Michael Meets La Clystere

 

Michael and his mother were having breakfast on the patio on a warm July morning.

“Oh, by the way, Michael,” his mother said as she buttered her toast., “Aunt Clem is arriving on Thursday.”

Michael nearly choked on his 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 Michael blushed and looked down at his food “Oh,” he said.

Aunt Clementine was his favorite relative, even though she was quite , well, 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. Michael was in love with her.

There was just one problem: Aunt Clem always donned her pediatrician’s cap when she came to visit, When he was little he hadn’t minded being examined by her, but now that he was older it was another matter. Pediatricians were for babies and small children, weren’t they, and besides, he had a regular doctor. So why did he need to be examined my Aunt Clem? He suspected it was part of his mother’s attempt to prevent him from growing up. But he was growing up, which of course made it very embarrassing to be examined by a woman, especially one he 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? 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.” Michael looked down at his food, sulking. Then he heard her say, “Oh yes, and you’re also going to have an enema. A very special enema.”

Michael gulped and turned red. “An enema? But why?”

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

“And I have no say in the matter?”

“None whatever.”

“Oh, swell.”

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

Michael looked down at his 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.”

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

“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, standing up and 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.

 

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

Michael was not sure why she had had a sudden change of policy about corporal punishment, but he suspected how it had happened. As he entered puberty he became wilder and less tractable than he had been, engaging in foolish and even dangerous adolescent pranks. He and some other boys were caught my the police shooting guns down by the railroad tracks; he "borrowed" his mother’s convertible Buick and went for a joyride, denting the front fender; he was caught smoking at school; he consistently ignored her curfews; she suspected he was smoking marijuana. In short, be was acting adolescent, and it frightened her. No doubt she confided in her friend Sue Symington, Sue belonged to a Christian sect which believed in not sparing the rod, even on teenagers. Michael knew that Sue Symington’s daughter Emily, who was Michael’s age, got regular spankings whenever she stepped out of line, and Emily told him that his mother had witnessed her getting spanked. Michael guessed that watching the young girl’s bare bottom squirming and bouncing on her mother’s lap as Sue turned it a lovely shade of red must have made her realize what she had been missing with her own son, for it was shortly thereafter that he got the first spanking of his life

It was a new experience for both of them, and it was a toss-up as to which was more nervous, mother or son. Michael couldn’t believe it was happening to him,. None of his friends got spanked anymore. He thought his mother had taken leave of her senses when she informed him of her intentions. He thought he could talk her out of it. He tried reasoning with her, he tried pleading with her; he tried joking with her. Nothing worked. Her mind was made up. She took him by the hand and led him upstairs to her room, locked the door behind them, and dropped the key into her bosom. Sitting down on her vanity bench she patted her lap. He saw her broad backed ivory hairbrush on the table. When he drew near she clamped him between her thighs, delivered her lecture, and then her nervous fingers began undoing his belt. His mouth was dry, his heart pounding. He wanted to break loose and run, but instead he just stood there and let her fingers slowly unveil him.

It was not that he was unaccustomed to having his mother see him naked. She had bathed him herself until he was twelve, soaping him all over, even his most private areas, and she still supervised his baths from time to time. When he was sick she made him feel like an infant, taking his temperature rectally, 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 him enemas, warm soapy enemas that she administered slowly and lovingly, over her lap when he was small, rubbing his back as she gave him squirt after squirt with the bulb syringe, then later, with the red bag, massaging his tummy as she filled him with the warm, soapy liquid. Oh, yes, he quite liked his enemas, even though sometimes she filled him a little too full, or made him hold it in a little too long, or the soap caused cramping. But mostly he enjoyed being ministered to in such an intimate way. And afterwards she always gave him a nice long back rub.

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

So he had stood there, hands at his side, heart pounding, as she undid his pants and let them fall down to his ankles. He was mortified. But the worst was yet to come. She pulled him down over her lap as if he had been a three-year-old, pushed his shirt up out of the way, and then, to his horror, slowly peeled his underpants down over his hips, exposing his bottom. Michael was self- conscious about his 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. Some kids called him “bubble butt” or “candy ass” or worse names.

Lying there submissively, his bare bottom perched up on her right knee, he felt very embarrassed, but also little excited. As she ran her hands over his bottom, sizing up her target, he felt his member stir under him. She pulled his near thigh closer to her, opening up the tender inner slopes of his thighs and buttocks, and stroked him some more. Then she began to spank him with her bare hand.

He had tensed up his bottom in anticipation of pain, but after the first few spanks he relaxed, for it hardly hurt at all. After a dozen or so spanks he felt a nice warmth suffuse his loins, and he decided he rather liked being spanked. His mother, realizing she was not attaining the desired results, took up her hairbrush from the vanity table and brought it down sharply on the center of her son’s behind. Michael raised his head and let out a shriek. He had never felt anything like it before. His mother, pleased with the effect the hairbrush was having, delivered another blow, with even better results.

By the third spank Michael was bawling, his legs were fluttering so that his pants fell off, and he was bouncing and plunging about on her lap so that she had to hold his arm up behind his back to keep him from rolling off onto the floor. After a dozen or so spanks with the hairbrush Michael was hitting high notes any choirboy would be proud of. When at last she stopped, his behind was crimson and he was bawling unashamedly like any ten-year-old. After he had gotten control over himself she let him up and stood him before her. Michael was glad to note that his “little man”, as his mother called it, was limp as a piece of overcooked asparagus. He saw through his 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.”

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

The effect of this intimate massage on the teenage boy can be imagined, and much as he was enjoying the feeling of his mothers fingers working ever deeper between his bottom cheeks he was grateful when she stopped and, with a peck on his cheek and a pat on his rear, rose from his bed and left the room, Once alone Michael took matters into his own hand, so to speak, and relieved the tension that had been mounting within him.

Such was the ritual, though certain refinements were made as she became more skilled in the art of spanking. For of course her hope---if indeed it had been her hope---that she would not have to spank him again, was not realized. On the contrary, this had been 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 he got a good warm spanking at least once a week, and sometimes more often. And usually 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 administered not in the loving manner of the ones she gave him when he was sick or upset. Those were given in bed, with him lying on his left side, his bottom toward her. For the post-spanking enemas, on the other hand, she made him assume the knee-chest position, with his behind thrust upwards and out, exposing his hole to any little currents of air, and to her gaze. This humiliating position of utter submission caused him to feel that the enema was indeed a sort of punishment.

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

The spankings were rather exciting until the pain got too severe, and Michael did not really mind the enemas. They were a relief from the pain of his spanking, and as the warm water forced its way higher and higher into his bowel he would feel a stirring in his loins that was distinctly pleasurable, and when she permitted him to use the potty, despite his embarrassment at having to empty his bowels in her presence, he felt such a feeling of relief that he actually believed he was being purged of his badness, so that afterwards, as he lay tummy down on his bed, he felt clean and good. And his reward for taking his spanking and his enema like a good boy came when his mother appeared in the doorway with her little jar of cold cream, the sight of which always caused him to stiffen. And after she had gently and lovingly massaged the cold cream into every crest and slope and nook and cranny of his sensitive behind and he was left alone in his bed , he would indulge in that favorite pastime of adolescent boys everywhere, until the pressure that had been mounting in his loins was released, always with the help of a finger inserted into his bottom.

But Michael knew he was too old to be spanked, too old to be bathed, too old to have his temperature taken "that way". None of his friends did. Why he? He felt rebellion stirring within him. One day he asked his mother why she insisted upon treated him as if he 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 his mother was out Michael looked at himself naked in the full-length mirror in his mother’s bedroom. In front he was respectably developed, he decided, if not exactly "hung", but turning around and using a hand mirror to assess his backside he had to admit that his behind was more like a sixteen-year-old's. It was round and pert and stuck out, like a little boy’s behind. He ran his hands over it the way she did, and felt how smooth and silky it was. He gave himself a few spanks, feeling a tingling sensation spread through him. He imagined that he was being spanked by his mother or by an older boy, and then given an enema, and these thoughts aroused him.

Now, as he lay face down on his bed recovering from his latest spanking, he realized his mother had been right: he’d asked for his spanking, by being fresh despite her warnings. Could it be he had really wanted it? It had been rather a nice spanking., not too hard, but hard enough to make him blub. And the enema had warmed his insides the way the spanking had warmed his skin, so that now a pleasant warmth spread suffused his loins. He felt his member stiffen under him. He wondered how he was going to be able to keep it under control while his aunt examined him. Maybe if he jacked off just before, it would stay limp. Well, he would worry about it when the time came. Right now, though...

He reached behind him and found enough cold cream his mother had left on his behind to anoint one finger, which he directed to the center of his buttocks. Raising up, he poked his finger at his rosebud. When he felt it open up he pushed it right in. Thrusting it in and out, he began working on his stiff member with his other hand...

 

_____________

 

 

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

“For me, Aunt 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 his 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.”

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

“Pull out the plunger,” said Aunt 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 Michael, smiling, knowing he 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 will 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?” asked Michael, who had a personal interest in the size of the business end of the device.

“Well,” said Aunt Clem, “it is certainly larger than today’s drugstore enema nozzles, if that's what you mean, but really they are such cheaply made 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, rectum. There is no way this nozzle, once lodged in a person's behind, will 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 against the anus 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 Michael watched his aunt fondle the nozzle almost lovingly he imagined it being inserted and then resting snugly in his bottom, and the thought caused him to squirm uncomfortably in his seat, but at the same time he felt a stirring in his groin. Their eyes met and he felt himself blush. She smiled at him, which only made him blush more deeply, so that he 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, Aunt Clem.” And he yawned.

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

 

Aunt Clem may have slept like a log, but not Michael. The thought of what was in store for him in the morning---first, being subjected to a thorough and intimate physical examination by his aunt, and then , if he had understood correctly, being made to be the guinea pig for his aunt to try out her newest enema toy on, caused him extreme anxiety, but also excited him, conflicting emotions which kept him from sleeping. And when he did at last succumb to the arms of Morpheus. he was beset with wild dreams involving exploring fingers and large nozzles. It was only toward morning that he fell into a deep sleep, so that his mother had to throw off his covers and shake him into wakefulness.

“Come on, Michael, Aunt Clem will be here before long, and you must be ready for her. Out of bed this instant; I’ve already drawn a bath for you. Come now, up you get, and off with your p.j.’s. Good boy. Now into the bathroom, quick like a bunny.” And she caught him a nice smack on his bottom, just to remind him that he was still her little boy.

“It’ll go faster if I do it,” she said, soaping up a washcloth as he climbed into the tub. She washed his face, ears, neck, arms and feet, then made him stand up while she did the rest of him. He was too sleepy to protest being bathed by his mother at his age. She did his chest, stomach, and legs, then turned him round and did his back, including his buttocks, washing thoroughly between them to make sure he was clean as a whistle back there. Then she handed him the soapy rag and said,

“Now you can do the rest yourself,” "the rest" being his “privates.” She watched him do it, to make sure he did a good job. Then it was out of the tub for a toweling.

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

“Yesterday.”

“I’ll just give you a little washout, then, 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. Michael knew it was useless to protest. Besides, he didn't really want to. She filled the syringe, dipped the nozzle into the Vaseline, parted his cheeks, inserted the nozzle, and squeezed. Michael felt the warm soapy enema water shoot into his rectum. The second bulbful sent the water higher, the third higher yet. It felt nice. His mother gave him a brief tummy rub, then let him up. After he had expelled it she put him back over her lap for a quick rinse. Now he was ready for his aunt.

“I’ve put out your gym shorts,” she said. “That’s all you’ll need. No underpants.”

Michael found the gym shorts in his room. Little blue cotton things he hadn’t worn for at least a year. He could hardly get into them, they were so tight.

“They’re too small for me, mom,” he said.

“If you don’t want to wear them 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 he felt silly and childish in them, and that was exactly the way she wanted him to feel.

“Is Aunt 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.”

Oh, he knew, all right. He’d been thinking about little else for the past twenty-four hours. He lay down on his bed. Soon his mother came up with his juice. It was a large glass filled to the brim with some yellowish-green stuff. One of her own concoctions. He 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. The taste didn’t count; what mattered was that is was good for you. It went along with her enema regime. He knew he had to drink it all, just as he knew there was no avoiding her enemas. He drank it all down. It was very thick at the bottom. He put the glass on the nightstand, curled up on his bed, and soon was fast asleep.

What awakened him was the weight of someone sitting down on his bed, and a hand rubbing his thigh high up, under his shorts.

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

He rolled over onto his back. Her eyes went instinctively to the front of shorts, and noted his erection. Michael yawned and sat up.

“What time is it?”

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

Michael swung his legs onto the floor and stood up. His mother took his hand and as if he were a small child and led him into the hall, toward the stairs.

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

“My, what an apparition!” came a voice from below. His Aunt 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 his mother.

“Oh, I think he looks fetching in them. Like Mickey Rooney as Puck.”

And so, each in her own way, they teased him and embarrassed him. But when he had reached the bottom floor he allowed himself to be embraced and kissed on the mouth by his aunt,

“Now, let’s get down to business,” she said, and with one hand on the small of his bare back she propelled him into the study, where he was to be examined. His mother stayed behind, for which he was very glad. On previous visits she had been present during his examinations, and that always added to his embarrassment. He much preferred being alone with Aunt 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 he hopped up onto it, his legs dangling. She took his blood pressure, then took a thermometer from a case in her bag and put it (thank God!) in his mouth while she took his pulse and listened to his heart. After reading the thermometer she replaced it in the bag and thumped his back. Next she peered into his ears with a pointy flashlight, up both nostrils, into his eyes, down his throat with a tongue depressor, felt the glands around his throat, then had him lie flat while she palpitated his abdomen, slipping her hand under the top of his shorts at times.

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

“Nope.”

“Bowel movements regular.”

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

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

“You may step out of them,” she said, “we won’t be needing them anymore.” Again she put both hands on his hips, or rather his buttocks. He saw her drop her eyes onto his cock, which was moving up and down in time to his 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 him,

“My, how you’ve grown!.”

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

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

"No."

“During ejaculation?”

“Ma’am?”

“You know. When you jack off. You do jack off, don’t you?” She said it in a very matter-of-fact way, looking him in the eye, but it still made him uncomfortable. What if she told his mother?

“Well, I know what it is.”

“Oh, come on. All boys do it, unless there’s something wrong with them. You can be honest with me. Right now I’m your doctor, not your aunt. You do do it, don’t you?"

“Yes.”

“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.” He gave a little chuckle.

“I guess so,” he said.

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

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

"Hmm," she said. "Looks O.K.. A bit raw but I guess you give it a work-out. Now let’s have a look at your balls.”

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

“Turn toward the window and cough,” she said, her finger way up that hollow. Then she did the same thing on the other side. Then she got up and took something out of her bag, a little rubber thing that she put onto her finger. Michael knew what was coming because she had done it before, but he was sort of hoping she would forget about it this time. Not because it hurt---it didn’t---but rather because he was afraid it would make him stiff.

“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 he felt exposed would have been an understatement. He could feel the cool air on his little hole, and knew that she was looking right at it. If she waited long enough it might even open up for her. Then he felt her left hand on his back, and then her gloved fingertip, and the cool, slippery jelly that wasn’t Vaseline but something else. She worked her fingertip around his orifice for a while, then made a tentative poke, then another., then he felt his hole opening to admit her finger

“Good boy,” she said, patting his 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 Michael’s little button, causing him intense feelings. To take his mind off what she was doing he read the writing on the blue-and-white tube. It was called KY Jelly, and it said it was for “the easy insertion of enema nozzles and rectal thermometers.” Instead of calming him, those magic words “enema nozzles” and “rectal thermometers” only heightened his arousal, and this, coupled with the sensation of her finger moving in his behind made him so hard he was afraid be might shoot all over the table, but she stopped just in time. When she withdrew her finger he felt empty, and his hole felt wide open.

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

“Don’t try hiding anything from me,” she said, with just a trace of a threat in her tone. His dick was sticking straight out and there was some sticky stuff dangling from its tip.

“Pre-coital fluid,” said Aunt Clem , although he had not asked for an explanation. “Nature’s own lubricant. She thinks of everything.” She took a tissue and, holding his shaft near the tip, wiped it off. Aunt Clem took a tissue and wiped him 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 his bottom set his heart thumping and caused his organ , which had started to detumesance, to sit up and take notice of her words.

“Can’t I have something to put on?” the boy 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?” He 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 Michael, clumsily stepping into his little shorts, almost falling over in the process. He had some trouble getting his penis inside them, and when he did, it stuck right out like a tent pole. Aunt Clem patted his bottom and said,

“Come along now, you mustn’t keep your mother waiting.” And she pushed him ahead of her out of the study and toward the stairs. As he climbed the stairs she followed right behind, and he felt her eyes watching his buttocks, clearly outlined by the thin tight shorts, undulating from side to side His mother was indeed waiting as they entered the little spare room used for his enemas. Michael stopped in the doorway and looked in. The scene was set: on the table beside the bed was a basin of steaming soapy water. Next it was the brass enema pump, a blue and white tube with the cap off which Michael recognized as another tube of KY jelly. He wondered if his aunt had brought it from Paris. There was also a roll of toilet paper, a thermometer in a water glass, and some of those little rubber things like the one she had used to examine his 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. His 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 Michael took in both the whole scene and all its minute details, realizing all this had been prepared just for him, that in a moment he would he lying face down on that bed, his bottom in the air, a nice target for his aunt’s bicycle pump enema device, he suddenly froze. He didn’t want to go through with it.

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

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

He heard her as if from a distance, for his mind was elsewhere. He imagined himself flying a plane, like Aunt Clem, able to go anywhere he wanted, with no one telling him what to do. Suddenly he felt rebellion stirring within him.

“Michael, now!”

"Come on, sweetie,” said Aunt Clem.

Still no response. His mother crossed her arms.

"One, two..."

Michael looked at the two women. His aunt was looking pleadingly at him, his mother fiercely, her hand in her deep apron pocket where he knew her hairbrush was. He breathed a deep sigh of resignation and slowly started moving toward the table.

"That's better," said his mother with a cold smile. "Take off your pants and get up onto the table. NOW!" Michael obeyed, but slowly, as if still in a trance or dream. Down came his little shorts, leaving him naked once more, and clumsily he climbed onto the table, his rear end pointed at the ladies, then lay tummy down, his hips on the pillows so his bottom would be raised.

"I think our boy needs a little reminder," said his mother, and he knew what was coming. "I don't like to have to ask you three times to do something."

Michael wanted to tell her that it wasn't so much disobedience as a sort of stage fright that had caused him to act as he did, but he knew that would never wash with her, so he remained silent. His mother reached into the pocket of her apron and produced the all-too-familiar broad-backed hairbrush that had reddened his bottom so often.

"Clem, would you be so kind as to hold his ankles." said his mother, pinning his right arm up behind his back with her left.

"Now just open them a little, and turn his heels out. Good."

This forced his bottom open, so that he felt the air in his bottom crack.

“Now you’re going to have a little lesson in promptness ” she said, and with that she brought the hairbrush down on the center of Michael’s bare bottom with a resounding crack. The boy let out a yell.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

“Ow! Please mom, I’ll be good! Owww! Oh, please!” But she kept right on spanking him. His legs were fluttering despite his aunts efforts to hold them still, and he was trying to twist his hips to avoid the blows. The pain was awful, but even worse was the humiliation of being spanked in from of the aunt he adored, of being reduced to a little boy before her very eyes. He begged his 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.” Michael gave in. Sobbing loudly, he let his body go limp.

“You don’t have to hold me, Aunt Clem,” he said, and she let go his ankles.

“Relax your bottom completely and keep it that way," ordered his mother. "No tightening. Understand?”

“Yes, mother.”

The relaxing of his bottom, plus the two pillows under his hips, opened up areas of Michael’s bottom not usually accessible to the hairbrush, and inspired his mother to resume spanking her son’s already red behind with renewed enthusiasm, with not quite the same force, but with more finesse, seeking out the inner slopes and tender undersides of his buttocks. This treatment was rather painful, and it took considerable effort on Michael’s part to lie still with a relaxed bottom while his mother worked him over. But lie there he did, crying like a ten-year-old, but remaining completely passive. Once again he had been taught a lesson in submission, and when his mother finally put down the hairbrush he lay there softly crying..

“Now you stay right where you are, young man, while I adjust the temperature of your enema.”

All he could do was clench and unclench his bottom cheeks. He wished he could make his skin twitch the way horses can, to get rid of flies. He was in torment.

His mother left the room with the basin to add more hot water, and, no doubt, extra soap.

"You poor dear," said Aunt Clem when his 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?"

"Oh, yes, please." And he felt her soothing fingers stray over his flaming rump.

“I’m sorry your mother had to spank you 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. So try not to defy her, all right?”

“All right,” said Michael, crying, not from the pain but from his love for his aunt and, even though she treated him like a little boy, also for his mother. It was not easy for her, he knew, raising a boy by herself. He would try to be good. And he would begin by taking his enema without a fuss. But first he had to take care of a little problem.

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

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

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

“Sit on it,” she said. How embarrassing! But he had to go, so he sat, quite painfully, on the little potty and held his dickie downwards and peed noisily into the crockery. Meanwhile his mother was rearranging the pillows, folding the top one so that it would raise his bottom even higher. Then, having finished peeing, he climbed up onto the pillows. His mother adjusted him so that his bottom was elevated to the maximum, and his abdomen free from any obstruction, ready to be filled with the enema. His legs were parted, opening wide his buttocks and exposing his pink, hairless anus.

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

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

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

“Oh, it will cool down in a minute or two. I think there’s just enough time to check his temperature. " Michael closed his eyes. His mother was getting revenge for his rebellion.

"It can't hurt, I suppose” said his aunt. "I only took an oral reading during his 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 Michael’s bottom cheeks apart and aimed the little rod at his bunny hole.

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

“Yes, Mamma,” said Michael in a little-boy voice. He felt the glass rod slip into his behind, felt his mother twist it and turn it around inside him, and felt his pecker growing stiff again in spite of everything he could do to prevent it. But when she poked it in and out, he couldn’t help uttering his groans of pleasure. He knew she would be smiling. She made small talk with her sister for a few minutes, her hand on his hot behind, fingers gripping the little rod, which she kept moving inside him. 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 may have noticed, the nozzle we’re using today is rather large, much larger than the enema nozzles you’re used to." (Michael had indeed noticed, but chose not to do more than nod). "For that reason I'm going to 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 the boy’s buttocks apart even more, dabbed at his entrance with her gloved and lubricated finger. She swirled it around his anal ring, then pushed it in as far as the second joint. Then she began loosening up his anal entrance by pushing against the walls. It felt nice, even nicer than the thermometer, but nowhere near as nice as when she was feeling his prostate gland. She continued for some time, stretching the opening to accommodate the fat nozzle. Meanwhile, his 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 Aunt Clem, and Michael felt her left hand part his buttocks and then the cold tip of the metal nozzle against his 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 recalcitrant 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 as nervous about having the thing inserted as you probably 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 he did this she gave a push and the nozzle slid in past his pucker. It felt lovely going into him, and when it was all the way in he felt the flange pressing against his anus.

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

“ Yes,” he said, and he 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 his bowel. He gave a little groan as the water coursed into him.

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

“Of course I can feel it going in,” he replied, and immediately was sorry. It was a silly question, but he 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 he could see it.

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

“Much better.”

Aunt 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 Michael’s back door. It was a new sensation, unlike any previous enema.

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

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

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

Somehow he didn’t mind the baby-talk coming from her; he knew she was half-joshing. He 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. the person giving the enema being totally in control, the one on the receiving end having little or no say in what was being done to him. Michael felt this very strongly, especially today because he had been spanked in front of Aunt Clem before having to submit to the enema. Also, having his bottom raised and his legs parted ,opened up his bottom for his aunt in a way that made him feel very “slave.” In a way he sort of liked the feeling, liked being made to do things by her, liked being under her control, forced to submit, but with his mother it was different. She just treated him like a little kid. Aunt Clem, who had no children of her own, seemed to know more about boys than his own mother did. He could be Aunt Clem’s slave boy anytime. He would do anything for her. So, when she had emptied the entire contents of the syringe into him, he didn’t beg not to have another load. He just lay there submissively and let her decide. But it was with some fear that he heard his 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 Aunt Clem.

So, he was to get another syringeful. He wondered what the capacity of the cylinder was, but didn’t want to ask. He lay there feeling the water churning and sloshing around inside him around inside him. 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 his back and over his bottom.

“O.K..” he 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 Aunt Clem.”

“I’ll do my best, Auntie Clem.”

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

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

“Michael laughed despite his discomfort. He knew she was trying to distract him from his 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?”

Michael only half-heard that last remark, as he was concentrating on the fullness inside him. Finally he 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 a relieved Michael's behind. But his 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."

" Well, I promise to stop if you really can't. But I think I can make a little room for more water." And carefully she and his mother transferred the bloated boy first onto his side and then onto his back. They adjusted the pillows under him so that his bottom was elevated. His aunt then proceeded to massage him, working the water higher up his colon, her fingers "walking" the water up and over and down. And if she noticed his erection she didn't let on.

"Take deep breaths," she said, massaging him 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 Michael felt much better, and said he could indeed take some more.

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

"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 his anus as his mother worked the water higher and higher. Michael heard it sloshing around inside him, and that action and his mother's fingers grazing his organ soon made his cock even harder. He panted and gasped as the water was swirled around inside him. The minutes went by like hours. At last his 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 his anus to prevent any leakage.

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

"I can make it,” said Michael, who would have walked a mile rather than use the potty.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, for a little while. Then Aunt 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.”

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

“Lie back,” she said, and he let her push him lightly back onto the bed. She took a can of baby powder and sprinkled down onto her hand; then she applied it to his groin area, lifting his penis up out of the way as she smoothed it in. Then she raised his legs as if he were a baby and sprinkled some more on his bottom, rubbing it into the crevice between his buttocks, paying special attention to his anal area. Then she unfolded a diaper, and raising his legs again placed it under him. She let his legs down and pulled the diaper up over his crotch, fastening it on the sides with safety pins. Then she covered him with a sheet and kissed his brow.

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

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

“Wake up, dear, Aunt Clem has to leave soon, and she wants to do her little examination before she goes.” Michael was on his stomach. His mother shook his shoulder.

“Come on, dear. Up you come. " She undid his diaper and folded it out flat . She noted that he had leaked into the diaper, and smiled. The next time he fussed about being diapered after an enema she would remind him of this. She wiped him clean with the unsoiled part of the diaper, then turned him over. She looked down at his turgid penis, then at his face. Their eyes met. She didn’t remark on his erection.

“Up you come,” she said, taking something from the nightstand and holding it out for him.

“What’s that?” he asked, but he knew perfectly well what it was: one of his old nighties that he hadn’t worn since he was about ten.

“Here, 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 his genitals, but it didn’t quite cover him in back. He felt the breeze on the lower half of his bottom.

“It’s too short in back,” he said.

“Well, you’re not going to a tea party, dear, and if you recall, Aunt Clem has already become well acquainted with your behind. And she’ll soon be renewing that acquaintance."

And with that she led him back into the 'enema room'. The pillows were gone from the bed, so apparently he wasn’t going to assume that position again. He noticed a tall stool beside the bed that hadn’t been there before. Aunt Clem was standing with her back to them, doing something. When she turned around he saw she was holding a shiny steel shaft that looked about a foot about a foot long and as thick as a person’s thumb. He 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, if doubt there had been, as to where it was going to go.

“My don’t you look fetching in your little nightie!” exclaimed Aunt Clem teasingly. Michael blushed. He tried to pull down the skirt in front This had the effect of raising it in back, further exposing his bottom. He felt more naked than if he had nothing on at all.

“What’s that thing? asked Michael apprehensively.

“It’s called a proctoscope.”

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

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

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

“How far is that?”

“ Probably six or seven inches. The shaft is eight inches long, but we may not get it up quite that far.”

“Will it hurt?”

“You should be able to take it without any problem, since you’ve already been opened up by my finger and the clystere nozzle. Here, let me show you how it works. 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. Rather clever, wouldn’t you say?” Michael might have been more impressed if he hadn’t been imagining the thing being shoved all the way up his bottom.

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

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

“Well, they’re softer.”

“True. But I assure you, it won’t hurt, except maybe the last inch or so when it gets up to the sigmoid flexture, the “S” turn your bowel takes at the top of the rectum. But I’ll stop when you tell me it’s beginning to hurt read bad. All right?”

“O.K., I guess.”

“Good boy. Now I want you to hop up onto the bed and assume a kneeling position, your head toward the window, 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.

“He can leave it on. I’ll just push it up out of the way.”

And so Michael climbed onto the bed and knelt facing the window. His aunt opened his legs and adjusted his position so that his bottom was close to the edge of the bed. She pushed his shoulders down to the bed, so that his bottom was thrust up and out even more. His little nightie slipped down to his neck, leaving him bare from the shoulders down.

“Stick you bum out as much as you can, duckie,” said his aunt., pushing down on the small of his 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 his puckered orifice with the glistening shaft. Michael felt the cold blunt metal tip press against his hole.

“ Pushie. pushie.” said his aunt, “like you’re going potty.” Michael pushed, and a bit of air escaped. Aunt Clem seized that moment to apply more pressure to the instrument, and it slipped right in. Michael felt the cool metal rod enter his behind. It felt rather good, he decided, though he would die rather that let them know. As for his stiffening cock, they probably couldn’t see it, and besides, he wasn't responsible for what it did, since it had a mind of its own. Farther and farther he felt the rod go into him, and then suddenly he did feel a dull ache as it hit some obstruction. He gasped.

“That hurt?” asked Aunt 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.”

Michael gasped as the rigid rod tried to straighten out a curve in his bowel. He wanted to be brave for his aunt, but the pain was making his eyes water. He was about to ask her to stop when he felt the base of the proctoscope press against his 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 a little light I can shine up your rectum to help me see as I slowly withdraw the scope.”

It took longer coming out that it had going in, for she had to peer all around inside him. 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 Michael let out an occasional groan, it was a groan of pleasure, not pain. He hoped it would take her a very long time to examine him. He pushed his behind back against the instrument as hard as he could. His cock was very stiff now and he was afraid that he might have an accident at any minute, so he tried to think of other things. There was a moment, when the rod was poking around by that little button of his, the name of which escaped him, when he felt his juices rising, but he managed to keep from spurting, and after the tool was withdrawn a little further he knew he was safe. When it finally plopped out, he felt very empty. He wished she would do it again. He hoped that with would be a part of his physical exams from now on.

As Michael got off the bed and onto his feet he felt dizzy, and had to hang onto Aunt Clem for support. His aunt took a tissue and wiped off his bottom, which was quite slippery with KY. Then she took him in her arms and gave him a big hug and a kiss.

“My favorite patient!” she said, smiling.

“My favorite doctor!” he said, laughing.

Michael passed the rest of the day quietly. His aunt went out, saying she’d be back sometime after supper. He took a short nap, after which he watched television for a while, still wearing nothing but his little nightie, in which he was beginning to feel quite at home. At six his mother called him into the kitchen and gave him a light supper---chicken-noodle soup and some Jell-O--- which he ate ravenously, as he had had nothing to eat all day except for his mother’s nasty vegetable juice in the morning. He was still hungry, but his mother said that was all he was getting because she didn’t want to overstimulate his 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.”

Michael greeted this news with mixed feelings, wondering what else could possibly be inside him, then returned to the living room where he lay on the floor on his stomach like a little kid and watched some silly programs on TV. His mother checked in on him 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 he would never grow up!

At 8:30 his mother packed him off to bed as if he’d been eight years old, but he didn’t mind, really. He lay in bed on his back, gently stroking himself and thinking about the events of the day, which had combined pain and pleasure in a way that was to shape Michael’s future life, though of course he didn’t know that at the time.

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

“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?”

Aunt Clem laughed and pinched his cheek.

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

“What procedure, Aunt Clem?”

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

Michael knew he was going to like it, and it showed under his little nightshirt. Aunt Clem looked at it and chuckled.

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

“No, honey, just roll over onto your tummy. And put this towel under you. You’re going to need it.”

Michael could hardly believe it. Here was his aunt, offering him what he and his friends referred to as a “cum rag.” He was a little nervous, but his aunt put him at his 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 his little nightshirt, baring his bottom, which she massaged for several minutes to relax him, she said, though it had the effect of making him hard as a rock on his other side. Then he heard a sound like rubber snapping and assumed she was putting on one of these little finger rubbers. There was a pause, while she coated it with KY, and then he felt his cheeks being parted and her finger pressed against his anus. It slipped in very easily, feeling small after the other things that had been inside him that day. She worked her finger up his rectum until it found his sex button. Then she slowly began to rub back and forth over it, while her other hand grazed lightly over his buttocks. Michael gasped. His penis was stiff and throbbing under him. He moaned with pleasure as her finger worked over his button.

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

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

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

“Such a lot!” she said, as if praising him for something over which he 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 him right on his mouth.

“Good night and sweet dreams,” she said. Michael turned over onto his stomach. His aunt gave his back and bottom a nice little massage , then, with a final rub and a pat to his boyish behind, she pulled the little nightshirt down over him as far as it would go. She sat there for a while looking at his flushed face and half of his bottom peeking out from below the hem of his nightie. Then, with a sigh, she got up and left him, for he was already fast asleep.