Chapter I: Nanny's "Helps"
In a sepia-tone photograph taken in the early thirties I am leaning
against a tree on our estate dressed in an “ensemble” consisting of a
blouse of a darkish color with wide white lapels and wide white
short-sleeved cuffs. It was attached to my tiny short pants by large
white buttons, which presumably, if undone, would cause my little shorts
to come down around my ankles. On my feet are what look like ballet
slippers. I am staring at the camera with heavy-lidded eyes. My brown
hair has been cut by hand, with a bowl on my head. I am five or six, I
In the background of the photograph is a blurred white ghostlike figure,
tall and angular, walking rapidly across the picture from left to right
too quickly for the Brownie to freeze. . She is Clara - Nanny to me -
the first nurse of whom I have any recollection. She was hired to take
care of me and my two brothers, one older, one younger, and it was she
who administered my first remembered enemas, and who, perhaps, planted
that seed in me which was to shape my entire life.
I have another photograph, this one in my head but just as vivid., In it
I am seated on the toilet, wearing only a little vest that comes down to
my belly button, swinging my legs and calling out: “Nanny, I need a
little help!” It was my way of asking Nanny to come and give me a nice
little enema to help me produce my morning b.m…
The next thing I knew Nanny would be coming down the hall, her heels
going clop clop on the hardwood floors, and then would be in the
bathroom with me, smiling. She was tall and bony and remarkably homely,
but I didn't know that then, because I loved her.
She would run the water in the sink and test it with her wrist until it
was just the right temperature. Then she would take from the cupboard a
red bulb syringe with a black nozzle. It was an adult- sized syringe,
and the nozzle was longer and thicker and more shaped than the ones you
find today, if indeed you find them at all. I know this because later
on, when I was an adolescent, I used this syringe on myself, and so
became very familiar with it. But back then, I had no way of comparing
it to any other syringe. To me it was the “help” that was going to take
care of my little problem.
I would watch with wide eyes and a certain rumbling in my tummy as she
dipped the syringe into the sink, let the water flow in, held it up to
squeeze out the air, reinserted it into the water, and let it fill
completely. Then she would coat with Vaseline the long black nozzle that
I knew was going to go into me, spread the bath mat on the floor, and
motion for me to get into position.
And a rather unusual position it was. I would lie down on the mat, on my
back, raise my legs and, with Nanny’s help, bring them all the way over
my head so my toes were touching the floor behind me, my little bottom
cheeks stretched apart and my most secret spot exposed to the overhead
light and to Nanny’s eyes.
But I felt no embarrassment about presenting myself this way. I didn’t
yet know what embarrassment was. I was still dwelling in a sort of
Wordsworthian state, "trailing clouds of glory," before my fall from
innocence. I was used to being bathed by Nanny: she knew all about my
body; it held no secrets from her. So as I lay there with my behind in
the air and the blood rushing to my face my only feeling was one of
anticipation. Eager anticipation. Towering above me was Nanny, holding
the red bulb syringe, it’s glistening nozzle pointing up, soon to be
pointed down. At this point I would shut my eyes and await the first
touch of her hand on my behind and then the tip against my little hole.
Then came the nicest feeling, of the nozzle going in, farther and
farther, until the base of it was pressing against me. Then Nanny would
say, “Ready?”, and I would nod, or perhaps say “Yes.” Then it would
come, the first gush of water, going right into me. Then more, and more,
until the bulb was empty, and Nanny took it out of me and it made a
sucking sound. Sometimes she filled it again and gave me another one,
but sometimes one was enough. I could feel the water gurgling inside me
in my upside-down position, and it made me want to go. Then Nanny would
let me bring my legs down (gurgle, gurgle)and help me to the toilet,
where I produce water and some little round offerings, after which she
would wipe me off, praise me for being such a good boy, and send me off
to get dressed with a playful slap on my bottom..
This was our little morning ritual. It seemed to me that it happened
every day, but one’s memory is not always reliable, and the “little
help” could have been only a sometime thing. In any case, I must have
found them enjoyable, or I would not have asked for them as I did. Did I
become visibly aroused? Only Nanny would know. I was still in Eden,
where such things aren't noticed.
These were, as I said, my first remembered enemas, and belong to a
golden age of my childhood that would end with the arrival of our German
governess Fraulein and my graduation from the friendly red bulb to The
Chapter II The Enamel Can
My first real governess was a short, plump, German woman we called
Fraulein. I was about eight when she arrived, and almost twelve when she
left, so she was with us during some very formative years.
It was clear quite soon after she arrived that she was to in complete
control of our lives, and, more specifically, of our bodies, . We - my
two brothers and I - were no novices where enemas were concerned, having
been introduced to them when very young by various nannies. Nor were
spankings anything new. Enemas and spankings were just part of being a
child in the '30's and '40's, and all of my friends were as familiar
with them as I was. But whereas spankings had been somewhat haphazard
and unpredictable, and enemas had been fairly infrequent and not very
significant, this changed with the arrival of Fraulein. From the moment
she appeared, Mary Poppins-like, from out of nowhere, our lives changed.
She was no Mary Poppins, but neither was she the sort of ogre one reads
about in the fantasy literature. She ruled with a firm hand, but she had
her lighter side as well. She taught us some German phrases like "Ich
liebe dich von gantzen hertzen" (I love you with all my heart), sang
German songs like the World War I ballad about soldier boy who lost his
best friend ("Ich Hatt' Einen Kameraden"), and she got us, or perhaps
only me, interested in collecting butterflies, and I spent many happy
hours chasing the pretty things with my net and them putting them into
the cyanide jar, being careful not to touch their wings, and, when they
were dead, skewering them with pins to a wooden block.
But she was strict, and any infraction of her rules meant a good heard
spanking with her trusty hairbrush. There was no appealing the sentence
once it had been pronounced, nor was any lenience given in the
execution. Her spankings were meant to make an impression - on our
behinds as well as on our memories. And if I whispered “Ich liebe dich
von gantzen hertzen” into her ear ten times a day it was with a feeling
of hypocrisy and betrayal of my mother, whom I loved better than I did
Fraulein, but whose good side I didn’t have to buy with words of love to
remain on, as I did with Fraulein’s.
Then there were the enemas.
Again, Fraulein was not cruel or sadistic; rather, she was typically
German, which is to say, she was efficient. Her enemas were no nonsense
affairs, given with one aim in mind, to clean out our insides and
thoroughly as possible. Any attempt to talk her out of it was futile,
and if she met with any resistance well, the hairbrush was always handy.
The instrument used for these enemas was an enamel can, white with blue
piping, with a little spout at the bottom, over which could be fitted
the long rubber tube, red, with horizontal ribbing, at the other end of
which, the business end, was fitted a hard black nozzle. It was more
shapely than the useless little straight white pipes one sees today.
That is, it was narrower at the base and bulb-shaped near the tip, and
generally longer and fatter than today’s rectal pipes., I know this
because I took that nozzle when our house was sold. I would have taken
the enamel can too, but it was too bulky for my suitcase, and I was
afraid of being caught with it.
The can was kept in a small closet beneath our attic stairs, which was
known, not surprisingly, as the “enema closet .” (Later I would “borrow”
the can to use on myself, or perhaps on some younger boys whom I could
induce into submitting to an enema from me).
I don’t recall the first time I was given an enema with this instrument,
but I know that enemas were fairly frequent occurrences in our family.
Our bowel movements were checked daily by Fraulein, and the cry of a boy
calling “Fraulein, come and see my b.m.!” would echo down the hallways
of our large house every morning, for of course morning was the required
time for our bowel movements. If our offerings met with her approval, we
could flush. If they were found lacking,, we were dosed with Milk of
Magnesia. If this didn’t work overnight, it invariably meant an enema.
Enemas were also given at the first sign of a cold or other illness, a
rule that no doubt cut down on malingering. The deciding factor was
often our temperature, and of course there was no fudging here, as all
temperatures were taken “the old fashioned way.” Fraulein didn't trust
boys to keep the glass rod under their tongues, and besides, that's the
way it was done in Germany. When we were little this meant lying across
Fraulein’s lap with bottom bared, in the traditional spanking position.
Then we’d feel her hand parting our cheeks, and the stubby end of the
little Vaselined rod pressing against a small puckered hole and then
I loved it.
I loved the first touch of the cold mercury-filled bulb at the tip, then
the delicious feeling of it slipping into me. would clench and unclench(
my sphincter , the better to feel that little glass rod inside me.
Fraulein’s hand would be resting on my bottom, palm down, the
thermometer held in place between her fingers, and any movement of her
hands sent delicious little messages to my insides. I would be in a
state of bliss, hoping she would leave it in there forever, but too soon
she would withdraw it quickly and wipe it off, read it, and shake it
down. Of course she never told us what the reading was.
When I was older she would have me lie face down on my bed, or sometimes
on my side. Then, if she was going to prepare an enema or just had
something else to do she might leave me there with the glass rod in my
behind, and I would play with it, pushing it in and out - probably
raising my temperature in the process - until I heard her footsteps
again and stopped my little game.
For just a simple cold, Fraulein could manage without a medical opinion
But if a doctor came - and of course they made house calls then - after
he had looked into my ears, up my nose and down my throat, had thumped
my chest and back, had taken down my pajamas and poked me all over my
tummy, after he had left the room, I would strain to hear what he was
saying to my mother as they went down the stairs. Would he order an
I remember lying in my bed,, wondering what my fate was to be, and
sometimes what I heard was something like this: First, Fraulein’s
tap-tap footsteps in the back hallway; then the sound of the little
closet being opened, then the telltale sound of the can as it clanked
against the little door. Her footsteps would take her into the bathroom.
The sound of water running. Again the can clanking as it touched the
porcelain sink, and sometimes the sharper "clack: of the nozzle hitting
something. Then the water running into the can. Fraulein would be
singing softly. I would be lying in my bed, my heart beating and my
stomach rumbling., knowing that it was going to happen to me and that
there was nothing I could do about it.
My feelings were mixed. Mostly I hated and dreaded my enemas, but - and
this was the part I couldn’t have put into words - there was also
something, well, exciting about them, something that sent delicious
shivers up and down my spine.
Being given an enema was very embarrassing, specially if a brother knew
about it, and usually one of them did. Sometimes one would chant in
singsong, “Ha, ha Ali, has to have an en-e-ma!” until some adult shushed
him. Sometimes just a look was enough, like my older brother's smirk of
false pity, one eyebrow raised.
So now, lying in bed listening to the sounds of my enema being prepared,
I would feel my ears redden and my heart beat ever faster, and my mouth
would be dry. Now I could hear another sound, which I identified as
Fraulein stirring the brown bar of castille soap around in the can with
a little stick she used for that purpose until the water was milky
looking.. Then the sound of the clamp being opened, followed by the
sound like that of a boy peeing into the toilet as she got the air out
of the tube. Then the clamp was closed. The enema was now was ready for
Her footsteps were coming my way now, and then she would appear in my
room carrying the can by the handle in one hand and a tube of Vaseline
and some toilet paper in the other. She would hang the can from the
“pineapple” post of my bed. Then she would sit down on my bed and I
would smell her special body odor. My covers would be drawn back, then
the drawstring of my pajamas pulled, and the pajamas taken down and
right off me. Cool air would waft across my private parts.
“On your side, liebchen,” she would say, and I would roll over onto my
left side and draw up my legs, pushing my bottom back towards her. I
might have closed my eyes, or I might have focused on some object in my
room, like my clothes or the wallpaper pattern. Or if my Teddy Bear was
sitting on the chair I would look at him and he would look back at me,
knowing what was going to happen to me.
I couldn’t see, but knew she was now lubricating the nozzle, because
next I felt her hand on my behind, and then her thumb in my crack
parting my two cheeks. There would be a pause, and I would feel her eyes
looking right at my little spot My little thing in front began to get
bigger because he also knew what was going to happen to me, and he liked
it. And then the nozzle nose would be pushed against my spot it, and
then I would feel the nozzle going in and being lodged firmly in place,
and my thing in front got very hard because he loved the feeling of that
nozzle in my behind., Fraulein would give the nozzle a little twist
inside me, then I would hear the clamp being snapped open and a second
later the wall of water would hit my insides.
At first it felt nice, with the warm water rushing into me, and I would
lie there passively, enjoying my enema. Sometimes it would be a little
too hot for comfort, and sometimes, if she had put in too much soap,
there was a burning. But mostly it felt quite nice, this early part.
But soon I would start feeling pressure, some fullness perhaps, or
cramping, and fear would course through me, fear caused by that terrible
feeling of helplessness, of knowing I had no control over how much water
would be forced into me. So even though it was nowhere near unbearable I
would decide it was best to start complaining now. “Please, Fraulein,
I’m full! Please stop! Please take it out!.”
I would feel her shift her position and hear the can bang against my
bedpost as she checked its weight. “You haff some way to go yet,
liebchen," she would say, "so take deep breaths," and my hopes would
sink, for I knew that no amount of pleading would cause her to stop the
flow. I would start to moan and groan, and sometimes the cramping would
subside and I would feel all right for a while, but then it would come
back again, and I would beg her to stop.
But she never did, of course. She always went right ahead and gave me
the predetermined amount, as if only she knew how much water I could
hold, and that any complaining on my part was just what one would expect
from a boy, and thus to be ignored. It was not meanness on her part, but
rather a tried and true technique based on years of experience in giving
enemas to little boys and girls.
So she would keep right on filling me and filling me until I felt as if
I would burst, or as if the water would come out my mouth, but neither
of these things happened, for long before my condition was really dire I
would hear the tell-tale sound of the water reaching the bottom of the
can, and I would know that know my ordeal was over.
Almost. For of course I had to hold it in for some predetermined length
of time - an eternity to me, but probably only a few minutes by the
clock. I would moan and groan as one fat hand massaged my stomach while
the other held the nozzle pressed firmly against my behind. I could hear
the water sloshing around inside me as she worked it higher into me. If
I asked her to let me go to the toilet she would say, “In a minute,
liebchen, vee must allow the enema to do its work inside you zo you vill
be nice and clean, yah."
So I would lie there trying to hold it in while she worked the water up
and across my stomach, chasing it with her finger tips.
Then, without warning, she would whisk the nozzle out of my behind and
she would help me get up and walk to the bathroom, Fraulein leading me
with one hand and squeezing my buttocks together with the other.
Then onto the toilet and blessed relief at last! I didn’t mind her
standing there with arms akimbo or folded across her bosom, watching me
and listening to the explosive sounds I was making as I expelled my
enema. I wouldn’t have minded if the whole world had been watching and
listening. Getting rid of all that waters was all I cared about.
After I had finished, I was put back to bed, tucked in, and left to
sleep the sleep of the pure and clean. But before I drifted off I turned
again onto my left side and pushed my bottom out and thought about my
enema and how glad I was that it was over and wondered how long it would
be for my next one. And thinking about that made my little thing in
front go stiff again, because he liked enemas even if I didn't. But even
I had to admit that I felt much better for it. I felt light and empty,
and somehow "good", as if I had been cleansed of bad things.
Oh, yes, I felt very nice indeed. Fraulein gave me many enemas with that
enamel can, for I was often sick. I had frequent bronchitis, and
whenever we went to the mountains for summer vacations, I came down with
some sort of altitude sickness. Of course, frequent enemas were ordered
for that. And my love/hate relationship with them only intensified.
During the entire time Fraulein stayed with us not once did she take my
temperature any way except in my behind, which was fine with me. I also
accepted this as being quite normal ,until one summer when I was ten and
was in bed at with mountain sickness and a strange doctor came to
examine me. He took the thermometer out of a jar and shook it down, and
I was starting to roll over onto my side when to my great surprise he
aimed it at my mouth! He put it under my tongue and told me to keep it
there, so I did. It was very boring.
I wondered what Fraulein was thinking, and after he left - recommending
an enema, of course - I wondered if I was going to have my temperature
taken the “big boy” way from now on. But only a few hours later I was
lying on my tummy, my bottom bare, and a little glass rod was sticking
out from between my plump round bottom cheeks. And even if I did feel
that I was a bit too old to have my temperature taken in my bottom, I
loved the feeling of it inside me, and was glad that Fraulein was going
to keep on taking it "that way."
Fraulein’s enemas were never erotic. She never played with the nozzle in
my behind, or pushed it in and out. Her hand never grazed my penis,
accidentally or on purpose. They were matter-of- fact enemas, largely
remembered for being uncomfortable. Yet there was always present that
element of excitement, of pleasure, and they helped shape my lifetime
interest in and need for enemas.,
But if she avoided stimulating me unnecessarily, it didn't take much for
me to be anally aroused, and long before she left us I was playing enema
games with my friends. For I found early on that other boys got enemas
too, and so we would compare notes, and later we took to "borrowing" the
equipment for our little experiments.
When Fraulein left I was not really sorry to see her go, but after a
while I started missing her. What I missed was her predictability.
The next mother's helper we had was named La Verne and she was a bit
loony.. Then came Jean, a Scottish woman who could be fun but was
unpredictable and couldn't discipline us. With Fraulein, you knew where
you stood. Bad behavior meant a spanking, swearing meant a mouthful of
soap or Worcestershire Sauce, being sick, an enema. Not things to look
forward to, surely, but at least you could avoid the first two. Knowing
that cause always led to effect had given me a feeling of security that
was no longer there. With her followers, you were on slippery ground.
And so it was that I left behind my safe little world of childhood, a
world I would be destined to try to return to, again and again, in later