Auntie Clem and Le Clystere

Author : Michael
     
     

Mom and I were having breakfast on the patio on a warm July morning.

“Oh, by the way,” she said as she buttered her toast. “Auntie Clem is arriving on Thursday.”

I nearly choked on my orange juice.

“She...she is?"

“Yes. That’s two days from now. I thought I’d tell you well in advance, so you’d be sure to be free for her. She’ll only be here through the week-end, and of course she’ll want to see you.”

She smiled, and I blushed and looked down at my food

“Oh,” I said.

Auntie Clementine, my mother's older sister, was my favorite relative, even though she was quite, you might say, unconventional. She was a pediatrician, but she only practiced when she felt like it, because she had plenty of money from her brief marriage. She flew her own airplane, and was always dashing off to exotic parts of the world. She had an apartment in Paris, a villa in Majorca, and a bungalow in Ceylon. She played polo with the men, she was a six handicap golfer, she won all the prizes at the skeet shoots. She smoked Havana cigars and drank Beefeater gin martinis, straight up. She cut her hair short and wore men’s clothes, so that she looked like a rather pretty young boy. I was in love with her.

There was just one problem: Auntie Clem always donned her pediatrician’s cap when she came to visit, When I was little I hadn’t minded being examined by her, but now that I was older it was another matter. I was in high school, after all, even though I looked younger than most of my classmates. Pediatricians were for babies and little kids, and besides, I had a regular doctor. So why did I need to be examined by my Auntie Clem? I suspected it was part of my mother’s attempt to prevent me from growing up. But I was growing up, which of course made it very embarrassing to be examined by a woman, especially one I was in love with.

“She’s flying up from the Bahamas, so she’ll be needing a rest. She’ll probably want to see you on Saturday or Sunday, so don’t make any plans for the week-end.”

“For the whole week-end? Aw, Mom! She can’t need two days to give me a physical!”

“No, but I don’t know which day she’ll have available. “

“Oh, great.”

“Careful. I don’t care for your tone of voice.”

“It’s just that it wrecks my whole week-end, Mom!”

“This is more important than whatever you have planned.”

I looked down at my food, sulking. Then I heard her say,

“Oh yes, and you’re also going to have an enema. A very special enema.”

I gulped and turned red. That word! It was only one letter away from "enemy", and yet, what a difference! It was a word that I didn't think people should say out loud. That's how strongly I felt about it.

“But....but why?”

“Because, that's all. It’s been decided.”

“And I have no say in the matter?”

“None whatever.”

“Swell.”

“Second warning. Tone of voice again. Be very, very careful."

I looked down at my orange juice.

"And so I want you to make yourself available for the entire week-end.

“Yes, mother dear.”

“All right, that does it. You want a spanking, you’ll get one.”

“Aw, Mom, I - ”.

“Don’t ‘aw, Mom’ me. You know I dislike sarcasm from a teenager! I warned you twice, but you ignored me!! Then that ‘yes, mother dear’, in that snotty tone of voice!! No, I’m sorry! I guess you really must want a red behind!”

She was standing up, now, hovering over me. I felt very small.

“I’m sorry, Mom, I really am. I didn't mean to be fresh.”

“It’s a bit late for apologies. I gave you ample warning. You’ve no one to blame but yourself!”

“I said I’m sorry!”

“Yes, and you’ll soon be a lot sorrier, when you find yourself over my knee, bare bottom!”

“Aw, Mom, I was only joking.”

“Well, I’m not,” she said, throwing down her napkin. “When you’re through breakfast you can go to your room. I’ll call you when I’m ready for you.”

And she strode into the house.

My mother had never laid a hand on me until shortly after my thirteenth birthday, and since my parents were divorced when I was still in diapers that meant that I had gotten through all my prime spanking years without ever knowing what it felt like to have my bottom warmed by a woman’s hand or hairbrush. Then, suddenly, everything changed: she discovered why God made boys’ bottoms so plump and tempting. And once she started spanking me, she made up for lost time.

I was not sure why she had had a sudden change of policy about corporal punishment, but I suspected how it had happened. As I entered puberty I became wilder and less tractable than I had been, engaging in foolish and even dangerous adolescent pranks.

One time some other boys and I were caught by the police shooting guns down by the railroad tracks. Another time I "borrowed" her convertible Buick and went for a joyride, denting the front fender. I was caught smoking at school. I consistently ignored her curfews. She suspected I was smoking marijuana. In short, be was acting adolescent, and it frightened her.

No doubt she told all this her friend Sue Symington, Sue belonged to a Christian sect which believed in not sparing the rod, even on teenagers. I knew that Sue Symington’s daughter Emily, who was my age, got regular spankings whenever she stepped out of line, and Emily told me that my mother had witnessed her getting spanked. I guessed that watching Emily's bare bottom squirming and bouncing on her mother’s lap as Sue turned it a lovely shade of red made her realize what she had been missing with me, for it was shortly thereafter that I got the first spanking of my life

It was a new experience for both of us, and it was a toss-up as to which was more nervous, mother or son. I couldn’t believe it was happening to me,. None of my friends got spanked anymore. I thought my mother had taken leave of her senses when she informed me of her intentions. I thought I could talk her out of it. I tried reasoning with her, I tried pleading with her; I tried joking with her.

Nothing worked. Her mind was made up. She took me by the hand and led me upstairs to her room, locked the door behind us, and dropped the key into her bosom. Sitting down on her vanity bench she patted her lap. I saw her broad backed ivory hairbrush on the table. When I drew near she clamped me between her thighs, delivered her lecture, and then her nervous fingers began undoing my belt. My mouth was dry, my heart pounding. I wanted to break loose and run, but instead I just stood there and let her fingers slowly unveil me.

It was not that I was unaccustomed to having my mother see me naked. She had bathed me herself until I was twelve, soaping me all over, even my most private areas, and she still supervised my baths from time to time. When I was sick she made me feel like an infant, taking my temperature in my behind, because she said it was more accurate that way, and besides, boys couldn’t be trusted to hold the thermometer under their tongues.

And of course she gave me enemas, warm soapy enemas that she administered slowly and lovingly, over her lap when I was small, rubbing my back as she gave me squirt after squirt with the bulb syringe, then later, with the red bag, massaging my tummy as she filled me with the warm, soapy liquid. Oh, yes, I quite liked my enemas, even though sometimes she filled me a little too full, or made me hold it in a little too long, or the soap caused cramping. But mostly I enjoyed being ministered to in such an intimate way. And afterwards she always gave me a nice long back rub.

So I was used to being seen naked by her and having her treat me like the little boy I no longer was. But it was something different to be ceremoniously undressed for a spanking. I could have undressed myself, of course, but I knew she wouldn’t have allowed me to. The ritual had to be observed.

So I had stood there, hands at my side, heart pounding, as she undid my pants and let them fall down to my ankles. I was mortified. But the worst was yet to come. She pulled me down over her lap as if I had been a three-year-old, pushed my shirt up out of the way, and then, to my horror, slowly peeled my underpants down over my hips, exposing my bottom. I was self-conscious about my bottom because it was more like a little boy’s behind than a teenager’s. Not only was it still silky smooth and hairless, it was round and pert and stuck out like a little boy’s behind. In the showers at school kids called me “bubble butt” or “candy ass” or worse names, and one boy in particular liked to tease me, saying things like "Better not drop the soap, candy ass."

Lying there submissively, my bare behind perched up on her right knee, I felt very embarrassed, but also little excited. As she ran her hands over my bottom, sizing up her target, I felt my cock stir under me. She pulled my near thigh closer to her, opening up the inner slopes of my thighs and buttocks, and stroked me some more. It was the lull before the storm, for suddenly she began to spank me, with her bare hand.

I had tensed up my bottom in anticipation of pain, but after the first few spanks I relaxed, for it hardly hurt at all. After a dozen or so spanks I felt a nice warmth suffuse my loins, and I decided I rather liked being spanked.

My mother, realizing she was not attaining the desired results, took up her hairbrush from the vanity table and smacked it against her hand a few times. It was a big brush with a smooth back made of ivory or bone. She tapped it a few times across the tops of my cheeks.

"Perhaps this will get your attention," she said, raising the brush and bringing it down with a smack. right across my two cheeks. I raised my head and let out a shriek. I had never felt anything like it before. My mother, pleased with the effect the hairbrush was having, delivered another blow, with even better results. By the third spank I was bawling, my legs were fluttering so that my pants fell off, and I was bouncing and plunging about on her lap so that she had to hold my arm up behind my back to keep me from rolling off onto the floor. After a dozen or so spanks with the hairbrush I was hitting high notes any choirboy would be proud of. When at last she stopped, my behind was crimson and I was bawling unashamedly. like any ten-year-old.

After I had gotten control over myself she let me up and stood me before her. I was glad to note that my “little man”, as my mother called it, was limp as a piece of overcooked asparagus. I saw through my tears that her face was flushed and that she was breathing heavily.

“I hope,” she said in a thick voice, “that you have learned your lesson, and that I will not have to spank you again. Now go to your room. I will be in to see you later.”

I was only too happy to retreat to the privacy of my room where I lay face down, my blazing bottom exposed to any passing breeze. Twenty minutes later she came in, carrying a jar of cold cream. Sitting down beside me she applied the soothing cream first to the crests of my buttocks, then to the sides, and lastly to the inner slopes, working the cream into the hot skin of my behind, talking to me all the time, saying how sorry she was to have to spank me and make my little behind all red and sore, , and that she hoped I would be a good boy from now on.

The effect of her intimate massage on a teenage boy can be imagined, and much as I was enjoying the feeling of my mother's fingers working ever deeper between my bottom cheeks I was grateful when she stopped and, with a peck on my upper cheek and a pat on my lower one she got up and left the room, Once alone I took matters into my own hand, so to speak, and relieved the tension that had been mounting within me.

Such was the spanking ritual, though certain refinements were made as she became more skilled in the art of reddening my behind.. After every spanking she would always say, "I hope you've learned your lesson," ("yes, Mother.") "and I hope I will never have to spank you again." But this hope, if it really was her hope, and I'm not sure it was, never was realized, because she always found me out in some other prank, and so this spanking I have described was just the first of many long and painful spankings which left both of them exhausted both physically and emotionally.

Having discovered how gratifying it was to spank her son she made sure I got a good warm spanking at least once a week, and sometimes more often. And often she would follow each spanking with a large, warm, soapy enema "to purge the badness that's in you," as she put it. Although she never used the word "punishment" in connection with these enemas, they were not given like the ones she gave me when I was sick or upset, which she gave me in my bed, with me lying on my left side, my bottom toward her. For the post-spanking enemas, on the other hand, she made me kneel on the floor with my chest down and my behind sticking out so that I could feel every little breeze, not to mention her eyes, on my most private spot.. Having to assume this humiliating position, and the cold manner in which she gave it, and coming as it did right after a spanking, with my behind still throbbing with pain, did make it seem like a sort of punishment.

I knew my mother enjoyed spanking me and giving me enemas. Aside from any erotic feelings she may have felt I knew that making me submit to these indignities strengthened her feelings of dominance over her "little boy." For her part, she knew also that I found my spankings exciting, up to a point, and that a good spanking put me in a nicely submissive mood for my enemas. And so it was that spankings and enemas became associated in my mind.

The spankings were rather exciting until the pain got too severe, and I did not really mind the enemas. They were a relief from the pain of my spanking, and as the warm water forced its way higher and higher into my bowel I would feel a stirring in my loins that was distinctly pleasurable. And when she permitted me to use the potty, despite my embarrassment at having to empty my bowels in her presence, I felt such a feeling of relief that I actually believed I was being purged of my badness, so that afterwards, as I lay tummy down on my bed, I felt clean and good.

My reward for taking my spanking and my enema like a good boy came when my mother appeared in the doorway with her little jar of cold cream, the sight of which always caused me to stiffen. And after she had gently and lovingly massaged the cold cream into every crest and slope and nook and cranny of my sensitive behind and I was left alone in my bed , I would indulge in that favorite pastime of adolescent boys everywhere, until the pressure that had been mounting in my loins was released, usually with the help of a finger inserted into my bottom.

I knew I was too old to be spanked, too old to be bathed, too old to have my temperature taken "that way". None of my friends did. Why me? Sometimes I felt rebellion stirring inside me. One day I asked my mother why she insisted upon treated me as if I were still a little boy.

"Because you act like one,” she had said, then adding with a little laugh, “and besides, you look like one, too."

One day when she was out I looked at myself naked in the full-length mirror in her bedroom. In front I was respectably developed, I decided, but turning around and using a hand mirror to assess my backside I had to admit that my behind was more like kid's than a teenager's.. It was round and pert and stuck out, like a little boy’s behind. I ran my hands over it the way she did, and felt how smooth and silky it was. I gave myself a few spanks, feeling a tingling sensation spread through me. I imagined that I was being spanked and then given an enema by my mother or another woman, and the thought aroused me.

And now, as I lay face down on my bed recovering from my latest spanking, I realized my mother had been right: I’d asked for my spanking, by being fresh despite her warnings. Could it be I had really wanted it? It had been sort of a nice spanking., not too hard, but hard enough to make me blub. And the enema had warmed my insides the way the spanking had warmed my skin, so that now a pleasant warmth spread through me.. I felt my cock grow big under me. I wondered how I was going to be able to keep it under control when my aunt examined me. Maybe if I jacked off just before the exam it would stay limp. Well, I would worry about it when the time came. Right now, though, a matter needed attending to.

I reached behind me and found enough cold cream my mother had left on my behind to anoint one finger, Then arching my bottom, , I poked my finger at my rosebud, and when it relaxed I pushed my finger all the way up. Poking it in and out, I stroked my cock with my other hand. It didn't take long. My body tensed, and then spasmed, as I shot my spunk into the little towel she had left beside me on the bed.

“I brought something special for you, sweetie, all the way from France!”

“For me, Auntie Clem?”

“Well, dear, it’s for you in a way, as will become clear in a moment. I only hope you like it"

“When can I see it?”

“Michael,” said my mother, “don’t be forward. Auntie Clem is tired from her journey, and - ”

“That’s all right, Candace, I feel frisky as a colt. Michael, angel, see that long box over there? Bring it here, please, that’s a good boy. Now, I’ll let you open it, as if it were a birthday present, which it most assuredly is not.”

I was most curious to see what it might be, so, despite her implication that I might not find it to my liking, I opened the box as quickly as possible and there inside, lying on a bed of confetti, was the strangest looking instrument I had ever seen. It looked like a brass bicycle pump, only thicker and shorter, and there was no hose attached, just a....and suddenly I realized what it was for and why it was for me, “in a way”, for instead of a hose there was a nozzle, longer and thicker than those I was accustomed to, but a nozzle nevertheless, and there was no doubt about it’s function.

“ Pull out the plunger,” said Auntie Clem. “There. That’s how you fill it. Now push it in. Feel the air coming out? If it’s filled with liquid, then pushing in the plunger forces the liquid out the nozzle. I don’t suppose you have the foggiest notion as to the purpose of it all, do you?”

“I haven’t a clue,” said I, smiling, knowing I was being teased.

“The French call it a clystere, and the treatment a lavement., or washing. It’s a collector’s item. They don’t make them anymore. I got it at a little shop that specializes in things of this sort. Cost me a pretty penny, too. I insisted on trying it out before I bought it, to make sure it worked properly.”

“Who did you try it out on?”

“Michael!! That’s an impertinent question. I’m sure - ”

“Oh, that’s all right, Candace. Boys will be boys. I didn’t try it out on anyone, honey, I just filled it and made sure it squirted the water out and that there were no leaks. You will have the distinct honor of being the first person I try it out on, and probably the first person in many years to be on the receiving end of it. It was either owned by a very rich family, nobility or even royalty perhaps, or by an apothecary, who administered les clysteres to anyone in need of une lavement for a small fee.”

“Isn’t the nozzle rather large?” I asked, since I had a personal interest in the size of the business end of the device.

“Well,” said Auntie Clem, “it is certainly larger than today’s drugstore enema nozzles, if that's what you mean, but really those are such cheaply made little things, and look how well this one's made, swelling out near the tip , then tapering toward the base, to assure a snug fit in the patient’s, ah, backside. There is no way this nozzle, once lodged in a person's behind, can fall out.And please note the flange around the base, to prevent leakage and also to act as a cushion, for there is a tendency to push rather hard when discharging the contents. You’ll see what I mean in the fullness of time. The nozzle, by the way, does unscrew, for ease of cleaning, or perhaps so a different sized nozzle could be attached, for a young child, perhaps.”

As I watched my aunt fondle the nozzle almost lovingly I imagined it being inserted and then resting snugly in my bottom, and the thought caused me to squirm uncomfortably in my seat, but at the same time I felt a stirring in my groin. Our eyes met and I felt myself blush. She smiled at me, which only made me blush more deeply, so that I only half heard her when she spoke.

“Your mother has asked me to give you a physical while I’m here, and of course I said I’d be glad to, but I need to catch up on my sleep, so I think I’ll bid you both good-night. I’ll see you in the morning.” And she got up.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, sure. Good night, Auntie Clem.” And I yawned.

“I think someone else is ready for the sandman,” said my mother, rolling her eyes at I as if I were a six-year-old.

Auntie Clem may have slept like a log, but not I. Toe thought of what was in store for me in the morning - first, being subjected to a thorough and intimate physical examination by my aunt, and then , if I had understood her correctly, being made to be the guinea pig for my aunt to try out her newest enema toy on, caused me extreme anxiety, but also excited me, and these conflicting emotions kept me from sleeping. And when I did at last succumb to the arms of Morpheus. I was beset with wild dreams involving snakes that were crawling all over me and into my various orifices. It was only toward morning that I fell into a deep sleep, so that my mother had to throw off my covers and shake me into wakefulness.

“Wake up, Michael, Auntie Clem will be here before long, and you must be ready for her. Out of bed now, this instant. I’ve already drawn a bath for you. Hurry now, up you get, and off with your p.j.’s. Now your bottoms. There's a good boy. Now into the bathroom, quick like a bunny.” And she caught me a smack on my bottom, just to remind me that I was still her little boy.

“It’ll go faster if I do it,” she said, soaping up a washcloth as I climbed into the tub. She washed my face, ears, neck, arms and feet, then made me stand up while she did the rest of me. I was too sleepy to protest being bathed by my mother at my age. She did my chest, stomach, and legs, then turned me round and did my back, including my bum. She made me spread my cheeks so she could scrub around my hole with the washrag. When I protested at her vigor she said, "We don't want to have Auntie Clem see a dirty behind, now, do we?"

"No, mother," I answered. When she finally was finished she handed me the soapy rag and said,

“Now you can do the rest yourself,” "the rest" being my “privates.” She watched me do it, to make sure I did a good job, making sure I pulled back my foreskin and washed thoroughly under it. Then it was out of the tub for a toweling.

“When did you last go potty?” she asked as she dried my bottom.

“Yesterday. I never go in the morning until after breakfast.”

"Hmm. Then chances are your rectum's full, and we can't have that. I’ll just give you a little enema, so you’ll be clean for your aunt.” And in no time she had taken the red rubber bulb syringe from the closet and filled the sink with warm, soapy water.

“Over my lap,” she said, sitting on the closed toilet and patting her knees. I knew it was useless to protest. I lay down across her knees, my legs and hands on the floor.

She filled the syringe, dipped the nozzle into the Vaseline, parted my cheeks, inserted the nozzle, and squeezed. I felt the warm soapy enema water shoot into my rectum. The second bulbful sent the water higher, the third higher yet. It felt kind of nice, I had to admit. When she reached under me to massage my tummy her hand grazed my hard cock, but she didn't say anything. Then she let me up, and I sat on the toilet and emptied my rectum. When I was finished I wiped myself, but of course she had to see if I had done a proper job, and saying "tsk tsk" took another sheet of paper and wiped me vigorously. "There," she said, giving me a pat on the bottom, you're ready for your aunt. I’ve put out your gym shorts. They're on your bed. That’s all you’ll need. No underpants.”

I found the gym shorts. Little blue cotton things I hadn’t worn for at least a year. I had to struggle to get into them, they were so tight.

“They’re too small for me, mom,” I said, when she came in my room.

“If you don’t want to wear them, dear, you don't have to.”

“I don’t?”

“ No, you can take them right off and go downstairs as naked as a jay. I just thought you might like to have your modesty preserved for a while. But since they’ll be coming off soon anyway - ”

“That’s all right, mom, I’ll wear them.”

“That’s better. “And she smiled the smile of the victor. Which of course she always was. She knew I felt silly and childish in them, and that was exactly the way she wanted me to feel.

“Is Auntie Clem here, yet?”

“Not yet, dear. I’ll call you when she arrives. Meanwhile, get some rest.”

“Can I have something to eat?”

“I’ll bring you some juice. We don’t want you eating anything solid just yet. You’re going to have an enema, you know.”

“Yes, I know.” I felt like saying, "And you know that I know. You just like to remind me so I won't forget that I am under your thumb."

But of course I didn't. Instead I lay down on my bed. Soon my mother came up with my juice.

It was a large glass filled to the brim with some yellowish-green stuff. One of her own concoctions. I took a sip. It was vile. Probably celery, carrot, spinach, and whatever was in the crisper that needed to be eaten, all blended together in her juicer. How it tasted didn’t count; all that mattered was that is was good for you. It went along with her enema regime. I knew I had to drink it all, just as I knew there was no avoiding her enemas. I drank it all down. It was very thick at the bottom. I put the glass on the nightstand, curled up on my bed, rolled over onto my stomach and soon was fast asleep.

What awakened me was the weight of someone sitting down on my bed, and a hand rubbing my thigh high up, under my shorts. It was blending in with a nice little dream I was having, and I knew I was hard.

“Wake up, dear. Auntie Clem’s here and she’s waiting for you.”

I rolled over onto my back. Her eyes went instinctively to the front of shorts, and noted my erection. There was just a flicker of a smile. I yawned and sat up.

“What time is it?”

“Just after nine. Come along, dear. We mustn’t keep her waiting.”

I swung my legs onto the floor and stood up, aware of my tent pole under m,y shorts.. She took my hand and as if I were a small child and led me into the hall, toward the stairs.

“I think I can walk by myself, mother,” I said in a tone she did not like. But she let it go, and watched as I went downstairs, slowly, one hand on the banister.

“My, what an apparition!” came a voice from below. Auntie Clem was standing at the foot of the stairs, looking up. She was wearing a white smock over whatever else she had on, and a stethoscope hung from her neck

“You remind me of Greta Garbo descending the stairs in “Camille.” she said.

“If he weren’t wearing the shorts he dislikes so much he could be Duchamp’s “Nude Descending a Staircase," put in my mother.

“Oh, I think he looks cute in those skimpy things, like Mickey Rooney as Puck.”

And so, each in her own way, they teased me and embarrassed me. But when I had reached the bottom floor I allowed myself to be embraced and kissed on the mouth by my aunt,

“Now, let’s get down to business,” she said, and with one hand on the small of my bare back she propelled me into the study, where I was to be examined. my mother stayed behind, for which I was very glad. On previous visits of my aunt she had been present during my examinations, which always added to my embarrassment. I much preferred being alone with Auntie Clem.

The room was paneled in wood, had bookcases on three sides, two leather chairs, two leather footstools, and an upholstered chaise longe. In the center was an oak table and two straight- backed chairs. On the table, opened, was her black medical bag. She patted the table, and I hopped up onto it, my legs dangling. She took my blood pressure, then took a thermometer from a case in her bag and put it in my mouth while she took my pulse and listened to my heart. After reading the thermometer she replaced it in the bag and thumped my back. Next she peered into my ears with a pointy flashlight, up both nostrils, into my eyes, down my throat with a tongue depressor, felt the glands around my throat, then had me lie flat while she palpitated my abdomen, slipping her hand under the top of my shorts at times.

“Any discomfort?” she asked, pressing down hard.

“Nope.”

“Bowel movements regular?”

“Oh, yes, she sees to that!” She smiled down at me.

Turning her attention to my legs, she felt my thighs and calves for muscle tone, checked my feet, then drew one thigh up to my chest, then the other. Then she ordered me off the table. Sitting down on one of the straight-backed chairs she drew me close to her, holding me by the hips. She rubbed her fingers lightly back and forth over my nipples, until I could feel them stiffen. She ran her hands up and down my torso a few times, then hooked her fingers under the elastic waistband of my gym shorts. I knew what was coming, or more precisely what was coming down. I felt the cool air on my behind as she drew down my little shorts and let them fall to my ankles.

“You may step out of them,” she said, “we won’t be needing them anymore.” Again she put both hands on my hips, or rather my buttocks. I saw her drop her eyes onto my cock, which was moving up and down in time to my heartbeat but was, thank God, not really hard. She took it in her hand, lifted it, looked at the underside, let it rest again, and said, looking up at me,

“My, how you’ve grown!.”

This broke the ice, and we both had a good chuckle.

“Any pain during urination?” she asked, still with my cock resting in the palm of her hand as if she were a butcher holding a sausage.

"No."

“During ejaculation?”

“What?”

“You know. When you masturbate. You do masturbate don’t you?” She said it in a very matter- of-fact way, looking me in the eye, but I felt my cheeks turn red with embarrassment.

"Do you know what the word means?"

"Yes."

"Then perhaps you would be good enough to answer my question." I hemmed and hawed and shifted from one foot to the other.

“Look," she said, somewhat exasperated. I know you do it. All boys do it, unless there’s something wrong with them. You can trust me to keep your answer confidential. Right now I’m your doctor, not your aunt. Now, you do do it, don’t you?"

“Yes.”

“Good. How many times a day?”

“Only once.”

“Only once? What’s wrong with you?”

“Well, maybe twice sometimes.”

“How about, every night, every morning, and sometimes in between.” I gave a little chuckle.

“I guess so,” I said.

“Yes,” she said, ”I guess so, too. Now, please pull back your foreskin, or would you prefer that I do it."

"I'll do it", I said, quickly, and I did.

"Hmm," she said, taking my cock in her hand again. "Looks O.K.. A bit raw but I guess you give it a work-out last night. Now let’s have a look at your balls, or rather a feel.”

And she took one in her hand and rolled it around for what seemed to me a very long time. It didn’t hurt, in fact it felt pretty good, and I knew without looking that my cock was getting sifff. Then she did the same thing to my other ball, massaging it for a long time. From time to time our eyes met, and I knew my face was red because it felt hot. Then she pushed her finger up into the place where my balls came down from, and where I used to push them up sometimes when I was younger and felt like playing with them.

“Turn toward the window and cough,” she said. Then she did the same thing on the other side. Next she got up and took something out of her bag, a little rubber thing that she put onto her finger. I knew what was coming because she had done it before, but I was sort of hoping she would forget about it this time. Not because it hurt - it didn’t - but because I was afraid it would make me even stiffer than I already was, partly because of what she was doing to me and partly because as I said before I was in love with her, Maybe she was my doctor right now, but she was also Auntie Clem, and I couldn't forget that.

“And now,” she said, unscrewing the cap of a blue and white tube of something, “last but not least, I want to check your prostate. Hop onto the table again, dear, on your hands and knees this time, your bottom towards me, your arms and shoulders on the table.

That’s right. Stick it right up. That's good. Perfect.” To say that I felt exposed would have been an understatement. I could feel the cool air on my little hole, which so seldom saw the light of day, let alone other people's eyes. Now, I knew, she was looking right at it. If she waited long enough it might even open up for her. Then I felt her left hand on my back, pressing down, forcing my bottom out even more, and then her gloved fingertip on my hole,, and the cool, slippery jelly that wasn’t Vaseline but something else. She worked her fingertip around my orifice for a while, then made a tentative poke, then another. Then I felt my hole opening to admit her finger

“Good boy,” she said, patting my back. “Now to find that little button of yours. Ah, there it is, I think.”

“Oh!”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“Oh!”

“You feel it, can't you? That’s your prostate gland, dear, and it’s going to be very important to you as you get older. It’s sensitive to the touch, I know, but I have to feel it to make sure it’s healthy. Don’t be embarrassed if your dickie gets stiff, or even if some sticky stuff comes out. That’s natural.” As she talked she worked her finger over my little button, causing me intense feelings.

To take my mind off what she was doing I read the writing on the blue-and-white tube, which she had left right by my head. It was called KY Jelly, and it said it was for “the easy insertion of enema nozzles and rectal thermometers.” Instead of calming me, those magic words “enema nozzles” and “rectal thermometers” sort of excited me. This, plus the sensation of her finger moving in my rectum made me so hard I was sure I was going to shoot all over the table. And she stopped just in time. When she withdrew her finger I felt empty, and my hole felt wide open.

“You may get up, now, dear,” said my aunt. I backed off the table, trying to hide my erection, but she turned me around took my hands away.

“Don’t try hiding anything from me,” she said, with just a trace of a threat in her tone. My dick was sticking straight out and there was some sticky stuff dangling from its tip. Auntie Clem saw it and took some on her finger. It was sticky enough so that it was connected to my dick and her finger by a tiny thread. Then she amazed me by holding it up to her nose and sniffing it.

“Pre-coital fluid,” she said, although I had not asked for an explanation. “ Mother Nature’s own lubricant. She thinks of everything.” She took a tissue and, holding my shaft near the tip, wiped it off.

“There,” she said. “Perhaps sometime before I leave I’ll have a free moment in which to give you a proper prostate massage, if you’d like, but right now I think we should find out how your mother is coming along with preparations for your lavement.”

The thought of these future ministrations to my insides set my heart thumping and my organ throbbing.

“Can’t I have something to put on?” I asked plaintively.

“What? You want to hide your boyish charms from your aunt, who has seen you naked since you were a tiny boy and who has come all the way from France just to see you naked again?” I laughed.

“Well, I’m not a tiny boy any longer, Auntie Clem, as you may have noticed.”

“Touché! Well, you can put your shorts back on, though they’ll just have to come right off again in a minute.”

“That’s all right,” said I, clumsily stepping into my little shorts, almost falling over in the process. I had some trouble getting my penis inside them. Auntie Clem watched me with an amused expression on her face.

“Come along now," she said, mussing my hair, " you know that it doesn't pay to keep your mother waiting. And she pushed me ahead of her out of the study and toward the stairs. As I climbed the stairs she followed right behind, and I felt her eyes watching my buttocks, clearly delineated by the thin tight shorts, undulating from side to side

My mother was indeed waiting as we entered the little spare room where I got my enemas. I stopped in the doorway.. On the table beside the bed was a basin of steaming water. I knew it had soap in it by the smell. Next it was the brass enema pump my aunt had brought, and beside it, a blue and white tube with the cap off which I recognized as another tube of KY jelly. I wondered if my aunt had brought it from Paris. My mother only used Vaseline on me. There was also a roll of toilet paper, a thermometer in a water glass, and some of those little rubber finger cots like the one she had used to examine my rectum with a few minutes ago. The bed was a single, iron framed bed. In the center of it were two large pillows, one atop the other, and on top of both, a towel had been placed. My mother was standing next to the table, checking the temperature of the enema solution with a bath thermometer. She was wearing her smock, the one with the deep front pockets. As I took in both the whole scene and all its minute details, realizing all this had been prepared just for me, that in a moment I would I lying face down on that bed, my bottom in the air, a nice target for my aunt’s bicycle pump enema device, I suddenly froze. I didn’t want to go through with it.

“Come along, Michael,” I heard my mother say. “If the enema water temperature drops any lower I’ll have to add more hot.”. As if it were my fault that my aunt took so long examining me! She was obviously in a sour mood. Perhaps, I thought , she was jealous of her sister, envious of her free life, her eccentricities. her money ((the result of a brief marriage to a very rich man),

“Michael? Did you hear me? We’re ready for you. Take off your shorts and come over here. Now.”

I heard her as if from a distance, for my mind was elsewhere. I imagined myself flying a plane, like Auntie Clem, able to go anywhere I wanted, with no one telling me what to do. Suddenly I felt rebellion stirring within me. I just stood there, frozen.

" Come on, sweetie,” said Auntie Clem.

Still no response. my mother crossed her arms.

"One, two..."

I looked at the two women. My aunt was looking at me pleadingly, my mother fiercely, her hand in her deep apron pocket where she kept her hairbrush. I prayed for the floor to open up, but nobody heard my prayer. "Go on," I heard my aunt say. I looked at her. She was nodding, pleading silently. She knew my mother's temper. I breathed a deep sigh of resignation and slowly started moving toward the bed. I was almost there when she took her hand out of her pocket and brandished the hairbrush. I froze again. I couldn't believe; this was happening.

"I'm afraid our boy needs a little reminder of who is in charge around this house, she said, smacking her hand lightly with the smooth side of the ivory hairbrush. "I would have hoped that yesterday's spanking would have taught you a lesson, but apparently it wasn't hard enough to make an impression. Get over here this instant!"

My mouth was dry. I thought if I closed my eyes and willed myself somewhere else I might escape my doom. I closed them, but nothing happened for a few seconds. Then I felt a hand grip my wrist and yank me forward. I almost fell down as my mother pulled me over to a chair and sat down on it, clamping me between her thighs.

"Now we'll see if a nice warm spanking will put our little boy in a more cooperative mood. Take down your pants."

I stood there shaking, looking her in the eye. I didn't move.

"TAKE DOWN YOUR PANTS!"

"No," I said in a barely audible voice.

She was silent for a minute, thrown of balance, for this was the first time I had defied her. When she spoke again her voice was calm, low.

"Very well, then., I shall do it myself." And letting go my wrists she undid the top button, then unzipped the zipper, and after a bit of tugging and pulling she managed to free my bottom, and the shorts fell to my ankles in a pool of blue.

"Step out of them, please." It seemed a reasonable request, so I did.

"Now pick them up."

I didn't move. She drew back her arm and delivered a nasty smack to my thigh.

"I said pick them up."

I found myself stooping down and picking up the tiny garment and handing it to her.

"Thank you. Now get over my lap."

With a feeling almost of relief I placed my naked body across her lap and prepared myself mentally for what I knew was going to be a very hard spanking.

"Clem, bring me that phone book, would you? I need something under my right foot. Thank you.. I must apologize for Michael's behavior. Michael," she said, resting a hand upon my behind, "you have done some silly, foolish things, and paid the price for them with a red behind, but never before have you had the audacity to openly defy me, and for this you will pay dearly."

She rubbed my bottom with her right hand as she spoke. With her left hand she took hold of my right wrist and forced my arm across my back.

"Now I want you to relax your bottom. No tightening, or the spank won't count. Are you ready?"

"Yes, mother."

"All right. And remember, no tightening."

"Yes, mother."

And the spanking began. U was expecting to feel the dreaded hairbrush, and so was relieved when it was only her hand that landed square on the crests of my bottom cheeks. It stung a bit, but it wasn't bad. But by the time she had covered every inch of my bottom and the tops of my thighs as well what had begun as a mild stinging was now escalating. She was a skilled spanker, never hitting the same spot twice, but moving around the whole buttock area - the crests, the outer and inner slopes, and, most of all, the tender area where thigh meets buttock. She took her time. She knew her enema water was too cool to use now anyway, so there was no hurry.

She was, I knew, enjoying herself immensely. Spanking me was her favorite indoor sport.

I had resolved not to cry in front of Auntie Clem, but I knew my mother would spank me until I did, so when the fire in my behind got too intense I let go, and started bawling like a six-year-old. My mother didn't miss a beat. She just kept right on reddening my behind, and I kept right on bawling. And when at long last she did stop, I kept right on crying.

"Calm down," she said, rubbing my sore behind, "and listen to me. That was for being slow to obey me. I don't like to have to ask three times. Remember that in the future. Now I'm going to punish you for defying me, and I am sure you are going to remember it." And after a bit of rustling I felt on my behind the cool, smooth broad back of my nemesis, the hairbrush.

"Clem, would you be so kind as to hold his ankles." she said, adding a bit of pressure to the arm pinioned up my back.. I felt my aunt's long fingers wrap around my ankles She lifted them off the floor and spread them apart, holding them as one would the two handles of a wheel barrow.

"Now just turn his heels out a little. Very good. Thanks." This action forced my bottom open, giving my aunt a nice view and letting some air onto the inner slopes of my behind.

“Now you’re going to have a painful lesson in obedience. You are going to regret very much that you defied my authority. I wanted to tell her that it wasn't so much disobedience as a sort of stage fright that had caused me to act as I did, but I knew that would never wash with her, so I remained silent, awaiting the first blow, making every effort not to sense up my buttocks. When it came it felt as if I had been branded with a branding iron. I let out a hoarse cry. I had barely recovered from the shock when the second one came. Then they proceeded to land on me in about ten second intervals. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

“Ow! Please mom," I cried, "I’ll be good! Owww! Oh, please!” But she kept right on spanking me. My legs were fluttering despite my aunts efforts to hold them still, and I was trying to twist my hips to avoid the blows. The pain was awful, but even worse was the humiliation of being spanked in from of the aunt I adored, of being reduced to a little boy before her very eyes. I begged my mother to stop.

“I’ll stop when you have shown me that you’re sorry,” she replied.

“I’m sorry, mom! I am!” SMACK!

“Then show it by quitting struggling and accepting your punishment in the proper spirit.” I gave in. Sobbing loudly, I let my body go limp.

“You don’t have to hold me, Auntie Clem,” I said.

"Yes, she does. I'll give the orders around here. Clem, get me that dictionary, please. I want his bottom higher. Thank you. And now, grasp his ankles again and turn them out sharply. I want to spank those inner slopes well so that he feels it when he walks.

“That’s good. And Michael, keep your bottom completely relaxed. No tightening. Understand?”

“Yes, mother.”

The relaxing of my bottom, plus the two books under her foot,, opened up areas of my bottom not usually accessible to the hairbrush, and inspired my mother to resume spanking my already red behind with renewed enthusiasm, with not quite the same force, but with more finesse, concentrating on the inside slopes and tender undersides of my bottom. This treatment was very painful, and it took considerable effort on my part to lie still with a relaxed bottom while my mother worked me over. But lie there I did, bawling until I was hoarse, but remaining completely passive. Once again I had been taught a lesson in submission, and when my mother finally put down the hairbrush I lay there sobbing and crying and choking.

When I had gotten some control over myself my mother delivered her usual lecture about how she hated to spank me but felt it her duty, and how she hoped I had learned my lesson and that she would not have to spank me again. I furnished the appropriate responses ("yes, mother" or "no mother") all the while reflecting that a) she did indeed enjoy spanking me and b) she was certain to find an excuse to spank me again before the week was over.

Then her sermon was over I was helped off her lap and onto the bed. My mother kneel behind the pillows and then drape myself over them so that my bottom was elevated as high as possible, which was very high indeed. This humiliating and vulnerable position filled me with such self pity that it I felt a new flood of tears well up inside me. I saw no point in holding them back so very soon I was bawling again..

"Cry all you like," said my mother, "but don't you dare move an inch from where you are. And no rubbing your bottom, either. Auntie Clem will be watching. I'm going to heat up your enema water, which is now tepid, thanks to your childish behavior. And I'm going to put in extra soap, for good measure." And she left, bearing the basin of water.

Oh, how I longed to rub my behind! It was like having a terrible itch and being prevented from scratching it. I considered doing it anyway, but didn't want to put Auntie Clem in an awkward position so I suffered in silence. All I could do was clench and unclench my cheeks. I wished I could make my skin twitch the way horses can, to get rid of flies.

"You poor dear," said Auntie Clem when my mother was out of earshot, "your bottom is so red, it must sting like fury."

"It does, Auntie Clem," sobbed the boy. "Would you like me to rub it for you, darling?"

"Really? Would you? I don't want to get you into trouble."

"You won't. And besides, she didn't forbid me from rubbing it, did she? So just lie still and let me rub away some of the pain."

And I felt her soothing fingers stray over my flaming rump..

"Mmmm. That feels so good, Auntie Clem. It's nice of you to do it."

"Don't be silly. I love doing it. You have a very cute behind, you know."

"I do?"

"Yes, indeed you do. It's so nicely shaped, firm and round, not saggy, and soft, too, land smooth, like a baby's. I’m sorry your mother had to spank it so hard, but you must understand how she feels. She’s afraid that if she loses control over you, you will go wild and do crazy things the way so many teenage boys do."

"She treats me like a little kid. She doesn't want me to grow up."

"That's part of it, don't you see? She wants you to stay a little boy because she loves boys that age. They're so nice, so uncomplicated, so easy to manage. She doesn't want you to grow up."

"Yes, but she must know that I will."

"Oh, she knows it, all right, but she wants to keep you a boy as long as possible. Don't worry. In a couple of years you'll be through school and on your own. In the meantime, you'll just have to put up with her. And you can make it easier on both of you if you let her boss you around. So try not to defy her, all right?”

“All right,” Auntie Clem stopped rubbing my bottom and started stroking my hair. I started crying again, not from pain but from my love for my aunt and, even though she treated me like a little boy, also for my mother. It was not easy for her, I knew, raising a boy by herself. I would try to be good. And I would begin by taking my enema without a fuss. But first I had to take care of a little problem.

“Auntie Clem, I really have to pee.” Just then my mother reentered, carrying the steaming bowl of soapy water.

“Use the potty under the bed,” said my mother crisply.

“But....”I began, then thought better of complaining. Still sniffling, I climbed down off the bed, got down on my hands and knees, sticking out my red behind as I fished under the bed for the potty. I held it in my hands for a moment, wondering how to do it. My mother came to the rescue, sort of.

“Sit on it,” she said. How embarrassing! But I had to go, so I sat, quite painfully, on the little potty, my knees sticking up like the legs of some insect. the rim cutting into my sore behind. Pointing my cock downwards with my hand I peed noisily into the crockery.

Meanwhile my mother was rearranging the pillows, folding the top one double so that it would raise my bottom even higher. Then, having finished peeing, I climbed back up onto the pillows. My mother adjusted me so that my bottom was elevated to the maximum, and my abdomen free from any obstruction, ready to be filled with the enema. my legs were parted, opening wide my buttocks and exposing my pink, hairless anus.

I had never felt more humiliated in my life. I’d been given a severe spanking with the hairbrush in front of the aunt I adored, a spanking that reduced me to crying, begging, and later whimpering. Then I’d been made to sit on a little potty and do my pee pee like a small child, and now I was positioned across pillow in such a way as to present my bottom in the most embarrassing manner imaginable. My mother certainly knew how to take the wind out a teenage boy’s sails! I felt totally beaten, defeated, And now I was to be given an enema. What more could she do to humiliate me? I was soon to find out.

“I think the water is just a bit too warm,” said my mother.

“We could add a splash of cold,” suggested Auntie Clem.

“Oh, it will cool down in a minute or two. I think there’s just enough time to check his temperature. " I closed my eyes. My mother was getting revenge for my rebellion. But I remembered my resolve, to take my enema without a fuss.

"It can't hurt, I suppose” said my aunt. "I only took an oral reading during my exam. Will you do the honors?”

“Of course.” And taking the stubby glass rod from the tumbler she shook it down, took a small jar of Vaseline from her apron, opened it and dipped the tip into it. Then, sitting on the bed, she spread my bottom cheeks apart and aimed the little rod at my bunny hole.

“Lie still, and no squirming,” she said, as if addressing a six-year-old.

“Yes, Mamma,” I said in a little-boy voice, and immediately regretted it.. I felt the glass rod slip into my behind This was followed immediately by a sharp smack to my very sore bottom.

"Don't get fresh, young man, unless you want another dose."

"I'm sorry," I said, and I meant it.

She twisted and turned the little rod inside me, and felt my pecker growing stiff again in spite of everything I could do to prevent it. But when she poked it in and out, I couldn’t help uttering my groans of pleasure. I knew she would be smiling. It was another way she had of showing her control over me: she could make me get a hard-on if she wanted to.

She made small talk with her sister for a few minutes, her hand on my hot behind, fingers gripping the little rod, which she kept moving inside me. After several minutes of this she said,

“I think the enema water is ready now,” and whisked out the thermometer, wiping it off, reading it, and putting it back in the tumbler without announcing the reading. She tested the enema water and pronounced it “just right.”

“He's all yours, Clem,” she said.

“Thank you, Candace. And now, Michael, as you have already noticed, the nozzle we’re using today is rather large, much larger than the enema nozzles you’re used to. For that reason I'm going to dilate you a little, meaning open you up a little with my finger. I want you to relax your sphincter muscles - those are the ones you use to hold in your poopies - and to push as if doing number two.”

So saying, she donned a rubber finger cot, squeezed a little KY jelly onto it, and spreading my buttocks apart even more, dabbed at my entrance with her gloved and lubricated finger. She swirled it around my anal ring, then pushed it in as far as the second joint. Then she began loosening up my anal entrance by pushing against the walls. It felt nice, even nicer than the thermometer, but nowhere near as nice as when she was massaging my prostate gland. She continued for some time, stretching the opening to accommodate the fat nozzle. Meanwhile, my mother was filling the pump with enema water. When she had filled it completely, and expelled all the air, she lubricated it carefully and thoroughly with KY jelly, and handed it to her sister.

“Here we go,” said Auntie Clem, and I felt her left hand part my buttocks and then the cold tip of the metal nozzle against my puckered opening. She swirled it around, poking gently, then said,

"This may be the first time this historic instrument has been inserted into someone's bottom in a hundred years or more. Perhaps it was last used on a young French Dauphin your age, or perhaps on his sister. There's no telling whose bottom it was in last. They probably used goose fat instead of KY, and instead of having a hairbrush handy to use on a naughty child's bottom it was probably a martinet or perhaps a little birch rod. In any case, I am sure that whoever it was, whether a wanton scullery maid or a young heir to the throne, she or he was probably as uneasy at having the thing inserted as you are, so take heart in the knowledge that others have gone before you and survived. All right?"

"Yes, Auntie Clem."

"Good boy. And now, I want you to take a deep breath and let it out slowly, pushing out with your muscles like when you do a b.m.”

As I did this she gave a push and the nozzle slid in past my pucker. It felt lovely going into me, and when it was all the way in I felt the flange pressing against my anus.

“How’s it feel, kiddo?” asked my aunt, “nice and snug and comfy in your b.t.m?”

“Yes,” I said, and I meant it.

“Good boy. O.K., here goes.” And holding the chamber of the pump with her left hand she pushed on the plunger, forcing a gush of water into my bowel. I gave a little groan as the water coursed into me.

“Can you feel it going in?” my mother asked.

“Of course I can feel it going in,” I replied, and immediately was sorry. It was a silly question, but I hadn’t meant the reply to sound so sassy.

“You’re in a rather vulnerable position to make retorts like that,” she said, taking the hairbrush from her pocket and placing it where I could see it.

“I’m sorry, mom. And yes, I can feel it going in.”

“Much better.”

Auntie Clem had the plunger about half-way home, and was finding it necessary to exert considerable force. This meant that the flange pressed hard against my back door. It was a new sensation, and I quite liked it..

“Push back against it as much as you can,” said Auntie Clem. I pushed my already stretched bottom against the flange, feeling the nozzle deep inside me. More water squirted in. My mother reached under me and massaged my stomach, working the water up my colon to make room for more. The pressure of the nozzle inside me, of the flange against my anus, together with the water spurting into me, caused me to get stiff again. My mother’s hand "accidentally" grazed against my shaft several times as she massaged me. She made no comment, of course. She knew the effect enemas had on young boys. Auntie Clem pushed the plunger all the way in, and a stream of soapy water shot into me. I was beginning to feel full already.

Auntie Clem slowly withdrew the nozzle from my bottom and refilled it from the bowl. I watched as she drew the milky water up into the cylinder, then felt her hand parting my cheeks as she once against inserted the thick nozzle right up to the hilt, filling and stretching my bottom. Then she proceeded to push the plunger in, forcing more water into me. Halfway way through this second load I experienced severe cramping, and asked my Aunt to stop for a while, which she did. I groaned in pain as the cramps got worse. My mother massaged me vigorously and told me to take deep breaths, and after a while the cramps subsided, and Auntie Clem resumed pumping. Before long I was feeling pretty full, and I said so.

“We have a ways to go yet, sweetums, but I’ll take it real slow. You just keep on taking deep breaths. And your mom will massage your tum-tum.”

Somehow I didn’t mind the baby-talk coming from her; I knew she was half-way joshing. I also knew that being given an enema, no matter how old you were, always made you feel like a little kid again. It had to do with power, with the person giving the enema being totally in control, and the one on the receiving end having little or no say in what was being done to him. I felt this very strongly, especially today because I had been spanked in front of Auntie Clem before having to submit to the enema. Also, having my bottom raised and my legs parted ,opened up my bottom for my aunt in a way that made me feel very “slave.”

In a way I sort of liked the feeling, liked being made to do things by her, liked being under her control, forced to submit, but with my mother it was different. She just treated me like a little kid. Auntie Clem, who had no children of her own, seemed to know more about boys than my own mother did. I could be Auntie Clem’s slave boy anytime. I would do anything for her. So, when she had emptied the entire contents of the syringe into me, I didn’t beg not to have another load. I just lay there submissively and let her decide. But it was with some fear that I heard my mother say,

“I’m going to add a splash of very hot water to the bowl, just to bring it up to temp. I think there’s enough soap.”

“Plenty of soap,” said Auntie Clem.

So, I was to get another syringeful. I wondered what the capacity of the cylinder was, but didn’t want to ask. I lay there feeling the water churning and sloshing around inside me . She hadn’t withdrawn the syringe. Perhaps she felt it acted sort of like a plug, holding the water in.

“How’ya doing?” she asked, running her hand up and down my back and over my bottom.

“O.K..” I said..

“Feeling pretty full?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve got about a liter and a half inside you. I think we can get some more in you without too much discomfort. Some discomfort has to be expected if it’s to be a good enema. So see if you can be brave and take some more water for your Auntie Clem.”

“I’ll do my best, Auntie Clem.”

“I know you will, sweetie,” she said, kissing my ear and running her hand lightly over my tender behind. Then my mother was back with the basin, and Auntie Clem withdrew the syringe from my bottom with a sucking sound and refilled it with the warmer water. Then, as before, she parted my cheeks and reinserted it, pushing it in so the flange was pressed hard against my back door. Then she pressed down on the plunger, and I pushed back against the instrument as hard as I could, and the water flowed into my already full bowel. I groaned and panted and tried to concentrate on taking in the water as my aunt continued to pump it in me.

“Did you know,” she said suddenly, “that the ibis bird can give itself enemas with it’s beak?”

I laughed despite my discomfort. I knew she was trying to distract me from my discomfort. “It sucks water into it’s mouth, then inserts its beak into its rectum. Luckily it has a long neck so this is quite easy for it. And did you know that people have been giving and taking enemas since the beginning of the human race?”

I only half-heard that last remark, as I was concentrating on the fullness inside me. Finally I said,

"Auntie Clem, I don't think I can take any more."

"All right, dear, I'll take it out," and she removed the long fat nozzle from my behind. But my relief was shattered by her next utterance.

"I want you on your back, now. I think we can get a little more into you that way."

"Please, Auntie, I don't think I can."

"I believe," said my mother predictably, "that your aunt knows better than you do how much enema water you can take."

"I promise to stop if you really can't take any more," said Auntie Clem. "But I think I can make a little room for more water."

And carefully she and my mother transferred their bloated patient first onto his side and then onto his back. They adjusted the pillows under me so that my bottom was elevated. My aunt then proceeded to massage me, working the water higher up my colon, her fingers "walking" the water up and over and down. And if she noticed my erection she didn't let on.

"Take deep breaths," she said, massaging me vigorously. "As we work the water into your ascending colon there will be room for more water below. Trust me."

And she was right: after several minutes I felt much better, and said I could indeed take some more.

At my aunt's instruction my mother raised my legs, drawing my knees back to my chest so that my glistening bottom hole was fully exposed, and Auntie Clem once again aimed the menacing instrument at it and pushed. I felt the fat nozzle penetrate me deeply and fully. My aunt commenced pushing the plunger, and I felt a new surge of warm water enter my bowel. my aunt pushed slowly as my mother massaged me. I breathed quickly. The pressure began to mount again. With a final push my aunt emptied the contents of the machine into me.

"Good boy!" she exclaimed. "You have now experienced what we in the business call a 'high enema.' Now I'd like you to hold your enema for a few minutes, so it can do its work. Meanwhile, your mother will work the water into your cecum. "And she kept the clystere pressed tightly against my anus as my mother worked the water higher and higher. I heard it sloshing around inside me, and that action and my mother's fingers grazing my organ soon made my cock even harder. I panted and gasped as the water was swirled around inside me. The minutes went by like hours. At last my aunt looked at her huge wrist chronometer and announced,

"Time's up. I'll take out the nozzle now. Candace, could you hand me that little face towel? As the nozzle comes out some water may follow. "

Slowly she withdrew the big long nozzle, which came out with a little plop, like the sound of a cork coming out of a wine bottle. Immediately she pressed the towel against my anus to prevent any leakage.

“Can you make it to the bathroom or do you want to use the potty?” my mother asked.

"I can make it,” I said,, and I would have walked a mile rather than use the potty again. I knew my mother was disappointed, but for once she didn't press the issue. in front of them.

“All right. get up slowly, and we’ll help you. “

Between them they got me off the table and helped me hobble into the bathroom, my aunt holding the towel pressed tightly against my anus to prevent any liquid from escaping. Then I was allowed to sit in on the toilet and empty my bowels, though my mother impressed upon me that under no circumstances was I to flush the toilet.

What a relief! It came gushing out of me, solids and liquids, in great waves. It felt as if my entire insides were being evacuated. And just when I thought I was empty, , more would come cascading down. I sat on the toilet for a long time. And when I wiped myself and got up I realized there was still more inside me and I had to quickly sit down again.

When at last I was sure it was all out of me I called to my mother, who came, along with Auntie Clem, to inspect my production. Both women expressed satisfaction with my offerings, which they examined as if they were reading tea leaves, and my mother said that I would feel much better with all that “nasty stuff” washed out of me. I had not been aware of feeling poorly, but wisely chose not to mention that. Auntie Clem excused herself, leaving me alone with my mother.

“Can I go lie down, now?” I asked meekly.

“Yes, for a little while. Then Auntie Clem wants you back in the enema room later.”

“What for? Not another enema!”

“No dear, she wants to have a look inside you, now that you’re nicely cleaned out.”

“A look inside me? What with?”

“I’ll let her explain it to you. Don’t worry about it. Now go along to your room. I’ll be right there.”

I walked naked down the hall to my room, and sat down on my bed. my mother appeared a few seconds later carrying a tray.

“Lie back,” she said, and I let her push me lightly back onto the bed. She took a can of baby powder and sprinkled down onto her hand; then she applied it to my groin area, lifting my penis up out of the way as she smoothed it in. Then she raised my legs as if I were a baby and sprinkled some more on my bottom, rubbing it into the crevice between my buttocks, paying special attention to my anal area.

I knew what was coming next. It was nappy time as well as nap time. Actually I didn't mind being diapered. It made me feel safe. I could leak if I wanted to and I wouldn't mess anything but what was supposed to be messed.

Then she unfolded a diaper, and raising my legs again placed it under me. She let my legs down and pulled the diaper up over my crotch, fastening it with safety pins. Next she took a pair of watertight panties and put them on me, drawing them up so they fit snugly. Then she covered me with a sheet and kissed my brow.

“Get some rest. I’ll call you in an hour.”

I lay there staring at the ceiling, wondering how Auntie Clem was going to “have a look inside” me. Was she going to shine a flashlight up my behind? I felt a little pressure of gas and slowly let it out. It was liquid. I felt the warmth under me. Oh, well, that’s what the diaper was for. I turned on my side, drew up my legs, and put my thumb in my mouth, something I hadn’t done for years. Soon I was fast asleep.

“Wake up, dear, Auntie Clem has to leave soon, and she wants to do her little examination before she goes.” I was on my stomach.

My mother shook my shoulder.

“Come on, dear. Up you come. "I rolled over onto my back. Mom undid my diaper and folded it out flat. As usual on waking up I had an erection, but she ignored it. She was looking for stains on the diaper, which she soon found. She smiled knowingly. I knew that the next time I made a fuss about being diapered after an enema she would remind me of this. She lifted by legs and wiped me clean with the unsoiled part of the diaper, then let my legs down. t

“Up you come,” she said, Sleepily I got to my feet and saw that she was holding out something for me.

“What’s that?” I asked, but I knew perfectly well what it was. It was one of my old nighties that I hadn’t worn since I was about ten. I don't know where she found it

“ Raise your arms, dear.”

“But mother, it’s too small for me!”

“Oh, I think it will cover what counts, in front at least.” And she spoke the truth: it came down just over my genitals, but it didn’t quite cover me in back. I felt the breeze on the lower half of my bottom.

“It’s too short in back,” I said.

“Well, you’re not going to a tea party, dear, and if you recall, Auntie Clem has already become well acquainted with your behind. And she’ll soon be renewing that acquaintance." And she smiled with satisfaction at her cleverness as she led me back into the 'enema room.

The pillows were gone from the bed, so apparently I wasn’t going to assume that position again. I noticed a stool beside the bed that hadn’t been there before. Auntie Clem was standing with her back to us, doing something. When she turned around I saw she was holding a shiny steel shaft that looked about a foot long and as thick as a person’s thumb. I didn’t like the look of it at all, specially as she was anointing it with KY jelly , rubbing it carefully up and down the long shaft, which erased any doubt I might have had as to where it was going to go.

“My don’t you look fetching in your little nightie!” exclaimed Auntie Clem teasingly as she turned around, brandishing her weapon. .I blushed and tried to pull down the skirt in front. This only raised it in back, further exposing my bottom. I felt more naked than if I had nothing on at all.

“What’s that thing?" I asked apprehensively.

“It’s called a sigmoidoscope.”

“It goes in your behind, dear,” added my mother unhelpfully.

“All the way?” I asked nervously. looking at the menacing-looking instrument.

“Up as far as your sigmoid flexture,” said my aunt, also unhelpfully.

“How far is that?”

The shaft is ten inches long, but we won't get it up quite that far.”

“Will it hurt?”

“Not in the beginning. your rectum is clean and so it will slip in nicely. It's only when we get to the sigmoid flexure that you may experience some discomfort. I'll be as gentle as I can."

"What's the sigmoid flexure?"

"Michael, don't bother your aunt with so many questions. Just get up on the table." And she slapped my behind.

"It's a bend in your lower colon," said my aunt, ignoring my mother. "Here, let me show you how it works. First I'll wipe off the KY, as it's starting to dry. See this round tip that looks like the nose on a bullet? Well, that’s the tip of this plunger, which is inside the scope It’s to facilitate insertion. Once the scope is fully inserted I withdraw the plunger, like this, leaving the tip wide open. Then I attach this little light, and when I insert the shaft I can see the inside of your rectum. Rather clever, wouldn’t you say?”

I might have been more impressed if I hadn’t been imagining the thing being shoved all the way up my rear end.

“It’s pretty thick,” was all I could think of to say.”

“Not as thick as some of the things that come out,” said Auntie Clem.

“Well, they’re softer.”

“True. But I assure you, it won’t hurt, except as I said toward the end, when it tries to straighten out the kink in your bowel. You're going to have to be brave. But I’ll stop when you tell me it’s beginning to hurt real bad. All right?”

“O.K., I guess.”

“Good boy. Now while I lube up the scope again I want you to hop up onto the bed and assume a kneeling position, your head toward the wall, your bottom toward me. I want your head down and your bottom as high as possible.”

“Shouldn’t he remove his nightie?” asked my mother.

“ It can stay on. It won't be in the way."

And so I climbed onto the bed and knelt facing the window. My ever-helpful mother lifted the hem of my nightie and pulled it off my behind. My aunt then adjusted my position so that my bottom was close to the edge of the bed. She pushed my shoulders down to the bed, so that my bottom was thrust up and out even more. My little nightie slipped down to my neck, leaving me bare from the shoulders down.

“Stick you bum out as much as you can, duckie,” said Auntie Clem., pushing down on the small of my back. “The more your bum sticks out the easier the scope will go in. Candace, if you sit on the bed and push down on his back like this, and try to keep him steady, that will be a help. Good.” Then, seating herself on the high stool, she took aim at my puckered orifice with the glistening shaft.

I felt the cold blunt metal tip press against my hole.

“Pushie. pushie.” said my aunt, “like you’re going potty.” I pushed, and a bit of air escaped.

Auntie Clem seized that moment to apply more pressure to the instrument, and it slipped right in. I felt the cool metal rod enter my behind. It felt rather good, I decided, though I would die rather that let them know. As for my stiffening cock, they probably couldn’t see it, and besides, I wasn't responsible for what it did, since it had a mind of its own. Farther and farther I felt the rod go up into me, and then suddenly I did feel a dull ache as it hit some obstruction. I gasped.

“That hurt?” asked Auntie Clem.

“Yes, little.”

"I’ll take it slowly. Just a bit more and we’re home.”

But that “bit more” got more and more uncomfortable.

“It’s starting to hurt quite...a lot, Auntie Clem,” said the boy, between groans.

“You're doing great,” she said. “just be brave. I think we can get it up you all the way.”

I gasped as the rigid rod tried to straighten out a curve in my bowel. I wanted to be brave for my aunt, but the pain was making my eyes water. I was about to ask her to stop when I felt the base of the proctoscope press against my anus.

“Three cheers! I’m proud of you, Michael!” her praise made it all worth the discomfort. “Now I’m going to remove the plug and have a look-see. And I have this little light that will let me see look all around in your rectum as I slowly withdraw the scope.”

It took longer coming out that it had going in, for she had to peer all around inside me. Sometimes she reversed directions, pushing it further up, but it didn’t hurt, even without the plunger tip. In fact it felt quite nice, and if I let out an occasional groan, it was of pleasure, not pain.

I hoped it would take her a very long time to examine me. I pushed my behind back against the instrument as hard as I could. My cock was very stiff now and I was afraid that I might have an accident at any minute, so I tried to think of other things. There was a moment, when the rod was poking around by that little button of mine, when I felt my juices rising, and something dribbling out the head of my penis, but I managed to keep from ejaculating, and after the tool was withdrawn a little further I knew I was safe. When it finally plopped out, I felt very empty. I wished she would do it again. I hoped that with would be a part of my physical exams from now on.

As I got off the bed and onto my feet I felt dizzy, and had to hang onto Auntie Clem for support. She took a tissue and wiped off my bottom, which was quite slippery with KY. Then she took me in her arms and gave me a big hug and a kiss.

“My favorite patient!” she said, smiling.

“My favorite doctor!” I said, laughing.

I passed the rest of the day quietly, Auntie Clem went out, saying she’d be back sometime after supper. I took a short nap, after which I watched television for a while, still wearing nothing but my little nightie, in which I was beginning to feel quite at home. At six my mother called me into the kitchen and gave me a light supper - chicken-noodle soup and some Jello - which I ate ravenously sitting on a stool at the counter, the cool wood feeling good on my bare bottom, which was still sore. As I had had nothing to eat all day except for my mother’s nasty vegetable juice in the morning I was still hungry, but my mother said that was all I was getting because she didn’t want to overstimulate my bowels.

“Besides,” she added with the smile she used to announce unpleasant news, “you’ll be getting another enema in the morning, to wash out all the soap and anything else that might be inside you.”

I greeted this news with mixed feelings, wondering what else could possibly be inside me after my clystering, then returned to the living room where I lay on the floor on my stomach like a little kid and watched some silly programs on TV. My mother checked on me from time to time, smiling at the sight of her "little boy" lying there with his bare bottom showing below the hem of his nightie. Oh, how she wished I would never grow up!

At 8:30 my mother packed me off to bed as if I’d been eight years old, but I didn’t mind, really.

I lay in bed on my back, gently stroking myself and thinking about the events of the day, which had combined pain and pleasure in a way that was to shape my future life, though of course I didn’t know that at the time.

At about nine there was a little knock on my door and Auntie Clem entered. She was carrying a hand towel and something else which I couldn’t make out in the dark. She sat down on the edge of my bed, mussed my hair and kissed me.

“You’ve been through quite an ordeal today,” she said, “and I thought you deserved a little reward for all you put up with.”

“And for all that was put up me?”

Auntie Clem laughed and pinched my cheek.

“Yes, your bottom’s had quite a workout, so I thought I’d give it one last little medical procedure.” She stroked my bare thigh as she spoke.

“What procedure, Auntie Clem?”

“It’s called a prostate massage,” she answered, “it it means invading your bottom one more time, with my finger, but I guarantee you that you will find it very pleasant.”

I knew I was going to like it, and it showed under my little nightshirt. Auntie Clem looked at it and chuckled.

“Do you want me on my hands and knees again?” I asked.

“No, honey, just roll over onto your tummy. And put this towel under you. You’re going to need it.” I could hardly believe it. here was my aunt, offering me what I and my friends referred to as a “cum rag.” I was a little nervous, but my aunt put me at my ease.

“A prostate massage is a way of draining the prostate through digital massage by means of a finger up the rectum. It is both therapeutic and pleasant, so I want you to just relax and enjoy it.”

And with that she lifted up the tail of my little nightshirt, baring my bottom, which she massaged for several minutes to relax me, she said, though it had the effect of making me hard as a rock on my other side. Then I heard a sound like rubber snapping and assumed she was putting on one of those little finger rubbers. There was a pause, while she coated it with KY, and then I felt my cheeks being parted and her finger pressed against my anus. It slipped in very easily, feeling small after the other things that had been inside me that day. She worked her finger up my rectum until it found my sex button. Then she slowly began to rub back and forth over it, while her other hand grazed lightly over my back and my behind.. I gasped. My penis was stiff and throbbing under me. I moaned with pleasure as her finger worked over my button.

“Just relax and enjoy it,” she said, “let what may come, come.”

I sobbed with pleasure as my juices mounted. I tried to hold them back, to prolong the pleasure, but I couldn’t, and before I knew it I had passed the point of no return. my felt my sphincter close around my aunt’s finger as I went into spasm, my bottom cheeks clenching and unclenching, my hips jerking, as I shot my hot spunk into the towel beneath me.

When at last I had finished, and lay exhausted and drained, literally as well as figuratively, my aunt slowly withdrew her finger from inside me. She stroked my back until my heartbeat was back to normal. Then she rolled me over and gently wiped off my penis and my stomach where my spunk had landed.

“Such a lot!” she said, as if praising me for something over which I had no control. “Feel better, now? “

“Yes. Thank you, Auntie Clem, that was...very nice.”

“I enjoyed it too,” she said.

“You did?”

“Yes, honey, I did, more than you’ll ever know.” And with that she kissed me right on my mouth.

“Good night and sweet dreams,” she said. I turned over onto my stomach. my aunt gave my back and bottom a nice little massage , then, with a final rub and a pat to my behind, she pulled the little nightshirt down over me as far as it would go. She sat there for a while looking at my flushed face and half of my bottom peeking out from below the hem of my nightie.

Then, with a sigh, she got up and left me, for I was drifting off to sleep.
 
 
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