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» » My Secret Paris Diary Part 2 « «
Tuesday, 6:00 p.m:
Another long day. And it’s not over yet. Right now I’m waiting for my enema, with the usual butterflies and inner tinglings this anticipation causes.
Janine got me up this morning. She took off my diaper, which was clean except for one damp spot behind where some enema water had leaked out. Then she turned me over and took my temperature. She kept her hand on my behind, and moved the thermometer inside me, twisting it and moving it in and out. It was delicious, but I didn’t want six more cold water enemas so I told her that if she kept that up it would make the thermometer give a false reading.
“Just as it did yesterday?”
“I don’t know about yesterday,” I said weakly.
“Oh, no,” she said sarcastically, continuing to fuck me with the thermometer. I decided on a different approach.
“You know something else might happen if you don’t stop doing that.”
“I’m only doing it because Solange said you liked it.”
“I do. That’s just the problem.”
“Why is it a problem?”
“You’re tickling my prostate gland with that thing. Do you want me to make a mess on my aunt’s sheets?”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Evidemment,” I said, risking a fresh sounding reply.
“I do it like this to Girard all the time, he loves it so, but then of course he can’t produce anything, so soiling the sheets is no problem.”
“Doesn’t it make his temperature go up?”
“I don’t know. I never bother to look unless I think he is sick. I just do it because we both like it. He’s so cute the way he rolls over and sticks up his little bottom when he sees me coming with the thermometer.”
I said again that I might have an accident if she continued do that, so she whisked it out and looked at it. Whether I registered a fever or not I’ll never know. Which made me wonder if my diddling myself with the thermometer had actually made my temperature rise, or if Solange lied about it in order to give me those enemas. I think I’ll experiment when I get the chance.
Janine made me sit on the potty and pee, and asked if I could do the other too and I said no. After six enemas and no supper yesterday I was pretty clean inside. Pretty hungry, too.
Just then Solange came in. I was still sitting on the potty. She asked Janine if my temperature was normal and Janine said yes. Solange told me to get up. She wiped my bottom and held out the little apron I had worn before and told me to turn around so she could tie it in back which she did.
“There,” she said, giving my bare bottom a little pat, “that’s all you’ll need in the house. It hides that nasty thing in front, but leaves your behind on display and convenient in case on-the-spot punishment is indicated. Now, breakfast time.”
She ushered me out the door and they followed, their eyes on my behind, no doubt. In the kitchen I was again seated on the stool at the counter. I found my bare behind tended to stick to the surface of the stool. My breakfast consisted of apple juice, cold cereal with milk and a banana, and milk. They had already eaten. When I had finished Solange told me to wash not only my dishes but hers and Janine’s as well. They had had eggs, I noticed.
I spent the rest of the morning as their “bonne”, their maid, sweeping, dusting, polishing silver, and scrubbing floors. They particularly liked watching me scrub floors, as my hands-and-knees position maked my bottom out, giving them a nice view of my posterior rotundities, and of course they could not resist the temptation, especially Janine, to give me little pats or smacks back there as I worked. Oh, they enjoyed having their own little servant girl.
After my lunch---scrambled eggs, stewed prunes, milk---I was put to bed again and given another suppository to make me sleep.
They awakened me at 2 p.m. and whisking back the sheet which was my only cover, proceeded to check my diaper, fore and aft. Finding me dry, they made me sit on the potty and try to “faire pipi et caca” for them. I was able to produce a few drops of the former, but none of the latter, which caused them to exchange meaningful looks, followed by nods and, in Solange’s case, her special smile.
While I was on the potty they laid out clothes for me, a short-sleeved white shirt and a pair of short, loose-fitting gym shorts Mom had thrown into my bag for some reason, and my sandals.
When I announced that I was “finished” on the potty my bottom was wiped and I was made to lie on the bed with my legs up for diapering. The diaper was so bulky that I had trouble getting into my little shorts, but finally with their help we managed. Next came the white shirt, the sandals, and on my head a blue cloth hat, also Mom’s contribution to my wardrobe. The effect of making me look younger was not lost on me. and I am sure that had they had the time and the resources they would have dressed me like a six-year-old, or maybe even as a girl.
As it was I looked pretty silly, and I was chagrined to notice that my diaper came down right to the hem of my shorts. Either I had grown since last wearing them, or Solange and Janine had shortened the hem (and I wouldn’t put that past them) because they recovered only a few inches of thigh, and I knew that people could actually see my diaper in back as I walked.
Leaving a disappointed Hector behind we descended in the elevator and I was escorted, my two governesses on either side, one of them holding my hand at all times, to the river and across the Pont Neuf and down to the Jardin des Tuileries, attracting many curious glances and suppressed giggles as we went. I felt alternatively like a small boy and like a prisoner, and sometimes like both at once.
When we reached the pond where little boys sailed their boats we sat down on a bench, with me in the middle of course. It was the same pond where I had witnessed, on my first day in Paris, the little drama of the small boy whose boat had sailed out of reach---in fact I recognized the short, mustachioed attendant who had retrieved the boat--- and I couldn’t help but reflect on how much had happened to me since then, and different that visit had been, with Auntie Clem and Hector, from this one. I thought about this, with Solange and Janine chattering away in French so fast I had no chance of understanding them, as I sat between them like a prisoner, feeling hot and cramped, my thick diaper and my still sore bottom making me squirm, causing Solange to tell me to “stop fidgeting.”
When an ice cream vendor came by he was immediately surrounded by a crowd of children holding out coins and placing their orders in high, flutey voices. Solange, ever the indulgent nanny, reached into her purse and found a coin which she handed to me.
“Here. Go get yourself a glace.”
I didn’t much want one, but it was an excuse to get up and move around, so I took it and joined the throng of six- to ten-year-olds, towering above them. They looked at me as if I were from another planet, which was exactly how I felt.
“Don’t spill on your nice clean shirt,” said Solange as I returned to the bench. I remained standing, bent over slightly to let the fast-melting ice cream fall to the pavement rather than my shirt. When I was finished Solange wiped my hands with a tissue and told me I could “go play” as long as I didn’t leave their sight. This didn’t give me much latitude, nor much choice of “play” either, so I wandered aimlessly around the pool, watching the kids, until I caught the eye of a slightly older boy, of maybe eleven or twelve, playing with a rather nice model schooner.
“C’est tres beau, ton bateau,” I said. He smiled and told me he had made it himself. I sat down on the rim of the pool and watched as he sailed it around. I had one leg drawn up close, my arm across my knee, when I saw him glance at my crotch. I realized with horror that he could see my diaper. His eyes met mine, then went to my crotch again, then back to mine. I gazed out across the pond at the other boats, and nothing was said. Suddenly I wished I was twelve again; life was so much simpler then.
Glancing over at Solange and Janine I saw they had been joined by another woman, very large and ample, and older than them. The boy was just starting to ask me something, and so when Solange beckoned to me I quickly excused myself and left, with very mixed feelings. I would have liked to have stayed with the boy, except that I was afraid he was going to ask me about my diaper. So as I left my little friend I waved to him and he waved back, an odd crooked smile on his face. I’m sure the boy’s eyes followed me, but when I turned around he was preoccupied with his bateau.
The new lady---her name was Madame Dorolle---made room for me, and I sat down between her and Solange, who proceeded to tell her, in simple French so I would be sure to understand, all about me, this American boy unused to French ways, who had gotten himself into hot water with a French girl, and was now being punished for his recklessness.
“It appears he does not learn quickly,” she went on, “for just a few hours ago I found it necessary to give him a spanking, the second one in twenty-four hours. And because he imagines himself such a big boy, we put him in diapers.”
“He is in the diapers now, then?”
“Yes, see for yourself!”
Whereupon Madame Dorolle lifted the hem of my flimsy little gym shorts and had a peek at my crotch.
“Mon Dieu! So he is!”
“Do me a favor, Blanche, and find out if he has wet himself.”
“I haven’t, Solange!” I protested, but Blanche of course could not take my word for it. No, she had to reach up under my shorts until her hand was right on the front of my diaper, where it lingered far longer than necessary, feeling and squeezing my private area. At last she could no longer maintain the pretense of determining whether I was wet or not.
“No, he seems quite dry,” she said, withdrawing her hand, but letting it come to rest on my bare thigh. “Of course, I couldn't tell about, well, the other.”
“Oh, I doubt if he has messed himself. You see, I gave him a rather strong enema yesterday morning. Milk and molasses.”
“Milk and molasses! Ah, how the little ones in my care used to detest that treatment!”
“Michel didn’t find it very enjoyable, either, did you Michel?”
“And then in the afternoon we gave him six more enemas, to bring down a fever.”
“Six cool enemas,” said Janine.
“Ah yes,” said Madame Dorolle,”the very best way to treat a child’s fever.”
“And since he hasn’t had an enema all day,” continued Solange, “Janine and I will give him a nice big one at bed time.”
I felt myself blush at having this intimate matter talked about in a public place, and noticed that some occupants of nearby benches had indeed overheard the conversation, which was, I suspect, just what Solange had intended.
“How thoughtful of you. I hope Michael will show his appreciation by cooperating.”
“He’d better,” put in Janine. “He knows what will happen if he doesn’t.”
“Well, I’m sure he doesn’t want a third spanking, do you, Michel?”
“Tell me, are American boys your age customarily spanked?”
“No, ma’am, they aren’t.”
“Then why are you?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. I think it’s because my mother is afraid I’ll turn into a juvenile delinquent or something.”
“And judging by your recent behavior,” said Solange, “I would say her fears are fully justified.” By this time several of the eavesdroppers had inched their way closer, the better to overhear our conversation, and before long there were six or seven other women listening in, and nodding or even voicing their approval of my mother’s disciplinary methods, of the beneficial effects of enemas on the young, and the need for boys my age to have their sails trimmed from time to time, so that they acted like a Greek chorus, echoing the pronouncements of the three crones, while I sat there in their midst, my face beet red with embarrassment, for even though they were speaking French, I was able to get the gist of everything they said.
Madame Dorolle waxed especially eloquent, and she had a carrying voice, as if she was accustomed to soap box orations. She went on and on about how there was nothing like corporal punishment for boys, how boys needed their bottoms spanked and whipped hard and often, and how there was nothing like a nice hot soapy enema to keep children, and especially boys, in good health. And there I sat, hot and sweaty, between these women, their bodies exuding additional warmth, and all of a sudden I wanted to pee.
“Solange,” I said.
“I have to.....” and I whispered the word in her ear.
“You have to make pipi?” she asked in French. “But why do you think you are wearing diapers? “ At this the eavesdroppers perked up their ears.
“Please, Solange, I don’t want to...”
I gestured toward a public pissoire. I knew what it was for because I had seen men and boys coming out of them doing up their flies..
“Absolutely not. I will not allow you to use that thing. There are all sorts of men in them just waiting for a tempting morsel like you to come in and open his pants. Besides, how could you manage with your diaper on? No, you must use the diaper for what is is intended, and now.”
Tears formed in my eyes. Mme Dorolle was smiling at me expectantly. So was the audience. I had no choice. Seated there between the two ladies I gave a little grunt and started peeing in my diaper. The warm feeling spread throughout my crotch area. I peed and peed. When finally my bladder was empty I relaxed.
“Have you quite finished?” asked Solange.
“Then ask Mme Dorolle to check and feel if you are indeed wet.”
“I’m wet, Solange.”
“I should warn you, Michael, that on more than one occasion I have witnessed a child being spanked right here in the park.” I took the hint.
“Please, Mme Dorolle, check my diaper for wetness.” And I actually took her hand and placed it under my shorts. I felt her hand move up and touch my wet diaper. She withdrew it with a start.
“Mon Dieu!” she exclaimed. “It a fait pipi!” Il a fait pipi!” She said it so loud that some of the little boys sailing their boats, upon hearing that childish word, turned and stared, including ”my” boy. All eyes were upon me. And suddenly I just didn’t care! I didn’t give a damn! I started giggling. And the more I giggled, the more I giggled. Because I discovered, or maybe re-discovered, something all all toddlers know: that peeing in your diapers is fun!
Well naturally the ladies didn’t think it was very funny. Solange was obviously very angry with me because she got up and yanked me to my feet and took hold of my ear and marched me off, telling the whole world about the spanking I was going to get as soon as we got home, with all the onlookers laughing and urging her on. And she marched me out of the park like this, with Janine and Mme Dorolle following.
Well, peeing in your diapers may be fun, but having to wear soggy diapers until someone gets around to changing them is something else. By the time we all got back to the flat I was anxious to be changed, but Solange had her own agenda, so I was left in them until it suited her to change me. Meanwhile, Madame Dorolle, who had been must have been sipping from a little flask, became quite tipsy and started acting bizarre. Solange and Janine were in the kitchen and I was left alone with her, standing awkwardly in my wet diapers. She beckoned me to come to her and when I did she pulled me down onto her lap and cuddled me, running her hands under my shirt, playing with my nipples. I didn’t mind, actually. But when she put her hand up my shorts and felt my diaper and how wet it was she shouted to Solange:
“Solange! Baby needs changing! Are you going to do it, or must I?”
Solange came in, holding up her hands which were covered in dough, and took us to my room, where she showed Mme Dorolle where the fresh dopers were kept.
“And there’s a hairbrush in the bureau, in case he acts up,” she said, on her way out the door. In no time I was on my bed, feet up, and she was sitting on it changing me. I can’t explain why it exited me, but it did, and when she had taken off the wet diaper and dried me off, paying special attention to my penis, I was quite stiff. And when she got a wash cloth and washed me with warm water I got stiffer.
“What a naughty boy you are,” she said, smiling and tweaking my nose, “I ought to spank you.” Since I had been promised a spanking from Solange it crossed my mind that one from Madame Dorolle would be preferable, so I didn’t say anything.
“Yes, I think that’s just what you need. Where did she say that hairbrush was?”
“In the bureau.”
“Fetch it for me, please.”
I got up and fetched it and handed it to her, standing before her in nothing but my white shirt, which didn’t hide anything. I was quite erect.
“Over my knee, then,” she said, drawing up her skirt. I lay across her plump warm thighs and stretched out on the bed. She started tapping my buttocks with the hairbrush and rubbing them with it. Then she put it down where I could see it.
“Mon dieu, what a saucy bottom!” she exclaimed, arranging me to her liking. “I have not had such a bottom across my lap in many, many years!”
She spent a long time exploring it with her fingers, letting them graze here and there, as well as down between the cleft. I found myself getting more and more aroused.
“You are such a naughty, naughty, boy,” she said in English, “ that your maman must spank your behind until it is pink.” She began spanking me with her hand, very gently, just enough to warm my behind a little, and make it tingle. I felt good to be across her broad lap.
As her splayed fingers slapped into my tender inner regions she realized I was very aroused, and she reached under me and found my erect penis.
“Spankings are good for boys,” she said. “They need them, whether they know it or not. There is nothing like a bare bottom spanking to make a boy good.”
As she continued her light, feathery spanking, as well as her manipulation of my penis, I knew that if she didn’t stop soon I was going to come on her thighs. I am sure she knew that this was going to happen, but she wanted to prolong it as much as possible.
“I think what you need is a dose of the hairbrush,” she said, picking it up. “But first you must kiss it. I always make boys and girls kiss the rod before I lay it on.”
So I kissed the smooth back of the hairbrush that was soon to make contact with my behind.
The first smack was only moderately hard, and left a nice tingling sensation. But as she spanked on, my bottom got hotter and hotter, and before long I was squirming around on her lap and making little noises.
Then she stopped spanking me, and I was aware of her doing something but I couldn’t tell what.
Then I heard her unscrewing a cap and I realized there was a jar of Vaseline on my night stand, next to the rectal thermometer. I guess she was going to take my temperature, I guessed wrong, though, because the next thing I felt was something big and smooth knocking at my back door. I realized with a shock that it was the handle of the hairbrush!
I didn’t think she’d ever get it in, because it was pretty wide, but she worked away, twisting an turning, and I helped by arching my bottom up, and suddenly in i went, all the way!
“There! How does it feel to have something big and smooth in your behind? You like it, don’t you? And you like it when I move it in and out, too, don’t you? Oh, I know what boys like you like?” And she fucked me with the hairbrush until I came all over her legs.
I came and came for a long time, and when I was finished I began to cry, for some reason I didn’t understand at the time, but now I know it was because she had made me accept the fact that I was queer, that I did want to be fucked in my behind. “Boys like you” was the phrase she had used. Boys like me like getting fucked, was what she was saying, and I knew she was right.
I don’t think she knew why I was crying. She probably thought I was ashamed at coming all over her leg, because after my spasms stopped she stroked my back and bottom, telling me in French what a sweet boy I was to have given her my gift of love, and so on and so forth. I lay there across her lap for a long time; in fact I dozed off to the tune of her soft words and gentle caresses.
After some time she eased me off her lap and took me over to the bidet where she washed me off with warm water, then washed herself where I had come on her. Then she put me back onto the bed on my back, feet up, and put a fresh diaper on me and then, clad in nothing else, since I had gotten the shirt stained too, she led me back into the parlor, where Solange and Janine, having finished baking, where babbling away in French.
“Did I hear the sounds of someone getting a spanking?” asked Janine.
“You did indeed,” said Madame Dorolle, smiling and mussing my hair. “This naughty boy got his tender bottom warmed, didn’t you, mon petit bijou?”
“Oui, madame,” I answered sweetly, gazing up into her soft blue eyes. She cuddled me close and gave me a little kiss. I giggled.
“Oh, show us his bottom, then!” cried Janine. “Let’s see how well you colored it!”
Solange nodded her assent, and so I was unpinned, my diaper dropped to the floor, and I was turned around so they could admire madame’s handiwork, which Janine did not only with her eyes but with her fingers too. It was rather embarrassing, but I was getting used to embarrassment, and didn’t mind it very much, even when her fingers strayed deep between my cheeks. Luckily for me, Mme Dorolle had washed away any trace of Vaseline.
After everyone had had a good look and/or feel of my bottom I was repinned and we all had tea. Then Madame Dorolle left, and I was sent to my room, for which I was glad as it gave me this chance to bring my diary up to date.
But now it’s suppertime, so I have to stop.
I wonder when I am going to get the promised enema. Thinking about it gives me the butterflies.
Early Wednesday morning:
Well, I did NOT get my enema! After lying here thinking about it and imagining I heard footsteps coming and wondering if they would come in bearing the steaming hot rubber bag or whether I would be beckoned to come into the bathroom for it or even maybe the examination room, THEY NEVER CAME!
To tell the truth, I’m sort of disappointed. Not that I really wanted still another invasion of my body, but for all that nervous anticipation to have been in vain kind of makes me mad. All that sweat for nothing! I mean it kept me awake for a long time, lying here waiting for them. And when I finally did get to sleep, I had nothing but enema dreams. Now it’s 7 a.m. and I have to pee but
I don’t remember what I was going to say, probably “but i don’t want to get my diaper wet” or something. Anyway, I had to quickly put this away because I heard them coming, and when they burst into my room I was curled up feigning sleep. I felt the bed sag and someone shake my shoulders. It was Janine. Still here? Must have spent the night with Solange. Hmm.
“Wake up, Michael, time for your morning enema.”
So I was going to get one after all!
“Take his temperature while I run the water,” Solange said.
“Let’s get these diapers off,” said Janine, unpinning me.
“Is he dry?”
“I have to pee real bad.”
“Let him pee in the bidet.”
So I peed in the bidet with Janine watching. Then it was back to bed and over onto my stomach for my morning temp. I felt Janine’s warmth as she bent over me and parted my bottom cheeks and stuck in the little glass rod. It felt so good I purred like a kitten.
The enema was to be an over-the-lap affair, and with a bulb syringe with another strange nozzle, this one long and quite fat, and with ridges along the shaft. It was also somewhat flexible. I was placed over Janine’s lap as she sat on the bed, and as she spread my cheeks open Solange thrust the nozzle into me, pushing it in deep, right up to the hilt, before discharging its contents, which seemed to be plain soapy water. Then she withdrew it and refilled it from a basin of milky water.
The ridges caused quite a sensation as the nozzle was being inserted and withdrawn, and by the third or fourth bulbful I was pretty well aroused. By the sixth I was feeling pretty full, and said so, but Solange ignored me and gave me another. I must’ve made a little noise, because Janine said,
“Is that a moan of pleasure, or of pain? Or perhaps both? I think you like your enemas, don’t you?” Her hand was underneath me, feeling my cock. “Solange, I think we have here a boy who likes his enemas. Am I right?”
“Oh, he likes them all right, until they get too difficult for him. Then he wants me to stop.”
“But you don’t, do you?”
“Of course not. It is not up to him to decide how much water he can take. That is for me to decide.”
Janine then turned me over onto my back, still on her lap, and still with the enema nozzle in my behind. She moved it in and out a few times, watching my penis respond.
“I think he needs a bit more, don’t you Solange?”
“That’s up to you.”
She felt my tummy, which was quite tight.
“I think there’s room for more.”
She took out the nozzle and refilled it, then inserted it again and slowly squeezed the warm water into my already full bowel. I groaned and squirmed on her lap.
Solange excused herself, saying she had things to do, leaving us there alone. Janine massaged my tummy, working the water around, her hand grazing my erect penis. Then she opened her blouse and drew my head toward her breast. I took it in my mouth.
“Good baby,” she said, working the nozzle in and out as I suckled. Then she took it out and filled it again.
“I am going to give you one more load of water,” she id, and she shoved the nozzle up to the hilt and squeezed it. Again I felt the warm water flood my innards. I also felt my juices rise, and it took only a bit of anal play with the thick nozzle and hen I was pumping my sperm into the air. Most of it fell back on my stomach, but some of it landed on her dress. She didn’t seem to mind.
After I was finished she let me up and took me to the W.C. , a towel pressed against my anus. Then she washed me in the bidet, after which she oiled and powdered me and put on a fresh diaper. Now I’m just resting, hoping breakfast will be coming soon. I have that nice post-enema feeling of lightness and relaxation. It gives me a certain, hard-to-define, taste in my mouth. I feel cleansed, not only in body, but also in mind, purified, sort of, rid of all evil.
Wednesday p.m.: In the Luxembourg Gardens
I came out here with Hector after Auntie C. no longer needed me and am sitting watching some boys play soccer, or “futbol” as they call it here. They are all wearing blue shorts, but one team has white shirts and the other black- and- white striped shirts. They are young kids, about twelve, I’d say, and they are playing fiercely, their shrill cries filling the air with strange (to me) vowel sounds. Now I’m going to bring this diary up to date.
Well, things are sort of back to normal now, and the whole two days seem like some kind of dream. I was going to say “bad dream” but although here was some pain and a lot of embarrassment there was a lot of pleasure too, and so it sort of balanced out.
Anyway, that’s all a thing of the past. Auntie Clem got back last night, after I was asleep---Janine has gone, Solange has the day off, and I am out of diapers at last. Just as well, as I was beginning to like them! It was sort of fun being taken back to those good old days before you were toilet trained and could pee and poop whenever you felt like it. I never did get a chance to poop. I don’t know whether that would have felt nice or not. Now I’ll probably never know.
Apparently Solange told Auntie Clem about what happened during her absence, all as a result of my getting home late on Sunday with lipstick on my shirt, though she probably spared her some of the details. A.C. said she was sorry that S. took it out on me that way, with spankings and diapers and all, but that she, Solange, was really scared out of her wits because she was responsible for me, and that she really loves me and bla, bla, bla. Well, maybe, but I also remembered her (Auntie Clem) warning me to stay on Solange’s good side, implying that she could be pretty mean if you crossed her, as I found out. But whatever the cause, it’s over with now.
I told Auntie Clem pretty much everything having to do with Francine, and she was very understanding and broad-minded, unlike Solange. She even said she would try to find me some smaller condoms! She said it was O.K. for me to meet her in the little park, but not to make a date with her for either today or tomorrow. She said she might need me here today, but she didn’t say anything about tomorrow. As soon as I could I left for the park.
She was there! Hector and I got to St. Sulpice park at ten and she showed up just a few minutes later. It felt like ages since I’d seen her. She was wearing a blue dress and looked very pretty. She asked me where I’d been for the past few days and I told her what had happened with Solange when I got back Sunday night. I didn’t mention the diapers of course, just said I was “grounded” for two days (she wasn’t familiar with that expression). I said none of it would have happened if my aunt hadn’t been away, which was the truth. I told her my aunt had plans for me today and tomorrow. She said “Quel dommage!” (“what a pity!”) about today, and that she was busy tomorrow too. So we made a date for Friday, same time same place.
When I got back to the flat Auntie C. was in the examination room getting things ready for her patients. She said hat Wednesday is always a busy day for her because it’s a school holiday, or maybe a half-holiday, I’m not sure which. Anyway she always has patients coming to the flat on Wednesday afternoons, ,and because Solange had to go tend to her sick mother A.C. asked me if I would help her and of course I said sure, even though I had no idea what I was supposed to do.
She told me there would be several patients starting about noon: a boy who wet his bed, a boy who was a serious masturbator, a new patient ( also a boy) who had some sort of problem, and another bed wetter. I asked her, trying not to sound too eager, if she ever had any girl patients, and she said once in a while but mostly they were boys because she specialized in genito-urinary problems and they were most common in boys. I asked her what my job was and she said she would explain that as the occasion arose.
When she had gotten everything ready she suggested we have a bite to eat because once the patients started coming we wouldn’t have the chance, so we made sandwiches of pate de compagne which is like meat loaf only better, of course, being French, and not long after we had finished the doorbell rang.
It was the first bed wetter. He was a pale, fragile-looking kid of about ten. He was with his mom. A.C. said she wouldn’t need me inside but that I should sit at the little table by the entrance in case another patient came before she was finished with the boy. There was a clipboard and on it today’s schedule. The first name on it was Jean Claude Bernard and in brackets the number 10 so I had guessed that’s who she was seeing right then. I wondered what she was doing to Jean Claude. I tried to hear what was going on in the examination room, but couldn’t.
The only bed wetter I ever knew was a kid in fifth grade named Bobby Lee. He told me he got spanked and whipped and was put in diapers and his mom hung his wet sheets out on the line for all the neighbors to see, but nothing worked; he just kept right on wetting the bed. I wondered how Auntie C. dealt with the problem. I’m sure much more humanely.
My wonderings were interrupted by the doorbell. It was a woman with another boy about the same age as Jean Claude, or maybe younger. This was obviously the new patient. He wore rimless glasses and looked frightened, but was rather cute. The woman gave the boy’s name and I checked the list: Pierre something; I’ve forgotten his last name. They sat down, Pierre swinging his legs and looking nervously around. When Auntie C. came out with Jean Claude and his mom she ushered all three of us into the examination room. I looked at Jean Claude to try to read his face but it was a blank. It didn’t look as if he had been crying, though.
In the examination room Auntie C. explained to Pierre’s mom that Solange had an emergency and that I, her nephew, would take her place for today. Then she tried to put Pierre at ease by asking him questions about school and hobbies and so on but the boy was clearly very uneasy about being where he was. A.C. handed me another clipboard with a questionnaire with blanks to fill in and boxes to check. Obviously this was to be my job. While I was looking this over they were helping Pierre undress, as he didn’t seem to want to do it himself. Finally they got everything off him except his little briefs, which A.C. said he could keep on for now.
Auntie Clem put him on the big scales and read off his weight and his height, which I wrote in the correct spaces. She then had him sit on the table and she took his blood pressure. She checked his ears, nose, throat, glands, and I checked the appropriate boxes as she continued down his body.
When she reached his middle she put him on his feet again and sat on a low stool in front of him and drew him between her thighs.
Then she pulled down his little briefs. His pipi was sticking straight out but no one seemed alarmed or embarrassed. She took it between her fingers and examined it, pulling back his little foreskin. That made him squirm a it. I guess it hurt. Then she took his little eggs in her hands and rolled them around. Again I checked the appropriate box I had no trouble as many of the French words were the same or nearly the same as the English ones, like “testicules” or “abdomen”.
Back onto the table he went, this time on his tummy, his panties still down, his cute bottom very white and bare. I guess he knew what was coming because he started to squirm around. His mom held him down and Auntie Clem shook down the thermometer, squeezed some Vaseline onto the bulb, spread apart his little cheeks, and poked it in. She held it there, her hand resting on his behind, while she talked to his mom. Pierre just lay there quietly. I guess he wad used to having his temperature taken that way even at the age of ten.
She beckoned to me so I came over and she took the clipboard and wrote some things on the questionnaire. She needed both hands, so she let go of the thermometer, and I had a good look at Pierre’s behind with the glass rod sticking out of his hole. Now and then he twitched his bottom a little. I think he was liking the feeling of it inside him, even though it was embarrassing to have me and Auntie Clem there watching. He turned to look at me and I smiled at him. He didn’t smile back. I wanted my smile to say, “I know what you’re feeling because I’ve been in your position myself,” but I guess he couldn’t read all that in my smile.
Auntie Clem started questioning the woman about what the boy’s specific problem was, and the answered at great length. As she rambled on Auntie Clem took the thermometer out of the boy’s behind, looked at it, then stuck it back in, for what reason I don’t know. The woman was talking rapidly in a quiet voice and I couldn’t follow it, but I got the gist of it, which was that the boy suffered from constipation.
Auntie Clem, her hand on the boy’s behind holding the thermometer in place, asked her a bunch of questions having to do with diet, exercise, and so forth. She asked about how often she used le clystere and she said every three days. Auntie C. took the thermometer out of the boy’s behind again and read it, then handed it to me. It was brown at the tip. Auntie C. said something quietly and rapidly to Pierre’s mother which I couldn’t catch, then turned to me.
“Michael, a rubber glove and the KY, please,” I was still holding the thermometer, slick with Vaseline, that had so recently been inside the boy’s warm bottom, not knowing what to do with it.
“In the glass by the sink,“ said A.C., noting my dilemma. I disposed of the thermometer and fetched the glove and KY. By this time they had the boy on his hands and knees with his head down and his bottom sticking straight up in the air. A very humiliating position to assume, as I knew well from my own experience.
Auntie Clem asked the woman to hold the boy then tight so he couldn’t squirm away, donned the glove and squeezed some KY onto it.
The boy was clearly unhappy, despite his Mom’s efforts to reassure him by stroking his hair and his back.
Auntie Clem sized up her target, a pink little puckered orifice, and aimed her finger at it. The boy flinched. She said some encouraging words in French, but it didn’t do much good. The boy started whimpering. Auntie Clem worked a long time trying to get the boy relaxed enough to accept her finger, and finally she was able to poke it in just a short way, at which point the boy started shrieking. She withdrew her finger.
There followed another discussion, in which Auntie C. suggested that one cause of the boy’s problem might be a tight sphincter. Leaving the boy with his bottom in the air she discussed the matter at length with the boy’s mom, and at last Auntie Clem persuaded her to try a treatment using anal dilators. She showed the woman a box containing six of them, hard black objects with a flanged base and a bullet-like head, ranging from smallest in diameter to thickest.
Taking the smallest, which at its widest part, namely the head, was no thicker than her little finger, she had me hold the kid with my arms around his lower back and thighs while she tried to get the thing into his rectum. It took a bit of work, and I had to hold him as tight as I could, but finally the head slipped in and she was able to push it all the way in so only the flange was showing.
“He must wear this at night, every night. If he fails to have a morning bowel movement, give him a glycerin suppository. If that doesn’t work, give him an enema. It doesn’t have to be large, just enough to clean out his rectum. Continue this routine for two weeks, at which time I want to see him again.”
She said all this in French, and while I didn’t get every word, I was able to get the gist of what she said.
She then pulled out the dilator, which came out with a plop, and wiped the boy’s bottom. She told him he could get dressed, and told me I could wait outside for the next patient. I left as Pierre was getting of the table, and was just able to get a glimpse of his very stiff little thing in front before going back to the waiting room.
Not long afterwards the doorbell the bell rang again and I let in the next victim. It was the boy I had seen before, the one with sort of a broad bottom and thin chest. He had a sallow complexion and hollows under his eyes. He wore a white open-collared shirt and grey shorts. His name was Maurice Duparc. I figured him for the young masturbator. I guessed he was fourteen or fifteen. He sat down on the straight-backed chair opposite me. Each time our eyes met he looked quickly down or away, batting his eyelashes. He also blushed. He was obviously very uneasy. I teased him by deliberately looking at him. I let my eyes fall to his crotch and then up to his face, which made him feel very uncomfortable. I guess he brought out the sadist in me!
After a time Auntie Clem and the others came out, the little boy Pierre sniffling, probably less from pain as from the indignities done to him. Auntie Clem gave his bottom a pat as she saw them out. Then she beckoned both me and Maurice into the Chamber of Horrors. Maurice was obviously not very happy about me being present.
“You won’t have to write down anything,” she said to me once we were in the room “but you can help me in other ways. Also, it might be instructional for you to see what happens to boys who play with themselves too much.” And she gave me a Solange-like smile.
Maurice, meanwhile, had begun undressing without being told to, first his shoes, then his pants and underpants. He left his shirt on but it didn’t offer much protection. His hips were rather wide for a boy and his penis quite small, but he had some hair so I guessed he could come.
“Your rectum was emptied this morning, I presume?” said Auntie Clem. Maurice blushed crimson and said, “Oui, Madame.”
“Tout les deux.” said the boy in a barely audible voice.
“Tres bien! Excellent !”
She patted the table and Maurice hopped up, lay back and put his feet into the stirrups. She strapped his ankles to the metal frame and pulled him forward so his bottom was opened up, his hole in plain view. It excited me to think that he knew I was looking right at his asshole just the way various women had looked into mine not long ago.
Next she reached under the table and brought out a black box with dials and things, and two wires leading from it, one of them dangling loose, the other connected to a cigar-shaped metal thing about five inches long and maybe an inch thick. It had a blunt nose like a bullet, and the base consisted of two extensions that made the whole thing look like a stubby “T.” I didn’t have to be told where it went, given its shape and the position Maurice was in. My suspicions were confirmed when she took from her apron pocket a round thing I recognized as a rubber, which she put onto the thing which she later called a probe, unrolling the rubber onto it as if it were a penis.
Nor was I surprised when she then took a tube of KY and smeared some over the tip of the probe.
Maurice had obviously had this treatment before, because didn’t show any surprise or protest when A.C. pressed it against his asshole and worked it around, telling him to take a deep breath and let it out as she” poked it right in. It seemed to go in easily, and soon it was lodged all the way into his behind, with only the top of the “T” outside him, positioned vertically.
Next she took from her apron another rubber, and, drawing back Maurice’s foreskin and placed it on the purple tip, then unrolled it onto his cock. As his cock was even smaller than mine I made a mental note to ask Auntie Clem for one that would fit me before Friday.
Then she took the other lead from the black box and slid it under the base of the rubber and poked it all the way in, being careful not to make a hole. I began to see the possibilities of all this, and of course Maurice knew exactly what was going to happen. Still, he was very passive, making no protest whatever. I guess he was used to it by now.
“Ready?” she asked in French. “Here we go.” And for my benefit she explained what she explained in English what was going on.
“When I turn this dial to the figure 2 it will send a small electric current into his rectum, creating a tingling sensation and causing the probe to vibrate. And since the probe is near his prostate gland this will stimulated him sexually and he will soon have an erection. It will in fact be very pleasant---until the end. As you will see.”
Soon Maurice was showing signs of arousal. His penis was sticking straight up toward his belly, and I was surprised at how long it got, because it had looked so small before. He began breathing faster. Soon his head was tossing from side to side and he was whimpering with pleasure. Auntie Clem turned the dial to Number 3 and the boy went wild. If he hadn’t been strapped in he would have ended on the floor. Then his hips gave a jerk and I knew he was coming. But what I wasn’t prepared for was the cry of pain that came from his lungs as his spunk touched the wire, completing the circuit and sending the current through his cock. “Ayee!” he was yelling (French for “Ow!”) along with some swear words.
It was all over pretty quickly, and Maurice, now drenched with sweat, was unstrapped and helped off the table by both of us. A.C. handed him a towel to wipe himself off with, after which he was allowed to dress, but not before I got a good look at his bottom, which was pear-shaped like a girl’s, and very broad.
“Do you think you can leave it alone for a while, now?” Auntie Clem asked him. He nodded and mumbled “Oui, Madame, bien sur” as he did up his trousers.
After he had gone I said to A.C. that it seemed like some medieval torture she was inflicting on him.
“Yes, I agree, and I’d rather not do it. But his parents are important people and generous supporters of my clinic, and they have tried everything they could think of, and they have lively imaginations, so believe me when I say this is very humane compared to some of the methods they have used on him. Personally I doubt whether it will work, but they are paying for it, so...”
The next patient was the other bed-wetter, a boy older than the first bed-wetter but still hairless. He was accompanied by his maman, much to his obvious embarrassment. As this was the last patient of the morning I was allowed into the examination room, even though I wasn’t really needed.
Auntie Clem explained, in French, that she had just received the new device she had told the boy’s mom about, and the boy’s mom said she was anxious to have it tried out on Francis, as she was sick and tired of having to wake him up in the middle of the night so he could go pee or to change his sheets and his pajamas when he wet the bed. Francis, a tall, slender, nice-looking boy, blushed and said “Maman!” pleadingly when she said this. Auntie Clem mussed his hair and said he shouldn’t feel bad about his problem because there were a million other French boys who wet their beds too. He looked right at me, as if wondering if I was one of that million, though he must have known I was not French.
Auntie Clem showed them the instrument, which looked remarkably like the torture device she had used on Maurice. Like the other, it was a small box, silver this time, with two wires leading from it. One ended in a sort of patch, the other in a sleeve that was obviously meant to encase the boy’s penis.
“I think a demonstration is in order. Francis, hop up onto the table, please.”
The kid got up onto it. He was fully clothed, but not for long. Auntie Clem unbuttoned his shirt and opened it, baring his chest. Then she unfastened his belt, undid the top buttons of his pants, unzipped them, and pulled them down to his knees. Then, quite unceremoniously, she pulled down his underpants. His cock was quite long for a boy his age, but he had no pubic hair.
Even though my doctor aunt assured him that it would not hurt, Francis didn’t like what she did to him next, which was to slip the sheath over his penis and attach the other lead, the one with the sticky patch, to his chest, right by his left armpit.
“Now I want you to pee for me,” said my Auntie. It took the boy a long time, what with three people watching him and his mom urging him to “faire pipi”, but at last he was able to produce a few drops, which was all that was needed, for when the first drop of pee hit the wire the circuit was completed and a loud buzzer went off from the patch on his shoulder.
“Enough to wake the dead,” said A.C.
“Well, it could wake all the dead in France but Francis would sleep on,” said his mom. “Nevertheless, we will try it.”
Francis was allowed to climb off the table, clutching his trousers, and get dressed. After completing his toilet he whispered something in his mother’s ear.
“He’s worried about when he goes to camp,” she told her. “That the other boys will know.”
“The other boys will know regardless,” she replied. “I’m afraid that until they come up with a magic pill he’ll just have to deal with it.” Francis was not delighted at this news, but I’m sure he was glad his public peeing exhibition was over.
There would be no more patients until 2 p.m. so we had plenty of time for lunch. Auntie Clem whipped up a cheese soufflé, and while she was doing so I brought up the subject of cures for excessive masturbation, and she told me of some of the Victorian cures such as strait jackets, erection alarms, metal sheaths for penises, some with spikes (the parents had the key), enemas, infibulation (sewing up the foreskin) and, as a last resort, castration. I couldn’t figure out what enemas had to do with it, unless they were used as a punishment.
“No,” she said, “the idea was that if the rectum was full it would cause pressure on the prostate gland and hence cause an erection. Bedtime enemas took care of that little problem.”
I said some of those “cures” made her electric probe seem mild.
“Yes. In fact, it’s a very pleasant treatment, except for the last bit, which can of course be omitted.”
“Of course. You just don’t hook up the other wire. The electricity and vibration will bring about an intense orgasm.”
“Sounds like you’d like to try it.”
“After lunch, then. You’re overdue for a milking anyway.”
I saw no reason to tell her that Janine had brought me off yesterday by fucking my ass with a hairbrush handle. The idea of being “milked” with the electric probe excited me greatly, and I could think of nothing else while eating my soufflé.
I notice that I just wrote the word “ass” which I don’t often do. In fact I don’t like the word, because it can mean a stupid person, and “asshole” I hardly ever use because its even more insulting, even though I did use it in referring to Maurice’s hole. “Buttocks” is too clinical, “rear end” or “backside” are euphemisms, and “butt” brings to mind cigarette butts and but other blunt things. “Rump” is a butcher’s word, but it’s O.K. when it’s used to refer to young naval cadets being publicly flogged or given the rope’s end at sea. “A rump and dozen” is a phrase I read in a book somewhere. And I love “bum”, because it brings to mind all those stories of British schoolboys, even though of course in America it means a hobo. “Behind” and “bottom” are my favorites, as anyone who reads this diary (God forbid!) will notice.
I think it’s interesting that in French the word “fesse” means“ buttocks, bottom, rump,” and from that word they get the verb “fesser”, “to spank or whip”, and the noun “fesseur”, the one doing the spanking or whipping. A very economical use of a word, I would say.
After lunch we did the dishes and then she said she wanted to lie down for fifteen minutes, and to met her in the examination room at 1:30. I went to my room and lay down, but I had only one thing on my mind. The minutes ticked by slowly, until finally it was 1:28, and I rose and went to the examination room. She was not there yet, so I just looked around the room.
Then I saw something that got my attention. It was a long, black tube, a hose, really, with a funny tip that looked like a finger, except instead of a nail it had what looked like a tiny light bulb. I was about to examine it more closely when I heard her footsteps.
“You can leave your shirt on,” said Auntie C., breezing into the room, “but everything else must come off. Well, on second thought, maybe you’d better take off your shirt too. One never knows.”
She went to the sink, washed her hands, and got things ready while I undressed. I tried to cover my erection but then I thought, what the hell, she’s seen it before and she’ll see it again pretty soon, so I let it hang out, or rather up.
“Up on the table,” she said, “and feet in the stirrups. I don’t think I’ll need to strap you in, though.”
For some reason this sort of disappointed me. I sort of liked the idea of being helpless.
“What if I fall off the table from excitement?” I said. She smiled at me.
“All right, I’ll strap you in if that’s what you want.” And she did, both feet and across my chest. I was now in her power.
“While I’m waiting for the probe to warm up I’ll check to see if your rectum is empty,” she said, donning a rubber glove and squeezing some KY onto one finger. I felt the cold jelly on my anus, then her finger corkscrewing into me, up as far as she could reach and then some. It felt great. Then she withdrew it and looked at it.
“Clean as a whistle.”
“You mean the whistle. That’s what Solange says.”
“Clean as the whistle, then.”
Then she set up the box and attached the probe, which had been soaking in warm water. She put a sleeve or rubber on it and squeezed more KY onto it, even though I was pretty well lubricated as it was. Then she put it in me, slowly at first, working it around my entrance and making little pokes, pushing a bit further each time, then finally giving a harder shove and it plopped in, and the rest was smooth sailing as she worked it up all the way.
When she started the electricity and vibration I felt a delicious tickling sensation combined with the vibratory massage. It was lovely. I closed my eyes and gave myself over to pleasure. My cock was now hard as a rock. She hadn’t put a rubber on it and I didn’t know what was going to happen when I shot my wad, but I didn’t much care. It wasn’t my problem.
She began playing with me, raising and lowering the level of the surge, working the probe in and out, rubbing it against my prostate gland. I was in quite a state, but each time I neared my orgasm she would turn the dial down, and my juices would subside. She teased me like this for some time, and I was getting a bit frantic, straining at my bonds, even. Finally she decided to let me have my release, or else I just reached the point of no return and she couldn’t stop it. In any case I felt myself coming and I shut my eyes. I felt her working the probe with her right hand, then she grasped my cock with her left and just as I came, and I felt my hot spunk splattered on my chest and even my face as she drained me.
Later, when she had cleaned up the mess I’d made with a hot, wet towel, taken out the probe and wiped my bottom, she released me from my bonds and, turning me over, gave me a very nice, soothing massage, using some kind of fragrant oil. As her experienced fingers worked the oil into my shoulder muscles, then my back, then my buttocks, I purred with pleasure, and sort of dozed off.
Still later, as I was putting on a robe she gave me, I asked her about the long, black, snake with the funny-looking finger-like tip.
“That’s the sigmoidoscope,” she said.
“Oh, it arrived then,” I said.
“Yes. It arrived.”
“Have you tried it out yet?”
“No, not yet.
“When are you going to?”
“I was going to get one of the girls in my class to volunteer, but I didn’t want to deprive any of them of the experience of looking through it and manipulating it, so, that left you, my own guinea pig. You don’t mind, do you?”
“I don’t know. There’s going to be a bunch of girls watching?”
“They’re students, dear, serious, dedicated students. To them you are no more than a mannequin.”
“Besides, just think: you’ll be the first person in the whole United States to have had a sigmoidoscope up his behind!”
“I think maybe I’ll keep that to myself,” I said.
Just then the doorbell range and Auntie Clem jumped up and whisked me out, saying, as she handed me my clothes, “I’ll call you if I need you” I picked up my shoes and scrammed just as the next patient arrived, the little boy who had made such a fuss about having a needle stuck into his behind. He and his mom got a glimpse of my bare bottom as I ran across their line of vision. I wonder what they thought.
Back in my room, I hoped A.C. would call on me to hold down the boy for his shot but I guess she got the needle into his little bottom without my help. So, since my services weren’t needed, I put this diary in my pocket I got Hector and came out here, where I’ve been writing and watching the boys playing futbol.
One boy in particular caught my eye, a very good-looking boy of about twelve or thirteen. He was obviously the captain of his team, and the best player, and the most popular. The other boys were always calling to him. His name was Ricky, maybe, pronounced “Reekee”, accented on the second syllable. Not a very French sounding name. Probably a nickname.
I was watching him, thinking how unfair life was, how some kids seemed to have everything going for them, and others nothing, when suddenly he was down. I’m not sure what happened, but he was rolling around on the ground, in agony, and the other boys were crowding around him. Then an older boy came and parted the circle of onlookers and kneeling down began to roughly massage Ricky’s thigh. He rubbed and pounded and kneaded the boy’s flesh, and gradually the pain seemed to go away, because , he got up and walked around in circles, limping, then after a while said he was O.K. and resumed playing. He’d had a charley horse, I guess.
This happened about half an hour age, while I was madly writing away. Now the boys have gone, and I will never see them again. That gives me a strange and sad feeling. The world is such a big place, and I will only know a millionth of one per cent of it! But that scene I just saw, with the boy I had been watching suddenly writhing on the ground, and the older boy massaging his thigh, that is something no one but the other boys saw. That is mine, to keep. And writing about it means I will always have it.
Because of course this isn’t a diary I am going to show to others. This is just for me alone, and maybe if I look at it 50 years from now, if I’m still alive, I’ll remember sitting here in the Jardins du Luxembourg and watching that soccer game and feeling the things I am feeling now. But it’s getting late now, and I have to get back and face the preparations for tomorrow’s demonstration.
Yesterday, when I got back to the flat, Auntie C. informed me that certain preparations would be necessary for the next day’s procedure with the long black hose, namely that I would have to be cleaned out quite thoroughly. I said I suppose that means enemas, and she said, “Yes, but what kind and how many I'll leave up to Solange. I don’t want to get her hackles up again.”
i wasn’t exactly looking forward to Solange’s preparations, but in spite of my nervousness at having all those female eyes staring at my behind in a way I was looking forward to being Auntie Clem’s “guinea pig.” After all, we were making medical history!
An hour or so before my “supper” of clear broth I was turned over to the tender mercies of Solange, who had returned. She gave me the laxative, which was rather nasty, a bottle of citrate of something or other that was vaguely lemony but quite unpleasant to drink. It went to work quite fast: by nine p.m. I was staying close to the w.c., and by bedtime I was fairly well cleaned out, but Solange, never one to miss the opportunity, gave me an enema anyway. It was not a very strenuous one, and she had added some magic elixir to it that she said would help me sleep.
Even though I felt well drained, Solange, ever worried about my possibly staining her mistress’s sheets, insisted on diapering me. I think she enjoyed having a big boy like me lying naked with his legs up while she powdered and oiled him in his most intimate places.
As for me, embarrassing as it was, I felt my penis stiffen when she worked the oil around and then into my hole.
“That’s to prevent rash,” she said, working her finger in and out and smiling. If I hadn’t been milked so recently I might have had an accident.
When she had finished her little massage she pinned the diaper and drew on a pair of plastic pants. Then she kissed me on the forehead and wished me a good night, adding that I would be having “some enemas” in the morning.
Actually I slept quite well, though in the morning I was aware that I had indeed leaked into the diaper. Solange, when she came in to get me ready for my enemas, held up the soiled diaper and nodded knowingly, before raising my legs and wiping my bottom with it. Then she led me, naked as a jay, down the hall to madame’s bathroom, where a bath had already been drawn. I got in and lay back, luxuriating in the warmth that enveloped my body. Solange excused herself, saying she would be right back, but actually it was a full five minutes before she returned.
“Have you washed yourself?”
I had to admit that I hadn’t.
“Then stand up, and I will wash you.”
Obediently I rose from the warmth and stood while she washed me thoroughly, especially in my most intimate places, sliding her soapy hand between my buttocks and even my private parts, which she usually allowed me to do. I made no protest, as by this time Solange was so familiar with my body that it didn’t bother me. I just closed me eyes and enjoyed it.
The enemas were next, and they were given in the examination room, where the heavy duty equipment was. In a trice I was on the table, feet in stirrups, and Solange had lubed up the double inflatable nozzle and was stuffing the balloon into me. When both balloons were inflated and snug against my anus she started the flow. As I had had this used on me before I wasn’t alarmed, and found it not unpleasant, at first, but as I got fuller and fuller it started to become a bit difficult. I lay there, helpless, as she filled me. Apparently it was to be a large enema, two liters or more, and quite soapy. Soon my stomach was as tight as a drum and I was panting like a puppy to ease the cramping. I looked at Solanage pleadingly, but knew better than to complain. And just when I thought I could take no more she let me up.
This enema was followed by two big, cooler rinses, administered by means of a long colon tube which she snaked several feet up my bowel. I didn’t have to retain them long, though, and they were quite easy compared to the first one. I was then allowed to return to my room and rest, though she took the precaution of diapering me again in case I fell asleep. I was sure there was no way I was going to fall asleep with this event hanging over me, and I said so to Solange, but she just smiled as she covered me with a sheet and a light blanket and said madame would be in to see me in an hour or so. I must have dozed off because the next thing I knew Auntie Clem was seated on my bed stroking my hair.
“It’s nine o’clock,” she said. “The girls will be here in less than an hour.”
Her saying that made me nervous, and I said so. “Is it going to hurt?” I asked. I was afraid I might cry or something in front of the girls.
“It won’t be painful. I’m only going up the sigmoid colon, only about 60 centimeters.”
“What’s that in inches?”
“About two feet.”
“You won’t even feel it. Just some fullness.”
“Yes, dear, I’m going to inject some air into your bowel from time to time. It will make you feel full, like when you have an enema. But you’re used to that by now, I think. So there’s nothing to be nervous about.
“But having all those girls watch me!”
“There are only eight. And they won’t see much of you. Just your bottom. You’ll be wearing a gown.”
“Just my bottom! But that’s the most private part of me!”
“More private than what’s up front?”
“Well, I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t know you felt that way about your precious bottom.”
“It’s not just that, Auntie Clem. They’ll be looking at my face, and I’ll be looking at them, and that’s just too embarrassing!”
“Hmm. Well, how about if you were blindfolded? Then they couldn’t see your face, really, and you wouldn’t see them at all.” I thought about this for a second, and suddenly it seemed all right. I would be anonymous, and so would they.
“O.K.,” I said.
“Good boy,” she said, tweaking my nose and getting up to go. I rested there a while, considering my fate. I was glad Auntie C. had come up with the blindfold idea. I realized I was even more terrified by making eye contact with them than by having them see my bottom. If I were blindfolded I wasn’t me, I wasn’t even there, and neither were they. It was all a dream.
I heard the girls arriving, laughing and giggling the way girls do, and my fear returned a bit. Would they giggle when they saw my behind with that hose in it?
Then Solange came in with the blindfold and told me to sit up. It was like a big bandage, and when it was on me I couldn’t see a thing. It was tightly taped in back so it wouldn’t slip down the way all the blindfolds used to do when I was a little kid playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey at birthday parties. This was a serious blindfold, like for an execution, I thought, dismally.
I lay back while she took off my diaper and wiped my bottom. Then she had me stand up and stick my arms out.
“This is your gown,” she said. “In fastens in back.” I had had one like it before, when I had barium X-rays taken, so I knew what to expect. I felt her tie the strings in back, and felt the cool air on my uncovered bottom.
She had me sit on my bed while she put some slippers on my feet, then checked the blindfold again. We waited and waited. Finally Auntie C. peeked in and said she was ready for me. I felt like a condemned man being led to the firing squad as we walked down the hall, Solange leading me by my elbow, as one would a blind person. Into the examination room we went. There was a hushed silence as I was led to the table.
“This is a young friend of mine,” she said in French, “who has kindly consented to be our guinea pig for this demonstration of the new flexible sigmoidoscope. He has been blindfolded not because he is Cupid but because he fears that the sight of your lovely faces will prove too much for him.” (laughter) “Up until now this examination was done with a rigid metal rod affectionately known in the medical profession as the Steel Stallion. (more titters). Funny to the doctors, maybe, but it was no joke to the patient, as it meant straightening out a kink in the gut known as the sigmoid flexure, a process that caused considerable discomfort.
“This flexible tube, on the other hand, is painless. It can even navigate the sharp hairpin turn leading to the transverse colon, and so look all the way up the five feet of an adult colon with minimal discomfort, though a sedative will be given for a complete colonoscopy. Today, however, we are only going up as far as the transverse colon, not into it.” Then she said to me quietly, and in English, “Up on the table, dear, and we’ll have you on your left side, upper leg drawn up.”
This was a pleasant surprise, as I assumed would be put into the stirrups, a more humiliating position. I got onto the table and into position, and I felt someone, either Solange or Auntie C., fully uncover my bottom and adjust my upper leg so my bottom was sticking out and I half-way turned onto my stomach, my arms extended above my head. I was comfortable, except that my behind felt awfully exposed. And seconds later it was exposed to sixteen young female eyes, for Auntie C. asked them to come forward and form a circle. Then she continued her lecture, which I am transcribing as well as I can, sort of guessing here and there.
She explained how the scope had a light at the tip and that through the miracle of fiber optics the operator could look right up the tube and see the inside of the patient’s colon.
“Look, if you will, at the tip for a moment. Solange will operate it now and show you how it works. You see how the top few inches are flexible. This tip can, at the hands of the operator, look this way and that, searching for polyps or other irregularities. And if it finds one, the operator can run a little device up the tube that will snip a piece of the polyp off, to be later examined. This snipping is painless, as there are no nerves higher up the colon. Are there any questions so far.”
There were a few, but I can’t remember hat they were about, except for one girl, who asked how the patient had to be prepared for this procedure.
“For a sigmoidoscopy, only the lower half of the colon must be cleansed. For a colonoscopy the entire five feet of colon must be completely emptied, a rigorous procedure involving laxatives and enemas. Our patient here has undergone quite a good cleansing, starting last night with a laxative, and continuing this morning with several large-volume enemas, which he took very well.”
(Thanks a lot, Auntie Clem. One thing I really HATE is being told I took my enema very well! ) One of the students wanted to know why so many enemas were needed just to empty the sigmoid colon, and Auntie Clem referred the question to Solange, who gave a terse and not very friendly answer, the upshot of it being that it’s better to have the colon too clean than not clean enough. Since no one else had a question Auntie Clem said she would now start the demonstration.
“The KY please, Solange.” I heard her snap on a rubber glove, and felt her other hand on my upper cheek.
“First, a bit of lubrication,” she said, and I felt her familiar finger circle my anus, then poke right in and work the lubricant around.
Then she withdrew it and I felt the “finger” of the hose push against my opening, then slide easily in. She pushed some more and now the main part of the hose, which was thicker than the “finger”, was entering me. It felt big, but not uncomfortably so. It felt rather nice, in fact. I pushed back to let it go in more easily. I guess I gave a little moan or grunt because Auntie Clem leaned toward me and asked quietly if everything was all right, and I nodded O.K.
I felt her withdraw the hose a little way and then I felt the finger, poking around. It tickled in a very exciting way, and I got hard right away. Luckily she didn’t spend too much time poking around there, but resumed pushing the big hose up me.
“I’m going to pump a little air into you now and then, dear, to open up your bowel for the tube.” I nodded O.K. again, and she told the students in French what she had told me, only in more detail. I felt the air, and she was right, it was like being given an air enema. It wasn’t so bad at first, but as she worked the hose higher and higher she pushed in more and more air to ease its way, I began to feel full and crampy. It reminded me of the air enema they gave me after the barium one.
“I have now reached the top of the sigmoid colon, which is as far as we are going. Now you may come up, one by one, and have a look inside. We’ll go in alphabetic order. Miss Benoit?”
She told Miss Benoit to look at the small screen which was like “un tout petit TV.” Of course I couldn’t see it but it seemed to be right over my head. She told her how to manipulate the exploring “finger.” I couldn’t really feel the finger way up there, but apparently looking around my insides was rather like exploring a dark cave, because she kept saying things like “Mon Dieu!” and “Formidable, alors!”. I heard some giggling in the background. Solange hushed them.
I was groaning again and Auntie Clem again asked me if was O.K. and I said the air was making me uncomfortable. She said she was sorry but there was nothing she could do about it, but if I felt like farting to go ahead and fart! I thought it would be just to rude to fart in the faces of eight girl students, but soon I decided to do it anyway, and I managed to press out a small fart, which of course caused more giggling.
The next girl, Miss Bourgon, had a similar reaction to what she saw inside me, and exclaimed what fun it was to move the little “doigt” around in nooks and crannies.
This continued for some time. At one point I was able to expel a bit more air and felt better. Between each girl Auntie Clem would withdraw the hose a little bit, until when it got to the last few girls it was way down in my rectum, where I could feel it. And I do mean feel it. Wow! It felt great! I was groaning again, but when A.C. asked if I was O.K. I nodded yes. I had been counting, and when Miss Tournier took over the controls I knew there was just one more. Miss Tournier had a good look around, and after exploring my innards with that inquisitive finger I was feel quite randy.
I didn’t catch the name of the last girl, but I’m pretty sure it began with a “V.” Anyway, she went right to work, muttering little “oohs” and “aahs” as she poked the little finger here and there. It was quite a turn-on. Then she began fooling with the hose itself, pulling it back and pushing it up, moving the finger around at the same time. It was getting very hot, and although I was having a good time I realized that unless she stopped pretty soon I was going to have an “accident.”
I was sure she would stop soon, but she kept right on exploring my rectum, making little comments as she did so. I tried to hold myself back but it was no use, and when I finally said, “Auntie Clem, I think something’s going to happen” it was too late! She quickly told the girl to stop, but I had passed the point of no return, the water was rising over the top of the dam, nothing could stop what was happening to me, and to my mortification I felt myself spurting all over the inside of my little gown. It was terrible, but I was certainly glad I was blindfolded, and that my gown covered my penis. Still, it was obvious from their strangulated noises as they tried in vain to suppress their laughter that all but a few girls in the back knew exactly what had happened, and the rest soon would. I wanted to die.
Auntie Clem withdrew the hose from my bottom and ushered the girls out of the room, leaving Solange to clean me up, which she did, making little “tsk, tsk” noises, as if it were my fault.
“How could you? And in front of those innocent young girls! Don’t boys your age think of anything besides what’s in their pants? You ought to be ashamed of yourself. If you were my boy you would be getting your bottom nicely warmed right now. You should be ashamed of yourself!”
“But Solange! I couldn’t help it! She did it to me! And she knew what she was doing, too!”
“Nonsense! Don’t try to blame others for your wickedness, you filthy-minded boy!”
And on and on she ranted and raved. But at last I was wiped clean, fore and aft (there was a lot of KY around my anus), and I was allowed to go to the W.C., where I got rid of a lot of air. Then I went to my room and lay down. I was too upset and angry to sleep, so I just lay there fuming, now and then farting out more air.
After a while Auntie Clem came in and made everything all right. She knew it hadn’t been my fault, and apologized for not watching more carefully. She also suspected that last girl had deliberately tried to stimulate me. She said that Solange’s reactions had to do with her fear and hatred of men, and that I should not take it personally.
It did seem to me that A.C. was always defending women for mistreating me. First Mom, and now Solange. I said I liked Solange when she was in a good mood. She said Solange would be sorry for what she said to me. Then she asked me if I would like a back rub, so I flopped over and wriggled my bottom in anticipation.
She startled at my shoulders and worked her way down my back. Nor did she stop there, but she her hands stray down over my bottom. This was the part I liked best. I wanted it to go on forever, but after about ten minutes she gave my bottom a little pat and leaned down and kissed me.
“Get some rest,“ she said.
And I did.
After I woke up it was still only mid-day and I was hungry. Solange made me a nice omelet. Her mood had softened and she was very nice to me. She gave me a glass of white wine to drink with my pears and fromage bleu.
The afternoon lay ahead of me. It had turned quite hot, and Solange suggested I go for a swim.
“The piscine on the river.”
“But I don’t have a bathing suit.”
“You can rent a slip there.
“A small bathing costume. Very popular with French boys.”
She gave me some money and directions, though I remembered seeing the place before. I got there O.K. and got a slip from the attendant and a key with a number on it. I found my locker and changed, putting the key, which was tied to an elastic cord, around my ankle as I noticed others doing. The slip fit me rather tightly, and didn’t cover me much. I felt as if half my behind were on public view.
I soon attracted the attention of several men, whom I gathered frequented this place for the purpose of picking up boys. I discouraged their advances, and did a lot of swimming. Most of them saw I was not interested, but one man was more persistent. He was tall and lean, with a deep tan. He probably came there every day. I did nothing to encourage him in the least, yet he kept after me.
When I decided it was time to go I went in and took off my slip and got under a shower. Hardly had I turned on the water when the man came in and took the shower next mine. I turned my back to him, whereupon his hand “accidentally” grazed my bottom. I wheeled around, but he pretended I wasn’t there and soaped his cock, which was long and thin. As he soaped it it got longer and longer. It was unusually long, and he caught me looking at it and smiled. I turned away.
Having just had two feet of thick black hose with a curious four-inch “finger” at the tip up my derriere I found myself wondering what it would feel like to have that thing stuck inside me. The thought made me start to get hard so I quickly rinsed off and went to dress. When I got out on the street again I looked around but he was nowhere in sight. I guess he went looking for other targets. I walked back, thinking what I would have done if he had followed me out of the piscine.
Now I’m back, writing in this and thinking about myself and how confused I am. Am I queer? I like girls, and am really looking forward to seeing Francine tomorrow. But at the same time I like to look at boys. And the idea of getting fucked by a man sort of excites me. Other boys I know hate having anything stuck up their rear ends. Because I like the feeling, does that make me queer? It’s all very confusing.
I’m going to stop now and get ready to go out to dinner with Auntie Clem and “Bunny.”
Late Friday night (early Saturday morning, actually):
I’m lying here in bed wide awake because Solange came in a few minutes ago to check my diaper, or so she said. I woke up to find her hand inside it, on my penis! You don’t have to do that to find out if a diaper’s wet! Well, that got me thinking about Solange, and her changing moods, but since I’m wide awake I’ll bring this diary up to date.
Last night (Thursday) we (A.C., “Bunny” and I) went to the opera! It was “Der Rosenkavalier” by Richard Strauss and it was sung in German by a German opera company. It was about this woman called the Marchallin who is having an affair with a boy named Octavian who was “about your age” (Auntie C.) but who knows she’s going to lose him to a young girl named Sophie, who is supposed to marry this crude fat Baron even though she doesn’t love him. But it all turns out well in the end for Sophie and Octavian, but the woman feels sad at losing the boy, who in the opera is played by a woman! I asked Auntie C. why they didn’t have a man play the boy and she said it’s because Strauss liked the sound of two female voices singing together. As good a reason as any, I guess.
After the Opera we went to a restaurant called La Coupole, because we only had a snack before the opera. La Coupole is famous for oysters and other seafood so we had a huge plate of oysters, which I ate a few of, finding them strange but maybe good. “”Bunny” ate most of them.
After the oysters we had lobsters, and “Bunny” of course had to say that they were “just the color of a boy’s well-spanked behind.” She was fun, but she did have sort of a one-track mind.
I told Auntie Clem when we got home that I had made a date with Francine in the morning but that I was worried about Solange finding out and getting really mad at me, and she said not to worry, that as long as it wasn’t happening on her watch nothing would happen. I thanked her and said good night, but later, as I was undressing, she came in my room and handed me something, saying, “Here, take this, I think it might stay on.” I knew of course what it was and, blushing, put it in my pants pocket and thanked her. Then I went to bed. I didn’t “do it” because I wanted to save it for Francine. Anyway, it was late, so I went right to sleep.
Francine had told me to meet her at her apartment at 10:30 so I asked Auntie C. at breakfast if I could take a bath and she said yes, then kissed me good-bye as she was off to her clinic. I ran the bath and got in and soaped myself all over and was soaking when Solange came in and sat on the closed toilet seat.
She asked me if I had a bowel movement yet today and I said no, and she said perhaps a small enema would help get things moving again. I said I didn’t think there was anything to get moving but she had already decided an enema was in order, and so that’s what I got.
It was a small one, as promised, and she gave it to me while I was still in the tub, using a bulb syringe which she filled with bath water.
She had me pull back my legs and she reached down under the water and found my hole and stuck it right in. She gave me three bulbsful that way. It was my first underwater enema! It was quite sexy, and I decided to try it again sometime when I got home.
After a minute or two I got out and Solange quickly dried me and then lifted the toilet seat cover and I sat down. Out came clear water but nothing else, so the enema hadn’t been necessary.
I left in plenty of time. In fact I got there early, so I walked around the block a few times before pushing the bell on 4C. I noticed the names---Sagan/Villers---and wondered vaguely which one was Francine. The concierge saw me come in and started giving me a hard time but I just said I was expected by Mademoiselle Francine and walked boldly up the stairs.
“You are very punctual, Michael,” said Francine as she let me in. She was wearing a robe. She made me leave my shoes in the hall, then led me into her bedroom. It was darkened, with only a candle for light. We came together and kissed.
“I missed you,” I said. “I haven’t seen you since Sunday.’
“Ah, but I have seen you,” she said, unbuttoning my shirt.
“You have? Where? Why didn’t you say hello?”
“ Under the circumstances it would have been inappropriate,” she said, unbuckling my belt, “and rather embarrassing, for you.
Besides, you couldn’t have seen me.”
“Oh. You were invisible, then?”
“Only to you,” she said as my pants fell to my ankles. I didn’t have a clue as to what she was talking about, so I just stood there and let her finish undressing me. I stepped out of my pants and briefs and put them on a chair. She opened her robe. She was naked underneath. We embraced, and I felt the warmth of her body against mine, and her hands straying down my back and over my behind. I ran my hands down her back and over her broad buttocks.
“Close your eyes,” she said. I did, and heard her reach into her pocket. Next I felt her putting something on my face, like a mask.
“Now open.” I did. “Now what do you see?”
“Precisely. But I see you. Now do you understand?”
I don’t know how i could have been so thick, but I still didn’t catch on. She led me over to where I had seen a chaise longue, and, sitting down, pulled me across her lap. I felt her hand on my bottom.
“Would you like a nice little spanking to warm you up?”
The fact is I did, but I didn’t want to come right out and say it.
“Do I have a choice?”
“No. You’ve been a naughty boy, I think. And that’s what happens to naughty boys, is it not?”
“Lift up,” she said. I did, and she opened her robe, so I was lying across her naked thighs. It felt nice. I was already hard. Then she began to spank me. Soft taps, first on one cheek, then the other, now high, now low, keeping me guessing.
“Beginning to feel warm?”
“A little.” She resumed spanking, rubbing my bottom between spanks. It was very nice. I squirmed on her lap. I felt my hard cock rub against her warm thigh. She rubbed my behind.
“Some boys like having their bottoms spanked. It makes their pipis get stiff. “
I make little purring noises. I liked not being able to see. It made me able to revert to my childhood, to feel safe, over Mommy’s knee.
“I know something else some boys like,” she said, taking her hand off my bottom. She was doing something, but of course I couldn’t see what.
“They like something in their bottoms.”
I felt my buttocks being parted, and a finger inserted. It was like a small electric shock to my system. I lay there limp as a rag and let her goose me. She found my magic button and stroked it.
“That feels nice, doesn’t it?”
“Maybe you’d like something larger in your behind?”
“I thought so.”
She withdrew her finger, and next I felt something blunt pressed against my hole.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Hush! Just relax.” I did, and even arched my bottom up a little to help whatever it was go in. It was quite thick, and rigid, but I felt my anal lips opening, and soon it was inside me.
“Feel good?” she asked, corkscrewing it up further.
“You see? I told you you would like it. I know what my American boy likes. He likes something in his bottom.”
“How did you know that?”
“You really don’t remember? You haven’t figured it out yet? You would not make a very good detective.”
“What is that thing in my behind?”
“This?” She gave it a poke that sent a message right to my groin. “It’s un bougie, a candle.” She worked it in and out.
“Have you ever had the real thing in your behind?”
“The real thing?”
“A penis. Have you ever been fucked by another boy?”
“Perhaps you should try it. You might like it.” All the time she was gently fucking me with the candle. I was getting very close to coming. It was like---and then it finally dawned on me. Of course! The blindfold! The little finger! I tore off the mask and turned to face her.
“You! You were the one! The last one! With a name beginning with “V”! It was you who made me come, and embarrass me in front of all those---”
“But that’s just it! You couldn’t be embarrassed if you couldn’t see them, right?
“It was bad enough!” I was really angry.
“I’m sorry I embarrassed you, Michel, I really am. I did not think you would actually shoot. I didn’t know you were so sensitive back there. I was just having some fun with you and---”
“Yes, fun at my expense! Working me over in front of all those girls!”
“Oh, please don’t be angry with me, Michel. I am sorry! Come here, mon petit.”
“Don’t call me Michel!” I shouted. “It sounds like a girl’s name!”
“You silly boy, it’s just French for Michael.”
“But it’s a girl’s name too! I've heard that song the Beatles sing.”
“Yes, ‘Michelle, ma belle...’ But it’s spelled differently, with two “l’s” and an “e.”
“But it sounds the same!”
“Why are you so silly? Is it because you are afraid you are part girl, perhaps?”
This was so close to the truth that I just started to cry.
“There, there,” she said. Then she pulled me to her, so I was nestled in her bosom. She stroked my hair. The candle was still in me, but was slipping out. She cuddled me and kissed me and stroked my hair. She reached behind me and started working the candle in and out. She guided my mouth to her left breast, and I took it in my mouth like a baby. She rocked me back and forth, working the candle in and out of my behind.
“That’s it, mon bébé, suck on your maman’s téton.”
She pressed me to her, so my cock was on her belly. It was exciting having her tit in my mouth, and what with that plus the candle up my bottom and me rubbing my cock against her smooth stomach pretty soon I knew I was going to come, and then I did, and I slid my cock back and forth on my slimy juices. She held me tight until I had spent, then she gently withdrew the candle from my behind and wiped me off, then the candle.
“Very clean. Your nanny gave you un lavage this morning, perhaps?”
“She’s not my nanny.”
“No? What is she, then?”
“She’s my aunt’s companion and helper.”
“Then why are you so afraid of her?”
“I’m not afraid of her!”
“Yes, you are. She takes your temperature in your behind, doesn’t she?”
“And who gave you all those enemas to prepare you for yesterday’s demonstration? Your aunt?”
“And what else does she do? Does she bathe you? Does she dress you and undress you? Does she spank your bottom when you are naughty? Why are you blushing? Because I am near to the truth?” How could she have guessed all these things? At least she didn’t seem to know about the diapers.
“She used to take care of kids at an orphanage. I guess I remind her of those days. She’s only trying to help my aunt, who is very busy.”
“So she’s your nanny while you’re here, then, and you are her little orphan boy But you haven’t answered my question. Did she give you an enema?”
“No,” I lied, and then added, for some reason that I can’t explain, “but she gave me a suppository.”
“Un suppositoire? She likes sticking her finger up your bum, no? “
“I don’t know.”
“But you like it. It feels nice, no?”
“You should not be embarrassed to say so. Many French men like a finger in their bottoms when they are focking. It adds to their pleasure. You like things in our bottom. Like thermometers, and enema nozzles, and fingers. And bigger things, too: candles, for example, or long tubes with tips that move in all directions. Yet you have never experienced the real thing. Why not?”
“I don’t know! Oh, Francine, I’m so confused! I don’t know what I want!”
And I told her about the man with the long cock at the piscine . I admitted to her that I had wondered what it would feel like having that cock in my behind.
“And what’s wrong with that? Wondering never harmed anyone!”
“Yes, but what if I had gone with him? Am I a queer?””
“It is too soon to say what you are. You are still a boy. All one can say at this time is that you are anally erotic, that’s all. Many men are. Women too. They like to be focked in their cul. You should not try to suppress your feelings. There are many ways to have sex, and you should try them all once.”
“Well, maybe I should have gone with that man at the Signe de Piste. Or the one at the piscine on the river.”
“No. Do it with someone you like. A friend. For the experience. It will make you a better lover of women. And now, if you are rested, let’s fock.”
So we did.
Well, we tried to, anyway. I got the rubber on O.K. and it fit better than the other one but was still a little loose even though I had a pretty good hard-on. And I got into her O.K., too. It’s just that after a while instead of getting harder I got softer. I don’t know why, it just happened, and there was nothing I could do about it. It embarrassed me, of course, and that just made it worse. I tried and tried, but the harder I tried the softer it got. Finally it was just limp, and I had to take it out.
Francine was very nice about it, saying that it happened to all men now and then, that women had it easier because all they had to do was lie there, that maybe I was nervous, or trying too hard, or just not in the mood, specially since I had come not long before. So we just lay there, she on her back and me on my tummy, she mussing my hair. Now and then we kissed. It was very peaceful until----suddenly there came a noise from the hall. Someone was coming!
“Merde!” said Francine, sitting up. “It’s Odette. What’s she doing back now? I told her I had a date.” Then to Odette: “Don’t come in!”
But it was too late. She was already in the room, a tall, boyish girl with short hair, dressed in a white shirt and black pants. There followed a moment of pandemonium, with Francine saying “I told you I was having ---” and Odette saying “I’m sorry, I forgot!” I was trying to cover myself and not finding anything to do it with. It was like a scene from a comic opera or something, and as if this idea hit all three of us at the same time we suddenly all began laughing! Odette sat down on the bed. I turned over onto my side, facing her. She took my face in her hands and said, in French, “What a pretty boy! Is this your little American friend? “
“Yes,” said Francine, also in French “but take guard, he speaks some French, and understands more than he let’s on, I think.” Odette nodded, and said something I didn’t catch. Francine laughed and replied, nodding towards me.
“Do you mind if I join you?” she asked me. I said I didn’t mind, because at this point what did it matter? Then Francine said, “But if you want to stay here you must first undress, of course.”
So she did, leaving her clothes on a chair near mine. She was less full-bodied than Francine, She had small, firm breasts and narrow hips. She lay down on the bed with me in the middle, facing her, my bottom pressed against Francine’s crotch, my penis, still soft and encased in the rubber, against Odette’s.
“Why are you wearing that thing?” she asked. “You cannot make anyone pregnant in the state you are in. Shall I take it off?”
Before I could answer she reached down and rolled it up from the base.
“There. Now we are all completely naked.” And she reached over to Francine and pulled us tightly together.
“Un sandwich au garcon,” she said. She pronounced it “sanweetch”.
We lay like that for a long time, with the two girls carrying on in an incomprehensible (to me) argot. I had a feeling Francine was telling her about my failure with her because Odette kept asking questions and now and then glancing at me. I was hoping she wasn’t asking Francine if she could try it with me because we did it and I was successful that would be a slap in the face to Francine. As it turned out, though, she had something else in mind.
Being the “filling” of a “sandwich” made me hard, and Odette’s rubbing against me of course intensified this. Feeling it against her belly, she reached down and took hold of it.
“Not bad for a boy your age,” she said. I wondered if she knew how old I really was. “Turn over and let me see your other side.
Francine says you have a nice derriere.”
“Go on, Michael, show her your behind,” said Francine, so I turned over for her.
“Ooh, la la!” she exclaimed. “C’est magnifique, alors!”
She explored it at length with her fingers, saying that with my long eyelashes and pretty bottom I should have been a girl.
“It is a pity to waste such charms on a boy, who will lose them when he becomes a man. I must preserve your beauty on film!.” And so saying, she got up and disappeared, only to return with a Hasselblad camera.
“You don’t mind posing nude for me, do you?”
I didn’t, because in two days I would be back in the States and so what difference would it make? Besides, I was vain enough to be flattered. So I got up too. First she sat me on a stool and took some portraits and some head-and-shoulders shots, talking to me all the time she was shooting.
“Oh, that’s lovely, now just open your lips a little, and look sideways at me. Perfect! Now, with your tongue out a little. Mmm. Very sexy.”
Then she backed up and took some full-body shots from all angles, still with me on the stool.
Next she had me stand and posed me in different ways, again taking pictures from all angles so that I could be seen like a statue, she said. Then she put me on the bed (Francine had to get up) and took many more, of me on my side, with a sheet partly covering my genitals, and then with my bottom toward the camera, and then on my back, with the sheet again, and on my tummy, one leg raised, my chin in my arms.
“Very cute!” she said of that one. She ran her fingers down my spine and over my bottom. “Such lovely curves.” Then she told me to take a break, and Francine came and lay down with me on the bed.
“Did you like that, showing off your charms?”
“Has anyone photographed you naked before?”
“Not since I was a toddler.”
“What means toddler?” she asked, stroking my hair. “Little boy?”
“Yes, just learning to walk.”
“What a pity no one has photographed you since then. You will lose your boyish beauty before long, you know. You will get all hairy.” I was playing with her breasts, but she seemed sleepy and detached.
Odette came back with her arms full of clothes, which she dumped on the bed. I sifted through them. They were all girls’ clothes: panties, a bra, a little garment of some kind with straps dangling down, a wig, a made-up kit, necklaces, earrings, bracelets, ribbons, bows, and other little gewgaws. I was sort of excited.
“Have you ever dressed up as a girl?” she asked.
“Only in a school play. I was Rosalind in ‘As You Like It.’”
“Ah! A boy playing a girl playing a boy! Female roles were played by boys in Shakespeare’s time, you know. And I’ve read that they sometimes continued in those roles offstage, if you know what I mean.”
“Androgyny has always fascinated me,” she said, stroking my thigh. “ In my work I like to dress girls as boys and girls as boys Sit up, please.” She took a double-strand pearl necklace and put it on me. Next, two pendant earrings. She ran her hands over my nipples, making them hard.
“Would you like me to make you into a girl now?” Again without waiting for an answer she stood me in front of her and took a little chamoix pouch with with a string on the tip and on the sides, and saying “First we must hide your boy’s thing as much as we can” she put my cock into the pouch she pulled it down between my legs and ran a string up the crack of my ass and fastened it to the two side strings that were around my waist. I was now very flat in front. Francine watched with amusement.
After taking a few down more pictures, she had me put on a garter belt, and then some very thin, white tights, so sheer the pink of my legs showed through. She snapped them to the garter belt and took more pictures, both front and back, standing, sitting with legs folded, kneeling with bottom out and so on. As I said, I was totally bare in back, save for the little string that ran between my buttocks.
Next she dressed me as a schoolgirl. Off came the stockings and garter belt, on went some frilly panties, a white blouse, and a short plaid skirt. The final touch was brown and white saddle shoes and white stockings. Finally, a wig, giving me a page-boy hairdo. After a dozen or so pictures, showing lots of leg and thigh and frilly panties, she took off my wig and repeated the shots, “because I want you to look like a boy in girls’ clothing. I want the viewer to know that you are a boy dressed as a girl as a punishment.” And in case anyone missed the point, she hung a sign around my neck that said, in crude lettering, “Je suis un méchant garcon”, or “I am a naughty boy.”
This outfit seemed to please her very much, because she took several rolls of film, many of them with me siting hugging my knees so that my panties showed. When at last she taken enough pictures she sat me on her lap and kissed me, running her hand up under my skirt and feeling me there.
Francine announced that she was starving and left to get some lunch. Odette seemed content to keep me on her lap, and I was quite content to be there.
“Francine tells me you like things up your ass,” she said, using the crude word ‘cul.’ Is that so?”
“Well, yes, sometimes,” I said, not wanting to sound too eager.
“You have been focked up the ass, no?”
“No. I haven’t.”
“Bon dieu! And why not? A pretty behind like yours, I would think all the boys would be after it.”
“Well, you know in the Unites States it is not considered a good thing to be queer.”
“Nor in France either. But still....Tell me, have you not ever wondered what it would feel like?”
“Well, yes. I have.”
“And has not your curiosity led you to...ah, seek out a partner?”
“Well, no. You see, I’m not queer. At least I don’t think I am. I like girls. I don’t like men much.”
“You feel more comfortable with girls than with men?”
“Yes, and also with some boys. But not men.”
“Well, you and I have something in common, then,” said, stroking my leg. “Because you see I don’t like men either. I too like girls, and sometimes boys, because they are soft, like girls But men? Never!”
I didn’t need to have it spelled out for me. By her own admission Odette was a Lesbian, which meant that Francine probably was, too. And where did that leave me? I was pondering this when Francine called us to lunch. As we were going in to the kitchen Odette took my head and whispered in my ear”
“And after lunch, I fock you.”
I chuckled, thinking it was just a joke.
We were a motley crew: Francine had thrown a bathrobe around her. Odette was wearing her pants but was naked to the waist. I was naked save for my little pouch, one earring, and a couple of bracelets that jingled when I moved my arm. We sat at a small table, me between the two girls. Odette sometimes reached under the table and pinched me in various places, calling me her “slave boy.”
Francine had made something she called “Croque Monsieur” which was sort of a glorified ham and cheese open faced sandwich, and with it she served beer. She also served a green salad. I drank two bottles of beer and felt a little woozy. In fact after lunch I felt quite sleepy and asked if I could lie down for a while. Francine gestured towards the bed, and I curled up and soon was asleep.
I don’t think I’d been asleep for more than ten minutes when I was awakened by someone fooling around with my behind. I was still in the fetal position, and someone was thumbing apart my cheeks with one hand and circling my rosebud with a finger of the other. I started to turn onto my back just as the finger poked right into my bottom. My chamoix pouch had been removed.
“Hush, sweetheart,” said Odette, ‘it’s only me. There. All done.” And she withdrew her finger, but I knew she had put something in me.
“What were you doing?”
“Just a little preparation. To make it easier for you.”
“Make what easier?”
She brushed back my hair with her hand and smiled down at me. She was wearing a what looked like a little nightie, and had shed her pants.
“I am going to fock you.”
“You are going to play the girl, and I the boy.”
“Do you know what a godemiche is?”
“A what? No. Oh, my God!”
For she had lifted up her nightie, and there, in her crotch, was a large, leather penis, complete with large leather balls.
“Wait a minute!” I said. “That things too big! It’s meant for a, for a---”
“I know what it’s meant for, but it is no bigger than the average man’s.”
“It’s too big!”
“This is the small one. You should see the big one.”
“ It’s not too big, mon cher, if you want it, and if you are relaxed. I know you do want it, and I also know you will be relaxed, because of the little suppositoire I just gave you. which is right now melting inside you.” Once again I marveled at the French love for suppositories---they seemed to have one for every occasion.
“She had some errands to do. She’ll be back in an hour or so. Meanwhile, there is no one here but you and me. Now, what do you say? Shall we do it?” And she gave me a little kiss. “You know you want it.”
She was right, of course, I did want it, even if it hurt, because I knew that if I chickened out I would always wonder what it would have been like.
“Can I feel it?”
The leather was soft and smooth, and the shaft was somewhat flexible. It felt not “unfriendly,” though certainly thicker than anything I had had in my bottom up until then.
“O.K.” I said.
“Turn onto your back and raise your legs, then, and I will loosen you up a little. Just relax.”
I closed my eyes. I felt her hand spreading my cheeks, then a finger entering me. It worked my hole, stretching it every way. Then the finger withdrew and two fingers entered me. Now hey really went to work stretching and dilating. It went on for some time. It felt nice.
She took her time, waiting, I suppose, for the suppository to melt and do its job.
Finally, she withdrew her fingers, and I felt her move between my legs. She pushed my feet up and rested them on her shoulders. She moved in closer, and I felt the blunt tip of the thing against my rosebud.
“All right? Here we go, then. I will try to be be gentle, but there may be some pain at first.”
There was. It was more a dull ache than a sharp pain as the thick head pressed against my anal lips. I thought it would never go in. But she persisted, pushing against my back door and withdrawing, pushing just a little harder each time. At one point I felt my lips opening, but then it hurt, and I sucked air.
Then there came a time when she pushed and kept it there, and as if by some miracle my rosebud slowly relaxed and opened up, and the big head entered me.
“Good boy,” she said, patting my flank. She rested for a while, to let me get used to having that big thing inside me, then she slowly pushed it further and further up my bottom.
“How are you doing?”
“O.K.” But just then she hit a curve and it hurt. I gave a little gasp. Soon, though, the thick head advanced and the pain was over. I felt the balls press against my anus, and knew the giant leather prick was entirely inside me. It was a great feeling.
“Now I am going to fock you,” she said. “I will start slowly, but with increasing tempo. When you feel your own climax approaching, raise your little finger.”
She seemed convinced I would have a “climax,” but I wasn’t so sure. It did feel nice to have that large leather cock slide in and out. Her strokes were long and slow at first. Sometimes she would withdraw almost completely, then thrust in all they way. Her tits were up by my face, almost, and her body was hot. I was really beginning to feel it now.
Gradually she upped the tempo, and soon was fucking me pretty hard. I knew then that I was going to come, and when I felt my juices rise I quickly raised my little finger. I put my arms around her and pulled her down hard with every downward thrust, trying to get that big shaft ever deeper inside me as she fucked me furiously. Just as I tightened for my orgasm I felt something hot inside me, and realized she had squeezed the two big balls, making some slippery creamy stuff into me. I came all over my stomach, and held her tight as spasm after spasm coursed through me, and with every spasm my sphincter closed around the shaft of the big dildo.
When I was finished I lay there sweaty and exhausted . Slowly, she withdrew the leather prick, leaving me feeling curiously empty and my asshole wide open. She must have sensed this, for she thrust it back in all the way as the last few drops dribbled off the head of my spent penis, and this time of course it went in easily. I liked the full feeling it gave me having that leather dong inside me. I decided I would have to try “the real thing” sometime. For now, though, this was enough. and it was nice having a pretty girl on top of me instead of some hairy man.
Later we showered, and she soaped me all over, and I returned the favor. I asked her what had been in the balls and she said warm yogurt.
“Your intestine will absorb most of it, but some may dip out of you.”
I sat on the toilet and got rid of a little, but most of it was absorbed, as she had predicted. We got dressed, sort of, and chatted, sitting together on the sofa.
“Tell me something, Odette,” I said, with a mischievous smile, “did you really forget that Francine and I had a date?”
“Of course not! She had told me about you and about your beautiful face and your beautiful behind and so I just had to meet you. And of course as soon as I saw your behind I wanted to fuck it. “
It occurred to me then that maybe the whole thing was a plot, that Francine knew Odette was going to interrupt us and that her surprise was all an act. I decided against asking Odette, though, as I was sure she would protect her lover. I was beginning to learn a little bit about the fair sex.
Francine came back with her arms full of groceries, among them some fresh wild strawberries (fraises des bois) and creme fraiche, like whipped cream only better.
“Now we will have dessert,” she announced, opening a bottle of white wine. She spread the goodies on a low table, and we ate like Romans, half-naked, half lying down, dipping the tiny strawberries into the creme fraiche and plopping them into our mouths, or sometimes into each other’s mouths, and washing them down with a cold Mersault. All quite decadent, and very soon to become even more so.
I don’t remember exactly how it happened, but soon we were all three naked and sort of on top of each other, licking and kissing. I remember going between Francine’s legs and licking her pussy while Odette licked my hole. Then I was licking Odette and Francine had my cock in her mouth. This went on for some time, with pauses only for more wine. I don’t think anyone orgasmed, and after a while we all got sleepy and feel into a heap together and passed out.
When I woke up it was late---still light, but definitely evening---and I knew I was being missed at home, so I dressed hurriedly and woke up Francine and said I had to go. We kissed, and both of us cried a little. We exchanged addresses, and promised to write. Then I left. I cried all the way home because I knew I would never see her again and because I had not wanted it to end that way. I was beginning to find out that things never do end the way you expect them to.
I was met by Solange.
It seems Auntie Clem was working late at the clinic. Just my luck! I knew I was in for it. I remembered what Auntie C. had said, that nothing would happen if it was “on my watch.” Well, right now it was on Solange’s watch. She took one look at me, seized me roughly, smelled my breath, noted my disheveled clothing, pronounced me a drunkard and a wastrel, dragged me into the bathroom and tore off my clothes as the tub was filling, smacking me around in the process and calling me all sorts of names.
When I was naked she smacked my bottom every chance she got but didn’t give me a formal, over-the-knee spanking this time. Nevertheless by the time I touched the hot water with my bottom it was pretty sore, so that I jumped up, and had to be pushed back down into the steaming water.
She scrubbed me from top to toe, sparing me no indignity. She pulled back my foreskin and sniffed before washing it roughly. She turned me around, parted the cheeks of my behind and sniffed there, too.
“Someone’s been poking something in here, haven’t they?”
I didn’t answer.
“Haven’t they!” she shouted, smacking my behind.
“Nobody has been in my behind,” I said, truthfully.
“I don’t believe you,” she said, poking a soapy finger right up my hole and twisting it around.
“You’re hurting me!” I protested, but she kept right on doing it. Finally she took her finger out and giving me a vicious smack on my sore behind told me to get out of the tub.
I was toweled roughly, then made to sit naked on the closed toilet seat while she prepared my enema.
Like a witch concocting her brew, she filled the can with hot water, then put in a dash of this, a sprinkling of that, and a few drops of some elixir or other, stirring the cauldron with a wooden spoon. Then she fished around in the drawer where she kept the nozzles until she found just the right one---a long, curved thing with a fat knob at the tip and an even fatter swelling in the middle, as if it were a snake that had eaten a mouse. She held it close to my nose while she coated it lovingly with some sort of strong-smelling ointment, smiling down at m as if to say, “You know where this is going, don’t you, little boy.” I looked back, thinking, “I’ve had bigger things than that up my bum today.”
Next it was on my knees and bent over the tub, my bottom sticking out submissively to receive the nozzle. It felt nice at first when she pushed it in, but then it started to burn, and I knew she had used something like Vicks Vaporub to anoint the nozzle. Then came the thickest part, and it stretched the lips of my anus wide open before slipping in. She worked it all the way in until the flange was against my anus and the nozzle was lodged inside me like a plug. Then I heard the click as she started the flow.
I soon realized that this was going to be quite a nasty enema, containing caustic cleansers of some kind, maybe the French equivalent of Ajax or Comet. It was really uncomfortable, made even more so perhaps because of the workout Odette had given me with her godemiche. Soon I was groaning and gasping, but I knew better than to complain or ask for a rest. So I gritted my teeth and took it all, feeling it burn and churn inside me. She reached under me and massaged my stomach, adding to my discomfort. Then, leaving the nozzle in me, she set the timer for fifteen minutes and left me in agony, slamming the door behind her.
I’ve had lots of experience holding in enemas during my short life, but this was one of the worst of them. I thought of fiddling with the timer, but knew that wouldn’t work. I even considered getting up and sitting on the toilet, but I knew the consequences of doing that would be terrible. So I endured it, knowing that eventually in would end.” And, after an eternity of kneeling there with my bottom out, that nozzle still lodged inside me, the enema mixture churning my insides, burning and causing cramping, it went “ding.”
Solange, who was probably lurking outside the door, maybe even watching me through the keyhole, came in and unceremoniously pulled the nozzle out of me and helped me onto the toilet. I wasted no time in letting fly while Solange cleaned and put away the enema equipment. I was pretty clean inside so the solution came shooting out, and soon I was drained dry. When I was sure there was no more I asked Solange if I could get up now. She nodded yes, and when I stood she made me bend over so she could wipe me. Then she sent me down the hall with a smack to my sore behind.
Laid out on my bed was a fresh cloth diaper. Solange followed with the powder and ointment. I lay down and put my feet up. Her long finger anointed my anal area and poked inside. She was rough with me, but there were overtones of pleasure. She powdered my pipi and my oeufs, then pulled the cloth up over my crotch and pinned it. Exhausted, I fell asleep. I woke up sometime later, aware of a hand feeling inside my diaper. As I opened my eyes the hand was quickly withdrawn. It was Solange, of course, and she was sitting on my bed.
“I was just checking to see if you were dry.”
Yeah. Sure. You don’t check a diaper by putting your hand inside it. She had been playing with my cock. But I didn’t care, so I just smiled at her. She leaned down and kissed me on the forehead and mussed my hair.
“You are such a bad boy,” she said, “you make it hard for me to love you.” I was going to say something but she got up quickly and left.
I lay here thinking about her for a while. She certainly is a person of moods, angry and harsh one minute, sweet and loving the next. I wonder what sort of relationship she and Auntie Clem have. Solange was the young orphan girl Auntie Clem had taken in, so it’s obvious that she is the passive partner. But she has her other side, too, the orphanage nurse working over tender bottoms with nozzle and hairbrush. I’ve seen both sides tonight.
Tomorrow---or I should say today, since it’s now 2.a.m.!---- is my last full day in Paris. Then it will all be over, and I will be back home with Mom. How different it has been here! I have had lots of good times and some not-so-good times, but no dull times. It has all been new and different. I am a different boy!
I’m going to try to get some sleep now, because later today we are going on a picnic up the Seine, me and Auntie Clem and “Bunny.”
Solange has the week-end off, so I won’t see her again except to say goodbye at breakfast time. I guess that’s why she came in to “check my diaper” earlier tonight. Maybe that was her way of saying goodbye. I wonder if she did that to the kids in the orphanage.
Tonight I will be here alone with Auntie Clem. And Hector, of course.
In the airport:
Well, my Paris experience is over. Almost, anyway. I’m still on French soil, so I guess anything could happen. I could get kidnapped by terrorists, or raped in the men’s room. I have about an hour before boarding time, so I will try to bring this up to date.
Solange woke me up at 8 a.m. yesterday morning (Sunday) by opening the blinds to let in the daylight. Then she sat down on my bed and ran her fingers through my hair. She was wearing her robe. I could see part of her breasts.
“What fine hair,” she said. “Like a young child’s. I wonder, will it stay that way, or will it get coarse.” I didn’t reply, since of course neither of us knew the answer.
She pulled back the covers and unfastened my diaper. She opened it and looked down at my half-erect cock and smiled. “Boys.”
She gave it a playful flick with her finger. She tickled my balls. She was deliberately arousing me. Then she stopped.
I did, and she removed the diaper.
Again I obeyed. She pushed back my legs with her left arm and wiped my bottom with a worm cloth. However, there was nothing to wipe. She let my legs down.
“On your side, facing me,” she said, donning a rubber glove and squeezing some KY onto it. “Legs curled up, please. I’m going to give you one last milking. Here’s a towel.” I closed my eyes. I felt the bed sag as she sat down. down, then her hand on my hip.
I felt her part my cheeks and then I felt her finger against my pucker, swirling around before poking in. Up it went, until it found my hard little button. She began stroking it in a downward motion. I closed my eyes.
She fucked me slowly with her finger, prolonging my pleasure, and perhaps hers too, for I think she loved turning me on like this. It wasn’t just a power thing; she genuinely liked giving me pleasure, when she was in the right mood. At the same time, there was a sadness about it all, because it was the last time, and because maybe she wished we were doing something else.
With each stroke I felt the juices being pushed into my urethra. Soon some sticky stuff was forming on the head of my cock. Now she was finger-fucking me harder, poking her finger in and out, getting faster and faster, like Ravel’s “Bolero,”, until with a cry I exploded, my come pumping into the little towel. She kept at it, milking me dry, making sure all that stuff was out of me. Then, reluctantly, it seemed to me, she withdrew her finger.
She wiped the KY off my bottom, and the last few drops from my cock. She looked down at me again, then she bent down and kissed me.
“You look so charming when you come,” she said, “your head thrown back, your teeth bared.” Then she lay down besides me. I put my hand inside her robe and found her breast. She was rubbing her hand up and down my back. I put my head between her breasts and she pulled me close.
I started to cry. She shushed me and rocked me, but I couldn’t stop. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was for coming home like that, that I knew I had let her down, and that I deserved to be punished for it, but I couldn’t talk just then. Besides, I think she knew what I was feeling, because she kept saying, “It’s all right, “It’s all right” and stroking me up and down my back and behind. I kept my face buried between her warm breasts.
We were like this when Auntie Clem came silently in. (The door was open). Solange saw me look towards the door and looked over her shoulder. She was quite embarrassed.
“I was just trying to comfort him,” she said, “he’s upset about leaving, the poor dear.”
“I know,” said Auntie Clem, smiling indulgently and a little sadly. “Come to breakfast when you are ready,” she said, turning to go.
The three of us had breakfast on the little balcony---croissants and strawberry jam and cafe au lait. Then Solange helped Auntie Clem make a picnic of cold chicken, potato salad, bread, cheese, strawberries and pears. Then it was time to say a teary good-bye to Solange, who was going to visit a friend in Neuilly and would not be back until after I had left. I realized suddenly that I had not taken a picture of her, so I rushed and got my camera and snapped her with Auntie Clem and Hector.
After she had left I took Hector for a walk in the park, and by the time I got back Mrs. Coudry (“Bunny)” was there. We put two bottles of wine in the cooler and all four of us (Hector came too,of course) walked to the garage where Auntie Clem kept her cars. We were going to take the Delahaye, which was back from the shop.
When I saw it my eyes popped out. It was the most beautiful car I had ever seen. It was a cabriolet, or convertible coup, but had a back seat, unlike the little Spider, and it had swooping lines it that almost gave me a hard-on. It was light silvery blue with white trim.
We piled in, the ladies in front, Hector and me in back, and off we went, the car making a deep throaty sound as we sped along, Auntie Clem’s hand on the horn to scatter the peasants. We were headed up-river about thirty kilometers to a place on the Seine where Parisians went to picnic, fish, swim, boat, fuck, or just lie on the grass. It was a lovely spot, with trees for shade if the sun got too hot. Already there were people there: men in boats, rowing or fishing, boys swimming, girls and women sunning themselves, little children running around playing their little games. It was quite a scene, reminding me of some of the paintings I had seen in the museums.
We had brought bathing suits and towels, and I changed in the European way: with a towel around my waist I dropped my shorts and underpants and pulled up my trunks. The ladies found a more secluded spot to change in.
“Bunny” was quite portly, and her flabby legs were covered with blue veins, and her huge breasts hung down to her midsection. Auntie Clem, on the other hand, had a very good figure, and looked much younger than her forty-some years. She really looked very attractive to me. In fact I got a hard-on looking at her bottom as she lay reading a book, and to cool it down I jumped into the water and swam around for a while.
Later we had our picnic, which was delicious, and we all drank a good deal of wine, both bottles, in fact. It made “Bunny” talkative, and of course she got onto he favorite subject: the disciplining of boys, at home and in school. On and on she went, ranting and raving against the trend towards abolishing the cane in schools and praising the Isle of Man for still birching delinquent boys.
I lay on my stomach and dozed off, feeling the warm sun on my back and legs, and wishing we were all at a nudist camp so I could feel the sun on my bottom too.
What I felt on my bottom instead was “Bunny”s fat hand, emphasizing some point by exploring my posterior rather intimately
“Where else on a boy can you find flesh like this?” she marveled. “I tell you, the bottom’s the only safe place to spank a boy! That’s why God made their bottoms so round and plump!”
And on and on. I let her continue her little game a while longer, since actually it felt rather nice, but then I yawned and turned over, sitting up quickly to hide my erection, though not quick enough for Bunny.
“He must have been having a nice dream,” she said to Auntie Clem, as if I were not there, or couldn’t understand English.
“I think I’ll go in again,” I said. I wanted to cool off, and get away from Bunny’s chatter about boys’ bottoms for a while. Hector joined me. We paddled around in circles, me pretending to be a dog.
When it was time to go I changed under a towel again, and soon we were in the Delahaye headed back to town. It had been a pleasant day, and I felt very French. We dropped off Bunny, then the car, and walked back to the flat. Solange, of course, was not there, so we had the place to ourselves. It felt nice.
Somewhere over the Atlantic
We took off on time, circling Paris, and I had a last glimpse of the Tour Eiffel and the Seine, shimmering in the sun as it snaked its way around the city, with little boats making “V”-shaped wakes. I felt sad at leaving, but when lunch came, I felt I was still in France: there was a nice rough country pate with cornichons, a coq au vin, salad, and a chocolate mousse, and of course plenty of red wine, so that I slept for a couple of hours afterwards.
After we got back from our picnic yesterday and had put away our picnic things I finished packing, laid out my traveling clothes, passport, wallet, etc., and put my bathing suit in the coin- operated drier, which was in the basement. I read a book while it dried. When I got back up Auntie Clem was in her white cotton robe and slippers. She had obviously just taken a bath.
“The river water is really not all that clean,” she said. “You might want to bathe also. The water’s still warm, but you can add a little hot.”
The idea of bathing in the water she was just in at first disgusted me, but then it began to excite me. sort of, so I said O.K. I would, and went back to my room to undress. In the bathroom, I put my robe on a hook and stepped into the milky water. It smelled of her. I did add some hot eater, though, and then lay back, immersed except for my face.
I was soaking like that when she came in. Smiling, she pulled over a little stool, sat down, and soaping a washcloth, began washing me, starting at my feet. Using both the washcloth and her hands she washed one foot, then the calf, knee, and thigh, right up to my crotch. I don’t have to say what this did to me. Then she did the other leg. I was rampant by now.
“Sit up,” she said, and now she did my face, ears, neck, shoulders, arms, chest, as as much of my tummy as she would.
“And now, last but by no means least....” and she made a gesture with her hands for me to rise, the way a conductor or choirmaster would. I stood up, bashfully covering my erection, and stood very still while she did my bottom, using her hands to work the soap deep between my cheeks, right to my hole.
“Bunny is right when she says boys’ bottoms are tempting. I wouldn’t mind spanking you myself.” She gave me a playful smack before making me turn around and remove my hands.
“Oh, my,” she said, “look at you!”
I didn’t want to look, so I closed my eyes and let her wash my private parts, which right now were certainly anything but private. When she had finished she rinsed me off, fore and aft.
“There, you can finish up while I do something about supper.” I lay back and soaked for a while, wondering why Mom can’t learn to give me nice baths the way Auntie Clem does. Solange’s baths were very no-nonsense, but at least she didn’t make me feel ten years old, the way Mom does.
After a while I got out and dried myself and put on my bathrobe. Then I went into the kitchen to watch Auntie Clem get supper ready. She had stopped along the way and gotten some things, including a dozen oysters, which she was now opening with a special knife and placing them onto a big plate without spilling any of the juice. She gave me a small knife to cut some lemon slices, then handed me a bottle of champagne to open. She showed me how to work the cork with my thumb, pointing it at the ceiling, and after a struggle I felt the cork rising and the POP! it went, hitting the ceiling. Auntie C. held out two champagne glasses to catch it as it foamed out of the bottle.
I had had oysters before at La Coupole so I knew how to eat them. I squeezed a little lemon juice onto one and poured it into my mouth, not losing any of the juice. it felt cold and slippery and tasted like the sea. Then I bit into it and it squirted all over the inside of my mouth. I swallowed it and took a sip of champagne. It tasted better than the ones at La Coupole. Or maybe I was just developing a taste for them. Auntie C. and I ate our oysters slowly, without talking, but looking at each other. By the time I’d swallowed all my oysters, with a sip of champagne between each one, I was feeling a nice glow. The rest of the supper was picnic leftovers: cheeses and bread, and strawberries. We finished the champagne, too. And after we had done the dishes and put stuff away we were both yawning. She took me in her arms and kissed me. I felt a stirring. I looked at her. She looked at me. I screwed up my courage and, heart thumping, said it: “Auntie Clem, um, do you think...would it be all right if...would you mind if..., um...”
“Yes, Michael, what is it?”
“Auntie Clem, can I sleep in your bed tonight?”
There was a long silence, with her just looking at me. And then one corner of her mouth sort of curled up in a half smile. Then she spoke.
“Why not.” And she gave a little shrug.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Now go brush your teeth,” she said, tweaking my nose, “and give me a few minutes.”
I gave her more than a few minutes. I peed and brushed my teeth and fiddled. I was quite nervous. I didn’t know what I was getting myself in for. Would we just turn our backs to each other and go to sleep? Or would something “happen”? I wished I knew. Probably it would be just a quick cuddle between aunt and nephew, but I put a rubber in my bathrobe pocket, just in case. “Be Prepared”, as the Boy Scout motto goes. I walked down the hall to her room, feeling a bit like a condemned man again. She was already in bed, her bare shoulders showing above the sheet.
“Leave your robe on the chair.”
Her words hung in the air. I went to the chair, undid my robe and let it slip off me, laid it on the chair and turned around to face her, naked.
Of course she had seen me naked countless times, and knew every nook and cranny of my body, but this was different. I think we both knew that on this, our last night, something was going to happen, that we were entering a new sort of relationship. I remembered how she had looked down at me and Solange, with that wistful, envious look. Now she was looking at me with the same sort of crooked smile, as if she were saying to herself, “You old fool.” And then I remembered where I had seen that look: it was on the face of the Marchallin in “Der Rosencavalier.” I was her lover Octavian, whom she was losing to a younger girl. And like Octavian, I had played the part of a girl just the day before. I crawled onto her bed and under the sheet, pressing against her warm body.
I feel nervous writing about this in a public place. Even though there is no one in the seat next to me I know that the stewardess could come by at any time and peer over my shoulder. This is unlikely, and anyway she probably can’t read English, so, I am going to put it down the way it happened and hope to God I don’t leave this diary on the plane!
We did it, of course. It had been building up all day, starting with the picnic, then the bath, of course, and the oysters for supper. Then when I asked if I could share her bed that clinched it.
And what a difference from Francine! Auntie Clem not only knew what she was doing, she knew how to make me feel at ease. She treated me like a mature lover, not like the callow youth I was, while at the same time showing me the way to make love to someone.
With her it was all natural and easy, and when we had finished our foreplay and dug into the main course it felt just right, like finding your real home.
When it was clear to me what was about to happen I said,
“It is all right like this? I have a---”
“You don’t need one.”
So she guided my naked cock into her cunt, and I felt like crying with joy, and when she put her arms around me and pulled me tight against her I knew that nothing on earth was this good. She rubbed her hands up and down my back and sucked air as I thrust in and out of her. She put her hands on my behind and pushed with every downward stroke. And when I exploded inside her I knew that sex would never be as good again.
We lay together for a long time, and then, very slowly, we started to get aroused again. This time it took much longer, and I started to worry that it might go down again the way it had with Francine, but Auntie Clem told me not to rush things, that we weren’t trying to set any record, and that all that mattered was being together.
And as if to give me a rest she moved on top of me, sitting on me actually, and moving herself up and down. It slipped out once, but she put it right back without missing a beat. When she felt me about to come she lay down on top of me and I hugged her tight the way she had done to me and when I finally came inside her it almost hurt.
After that we drifted off to sleep in each other’s arms. Sometime during the night we turned our backs to each other, and I liked the feeling of her big bottom pressed against mine. In the morning I wanted to do it again, but she brushed me off, saying it was dangerous for someone her age to do it before breakfast.
She told me to stay in bed, that she would be right back. When she returned she was carrying her pumpkin bag. Attached to the tube was a nozzle I hadn’t seen before. It was about six inches long, fairly thick, with a bulbous knob at the end and ridges along the shaft. “It suddenly occurred to me that Solange has given you all your enemas since you arrived, and that I couldn’t let you go without giving you one myself.
I was of two minds. After my success as a lover, actually doing the fucking, it felt like a come- down to have something be done to me, to be placed in the passive role again. She must have sensed my ambivalence. “Bathrooms on airplanes are small and cramped. It’s better to get cleaned out before your trip. I always do.”
I knew that it would be a nice enema, and secretly I wanted it, so when she approached and hung the bag on a bedpost and opened the jar of Vaseline I turned onto my left side and stuck out my behind invitingly. And when I felt that blunt knob push against my pucker and then slip right in, I remembered just how wonderful that felt. Even better was the sensation caused by the ridges as she pushed the nozzle all the way in. Then she released the clamp and the warm, perfumed water began to flow into me..
It was a lovely farewell gift my Auntie Clem then gave me. She filled me slowly, working the devilish nozzle in and out until I was groaning with pleasure. Then she turned me onto my back and opened my legs. She positioned herself by my side, working the nozzle with her right hand. She looked down at me.
“It would be a shame to waste your boy juice, don’t you think?”
“I guess so,” I said, not really taking in her words.
“Close your eyes, then,” she said, “and let yourself go.” I closed my eyes and felt her take my stiff penis in her hand; then it was engorged by something soft and warm and wet, and knew it was her mouth. I gave myself over to sheer pagan pleasure as she moved her mouth up and down my shaft in time to the pushing in and out of the ridged nozzle in my rectum. I remember tossing my head from side to side as I felt the nozzle urging my juices upwards. I felt her tongue lick the head of my cock and then I exploded into her mouth, my hips jerking uncontrollably as I shot load after load into her. When I had finished I lay back exhausted while she licked me clean.
“I love the taste of you,” she said. She kissed me and I tasted myself too.
And that was it. After iI had recovered, and used her bathroom, and had another bath, and gotten dressed, and had gone around the corner to the boulangerie for a still warm baguette, we sat down like a married couple to a simple breakfast of bread and sweet butter and strawberry preserves, washed down with cafe au lait. Then she smoked a thin black cigar.
“You’re going to make some girl very happy some day,” she said, which made me happy right then, having her give a stamp of approval on my ability to play the masculine role in bed. Then she said, “But I hope you never outgrow your love for enemas. Most people, especially men, are so afraid to admit they like them. Don’t you be one of them. Enjoy them for health, and for pleasure, always.”
I felt my eyes fill with tears, and got up, saying I wanted to take Hector for a last walk, which I did, but actually I just didn’t want to cry in front of my aunt. So I poured out my feelings to Hector, who listened attentively, cocking his head this way and that. When I got back the Spider was parked in front. Not the Delahaye. This was to be a “business” trip, not a pleasure excursion. The Spider was easier to manipulate in traffic, and to park.
Those words over breakfast were not her last words, of course. On the way to the airport we talked about trip-related things (“Are you sure you have your ticket?” and “Give my love to your mother”), and at Orly she parked and went into the terminal with me, to make sure I found the right gate and that the flight hadn’t been canceled. And at our parting we said the usual good-bye words. But I knew, as we turned to go in our different directions, that those breakfast words were the ones that will always be deeply engraved in my memory.
And now here I am, my Paris experience a thing of the past but very much with me, winging my way back to dull old America, with its dull old food---meatloaf with ketchup and mashed potatoes with country gravy, jello, Oreos, and always milk to drink, never wine. Oh, I feel so sophisticated! Those poor yokels back home! What do they know about the pleasures of eating and drinking and fucking!
Then I remembered something Auntie Clem said as we were saying good-bye in the airport: “Don’t be too hard on your poor mother.”
I said I thought it was the other way around, that she was hard on me.
“She’s doing the best she can. It’s not easy, bringing up a boy as a single mother. Specially a boy like you.” Then she smiled and kissed me goodbye.
Mom met me at the airport, of course, and asked me question after question about Paris and the food there and how I must have missed home cooking and that of course the first thing she would do when we got home was to wash all that dreadful foreign food out of me.
And that’s just what she did, treating me, naturally, like the boy I was before I left home ten days before, instead of like the suave boulevardier I had become. And when it comes to enemas, well, she could use a lesson from Auntie Clem!
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