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» » The Smells Of Summer Nights At Grandmothers « «
By Criss (Crissie)
Grandmother's two-story house was not air-conditioned, it didn't need to be. It was never hot, not even in the height of mid-west summers. The big ceiling fan in the attic pulled cool air up from the basement, circulating it throughout the house with amazing results. The windows were always open in the summer, the curtains would flow and bellow as the ceiling fan would pull the mixture of outside air and cool basement air all the way up to the top story. To keep the each room cool, the doors were never closed. The smell of jasmine in the spring and honeysuckle in the summer filled the late afternoon and night air. Being taken to the big bathroom for "bath time" wearing only the skimpy little undies with the pastel prints of hearts or flowers she would purchase for me, or standing next to the big, wooden laundry table that stood in the corner, the white enema can hanging on the wall over it, waiting to be filled with the warm, soapy solution Grandmother was mixing in the sink, goose bumps would form on my twelve-year-old bare skin as the cool evening air teased with it's invisible caress.
Grandmother always removed her dress, wearing only a full under gown/slip for bathing or giving me enemas, not wanting to get her dresses wet. She was a big woman, with huge bosoms, the dark cleavage always visible over the top of the gown. Her bosoms always seemed a symbol of her maternal authority over me.
Smells are a powerful trigger of memories. The big bathroom adjoining her bedroom, where I found myself more than often, had it's smells, too. That odd smell of Ivory soap mingled with rubber, baby power, camphor, and the flowery sent that came from her round box of bath talcum with the big puff. If I had been a "good little boy," she would "treat me" by Powering and ticking me with the puff after she had dried me off. Of course, it wasn't a treat for me then. After all, I was going on thirteen, and much too old to be bathed like a little boy.
Lying on the table on my back, completely naked, my arms over my head, legs pulled back to expose my most private of parts, waiting for the cool feel of the Vaseline against my "button hole" as she would slowly lubricate me for the long, black nozzle with the big end and all the tiny holes. I would shut my eyes tightly in embarrassment and guarded anticipation, waiting for the intense pressure as the nozzle inserted me, causing me to let out a gasp. Then the rush of warm, soapy water flowed deep inside me, causing even more goose bumps as the solution mixed with the cool evening air. Later, more goose bumps as I sat on the toilet, eyes downcast with embarrassment, and expelled the soapy, poopy solution as Grandmother looked on and told me what a good Little boy I had been, or in some cases, verbally chastised me for acting like a little brat when she was trying to protect my health and well-being. "Children are supposed to do as they are told," she would say. "I'm your Grandmother, and I know what's best for you."
Before an enema or bath, Grandmother would sit on the toilet seat and call me over and tell me to hold my arms up. Hooking her fingers in the waist band of my undies, she would lower them down over my legs and tell me to step out of them. I learned early never to try to resist this "denuding." My early attempts were met with a good deal of attention paid to my bare bottom with her big hand or belt. Even so, each time she made me naked was like the first. Grandmother would use this time to examine me closely, pulling the foreskin back off my "little pink pearl," as she called it, to make sure I was keeping myself clean after "making water." A good deal of attention was also given to how easily it pulled back. Grandmother did not believe in circumcision, but was convinced that a boy's foreskin would tighten back up, thus promoting bag hygiene and germs, if not examined on an almost daily basis. I recall several occasions after an evening bath, enema, or both, laying on my little bed, still naked, while Grandmother hovered over me. Grandmother had found a youth bed that she had moved in her bedroom for me to sleep in when I was there. She said young children needed to be close to their grandmothers during the night in case they should become ill or have bad dreams. She would take this tube of white cream she had purchased at the drug store for just such situations. To this day, I can not describe the odd spell of the cream. Pulling the foreskin back as it could be pulled, she would apply the cream all over the exposed inner portion of the skin and "pearl." At first it would feel a little hot, then cool, and I had a keen sense of the evening breeze through the window as it would touch my exposed gland.
Grandmother always bathed me herself, always a source of total embarrassment for me. At twelve a boy is supposed to bath himself, I first told her. That idea was soon dismissed with stern and makeful action on her part. Her method was pretty much the same. Standing me in the big, claw-footed tub, she would scrub every inch of my naked body with a soapy wash cloth. Again, the sent of Ivory soap on a warm summer's evening. Sitting me in the tub, she would shampoo my hear with such gusto that I sometimes thought she would pull my hair out. Then it was the washcloth to my ears, which was equally as painful. I do recall on several occasions she would give me a bubble bath prior to standing me up and the not-to-be-avoided scrubbing. On these occasions, the smells of the laic sensed bath power filled the bathroom.
Following the soaping and scrubbing, she would rinse me thoroughly, filling and refilling the little white enamel can with the handle that she kept by the tub. I remember it had pictures of Bo Peep and her sheep printed all around it. Once she was satisfied she had rinsed all the soap from my bare skin, I would get out of the tub and stand in front of her as she sat on the toilet and dried me thoroughly with a big terry towel. The towels always smell of being line-dried, a sent that unless a person has ever experienced, is one the freshest smells in this world.
If I had not had an enema before my bath, she would talcum or power me, paying close attention to my "little peepee and sack," as she called it, then bending me over to make sure I was well-powered between my bottom cheeks.. She would then slip my undies on me herself and lead be out to my little youth bed next to hers. The sheets were very childish, with pastel prints of storybook characters. I had to kneel by the side of my bed with my hands folded as she sat on the edge of the bed and listened to my prayers. She then put me in bed. She would pick up the Bible on the night stand, open it, read selected Bible passages for that day, sometimes asking me to repeat a passage if she thought it was important. During the summer months, I would only have a sheet to cover me, on really hot nights she would take the sheet off. She would always pull me up and give me a big "nite-nite hug." I remember my face pressed against the flesh of her ample bosoms above her gown, and the smell of her talcum.
Now, on the occasions that I had both an complete cleansing enema and bath, bedtime preparation was a different story entirely. After she dried me thoroughly, she would lead me into the bedroom still naked. On the little night stand next to the bed, she would have waiting a can of baby power, baby oil, and big safety pins. On the bed would be a cloth diaper. I would have to stand there, so tired from the enema, and watch as spread the diaper across the bed in just the right position. She then positioned me on my back over the diaper. Taking the baby oil, she would tell me to raise and spread my legs. Spreading my bottom cheeks with one hand, she would generously apply the cool baby lotion directly from the bottle with the other. She would then lightly apply the oil carefully all over my crack, paying close attention to "Little pink button hole." She would tell me that this would keep her little boy from chafing and having "ouches" during the night and the next day.
Grandmother only diapered me after an enema, saying that she didn't want her little boy having an accident during the night and soiling his good panties (she always called my undies panties, another source of embarrassment to me) or sheets. The first time this happened, I was very indignant and resistant. This was met with being pulled over her ample lap, her strength came as a total surprised to me, being given at least twenty-five spanks with her hand, which left me actually crying. Ten spanks were added to my "Sin List" which she kept hanging on the wall in the living room, and given to me with the belt the following Sunday night during "Correction Time." No matter how embarrassing being diapered was, I knew that if I was disobedient, I would get it good and still be diapered. It was a no-win situation for me.
After my bottom was thoroughly oiled and powered, I laid there with my legs spread as she powered my peepee and sack. With expert movement she folded the diaper around me and attached it with a single safety pin in the front. After she was through, the same prayers and Bible reading was conducted. The spell of the baby oil and power, mixed with the line-dried cotton diaper, are more remembered scents that to this day flood my memories on a summer's night.
I don't ever recall having a real accident after being given an enema and diapered, although I'm sure there might have been some minor soils that she found upon examination, which was at least once during the night. Never the less, I had to wear the diaper most off the next morning. Having to sit at the breakfast table the next morning in only a diaper, not to mention doing my morning chores, which included helping Grandmother do the dishes and the laundry and hang them on the line, was a source of never-ending pre-adolescent embarrassment to me. Not to mention when one of her lady friends would drop by. Having them say what a cute "little boy" I was, and how my Grandmother must be so proud of her "little boy." All seemed to understand her reasoning and never questioned my attire in the least little bit, just like it was common practice with all children.
I'm not just when it happened, but I guess Grandmother had an idea of how to save washing diapers on enema days. On that night, after being given a really good cleansing enema and bath, she lead me to the bedroom. I'll never forget the feeling of my little "peepee" bobbling in front of me as she would led me to the bed, and the feeling of the summer night's breeze through the open window as it touched my bare skin. Those are the times you feel so totally naked. The first thing I noticed was that the diaper was not laying across the bed. I breathed a little sigh of relief, with the momentary belief that she had given up diapering me. But why hadn't she put my undies on in the bathroom as was her normal practice?
She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled me in front of her. The then picked up what looked like a thin, elastic belt with a pair of little tab-like things hanging from the front and back. She put the little belt around my lower waist and adjusted the fit, with the two little tabs positioned directly above my peepee and the below the dimples of my behind. She then produced a rectangular cotton pad and attached one end to the tabs in front, and pulling it between my legs to attach it to tabs in the back. She then checked it for a proper fit, and turned me around to have a good look at her work. A look of pride filled he face as she realized her inventiveness had been successful. I was placed on the bed, the pad taken down while she went through her regular ritual of oiling and powering, then reconnected. Touching the little protrusion in the pad where my peepee was, she chided to herself and me that "Grandmother may have to cut a little hole for your peepee, but for now this would do just fine."
The little belt with the pad was even more exposing than the diaper, and I had an odd sense of it just not being for boys so much as girls. And having to wear just the little pelt and pad most of the next day was so much more embarrassing than the diaper had ever been. It was years before I knew what a Kotex pad and belt were for. And the thought that I had been made to wear my Grandmother's pads was even more perplexing. It's a hard feeling to describe unless one has been there.
This story is about the memories and the smells and physical feelings that they evoked or evoke them. It should not be complete without the following memory. Of course, there is much more to this story, but I will to them in later additions.
My Grandmother always examined me before my bath, thinking, I'm sure she felt the bathroom was the proper place for this due to the fact that all the things she might need, such medications and creams, were within hand reach. On this evening she sat on the closed toilet seat as normal and removed my undies, putting them in the wicker and wood clothing hamper. As usual, she stood me totally naked in front of her for my nightly "examination." Before she would pull my foreskin back to check for proper elasticity, she always examined my tight little sack, feeling each small testicle for firmness. Pleased that it was completely tight firm and tight, she moved on to my peepee, when a look of serious concern came over her face and she let out a little, "Well, this will never do," under her breath. "you are much too young for this." I didn't know what she was talking about until I felt a little tickle as she brushed the few light, fuzz-like pubic hairs that spouted from the sides of my peepee just above my sack. I was late to develop, and my entire body was free of hair, indeed, I've never had much of it due to heredity factors. I became alarmed at her alarm. "I'll just have to do something about that, she said more to herself than to me. When I asked her what was wrong, she simply said, "Never you mind."
She started the water in the bath tub as she normally did, adjusting the temperature to make sure it was warm enough, then steadied my arm as I stepped over the edges of the big tub. I stood with droplets of warm water splashing my naked body and watched as she went to the cabinet and removed a big mug and a doubled-edged safety razor. She wet the brush that was in the mug under the facet, then put it back in the mug and swished it around briskly until it was laden with lather. It smelled of menthol and laic.
Telling me to hold my hands behind me and push my middle out, she lathered my pubes as she held my little weenie out with one hand. The lather felt strange against my bare skin. It was cool and made goose bumps on my thighs. "You hold real still and Grandmother will have you back to where you need to be in just a minute," she said. With just a few passes of the razor, what few pubic hairs I had were gone and I was once again Grandma's little boy. Even though so few hairs were removed, I felt even more bare and naked after she dried me off, and the summer night's breeze through the window felt even stranger as it teased my privates.
There is one more smell that haunts my memories, memories of Grandmother and a time when things were simple, times when the only responsibility one has is to do what they are told.
Grandmother believed that children needed sunshine. To this extent she had me help her in her back yard flower garden when ever possible. On these days grand mother had me wear a little kitchen apron with ruffled shoulder straps that tied in the back, undies (I am sure they were panties that she had purchased in the Girl's department), and sandals. She also had me wear a large straw hat with a sash that she tied under my chin. I would stand behind her in the garden in this embarrassing outfit and hand her small pots of flowers that she would put in the ground. The smells of flowers and the lawn sprinkler would fill my head. On one really warm Saturday afternoon before my weekly enema that evening, she had me wear only undies, sandals, and the hat. On more than one occasion one of her church friends would drop by to add to my embarrassment.
Smells are memories, memories evoke smells. The olfactory sense is one of the most powerful. Isn't it wonderful?
More to come later.
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