And then the strap across that bared behind, over and over in a rather tedious pattern of raise, swing down, and then raise and repeat.

Until the buttocks range from pink to red and bruised, depending on the tastes of the lady wielding the strap.

I am inclined to put my hand on her behind over her skirt as I lecture, leaving it there for some prolonged period before I tip her over and move my hand to raise her skirt and, again after a pause to lecture, lower her panties.

And then I sit back and enjoy this view, the bare cheeks, still untouched, unblemished but soon to be oh so very marked.

Which is to say, the kind of correction that occurs not on the cheeks, but rather between them. The headmaster is straightfoward in his approach, at least for a relatively good girl like Suzanne.

The traditional instrument is the reformatory paddle, wooden with holes drilled in it. So Suzanne almost certainly stood there with her stomach fluttering and her bowels tensing, listening to the headmaster scold her, the cheeks of her face red, the cheeks of her behind soon to be at least the same color.

Some girls are uniform in their cries, so much so that passersby can identify the girl and, from the volume of her moans and pleading, the instrument being applied.

First mirrors, of which I am an aficionado. And what about the girl, does she know what he sees? That room has not only a peephole but also a viewing area if there must needs be witnesses to the cleaning out of the culprit or culprits of their sins.

For you see that not all punishments should be given in private; in fact privacy is something earned, not automatically granted.

So the spankings in the hallways by the good ladies of the classrooms on the lower floors, those may occur outside of the view of the other girls, but even then the noise of the strap is clear, as are the noises the recipient makes as that strap is applied.

And this is good for the students inside the classroom, let them hear what happens to the unruly and the disobedient among them.

Which is to say, a view of the head sitting on a straight-backed chair with the culprit draped across his knees, her behind bared and red, and his hand impacting over and over again on that bare posterior.

For despite the presence of that tiled room below ground level, both the head and I are not averse to certain washings out of sins occurring in a more public venue.

I admit that some of the routines of the reformatory that I record in this document may strike you as extreme; and I am not in a position to claim I am a mere amanuensis of these events, an observer only and not an active participant.

But I make no apology for what goes on, nor will I disclaim my wholehearted embrace of what we who run this institution do behind its high walls.

My view is that we are there to help the occupants set their old ways aside; and it is also my view that this setting aside is not a natural tendency for the occupants, and that we must therefore incentivize their progression from sinners to … well, if not saints, at least sinners reformed.

It is also my view that no harm comes of the peepholes, for they allow us to monitor the girls the better to understand them.

And as for the uses that they are put to after correction? Well, I have devoted myself to the reformation of my cares, is it not appropriate that I make certain uses of them as a reward for my devotion?

And frankly we are discrete about it, and ensure that no harm comes to the girls in regards to what we find enjoyable to do during and after discipline.

Consider the situation. The girl lies there with her bottom blazing, her eyes wet with tears, and the windows open so that all can hear her distress.

What should the head do in this situation? Lift her up and send her on her way with no further discussion? So is it not an appropriate reward for the head to slip his hand down and engage her gently between her legs as she lies there with her red behind up?

How does this conclude, this first case study, the punishment of Suzanne? Mortified but also sated. And so the door opens and Suzanne exits, skirt lowered but in disarray.

Before discussing Mary, I feel obliged to return to those rooms in the basement, the second being as I described, tiled, in order that certain particularized punishments may be effected there with minimum inconvenience to the disciplinarian.

Even so, what occurs in these dark windowless rooms is well-known throughout the school, the first room being the place where the cane or birch are given; and the second where disciplinary enemas and enforced sodomy are practiced in the situations where they are demanded.

Is this cruel? Opinions vary as to what balance should be struck between spontaneous correction and discipline which is both premeditated and, given the available time delay, well-supplemented with multiple implements and positioning devices.

This credo has worked well for me over the years; for example one of my duties is to escort the girls to their various tasks around the grounds, both in the buildings surrounding the reformatory and out in the thick woods.

No fuss, no muss, no hesitation, only shrieks of pain and the sound of the implement laid across the bared cheeks, and the pleasing to me at least red stripes across those cheeks that follow.

As well as certain other acts of contrition that I sometimes expect. My office is similarly devoid of the accoutrements of correction.

And what I see is altogether a more interesting view: the kneesocks, the short skirt, the goosebumps on the glabrous thighs and, of course, the tops of those thighs and the two round mounds hiding under the skirt that drapes them.

So I pace and lecture, all the while enjoying the sight before me of the pert buttocks beneath the skirt, the buttocks I am about to bare and discipline.

And what a panoply of possibilities this sight offers. Shall I make her hike up her skirt and drop her regulation underpants to her knees, or shall I do it for her?

Shall I make her bend across the desk and reach back to bare herself, or shall I have her bare herself and then bend, so that I can get a complete view of her buttocks shifting and tensing as she lowers herself across the cold surface of the desk?

Giving her buttocks a good caress or two as I do so, and, when that white inadequately sized whisp of fabric is far enough down to expose her thighs for the caning must include a good dose on the thighs gently push her down onto the desk?

In that latter case I would of course take the opportunity to step back and admire the view now presented, for those two marks and the floor are carefully placed to ensure the culprit presents a good view to me and other observers who may of necessity or invitation also be present for the event — the tight little purse between the legs, and the even tighter little buttonhole between the lewdly spread cheeks.

A sight to behold indeed, one I have to say I savor, for it marks one of those high points in a session when my sense of control is at a high-watermark.

Little effort on my part, and much intense shame for her. So you see, I am a minimalist as far as furniture and implements go, and in this respect the head and I differ.

Now I suppose he would argue that there is at least one area of correction where I am as apparatus-obsessed as he, and that one rather solid substantiation of that sits even as I write down in the tiled room in the basement, its well-worn and, in places, deeply scratched arms testament to my fondness for using it.

Well, fine, the head has a point there. But we can hear his chair drag back so he must be getting up. And after a short pause he comes into view, coming to a stop by Mary, his bulk casting a shadow over her, blocking the light that streams in from the windows and the opened drapes.

Or belt. Perhaps this is because there are unifying principles to the other sex, men have their own failings of course, but women? Issues seem to be all too similar no matter the female culprit.

Thus the culprit is quite literally purged of her mouthiness. This leads me to another brief digression, in this case on the subject of female masochism.

Dirty laundry? And that again brings up the subject of female masochism, which I find I can conveniently classify into masochism accompanied by sexual excitation and masochism per se, without any sexual component.

Diddling, and more often than not a very recent diddling by the telltales. Perhaps in the bathroom, that visit to empty the bladder out of fear that it will empty of its own accord when correction occurs?

Is it some feature of the female body that makes this behavior so common? So Mary is without knickers, and she can only have done this by deliberation, knowing full well there will be additional consequences.

Is she aroused by this? Or is it asexual masochism, the cold knowledge that she needs punishment, and that only by experiencing the ritual of correction and the humiliation and pain that it provides will she experience catharsis.

I have known more than a few students who fell into this category; and for the women beyond the first blush of youth the tendency is even more pronounced.

Not that any young woman has woken me from my slumbers pleading for bare-bottom correction, but there have been more than a few that have done everything they can to earn a beating, a session with the cane in many cases, or, in a few cases a trip afterwards to both of the basement rooms.

Mary, without her underpants, bent over the stool, restrained, the headmaster flexing his thickest most painful cane, seems to fall into this intentional-submission-for-discipline category.

The buttocks face towards them, and towards us. He steps back, raises the cane for the first stroke, pauses to make the girl wait, then brings it down across her behind with a loud swish.

Mary screams, her head jerks up. No moistness between her legs that I can see, none of the other telltales of arousal, only misery and fear.

Suzanne is still sitting forlornly and gingerly in the corner , her eyes on the floor as the head talks to the other three: Angela, Betty and Olivia.

Mary remains bent throughout, her sobs fairly indistinct, the marks on her cheeks turning steadily to purple bruises. Or taken down belowstairs.

Perhaps he enjoys the more public aspects of discipline in his office, the window open, the drapes drawn back. The basement rooms are stark and windowless, no sounds escape, and the stairwell down is set back by the kitchen, well away from the paths the girls usually take through the first floor rooms.

Now, the head would argue that the salutary effects of a loud public correction are many — and in fact he has indeed argued this, many times, when we decamp to his or my apartments for a glass of Cognac and a fine cigar.

And of course I feel for him, really I do, for who would envy him his unpleasant duties of a Friday afternoon?

Her behind is a sight to behold — there are livid stripes across it, now well-bruised. She has to be in significant pain, but as I said she brought the additional correction on herself my turning up knicker-less, so she must have wanted the correction at some level.

At some level I agree with him, discipline can be painful both for the person administering the discipline as well as its unfortunate recipient.

And when I wield the cane, I accept that my shoulder may be sore after, even more so if I have to use the reformatory strap; but I accept these discomforts as the price I pay for the duties I must perform.

Technology has advanced, you see, and two forms of technology in particular, that of the fabrication of rubber on the one hand and of bakelite and modern polymers on the other.

Now I accept there are some who argue that punishment enemas are … well, unusual. But I submit that the same touchpoints for correction that apply to a punishment on the behind — discomfort, exposure, intense mortification — are equally as apt when the punishment is up the bottom as on it.

Consider a basic washout across my knees. The culprit is made to raise her skirt and lower her underpants and stand and watch as I fill a bag to bulging and, at my whim, add more or less of a large dose of soap to the bag.

The culprit is then made to watch as I hang the bag and sit down and pat my lap for her to come across it. Take one of the girls waiting to see the head, Betty.

The underpants are at half-mast and I can look down and see one of my hands spreading her hot cheeks wide apart, the other approaching, thick nozzle in hand, the Vaseline glistening on it, the penetration of her backside wholly at my whim, wholly outside her control.

Up against the tight pucker it goes, and I am sure I hear a deep intake of breath from the poor girl as I steadily push it in. Does she feel it going up inside her?

And is any of this inappropriate? Would she be happier receiving a long caning? Would she be any less uncomfortable — hardly so. Would she be less embarrassed?

The purging is effective, humiliating, and has no ill effects on my joints. As I said, technology has advanced in terms of the fabrication of rubber enema bags and hoses, as have the techniques for making large nozzles that, by their girth, will be snug going in and will stay in during the wait for the enema, the administration, and then the session across my lap while the soapy water does its work.

Perhaps not every last one, but for most a visit to the head or in my office at least once during their occupancy in the reformatory is a given.

For the majority the experience is not a unitary one, and, for some of them, those visits seem to be more frequent than their time in classes or at work in the various parts of the reformatory devoted to their learning manual arts that they can employ upon release.

After that I dealt with Olivia in a different way than what I gave the usual culprits. In fact it was because of her that I decided to adapt the then-vacant tiled room in the basement to the uses I now put it.

I hear the sounds of feminine distress, so we can safely assume Olivia is now receiving her due. And what I saw then gave me more than a little pause and, I will admit, more than a little pleasure.

I knew what an enema was of course, and I was vaguely aware that the girls were regularly stopped up by the foul food they were served in the refectory and therefore received them occasionally as a treatment.

At first no one noticed me as I stood there transfixed. As the girl squirmed I could see the lubricant thickly smeared between her cheeks, and I could hear her faint moans and the periodic sound of the bag heaving as more of its contents poured down into the impaled backside.

The girl taking the washout saw me first, and her face turned red when she saw I was there enjoying the view. But the nurse is well known for her no-nonsense approach to the girls, and so the recipient of the soapy water had no choice but to keep quiet.

I might even shut the door and pull the curtain to give you a bit of privacy, if I am feeling nice that is But if I ever end up in a hospital, I truly hope that I will encounter professionals such as Mashie and Switchablesusie.

For the most part, it's "paint by the numbers. That's not to say that some nurses don't enjoy that task, but from those I know, there is more often a distinct desire to give some crotchety guy a high and faster filling just for spite.

But even that isn't according to procedure and could get them into trouble. Plenty of nurses enjoy taking care of attractive men, just as many male providers enjoy taking care of attractive women.

Depends upon that relationship. Frankly, most of us are so busy that we don't take time to think about our patients except on a professional level.

I'm sure that after the shift, home, resting, some of us will have a thought like, "that was a cute bottom," or "that guy had buns of steel.

While they may or may not have been nurses by profession several colon therapists clearly enjoyed giving colonics and enemas.

One was the late Mildred Burgess in Boston, who gave some of the best enemas, had a pretty good selection of equipment and talked me into enemas rather than colonics early on.

I was in my 20's at the time. Once I told them I was the nature of the sessions changed And one of the women from a well known Los Angeles erotic enema clinic talked about being a nurses aide just so she could give enemas, she worked with another young woman also into enemas and they would conspire to make the enemas of attractive patients as erotic as they would dare.

They even went so far as to give the occasional enema without doctors orders to a particularly attractive patient.

Lucky for them they never got caught. They also said they had been very successful in talking friends and acquaintances into an enema.

Back in the days when a hospital stay almost guaranteed an enema I was given one the night before sugery, and the day before discharge when it was noted I hadn't had a BM.

The first enema was good, but nothing that could be considered erotic on the part of the nurses aide. Before discharge An enema was ordered and given by a young nurses aide.

It was not as business-like, the young lady was very skilled at what she was doing, and seemed to enjoy giving it. After I was finished, bring told not to flush, she checked the results and told be there was probably more inside me and asked if I wanted another Of course I did, and her reply was she could give me 3.

My somewhat enthusiastic reply was 3 would be good because I would really be cleaned out She was fine with it, and each of the enemas was from a cc plastic bucket, and each was very soapy, two packages on enema soap in each.

When my 3 were done I commented on being a bit uncomfortable from all the soap. She told me she could give me a clear water enema, but I shouldn't mention getting more than three, so I said fine, but that I had been given enemas before and my capacity was more than cc, so she gave me the cc and asked if I could take more!

After she checked that time she told me I had done very well and again asked me not to tell anyone I had gotten more that 3 enemas.

On her way out of the room she commented that I really seemed to like enemas I replied I did, I never saw the young woman again. While im sure most enemas were given professionally, i expect many nurses were aware of the enemas effect on people, i have been in hospital before, and years ago i heard a nurse jokingly say to a nearby patient he would be getting an enema if he didnt get to have a bm soon.

Unfortunatly, i never got to have an enema in such a situation, although ive recently had a barium enema from a nurse while a female dr looked on I myself have never enjoyed it.

Work is work and it's all about the patient getting better. I separate work from play. That even goes as far as if I suggest an enema to a friend I have been intimate with.

It's like my mind switches to get them better. I had a home care nurse after being hospitalized. I was 22 at the time. She was only She was lubing a tube from a filled hospital bag when I asked her if she liked giving enemas.

I remember what she said. The professionalism of Joseph B. Strauss is out of question, nevertheless I'm willing to bet that he has felt more pleasure in designing the Golden Gate Bridge rather than in other of his projects, such as the Longview Bridge or even - why not?

I can say that there were times when I did enjoy being asked to give an enema prior to a procedure but I really had to contain it.

All in all it just confirmed my own enjoyment for giving and receiving. There were some very quick trips to the rest room or changing room after giving a good looking guy an enema and seeing him get aroused as some did.

Those were the days. Yeah I'd have a hard time expelling some really nasty stuff in front of a good looking nurse even though I know they're conditioned for it and it's probably very routine for them.

It's a matter of dignity for me and certainly if I had a choice I'd rather not do that. As a side note, once in the hospital not too long ago I had a very attractive nurse remove a Foley Catheter from you know where and it hurt but she was very professional.

Somewhat took the pain away. I have been impressed that very few nurses enjoy giving enemas in real life. It takes time away from other work.

I don't think they are squeamish about doing it anymore than I am about doing the things I do as an ER physician. I think that they mostly want the treatment to work as quickly as possible and the patient to feel better.

Years ago I had prostate surgery, the old fashioned way I was field dressed. The surgery was on a Thursday and on Saturday the nurse asked if I wanted shower It was then I realized she was not leaving the shower Bottom line they have seen it all and while we think we are different we are all gender wise built the same.

I am thankful for nurses because after the slicing is done they are our road to recovery. The nurses I encountered would do anything to make your life better including enemas I did not need one, but the drugs they offered were effective.

I have more compassion for nurses and teachers than any other professions. It never ceases to amaze me how many ways people fantasize about what medical professionals think about when doing their job.

This is especially obvious because of the Penthouse Letters origin of this thread. Penthouse Letters is well known for its factual information - not.

Read here more information what is bonus group membership. Various features here might not work at all. List Browse List by tags. Views: Created: Post number 1.

This is from a nurse from a letter from The Penthouse Letters: Since this first experience with the enema, I take great pleasure in both giving and receiving them.

Post number 2. Post number 3. Post number 4. Actually I have found one here but failed to build a working relationship finally.

Post number 5. Post number 6. Yes we do enjoy giving enemas to attractive paitents. Post number 7.

I have to say I am not in agreement with you at all analee. Hardly the ringleader of the bunch, medium height and every bit of her petrified.

If you put your eye to the keyhole you can see them all in the outer room, and you can see the inner door open and the head gesture Suzanne inside.

The girl enters, closing the inner door behind her. For the minor sins, girls are marched out into the hallway and spanked by two of the older women who tend to them.

One to hold the girl bending and the other to administer the strap, either on the underpants or, more regularly, with the underpants down.

The strappings are hard, but the punitive effect comes more through the humiliation of being taken to the hallway and overheard pleading and crying.

This is a feature both the matrons and the head appreciate, and its something they maximize through as many rituals of correction as they can arrange.

I have always wondered how much these good women look at discipline as something they simply do as part of their duties, and whether any see it as something more, something they look forward to.

I admit the act is tedious, the crying and pleading young lady led or dragged into the hall, skirt yanked up and white underpants pulled down while she cries and begs.

And then the strap across that bared behind, over and over in a rather tedious pattern of raise, swing down, and then raise and repeat. Until the buttocks range from pink to red and bruised, depending on the tastes of the lady wielding the strap.

I am inclined to put my hand on her behind over her skirt as I lecture, leaving it there for some prolonged period before I tip her over and move my hand to raise her skirt and, again after a pause to lecture, lower her panties.

And then I sit back and enjoy this view, the bare cheeks, still untouched, unblemished but soon to be oh so very marked. Which is to say, the kind of correction that occurs not on the cheeks, but rather between them.

The headmaster is straightfoward in his approach, at least for a relatively good girl like Suzanne. The traditional instrument is the reformatory paddle, wooden with holes drilled in it.

So Suzanne almost certainly stood there with her stomach fluttering and her bowels tensing, listening to the headmaster scold her, the cheeks of her face red, the cheeks of her behind soon to be at least the same color.

Some girls are uniform in their cries, so much so that passersby can identify the girl and, from the volume of her moans and pleading, the instrument being applied.

First mirrors, of which I am an aficionado. And what about the girl, does she know what he sees? That room has not only a peephole but also a viewing area if there must needs be witnesses to the cleaning out of the culprit or culprits of their sins.

For you see that not all punishments should be given in private; in fact privacy is something earned, not automatically granted.

So the spankings in the hallways by the good ladies of the classrooms on the lower floors, those may occur outside of the view of the other girls, but even then the noise of the strap is clear, as are the noises the recipient makes as that strap is applied.

And this is good for the students inside the classroom, let them hear what happens to the unruly and the disobedient among them.

Which is to say, a view of the head sitting on a straight-backed chair with the culprit draped across his knees, her behind bared and red, and his hand impacting over and over again on that bare posterior.

For despite the presence of that tiled room below ground level, both the head and I are not averse to certain washings out of sins occurring in a more public venue.

I admit that some of the routines of the reformatory that I record in this document may strike you as extreme; and I am not in a position to claim I am a mere amanuensis of these events, an observer only and not an active participant.

But I make no apology for what goes on, nor will I disclaim my wholehearted embrace of what we who run this institution do behind its high walls.

My view is that we are there to help the occupants set their old ways aside; and it is also my view that this setting aside is not a natural tendency for the occupants, and that we must therefore incentivize their progression from sinners to … well, if not saints, at least sinners reformed.

It is also my view that no harm comes of the peepholes, for they allow us to monitor the girls the better to understand them.

And as for the uses that they are put to after correction? Well, I have devoted myself to the reformation of my cares, is it not appropriate that I make certain uses of them as a reward for my devotion?

And frankly we are discrete about it, and ensure that no harm comes to the girls in regards to what we find enjoyable to do during and after discipline.

Consider the situation. The girl lies there with her bottom blazing, her eyes wet with tears, and the windows open so that all can hear her distress.

What should the head do in this situation? Lift her up and send her on her way with no further discussion? So is it not an appropriate reward for the head to slip his hand down and engage her gently between her legs as she lies there with her red behind up?

How does this conclude, this first case study, the punishment of Suzanne? Mortified but also sated. And so the door opens and Suzanne exits, skirt lowered but in disarray.

Before discussing Mary, I feel obliged to return to those rooms in the basement, the second being as I described, tiled, in order that certain particularized punishments may be effected there with minimum inconvenience to the disciplinarian.

Even so, what occurs in these dark windowless rooms is well-known throughout the school, the first room being the place where the cane or birch are given; and the second where disciplinary enemas and enforced sodomy are practiced in the situations where they are demanded.

Is this cruel? Opinions vary as to what balance should be struck between spontaneous correction and discipline which is both premeditated and, given the available time delay, well-supplemented with multiple implements and positioning devices.

This credo has worked well for me over the years; for example one of my duties is to escort the girls to their various tasks around the grounds, both in the buildings surrounding the reformatory and out in the thick woods.

No fuss, no muss, no hesitation, only shrieks of pain and the sound of the implement laid across the bared cheeks, and the pleasing to me at least red stripes across those cheeks that follow.

As well as certain other acts of contrition that I sometimes expect. My office is similarly devoid of the accoutrements of correction. And what I see is altogether a more interesting view: the kneesocks, the short skirt, the goosebumps on the glabrous thighs and, of course, the tops of those thighs and the two round mounds hiding under the skirt that drapes them.

So I pace and lecture, all the while enjoying the sight before me of the pert buttocks beneath the skirt, the buttocks I am about to bare and discipline.

And what a panoply of possibilities this sight offers. Shall I make her hike up her skirt and drop her regulation underpants to her knees, or shall I do it for her?

Shall I make her bend across the desk and reach back to bare herself, or shall I have her bare herself and then bend, so that I can get a complete view of her buttocks shifting and tensing as she lowers herself across the cold surface of the desk?

Giving her buttocks a good caress or two as I do so, and, when that white inadequately sized whisp of fabric is far enough down to expose her thighs for the caning must include a good dose on the thighs gently push her down onto the desk?

In that latter case I would of course take the opportunity to step back and admire the view now presented, for those two marks and the floor are carefully placed to ensure the culprit presents a good view to me and other observers who may of necessity or invitation also be present for the event — the tight little purse between the legs, and the even tighter little buttonhole between the lewdly spread cheeks.

A sight to behold indeed, one I have to say I savor, for it marks one of those high points in a session when my sense of control is at a high-watermark.

Little effort on my part, and much intense shame for her. So you see, I am a minimalist as far as furniture and implements go, and in this respect the head and I differ.

Now I suppose he would argue that there is at least one area of correction where I am as apparatus-obsessed as he, and that one rather solid substantiation of that sits even as I write down in the tiled room in the basement, its well-worn and, in places, deeply scratched arms testament to my fondness for using it.

Well, fine, the head has a point there. But we can hear his chair drag back so he must be getting up. And after a short pause he comes into view, coming to a stop by Mary, his bulk casting a shadow over her, blocking the light that streams in from the windows and the opened drapes.

Or belt. Perhaps this is because there are unifying principles to the other sex, men have their own failings of course, but women?

Issues seem to be all too similar no matter the female culprit. Thus the culprit is quite literally purged of her mouthiness. This leads me to another brief digression, in this case on the subject of female masochism.

Dirty laundry? And that again brings up the subject of female masochism, which I find I can conveniently classify into masochism accompanied by sexual excitation and masochism per se, without any sexual component.

Diddling, and more often than not a very recent diddling by the telltales. Perhaps in the bathroom, that visit to empty the bladder out of fear that it will empty of its own accord when correction occurs?

Is it some feature of the female body that makes this behavior so common? So Mary is without knickers, and she can only have done this by deliberation, knowing full well there will be additional consequences.

Is she aroused by this? Or is it asexual masochism, the cold knowledge that she needs punishment, and that only by experiencing the ritual of correction and the humiliation and pain that it provides will she experience catharsis.

I have known more than a few students who fell into this category; and for the women beyond the first blush of youth the tendency is even more pronounced.

Not that any young woman has woken me from my slumbers pleading for bare-bottom correction, but there have been more than a few that have done everything they can to earn a beating, a session with the cane in many cases, or, in a few cases a trip afterwards to both of the basement rooms.

Mary, without her underpants, bent over the stool, restrained, the headmaster flexing his thickest most painful cane, seems to fall into this intentional-submission-for-discipline category.

The buttocks face towards them, and towards us. He steps back, raises the cane for the first stroke, pauses to make the girl wait, then brings it down across her behind with a loud swish.

Mary screams, her head jerks up. No moistness between her legs that I can see, none of the other telltales of arousal, only misery and fear.

Suzanne is still sitting forlornly and gingerly in the corner , her eyes on the floor as the head talks to the other three: Angela, Betty and Olivia.

Mary remains bent throughout, her sobs fairly indistinct, the marks on her cheeks turning steadily to purple bruises.

Or taken down belowstairs. Perhaps he enjoys the more public aspects of discipline in his office, the window open, the drapes drawn back.

The basement rooms are stark and windowless, no sounds escape, and the stairwell down is set back by the kitchen, well away from the paths the girls usually take through the first floor rooms.

Now, the head would argue that the salutary effects of a loud public correction are many — and in fact he has indeed argued this, many times, when we decamp to his or my apartments for a glass of Cognac and a fine cigar.

And of course I feel for him, really I do, for who would envy him his unpleasant duties of a Friday afternoon? Her behind is a sight to behold — there are livid stripes across it, now well-bruised.

She has to be in significant pain, but as I said she brought the additional correction on herself my turning up knicker-less, so she must have wanted the correction at some level.

At some level I agree with him, discipline can be painful both for the person administering the discipline as well as its unfortunate recipient.

And when I wield the cane, I accept that my shoulder may be sore after, even more so if I have to use the reformatory strap; but I accept these discomforts as the price I pay for the duties I must perform.

Technology has advanced, you see, and two forms of technology in particular, that of the fabrication of rubber on the one hand and of bakelite and modern polymers on the other.

Now I accept there are some who argue that punishment enemas are … well, unusual. But I submit that the same touchpoints for correction that apply to a punishment on the behind — discomfort, exposure, intense mortification — are equally as apt when the punishment is up the bottom as on it.

Consider a basic washout across my knees. The culprit is made to raise her skirt and lower her underpants and stand and watch as I fill a bag to bulging and, at my whim, add more or less of a large dose of soap to the bag.

The culprit is then made to watch as I hang the bag and sit down and pat my lap for her to come across it. Take one of the girls waiting to see the head, Betty.

The underpants are at half-mast and I can look down and see one of my hands spreading her hot cheeks wide apart, the other approaching, thick nozzle in hand, the Vaseline glistening on it, the penetration of her backside wholly at my whim, wholly outside her control.

Up against the tight pucker it goes, and I am sure I hear a deep intake of breath from the poor girl as I steadily push it in.

Does she feel it going up inside her? And is any of this inappropriate? Would she be happier receiving a long caning?

Would she be any less uncomfortable — hardly so. Would she be less embarrassed? The purging is effective, humiliating, and has no ill effects on my joints.

As I said, technology has advanced in terms of the fabrication of rubber enema bags and hoses, as have the techniques for making large nozzles that, by their girth, will be snug going in and will stay in during the wait for the enema, the administration, and then the session across my lap while the soapy water does its work.

Perhaps not every last one, but for most a visit to the head or in my office at least once during their occupancy in the reformatory is a given.

For the majority the experience is not a unitary one, and, for some of them, those visits seem to be more frequent than their time in classes or at work in the various parts of the reformatory devoted to their learning manual arts that they can employ upon release.

After that I dealt with Olivia in a different way than what I gave the usual culprits. In fact it was because of her that I decided to adapt the then-vacant tiled room in the basement to the uses I now put it.

I hear the sounds of feminine distress, so we can safely assume Olivia is now receiving her due. And what I saw then gave me more than a little pause and, I will admit, more than a little pleasure.

I knew what an enema was of course, and I was vaguely aware that the girls were regularly stopped up by the foul food they were served in the refectory and therefore received them occasionally as a treatment.

At first no one noticed me as I stood there transfixed. As the girl squirmed I could see the lubricant thickly smeared between her cheeks, and I could hear her faint moans and the periodic sound of the bag heaving as more of its contents poured down into the impaled backside.

The girl taking the washout saw me first, and her face turned red when she saw I was there enjoying the view.

But the nurse is well known for her no-nonsense approach to the girls, and so the recipient of the soapy water had no choice but to keep quiet.

Even so, I could see the look in her eyes, pleading with me not to be there to watch her humiliation. But it was a Friday, and I had my own parade of incorrigibles to deal with … and there, to my surprise, she stood, the last of the day, late to my office and already in serious trouble.

And to let her hold to that idea, I admit I paced around her, lecturing, pretending to some sort of controlled fury, but instead enjoying the view of her pert buttocks underneath her too-short skirt.

Then I took her by the arm and, to her astonishment, told her we were going downstairs to see the nurse.

The nurse was probably as surprised to see us there as the girl was to be back in front of the woman who, only a few days before, had subjected her to the most abject embarrassment.

And so those washings out transpired. I had to get the nurse to help me for the first, in fact I let her do most of the work, watching as she undressed the girl behind a screen and, after putting her into a gown, brought her out and told her to get over my lap.

But I lectured and I made her wait until I thought she was sufficiently terrified, and then without warning I opened the clamp and let the soapy water rush down the tube and up her backside.

And I enjoyed the sudden cry she emitted as the purge started, and how she tightened her pert cheeks in a completely pointless attempt to stop the water from going in.

I thought this would be a simple thing for her to accomplish but, as I soon discovered, I had overestimated her in this regard. I had to give her a third washout, by which time the nurse had left to tend to duties elsewhere in the building, leaving me alone with the bare-bottomed girl over my lap, her cheeks still spread around the thick nozzle inserted in her most private part.

She cried, she squirmed, she pleaded with me to let her go rid herself of the purge, but I held firm. Yes, I admit I enjoyed the view, but I like to think myself a moralist first and foremost, and in order to keep to the moral highground I had no choice but to keep her there, pinned down, her belly rumbling as the soapy water did its work.

So I incorporated enemas into the corrections I administered. At first my knowledge was nonexistent, I used too little water or too much, hung the bag too low or too high, kept the culprit retaining for too short a time or too long with unfortunate consequences , in short made every mistake that could be made as I learned this rather specialized trade.

But practice makes perfect, and the behavior of the girls and the system in the reformatory for dealing with their behavior made practice absurdly easy to come by.

And, most importantly, different ways of putting those pieces together to create various degrees of punishment for the recipient.

For correction, the goal is intense mortification combined with a calibrated degree of discomfort. Calibration achieved by the amount of soap in the bag, or by addition of glycerine, lemon juice or other agent that intensifies the cramping that should accompany any punishment enema.

Calibration achieved by the volume of liquid in the bag; or the number of enemas given; or the thickness of the nozzle; or the retention time.

Or the denial of privacy for the expulsions, when those are finally allowed the miscreant. For preparation, the goal is the cleansing of the backside before its use, and this goal need not be punitive.

That last thought prompts me to talk about the discipline the girls sometime receive at night when they have to be extracted from their dormitory and marched to punishment.

There are a good number of girls here — I lose count of the exact number — so there are a number of floors that accommodate their sleeping quarters, generally 6 to 12 girls to a room.

For you see those rooms are set aside for correction, and specifically for correction that needs must be imposed shortly after sentencing.

The cheeks jiggle underneath the pajama pants, and I know the girl wants to reach back and feel them, at present unblemished, soon to be crimson.

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