A Transferrance Of Septic Proportion

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I had been constipated several times as a child, and in spite of my hatred and protests against receiving suppositories and enemas, I was given a good deal of them ... forcefully. Gradually my bowel habits became normal, but the fear of getting things pushed up in my rear has left me scared and traumatized of constipation.

And once again, after 16 years, constipation returned. I was in my office about four days ago when I had felt the urge to shit, but there was no poop when I sat down. For the next three days I became constipated and horribly afraid of not being able to poop. I tried to avoid suppositories and instead relied on veggies, but to no avail. Every time I felt an urge, I rushed to the toilet and I pushed, strained, and pulled my butt cheeks apart, but the rock-hard turd wouldn't budge! I even drank down loads of warm milk and exercised to getting it moving.

On the last day my girlfriend payed me a surprise visit and said she could at once see that I was not well. I felt uneasy about discussing why; even though I was in pain, I did not want to reveal that I was clogged up. She discovered me, straining in the bathroom, however, and threatened to call the ER if I did not use a suppository. I am deathly afraid of hospitals, so I reluctantly gave in.

Unfortunately the suppository did not work, and once again I was subjected to ass-ripping pain. She then approached me with an enema and the traditional procedures followed ... only my mom's image had been replaced by my girlfriend's. History repeated itself while I lay down, traumatized about the entire (and similar) incident from a new woman.

She kept smirking and assuring me that I would be fine, and I sure am. Although causing me to feel a horror-of-my-life sensation, the enema did the trick, and the giant turd ultimately budged, leaving my rear end sore.

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2 Comments on "A Transferrance Of Septic Proportion"

ChiefThunderbutt's picture
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One of my earliest childhood memories is being pulled down from a silver poplar tree in our yard by my mother who was determined to improve my health by giving me an enema of warm soapy water. I had climbed the tree in a desperate attempt to protect my neither region from the indignity of the dreaded rubber hose. Alas, my protest and evasive attempt was no deterrent and thanks to the fact that my mother was larger and faster than my toddling young self I was captured and dragged, screaming in protest, to the place where my young dignity was utterly destroyed.

The enema was of epic proportion, if my memory of the incident is correct about 100 gallons of liquid was forced up my protesting asshole. In olden days enemas were not just a cure for constipation but were thought by many to be assurance that you would remain in good health. There was some satisfaction in hearing the gagging of my dear mother when the liquid was expelled into a potty. I was impressed by the great change in smell that had occurred during the liquids short stay in the depths of my bowels.

How long a minute is depends on what side of the bathroom door you're on!

Anonymous's picture
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Chief Thunderbutt: I remember that well, age 3 or 4, trying hopelessly to hide in the garden when I knew my mum was going to painfully force open my stink-door with a glycerin or soap-stick suppository. A few years later I was delaying the inevitable insertion by hiding in the attic (when we had one)!

Raggedmama