Author:
AV
[ Edit | View ]
|
Date Posted: Friday, July 25, 2025, 07:26: am
No doubt I was traumatized with all I went through with mom’s soapy enemas to my brothers holding me to even all the mental imaginations I had with the bulb.
What still amazes me is how I literally believed as a child, the enema bulb was smiling at me and the enema bulb and my bottom had a relationship I was always trying to break up but never was able since mom and my brothers were helping.
Then one day, around 12 years old, there I was sneaking the enema bulb and approving of this bond with my bottom.
Let me reflect.
Even now, decades later, I can still see it—clear as if I’m sitting there again.
Mom would bring the bulb and a mason jar into the bathroom during my bath as I got older and sit them on the counter.
The mason jar, warm and trembling with cloudy soapy water and suds, sending up soft ripples like it knew what was coming.
And the bulb… God, that bulb. And that bulb… already filled, swollen, slick, silent, and waiting like some small, silent judge, and some silent executioner. I’d sit there for a moment in the stillness, eyes locked on that bulb, almost certain it was smiling, grinning, at me, almost mocking me. It sat there not like an object, but like a living thing. Watching. Waiting. Smiling, mocking me in my helplessness.
I remember Mom’s voice, calm but distant, tell me to step out and give it a try on my own, promising she’d be back soon.
Even as a child, I knew deep in my bones: no matter how much I tried, no matter how I resisted, no matter how I struggled, no matter how I prayed, no matter how I willed it to be different, that little bulb always had its way and winning. And it did. Every single time. It had a kind of power over me I couldn’t explain, like it was inside my head, whispering in a language I didn’t understand but somehow felt. And here’s the part that haunts me the most—it never left. Years have passed, but the memory still lingers like it’s etched into my nerves. Here I am now, suddenly back there, frozen, staring at that smiling bulb. Trauma doesn’t care about reason. It’s not in my house anymore, but it’s still in my head. And I think it always will be like some memories never loosen their grip.
It became a strange kind of relationship with my bottom, the quiet help of Mom, sometimes even my brothers. I’d step out, trying to do what I could, trying to go on my own. Moments later, Mom would return, her presence soft but certain, like she already knew how it would end.
From the ages of five to twelve, it became a ritual of defeat—at least once a week, sometimes more. I’d feel the dread before it even began, a knot in my stomach that told me what was coming. I would fight it every time, telling myself this time will be different, but it never was. That bulb always won. Its warm, soapy water would shoot and surge right into my bottom and through me like it owned me, and every time it did, I felt a little smaller, a little more powerless… like pieces of me were washing away with it.
The bulb seemed to smile—almost enjoying itself—as it watched me struggle, releasing its warm, soapy water and BM as Mom washed and cleaned it, preparing it for its next visit. I always believed that bulb didn’t belong in that mason jar but belonged in my bottom; it had a life of its own, a home of its own, and it wanted me and my bottom.
The mental battle was relentless. I didn’t want that bulb in me even though my bottom looked forward to it. There were tears, so many tears—crying, pleading, begging, my arms swinging wild, feet kicking, body twisting, every muscle resisting. But it never mattered. The bulb just waited, perched on the counter, smiling in silence, watching me wear myself out until Mom got me under control… or called in my brothers to help.
When I was over mom’s lap finally and when Mom reached for it, the bulb seemed to beam with joy, gleaming like it had already won. In some twisted way, as it came closer, it was like I came alive too—but not out of joy. Out of sheer terror.
When that soapy tip touched me and made its way in, I could feel it—the moment when the bulb itself pressed flush against my skin,
letting me know it was in all the way.
Mom’s hand squeezed, and the bulb responded, releasing its warm, soapy water inside of my bottom, like it was proud of itself, like it had been waiting for this moment all along.
In my mind I didn’t not want it inside of me.
I had a lot of cries, “get it out! get it out! That’s enough!” I didn’t want it. I never wanted it. My cries filled the room, tears streaming as my hands reached back, feet kicking, body twisting against something I couldn’t stop. But the bulb didn’t care. It only seemed to smile, knowing its relationship with my bottom wasn’t finished and there was more to come.
And it never was, not after the first squeeze. That bulb would greedily drink another round of soapy water and suck up the suds from the mason jar, eager for more. Oh did I cry harder, “I gotta go! I gotta go! Let me up! I gotta go” as it easily made its return to its favorite home, as if it were happy to prove a point: “I am in charge. I will return again. And again.
By the time it was finished, I wasn’t just tired; I was broken, and that bulb sat there satisfied— job well done, like it had accomplished something, like it had won, letting me know with silent certainty that it would always with pleasure have this relationship with my bottom when needed. Always.
And now at 12 years old, I am sneaking that bulb believing I can’t have a BM without it. My mind finally gave in to that bulb- bottom relationship that, somehow, was always meant to be.
[ Post a Reply to This Message ]
|
Feedback: 