This is a continuation of my interview with Mistress Emily E. As I previously explained, she was my mentor and I feel very fortunate to have been able to conduct this interview with her.

A.L.: So you were saying how you were in college and became angry with your boyfriend. And somehow you found yourself because of it.
Emily E.: Right. He was cheating on me and he invited me to his parent's house at the shore for the weekend to try and make up.
A.L.: Go on.
Emily E.: Basically, I set him up. You see, I was going to do something bad to get back at him only I didn't know what. That night we were fooling around on the bed and I saw his parent's enema bag hanging on the back of the door and I pretended to choke him with it for cheating on me. He thought I was joking but really I wasn't. Then I told him he had to do something for me because he had been such a jerk and I suggested an enema.
A.L.: Vicious.
Emily E.: You bet. Oh, and I didn't really suggest the enema either, it was more like I gave him the hardest slap I could, I don't think I've ever slapped anyone that hard before or since, it was more like a punch, no, make that a karate chop across his face, then I yelled at him at the top of my lungs. I told him that if he ever wants to see me again after that night I'd better see his ass high in the air when I come out of the bathroom with the filled enema bag. Only I filled it up with beer instead.
A.L.: No?
Emily E.: Really! Boy, was I angry with him. He could hardly walk after I was done with him and it wasn't just because of the alcohol he'd absorbed from the enema. I was rough. I don't know where his parents ever found that enema bag, but it must have been some old-fashioned model or something because the nozzle was bigger than a garden hose. This guy couldn't walk after I finished with him, like I said, and he couldn't sit down either. But he never cheated on me again. And that's a fact.
A.L.: (laughing) I guess you sort of came to believe in the power of the enema.
Emily E.: Exactly. It became my profession and I have to say my clients love the bad side in me.

Mr. Cyril Silverstone had been constipated going on two days now. He even brought a bottle of laxative to work at the accounting firm and drank most of the pink liquid during his lunch break but it didn't do any good.

That night he had a dream brought on, he suspected, by his lack of bowel movement. He was strapped to his office desk by long, yellow colon tubes, they tightly bound his wrists and ankles, and he wore his pin-striped suite. His trousers were down around his boney knees so his boxer shorts showed.

In walked Miss Xavier from the secretarial pool. She removed her glasses, untied her hair, and shook it free so her long brunette tresses fell around her shoulders. The wall where his elderly mother's framed photograph hung was a large blackboard and Miss Xavier looked exactly like a teacher he had years ago in school. In fact, Mr. Cyril Silverstone had never noticed how tall and voluptuous she was. The tips of her torpedo bra beneath her tight gray sweater scratched the chalkboard when she turned to write.

'Today is enema class,' she informed him.
Mr. Cyril Silverstone glanced down at his boxer shorts which were now down around his knees. He was strapped across his desk on his stomach with the nozzle of an enema bag cord up his rear end. He raised his head, trying to make out Miss Xavier over at the blackboard and could feel warm liquid pumping into his rectum. Miss Xavier tapped the blackboard with her pointer and the valve halfway up the enema bag tube shut off.
'And what does this word say?' she asked.
'Enema,' said Mr. Cyril Silverstone.
'Very good!' said Miss Xavier. She cleared her throat. 'And what are those words?'
He squinted at the blackboard.
'Mom's soapy enema, 'said Mr. Cyril Silverstone. 'At least I think.'
'Right and that one?'
'Enema fun.'
'And this?'
'Enema mistress.'
'One more?'
'Mayo enema.'
'Another.'
'Embarrassing childhood enemas.'
'And, and, and…'
'Enema lust, enema torture.'
'You're ggggreat!'
'Soapy punishment enemas, champagne enema, grape soda pop enemas.'
'That's enough now.'
The valve magically turned on so liquid pumped into his rear end again.
'But I said it correctly,' groaned Mr. Cyril Silverstone. He was having trouble speaking.
'That's why it's on.'
'What if I…say it…wrong?'
'THEN IT'S STILL ON!' crowed Miss Xavier, throwing her head back.

Mr. Cyril Silverstone saw the enema tube expand as the liquid flowed down into his rear end and he felt himself getting an erection. He had not had an erection like that in years. He squatted over a hole in the floor and great amounts of liquid gushed out of his rear end like a fire hydrant. A penny he had swallowed as a child rattled to the floor, a small round stone he remembered finding on the beach dropped out too, and finally a blue and yellow toy truck rolled out. Mr. Cyril Silverstone didn't remember swallowing that one, then again maybe he had. Much more flushed out of his rear end including Miss Xavier from the secretarial pool who primly got up, carefully adjusting her slip.
'It's warm in their,' she said, and she wiped her brow.
She wore a starched white nurse's uniform and white stockings and suddenly stopped what she was doing, squeezed her clipboard to her breast and glared at Mr. Silverstone. 'It's time for your enema,' she said.

I warned my sister Pam about losing her job at Martin's Pharmacy if she continued to let a customer shop for enema supplies after the store closed but she said it was OK with her boss because he buys a lot. In fact, the owner even gave Pam money for high heels to push her over six feet because the customer is always complimenting her on her height. The high heel shoes are white to go with the white scrub shirt and pants she is required to wear filling prescriptions.

According to Pam, last week went like this.
Mr. Wilson removed his list from the inside breast pocket of his jacket and carefully unfolded it.
'And how can I help you!' Pam barked. She found Mr. Wilson responds favorably to coaxing.
'I'd like a new stop cock for that 3 quart enema colon hydrotherapy bag I purchased last week, ' he said. 'But, of course, it has to match.'
Pam made a note of this then sneered down at him.
'And what else do you want?'
Mr. Wilson had to stand on his tiptoes to peer back over the counter top at Pam, and the counter isn't that high.
'Make it quick,' Pam went on. 'I don't want to take two trips to the shelves.'
'I–I'd like Model #23B HoldRight Enema Can, 1.50 liters, Stainless Steel,' whispered Mr. Wilson. He was becoming red in the face. 'Oh, and with a 150 centimeter enema tube. That comes with the rectal pipe, I believe?'
'Of course,' Pam Barked back.
She started over to the back shelves.
'Oh, and miss?'
'What is it now?'
'That special order, I was wondering–'
'The special order? Mind if I find these enema items first?'
'I didn't mean to -'
Pam came around to the front of the counter. Mr. Wilson slowly looked her up and down, admiring her white high heels and white shirt and white pants. She could be taken for a nurse. The little man fidgeted with his list.
'It's just that…you promised to order from that antique catalogue for me…and I was wondering if the ivory handle enema syringe with the key lever has come in? John Hill & Sons, circa 1870.'
Pam walked up to him. She towered over him. His pants were of a thin, light fabric and she noticed a wet spot next to his zipper. Seeming very ashamed, he lowered his hands to his crotch to hide as best he could. Pam frowned as best she could.
'It hasn't come?' she shouted. Then she turned and marched down the aisle smiling to herself, knowing that it might not have but Mr. Wilson was about to.

This here is one female bodybuilder who is very health conscious. None of that steroid crap for me. First thing I tell a feller who signs up to work out with me at my club is that you got to be healthy and clean. And what I mean by that is; you start from the inside out. A good enema up the tush first thing in the morning will clean out the system and make you feel fresh and ready for a brand new day.

So take this feller who comes into my office. He's a real wimp. Says he wants to build muscles for the girls at the beach. Skinny runty guy, top of his head comes up about to my left tit. I tell him, sure, feller, but first we got to clean you out. I tell him to drop his drawers and I proceed to do the old enema bag routine. He starts protesting. It's not what I paid for, he tells me. I thought the exercise machines. Maybe free weights.

So what I do is I stop them in their tracks right there. Listen, I tell him. You want to bulk up or not? If not, you can have your money back and scram. Well, I guess, he says, pulling down his gym shorts. I mean, they're pink and practically come up to his chin. I go to the bathroom at the rear of my office and start filling up the enema bag. I'm sure he can hear the faucet on high. I look back over my shoulder and he's sort of poking his head in the doorway with this real worried look. Get over here, I say, into the shower stall. See that towel rack? Grab hold of it with both hands and spread them legs like you're being frisked.

I swear, this feller's eyes are all rolling around in his head, but he spreads them and I hang the enema bag up high on the shower stall door so the gravity will make the water gush good, lube up the nozzle of the enema bag cord with some soap and stick it up the wimp's third eye. Boy did he yell. Yowzer!

Baby, feel the water, I say. Feel the pressure on your internal organs, I tell him. He's sort of purring by now, I got a grip on his hair with my fist and I'm pulling his head back and I reach the crook of my arm around his neck so he won't buck but his chin keeps trying to slip from my biceps but I flex good so he can't get out.

You fill yourself up with this bag until it's good and empty then just squat there on the floor of the shower stall for 10, 15 minutes until you can't hold it no loner and then let go. I'll be waiting in my office doing some paperwork, I tell him. When you're done and all the water has flushed out your hole and all the garbage that was inside has come out, you turn on the shower and clean out this stall. I'll know you're done when I hear the shower on. Then we can begin a real workout.

So I relax my grip on him and let him go, and he's turning red in the face even though I let him go, I guess it's because of the nozzle up his hole that's doing it, and he's bent over real awkward-like and sort of nods at me so I know the wimp is going to do what I say, so I shut the shower door and go back to my office to get some paperwork done.

That's how we start the workout every morning at my gym when you work out with me.

For my psychology thesis in human sexuality I sent out 132 questionnaires concerning the use of enema play and below are three of my responses. It seems that 87% of the females questioned would prefer to dominate their boyfriends or husbands with enemas if the situation presented itself.

Betty R. Age 27. Single. Graduate school business degree candidate at a prestigious university.
'I have this professor, he lectures in micro economics, and he's been my enema slave for about 10 months now. What I do is every Monday night I tie him up and blind fold him and hook him up to the enema bag, usually with tea in it, and he stays that way for about 20 minutes then he craps all over the bathroom and I make him lick it up.'

Susan F. Age 23. Single, works at an upscale coffee chain in a small midwestern town.
'A co-worker of mine, he's 25, two years older than me, and we went out a couple times before the subject of enemas came up. I guess it was my idea. I was a little tipsy one night, we'd been out at a bar drinking beer then went back to my apartment and were kissing on the couch. He asked me why I stopped and what I was thinking about so I whispered all about it in his ear. I really respect him for not laughing at me or even getting up and leaving, I know some guys might think differently. My enema bag was in my bureau drawer in the bedroom so I brought it out and asked him if he'd ever done something like this before and he said no, not even as a little kid. So we took it easy at first, with him lying on his left side like you're supposed to and massaging his stomach if he got cramps and it worked out really well. We're going to do it again. I really feel that we've become a lot closer because of it.'

Jane D. Age 36. Married. Housewife. Two children. Suburbs.
'I never thought my husband was into enema play but then he was constipated and I gave him an enema and he got the biggest hard on. So I started giving him a soapy enema about two times per week and it has evolved from there. I make him beg for me to give him an enema now. I've even told him I'm going to hook up the enema tube to the faucet and fill his stomach up with water until he bursts, but I would never do that. I think he gets excited about it though. Once we were playing mixed doubles with Will and Anna at the club and Will saw a new enema kit in the trunk when I put away the tennis rackets and looked at me funny but I pretended I didn't notice. I wouldn't mind giving him an enema though.'

I hasten to add that I removed the following anecdote from the lecture I presented last year at The Explorers Club in New York City concerning the rare Papaua Panda which I first observed on the eastern slope of Mt. Wilhelm.

On my way to New Guinea to begin my panda research, I had a layover in Frankfurt, Germany so I thought I'd take a quick hike in Holzhausen Park before retiring to bed early in order to catch my flight first thing the next morning.

I am quite used to wearing shorts to hike in, even when the temperature approaches zero degrees centigrade, and I am tall for a woman, much of my weight residing in my muscular legs honed traipsing up and down mountains on each of the seven continents.

Looking back upon the incident in question, I now believe it was my long muscular legs that attracted these two ruffians to me because, as I was midway along the park's main path, they sprung from a bench I had just passed, dashed after me, and tried to pull me into the bushes to do God knows what. I gave the first a swift kick to the groin, which put him out of commission, when his cohort jumped upon my back.

I might interject here that the men were in their late twenties, dark blond hair, one had a mustache. Both of medium built and height. I quickly threw off the second assailant and pinned him to the ground by placing my hiking boot squarely in the middle of his stomach. Pulling his right arm up and twisting it, I thereby focused my weight downward. I then surveyed the area for his mustache-clad accomplice but he was nowhere to be seen.

I was about to give this second hooligan a swift kick to the cranium to insure he knew who was boss, when the strangest glint came to his eyes and he began mumbling the word anus over and over again, pointing to his posterior. The word anus is the same in German as it is in English as is the word enema, which he also began repeating. My German being primarily scientific, I was quick to catch the word for water.

This poor brute, who only now had attempted to mug me, had become sexually aroused and was requesting that I give him an enema! I have been known to dress a wounded Sherpa's leg in a white out at 7,000 meters so it was a simple task to fashion an enema bag out of one of the balloons from the carousel up the path then fill it with water from the fountain across the way as my young assailant removed his clothes in the bushes and stuck a bamboo reed he found up his anus. I then secured the water-filled balloon over this hollow stick and squeezed the bulb until all water had entered his colon. From the look on his face he seemed to have become quite satisfied, at which point I resumed my hike, none worse for wear.

The next time your husband misbehaves, secretly slip a bright red enema bag into his briefcase as he's heading off to the office. If he complains about becoming embarrassed when he opened his briefcase in front of everyone at the board meeting, that there was the rubber enema bag, plain as day for all to see, the scarlet cord curled up inches from his boss's nose like a snake about to spring, and those two guys across the table who usually trade football stories with him over the water cooler are nudging each other, and especially that pretty female co-worker seated directly to his left, the one with the piercing green eyes and the short grey skirt who half-rises, startled, tell your husband he shouldn't get so bent out of shape.

Justify your actions by letting him know that he simply should have explained to everyone at the meeting there is nothing wrong with a man carrying around an enema bag in his briefcase. In fact, enemas have been used throughout history.

The Greek historian Herodotus wrote in The Histories about the Egyptian's use of enemas. 'For three successive days in each month they purge the body by means of emetics and clysters, which is done out of a regard for their health.' In fact, papyruses telling of enemas are on display in museums. In Hindu scriptures, one of the six acts of body purification is Basti, an herbal enema, while in North America, American Indians created enema syringes out of animal parts.

Your husband could go on to point out that during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries in Europe there was a great fad for clysters, an early name for enemas. A clyster syringe resembles a large metal turkey baster with a wood handle and some were made with the grip set at a right angle so they could be used alone in order to avoid embarrassment like your husband experienced. Tell him everyone in the board room has surely heard about Dr. John Harvey Kellogg's famous Battle Creek Sanitarium in Michigan in the early 1900s where a daily regiment of colon hydrotherapy, irrigating the colon for hygienic purposes, was a requirement of primary importance.
Then when your husband tries to make it up to you for misbehaving, and offers to take you out for drinks for a change, you know, like when you two first met, tell him, sure, bottoms up.

The man looked up at me with guilty pleasure. His buttocks were turned towards me, and he was completely naked and uncertain. He was turned slightly to the side, and his long chestnut hair hung over one eye. The other clear blue eye watched me intently.

Of course, what guy wouldn't watch me? I was dressed only in a garter belt, my hair done up in a severe bun. My considerable assets were there for him to see.

A bag hung off one of the bed posts and I held a long tube in my hands. I twirled the hose, and his eyes followed the movement. I raised one slender leg and placed a foot on the side of the bed. His eyes got wider, and he was almost panting with desire.

'You want me to stick this tube up your ass, don't you?' I crooned. I leaned over even further, until my breasts were dangling in his face. He licked his lips and nodded his head eagerly.

'Of course you do,' I continued, using my free hand to wipe the hair from his eyes. He had such piercing blue eyes, almost glacial, and it was a waste to have them covered by hair.

I inserted the tube into his asshole slowly. Too fast and the muscles would contract and cramp, causing him intense pain. The pain was part of the pleasure, but he was a first timer, and I didn't want to scare him away.

His eyes became wider, and he groaned with pleasure. I smiled, knowing he was on the verge of being a repeat customer. Hell, maybe I'd keep him for myself. God knew he was pretty enough. His body was tightly muscled, and his eyes were to die for.

I stood up and admired the view for a moment, before I started to pump him full of warm soapy water.

He let out another groan, and tried to sit up, but I placed a hand on his chest and gently pushed him down and waved a long nailed finger at him.

'No one goes until I tell them too, Tiger,' I explained in a sultry voice. His face contorted in panic for a second, but he lay back down anyways. I continued to administer the fluid watching as he squirmed and tried to stay put. I smiled silkily at him, and watched as a bead of sweat traversed his face.

This one was coming back for sure, I thought.

He's a keeper.