The smoke from cigars and pot hung heavily in the room. A mustiness mixed with the pervading rancid odors from the carpet soaked with spilled drinks to the lingering sweat on the body-building equipment stationed in the corner. But the ambience wasn't the grossest thing about this dank downstairs. It was the major activity taking place. I was being prepared for a shit show, literally and figuratively.
Two men, a burly guy named Billy Joe, and Jimmy, a short and scrawny dude, held each of my arms as I was stretched over a pool table. Kindly, they had found a couch pillow for me to rest my head on, as my pelvis curled uncomfortably over one of the side rails. My legs were splayed with my feet planted securely on the floor. I had a hospital Johnny tied around my neck which opened in the back and my balls were nestled in the side pocket surrounded by its hospital-laundered fabric. The third gent, a handsome gastroenterologist named Miguel, talked with the other two, explaining his procedure along with his proclivity for cleanliness.
We four were alone in his basement, alone in his home actually, as Miguel's wife was away for the weekend. Like some inanimate object, I felt a strange detachment, compounded by a weakness in my muscles from the pot and beers, and yet an unexpected receptivity to what was unfolding. I was an acquiescing plaything.
It's both disturbing and amazing what a person can be conditioned to doing. I remember always trying to please my parents, so my desires to please, to serve, to submit to their wishes were probably inherited, and that trait must have been ingrained by their parenting. But the indoctrination continued outside the home, too, like with that boys' sex ed class where we were told, "Always make sure the woman has her pleasure before you take yours." Of course, they assumed we were all straight, but still, the point was, satisfy your partner before you come. And that's what I've always tried to do—to a fault—as with Stephen.
Having grown up as a straight guy in a three-decades-long monogamous marriage to a somewhat dominant wife, but wanting a same sex experience before I died, I went online to look for a man. I naturally described myself as the quintessential submissive, a role I had played all my life. Stephen had responded, promising me a "masterful experience."
Our in-person relationship began with weird requests on his part. Although I questioned why I was doing this every time we met up, I managed to do as I was asked/ordered/commanded. And despite initial misgivings, in the end, I felt a large measure of pleasure in the doing. I wasn't sure if it was seeing Stephen so enraptured that gave me such a profound sense of satisfaction. Or maybe it was enduring pain and shame which provided the endorphin bursts that my body seemed to crave. Likely some of both.
Today was one of those times. Plunged into a very weird, somewhat unnerving, and especially embarrassing situation, here I was tightly tethered to a pool table having lots of dutiful doubts.
Billy Joe, sporting tattoos down both arms, and smelling like he went two-too many days between showers, inquired, "What you gonna do with that bag, Miguel?"
"I made up a soapsuds enema that I'm going to give Martha, because we want her clean and cleaned out for the toys we're all going to be playing with her with."
Not only was I their plaything, but my gender was now female.
We had arrived today just after lunch, Stephen and I together. He was happy, even giddy, although he didn't let on as to exactly what we were going to be doing here at Miguel's home.
He had proffered last week, in his knightly voice, "Sir Stephen has another lesson for you to learn in becoming his perfect submissive." He then informed me of these three friends of his, all married and living the straight life, but who, like him, had had fantasies of having sex with a man—or were at least bi-curious. I was going to help them with that bi-curiosity. Which was all he had said. No more. No less.
I could only imagine what that might entail, but I completely missed the mark. I thought I would give some blow jobs and that would be that. Now I was beginning to understand what Stephen had meant, as he left to get some more beers, "You all got the toys I told you to bring so you could play with my Martha while I'm gone?"
This wasn't going to be oral. No, this was going to be an ass-play playground and everything but.
He left. After some awkward conversation in the kitchen, we all thundered downstairs, me in the middle of the herd. Once we had descended, there seemed to be more whispered uncertainty, but then beers were cracked and Miguel lit a joint and passed it around. Soon we were all feeling the oblivion that Miguel hoped for, and he began making polite requests of his medical team.
While Jimmy assisted Miguel, Billy Joe escorted me down a narrow hallway to the bathroom and instructed me to change into the hospital gown he handed me. Then he brought me back. He and Jimmy had positioned me several different ways before settling on one that elicited Miguel's approval.
As Miguel proceeded with the enema, Jimmy interjected, "Say, Miguel. I got an idea. You got any sticks of butter in the freezer?" He had obviously forgotten to bring any toys.
"I think mi esposa does. And she probably won't miss one. You got a toy in mind?"
"Yep," he nodded enthusiastically, and he smiled with those crooked teeth glazed with tar and nicotine.
I felt Miguel move aside one of my butt cheeks, his fingers moist, maybe with lube or with nervous anticipation, as he slid a cold piece of plastic into my anus. I couldn't help feeling dirty. The body odors, the cigar smoke, the perspiration on Miguel's hand, the vulgar language, and the ribald jokes. And now their apparent need for giving me an enema. All of that made me feel like I was in some back-alley clinic, getting a high colonic from an unlicensed practitioner.
Again, I cursed myself for being who I was, being so willing to learn Stephen's so-called "becoming the perfect submissive" lessons. In my altered state though, I momentarily relaxed. It was bizarre, but after all these months, I had strangely learned how to embrace the strange, and to let myself be used, maybe sometimes abused, because, I guess, I had come to trust Stephen.
For example, he had anticipated, and it was helpful, that I was a somewhat feminine-appearing man, as these men in their various iterations were uncomfortable with the idea of being gay. So being presented with a man who had had a Brazilian waxing a few days earlier and came dressed in a tight top with short skirt and leggings, was calculated to resolve any lingering homophobic insecurities. And I sensed no hesitancy now in the room.
"Nurse Miguel is going to start the enema, Martha. When it's done, one of the staff will take you to the bathroom. On your return, Dr. Miguel will then examine you."
The cool liquid started flowing into my rectum, accompanied by a few little cramps. I wasn't sure how much I would be given, and a prickle of fear hit me that I wouldn't be able to hold it, if I had the sudden urge to evacuate. The cold feeling radiated throughout my lower abdomen, and with it an occasional stronger cramp. "I think I gotta go!" I pressed them all, but Nurse Miguel was having nothing to do with it.
