Hanging from a cord tied to one of the rails of the four-poster bed was a bulging, red enema bag, its hose leading to her bottom. "Oh, God," I said. "...'m so sorry..." I backed out of the room, closed the door and sat on the sofa. It was too late -- I couldn't un-see what I had seen, and the image of Mae's full but shapely legs and her smooth, round ass with the enema hose plugged into her had been seared into my hypothalamus.I recalled an incident from years ago. It was the summer after I. He doesn’t bore me with his insignificant daily conquests of the corporate battlefield. Where little boys go to play, thinking themselves men. Nor is he some halfwit reciting poetry trying to impress me in his failed attempts at wit and charm. He is just a man making conversation, enjoying the company of a woman. A lost skill set in men now a days if you ask me.Finally, he asks the question, the one all men get to eventually. Maybe it’s the manor of his delivery, or the tone of his voice. My. More

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