The Pleasure of Relief

I'm Vietnamese by birth. I came to America as a teenager, and I can't imagine ever leaving. The American people are the finest people in the world: cheerful, hard-working, generous to a fault, and almost too hospitable to be believed. I couldn't quite believe what I'd been told about America until I got here. Even today it sometimes seems unreal.

I even found love here. That sometimes seems unreal, too, and maybe I'll tell you that story some other time. But there are aspects of being married to a white man that I never grasped until I'd done it. There are aspects of being married to a Catholic that baffled me as well. Some of them still do.

Mark is a dear. He's hard-working, affectionate, sweet-natured, devoted to me, and absolutely reliable, come rain or shine. Though he's several years younger than I am -- I'm 35, and he's 28 -- he's at least as mature. Though we've only been married a few months, I can't imagine ever wanting to be with anyone else.

But he has an aversion to pleasure. Not to enjoyment; he has a number of hobbies and pastimes he enjoys greatly. Physical pleasure, though, seems to cause him a lot of stress. If it feels good, he backs away from it. His unease about pleasure was obvious from the day we met. It inhibited me from touching him for a tragically long time.

Yes, he brings that reluctance to bed with him. I should say he took it with him, until a short while ago.

One of Mark's hobbies is target shooting. He's very good at it; he has to be, as his job involves marketing sporting firearms wholesale. But there are certain hazards that go along with a visit to the rifle range -- and they don't all involve high-velocity lead.

A couple of weeks ago, Mark and his friends spent an entire Saturday, fourteen hours, shooting, drinking beer, and eating...well, I suppose it was technically food. There were probably even traces of nutrition in it. But it was a far cry from anything that would ever appear on my dinner table.

Mark may be young and strong, but he's not invulnerable. No one can cram his belly full of garbage for a whole day and not suffer for it. Mark certainly got his: a bout of constipation that had him in tears from cramps and praying for relief. When he told me he was suffering too greatly even to go to church, I knew things were serious. Mark never misses Sunday Mass.

He spent most of that Sunday morning on the pot, straining without result. It was painful to listen to. (Yes, the door to the bathroom was closed; that's how loud he got.) After a few hours I couldn't let it go on any more.

I nudged open the bathroom door and stuck my head around the edge. There he was -- I know; where else would he be? -- and saw him squatting there, head down, face contorted in agony, tears leaking from his eyes. His legs quivered from the strain. He was rubbing his belly with both hands, hoping that with a little mechanical encouragement he might get started. From the deep red marks on his abdomen, he'd been trying it for a while.

"Sweetie?"

His head flew up, his eyes met mine, and his face turned the deepest red I've ever seen.

"It's not working, is it?"

He shook his head once and looked away.

"Would you like me to help?"

That brought his head back around. "You can?"

I nodded. "If you'll let me. But you'll have to trust me." I swallowed. "A lot."

I took his grimace of pain for assent and entered the bathroom.

I suppose I should mention that I was once a prostitute.

Yes, Mark knows. And he understands. There aren't a lot of ways for an orphaned fifteen-year-old girl in Vietnam to support herself. My sole assets were my body, and the fact that Oriental men in general are sexually drawn to underage girls. That, and the willingness to endure what I must to survive, were all I had for several weary years.

I did survive. And I learned a few things.

Probably the first thing I learned was that pain goes away. You can endure any amount of pain, if you'll just remember that. The second thing was that humiliation is something you do to yourself. No one but you can make you feel small, or ashamed. Keeping that in mind is the secret to surviving many of life's horrors.

The third thing was that the anus can be a pleasure center, if you'll just let it.

Cleanliness is everything. That was especially important when I was a prostitute. As soon as a customer left me, I cleaned whatever orifice he'd used with the best measures available to me. Mouth, cunt, or ass, I scrubbed it with whatever was available.

In the process, I discovered that an enema is far from the worst thing in the world. If you do it properly, the position just right and the water just warm enough, it's actually very nice. It's especially nice if you add just a little Castille soap, lie back, relax, and let it work naturally.

I got to enjoy enemas quite a lot. Even on those evenings when there was no customer's excretions to be cleaned out.

Mark was willing to try anything. When he'd finally raised himself off the john, I closed the lid, sat on it myself, and beckoned him to lie across my lap. He hesitated, but did as I asked. I spread my legs as he settled onto me, so that his belly and privates fell between them.

"Is that comfortable? Relatively?"

He nodded.

"Okay, get up a second."

He did. I stooped in front of the vanity and pulled open my private drawer, where I keep my equipment. His eyes widened as I produced the red bag, the hose, the hook, and the special nozzle I use most frequently. He stood silently as I filled the bag, dripped a tiny amount of Castille soap into it, and attached the hose and nozzle. I hung the bag from the towel bar, made sure the clamp was firmly closed, and went to the medicine chest for lubricant. Finally, I setttled back onto the lid of the toilet.

"Time to get back on my lap, sweetie."

He resumed his position across my legs. I made sure his cock was free of obstructions, as I knew what having his belly filled with water was likely to do to him. Truth be told, I was looking forward to it.

"Still trust me?"

Another nod.

"Okay, try your best to relax."

He spasmed when my lubricated fingers first touched his anus. I could tell he was working hard to suppress his urge to get up and run. His need was terrible.

I lubed him carefully, taking the opportunity to stretch his anus somewhat as I did so. His anus was virgin-tight; clearly nothing had gone through it in either direction in some time. When I was certain he was ready, I slowly withdrew my finger and laid my hand tenderly on his rump. He said nothing.

"You're going to feel some stretching," I said. "I'm using a retention nozzle so you won't leak, and so you'll be able to keep the water in you long enough to do a good job. It might hurt for a moment or two, but I promise it will pass. Okay?"

"Okay," he whispered.

I introduced the nozzle to his anus very carefully, making sure there was no undue friction, no resistance other than the need for him to stretch. And stretch he did. He gasped several times, and panted as the inch-and-a-quarter bulge at the widest point passed through his muscular gate. His buttocks quivered throughout, but he made no protest. When the nozzle was properly seated, he was relaxed all over...except for a very hard, very prominent erection.

"Are you okay?" I said.

"Yeah," he whispered. "It didn't hurt all that much."

"Good. I'm going to start the water flowing. Let me know it if cramps you too badly, okay?"

I opened the clip.

His belly swelled slowly between my thighs as the bag emptied. He didn't complain, and his erection never subsided. When the last drops of water gurgled out of the bag and into him, I closed the clip and tenderly stroked his back and buttocks.

"It's all inside you," I whispered. "Now we just have to wait a few minutes. What does it feel like?"

"Heavy," he whispered. "Not bad, but very full and heavy."

"Breathe slowly. Let me know if you start to cramp."

He nodded.

I left one hand on his bottom, slipped the other between my thighs, and closed it carefully around his erect cock. It pulsed powerfully against my palm. I stroked it delicately, allowing my fingers to ripple along its length.

"What are you doing?" he said as he began to tense.

"Making it feel good." I stroked a little harder. "Just relax."

"But --"

"Shhh," I said. I increased the pressure and the pace a little more. "I know what to do, sweetie. Just relax and trust the woman who loves you."

And he did.

I made it last as long as I could. It was nearly ten minutes before the combination of my hands on his sweet young body and the water pressure against his insides made him come. It was an orgasm to remember, a huge pool of semen spurted onto the toilet lid as he screamed and spasmed from head to toe. It must have lasted a whole minute. It left him so limp that I had to lift him with my own strength, flip the lid back with a toe, and set him on the throne myself.

When I pulled the nozzle from his ass, his evacuation was equally spectacular. Even louder. I was surprised that our neighbors didn't storm across the lawn to ask what might be wrong. At the last, he was bent double again, gasping for breath, almost ready to slide onto the floor. But empty at last.

I knelt before him and took his face between my hands. "Better now?"

"Yes," he murmured. "Oh my, yes!"

I held him close in the warmth of our bedroom.

"You really have to watch what you eat better," I said.

He grinned. "Do I?"

"Well..."

"How long," he said, "have you known how to do that?"

"A long time," I said. "I had to learn it early."

"Because of...?"

"Yes," I said. "One of the few legacies of that time that's been worth keeping."

"I'll say." He reared back, put his hands behind his head, and stretched carefully. "Did you ever --"

I shook my head violently. "Never. Just for me. They paid me for...other things. That's all they got."

He grinned even more widely. "So I'm the first?"

I nodded. "Feel special?"

He wrapped his arms around me again and pressed me to him. "Every moment I'm with you. I love you, Minh."

"I love you," I said.

"Yes," he murmured against my cheek. "I know."