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At twelve and thirteen, I had not developed the way most boys had. I still had the boyishly feminine smooth body of a child about a year or two younger. It was about this time that my mother started to take me to my grandmother's for the weekend. I suspect it was so she could have the weekend to herself, but I know she knew what happened to me once there.
Every Friday, at four, my mother would put me in the car and drive me to Grandmother's. Grandmother would be waiting at the door to usher me inside. Once the door closed I knew that my weekend fate was sealed. She was a large and imposing woman and very string as found out. I would reluctantly be lead upstairs to her large bedroom. She had moved a small bed in and placed it in the corner where I had to sleep. She said that boys my age needed to be supervised closely at all times of the day, and this way she could keep an eye on me during the night. I then had to undress and put on a kind of nightshirt that I wore most of the weekend. When she had company, I had to wear the most embarrassing short shorts, long sleeve shirt, white knee stockings and white shoes. On several occasions I had to wear frilly little ankle socks that she had purchased during the week. She always took the clothing I wore over and put them away.
"Well, child," she would say once I was changed and standing in front of her, "Grandmother's going have to work really hard to clean her little boy's body and soul, so are you going to be obedient for her?"
"Yes, Grandmother," I would say with my head hung low, dreading the next few days.
The first time I saw the big bathroom off her bedroom, I got that those strange butterflies in my stomach, like walking into an old-time doctors office and seeing all the medical things that you had no idea what they were used for.
It was the biggest bathroom I had ever seen. The white claw-foot tub was huge and had no shower. The white toilet where I was to spend many hours expelling what she had flushed from my system as she stood on watching, was just as large. She used the bathroom for a laundry room as well because it had an old-fashioned washer and a big sturdy wooden table she used to fold clothes. Hanging on the wall above the table was a white mental can with a long hose attached to the bottom and rapped around the handle. At the end was a long black nozzle with a big rounded end with little holes. On another shelf was two large red bulbs with nozzles like what was on the end can hose. I reasoned it was something she used when she ironed clothes. Was I ever mistaken.
After I had changed, she would take me downstairs to the parlor, sit me
down, and ask me questions about my behavior during the week. I found
out that lying was impossible because she always talked to my mother the
day before I arrived. Sitting there with Bible in hand, she would say
"You know that Grandmother's going to have to discipline you for that...
soap and water will clean the body both inside and out, but only proper
chastisement will cleanse a child's soul." All I could do was sit there
with my knees together, hands on my bare thighs, and head hung low,
dreading tomorrow. Punishment
night was always Saturday night unless I had done something she felt needed attending to immediately.
For the next hour she would read scriptures that I had to repeat back to her. Then, at precisely 5:00 it was dinner time. It was always the same: spinach and broccoli with no seasoning. She said it was healthy and nutritious food and would help clean be out. I had to sit politely at the table, left hand on left thigh, sitting up straight, and finish all of it. Then came the worse part of the meal.
Leading me to the sink, she would open a bottle of thick, clear, liquid. She said it was Caster Oil and would help with my internal cleansing. I had to stand up straight, hands to my side, while she pored the stuff into a big spoon. Obediently opening my mouth while she guided the spoon in. I always got two spoonfuls, and I hated it. It was the worse tasting stuff anyone could imagine. I then helped her wash and put the dishes up. Once this was done she would say something like, "I think it's about time to start. Grandmother's going to really get you cleaned out this weekend." I was then lead, trembling, upstairs to her bedroom where I was told to undress while she went to the bathroom and got things ready.
No matter how many times Grandmother would see me naked and touch my most private parts, it was always just like the first time. I would sit on her bed and listen as she ran hot water, hearing her stair the mixture. I could even smell the faint sent of Ivory soap. Then it was "come, child, so Grandmother can get started with your cleaning."
I would very reluctantly make my way to the bathroom, head hung low, hand out trying to cover my middle. Grandmother always removed her dress, wearing only her under gown for fear of getting her dress dirty due to an accident. Sometimes she would wear a little apron. Her bosoms were huge, low, and I could see the outline of her huge nipples through the fabric of the gown. It gave her a certain maternal authority and put me in my place. Grandmother wouldn't allow me to touch myself there, she said such things promoted sinful thoughts in boys my age. She said she was the only one allowed to touch me there. So it was the best I could at the little bit of modesty I was allowed. But it was all very futile in the end.
I was then made to sit on the big toilet. "Grandmother want's you to try to make pee-pee and poop before your enema." I was never allowed to stand to pee. Grandmother said that boys my age splattered their pee-pee and that it was nasty, and until I learned good toilet habits, I had to sit like a little girl. "Besides, boys your age should not touch themselves there so sitting is the best way." I was never allowed to pee on my own. I had to tell Grandmother and she would take me to the bathroom or get the "pot." The most humiliating part of this was that she would stand there while every drop of pee-pee was drained from me, then tell me to spread my thighs, pull the foreskin pack off my little thing and pat it dry with a piece of toilet paper, this because I was not allowed to touch myself.
I sat there in fear as she would continued to mix the enema. It was soapy white with steam rising from the container. I trembled knowing that it would soon me inside of me. The bit jar of Vaseline was open on the counter waiting for her finger.
I was given so much time to make poop or pee-pee as she called it. I was almost never able to poop, but often peed if I had enough water to drink that day. So I had to put my hands on my head and spread my thighs as she took my little penis in between her fingers and pulled the foreskin back. This was always the first time during the weekend she touched my private parts, and it always felt the same... strange, rough, and very humiliating. She then had me stand and inspected the color of my pee, flushed, and lead me over to the table, my little penis bobbing in front of me. By then I was so scared that I could barely stand up.
Pulling up a little stool she would say "Grandmother's going to examine you now, so do as I say." With that she would look behind and in my ears, check my teeth and mouth. Then having me put my hands on my head again, she would feel my underarms, nipples and work her say down to my tummy feeling for any tightness. I would close my eyes tightly as the next part came. Telling me so spread my legs she would feel the smooth area of my loser tummy just above my penis, then take my little penis between her fingers and pull the foreskin back all the way. No matter how many times this happened, I would always cringe and turn red from embarrassment. She would comment to herself what a healthy pink it looked or that my mother had not been keeping me clean, which my mother never did. She would always look at it for what seemed like a long time, rolling it this way and that before she would move on and take my smooth, tight little sack between her fingers, rolling and separating the little marbles inside the tight smooth skin and pushing them back up inside me. This sometimes hurt and I would let out a little cry which never seemed to effect her. Once she had satisfied herself that all was healthy, she would move on to my smooth legs, feeling up and down each one. She never had me bend over to examine my bottom hole during these stand up examination, mostly because she would be paying a great deal of attention to that part later. She then lead me over to the table and told me to get up on my back, arms over my head and to raise and spread my legs. I knew from the first day that saying anything to her was in vain, but I would try to put on a pleading look and some little whimpers that never got me anywhere.
I would sometimes lay there looking over my knees as she lubricated the thermometer, which was really large for it's purpose. The first time she took my temperature I made the mistake of telling her that only babies had their temperature. I paid with it with three hard slaps to my bare behind and extra punishment on Saturday night.
When she was satisfied that it was properly greased she spread my cheeks. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath as the first invasion of the weekend entered my bottom. It was always cold and she made sure it was inserted all the way. Then she held it in place for a good three to four minutes, occasionally reaching up to feel my forehead. Then pulling out, she would read it but never say anything.
She would then fetch one of the things I hated, the little potty seat from under the table. I would normally get two to three enemas on Friday night. the first was a cleansing enema with soap, followed by a plain water enema to wash out the soap. I would not get this until she was sure that my poop ran clear. She liked to inspect what came out of me, and would take the potty over to the but toilet and pore it out carefully inspecting each piece carefully.
I knew what would be next. She would take the big can down and go over to she sink to fill it. Sometimes the hose would rub across the naked skin of my tummy, causing me to jump in fear. As I lay there, naked on the table, towel under me, I could hear her pore the mixture into the can, then let off the clamp to get the air our of the line. Coming back over, she would hang the can back on it's hook and take the big black nozzle in hand. She made sure I could see as she lubricated the nozzle. No matter how many times she gave me an enema, the feeling was the same.... by the time she spread my legs and I could feel her finger at my bottom hole, I was terrified. I tried to keep my eyes shut, but sometimes found myself looking up at the big can, watching as the steam rose from top.
I cried out as her big finger went inside of me, pushing in deep, and taking the air out of me. She kept this up until she was satisfied that I was loose enough for the nozzle. Withdrawing her finger I could feel the coolness of the hard, black rubber tip as positioned it on my hole. Then telling me to take a deep breath and let it out, she would put it up me. Sometimes I would scream as she let off the clamp and the hot, soapy, water shot up deep inside of me. My breathing was heard and sometimes I would look at her over my heaving, smooth chest and spread legs. I tried hard to keep my arms over my head, knowing that she has said that if I couldn't she would have to tie them.
I didn't want extra punishment, so I would try to be good for her, take all the hot, soapy water she wanted me to take, knowing that if I couldn't, she would just start all over again. My most private function was now in her control.
Often I would cry out in cramps, but she would not stop, just rub my lower tummy until they had passed. When every drop of the liquid had drained from the can, she would clamp the hose, keeping the big, fat nozzle inside me for another five minutes. Sometimes I wanted to tell her I couldn't hold it anymore, but would realize that I was not in the position to do so. Naked, with legs bare and spread, her hard hands or little leather strap she kept handy would give me something else to cry about.
Once the tine was up, she would pull the nozzle out and replace it with her finger. Helping me off the table, my tummy cramped and distended, and onto the old-fashioned wooden potty seat with the white porcelain pot that was always cold she would remove her finger and instruct me to sit up straight, legs spread wide, with my hands on my head, which she told me was the best way for a child to expel an enema.
At this point I didn't care too much about my nakedness. I had to hold it until she told me I could go. Soapy water and poop would shoot from my bottom like a gusher, giving me relief, smelling like ivory soap and poop, a smell I can not forget to this day. As I felt less cramped the state of my nakedness and position would come back to me and the embarrassment would set back in. Grandmother would be waiting for me to finish while she mixed the next enema. By the time the enemas were completed, and my poop was clear, I was exhausted and felt a strange sense of emptiness.
I had to sit there on the potty while she cleaned the enema can and nozzle and filled the bathtub with water for my bath. Then, getting me off the potty, she would stand me up in the tub for my bath.
The first time she bathed me, I protested and got the worse spanking she ever gave me, pulling me by the ear and putting me over her bed, naked, she used the belt on my spread legs and bottom until I thought I was going to pass out. When it was over I was crying like a little baby. I was taken back to the bathroom where she bathed me. She roughly washed my face, neck, arms, raising them to scrub the smooth underarms, then she stood up and took me by the arm, telling me to stand up and bend over. I begged her to let me clean myself there, but she only slapped my bare bottom and told me that if I didn't behave I would get the strap again. .
I shut my eyes tightly trying to disappear as she washed each leg from the ankle up. I knew what was coming next and shut my eyes even tighter. I felt her take it between her fingers and pulled the foreskin back, then she soaped and washed it. I was so embarrassed I could have died! It felt really strange. She told me to spread my legs and she washed the smooth little sack beneath. Then, taking my little penis between her fingers again, she ordered me to look at her while she was talking. She started to lecture me about proper hygiene and sin, and how a girl or boy my age can be tempted to play with themselves there while having sinful, naughty thoughts. She told me she would be watching me closely and that at the first sign of such sinful acts, I would be punished very, very severely.
Once she had bathed me and she had dried me off, she took me into her bedroom and told me stand by my little bed as she went over to the chest of draws she came back with a white folded object. She folded it in a certain manner and placed it on the bed, telling me to lay down on it. It was a diaper! I wanted to protest but figured that at least it would be some protection for my modesty. She said that after an enema, a boy my age should be diapered to avoid any accidents during the night. Telling me to raise and spread my legs, she powered me, making sure that my little penis and sack and bottom hole were well covered, folder the diaper and pinned it in the front. If I had been bad during my enema and acted like a baby, she would make me keep a pink pacifier in my mouth until I fell asleep.
If she was able to start the enemas early, I would be powered and diapered and in bed by 9:00. I learned the first time that protest of me being too old to go to bed at this time would be bet with a spanking.
One humiliating time, after she had diapered and put me to bed, her Preacher had come by. She had turned out the light in her bedroom, leaving it only lit by the Little Bo Peep night light. Even though it was early, I was humiliated and exhausted from my enemas, and was drifting off to sleep. I did not know she had company. The next thing I knew she was getting me out of bed and taking me downstairs. My eyes were still partly closed from the brightness of the lights in the parlor, but became wide at the sight of the big man sitting on the couch. All I had on was the low-cut diaper as stood there with her holding my arm. I started to back off, but she was strong. "Reverend, this is my grandson," she said holding me fast. It was the first of may embarrassing days to come with the preacher involved. I could feel his eyes on my bare skin, and it made me feel uneasy.
"Well, how old a child is he.. ten or so I would say? Boys that age are always a little girlish in looks." I was too shocked to say anything.
"He's twelve," my grandmother told him.
"Well, as I told you before, everything is probably all right. Some boys don't start that kind of growth until they are fifteen or so. He is a very pretty child. Come over here boy and sit next to me," he said, patting the place on the couch next to him.
Grandmother, still having me tightly by the arm led me over the couch and sat me down next to the big man, taking the place next to me. I couldn't pretend this was happening.. the humiliation of being in front of a stranger in only a diaper was almost too much to take.
"Well, child, your grandmother tells me you've just had a good cleaning out. I think that all children she be cleaned out at least weekly. Tell me are you a good boy?"
Holding my head down about as low as I could I was able to say "yes, sir."
"Did you know that all children are full of sin and must be taught the ways of the righteous?"
"No, Sir," I said.
"It is true. A child must obey his demands as well as those of the adults that are in charge of him. That is His way."
"The rod of correction must be used, and not sparingly, as a tool for a child's training in Christian morals and obedience?" he said to my Grandmother.
"Indeed I do. In fact, I had to spank him just last week when he gave me trouble during his bath. And, of course tomorrow night is his correction night"
"It is also refreshing to see that you bathe him," he said.
"Cleanliness is next to Godliness, and children his age should be
supervised by an adult when bathing to make sure they are getting
I was totally humiliated as they spoke about bathing and spanking me. I was even more scared as they continued to discuss how to discipline me. He then placed his big rough hand on my bare thigh. It was the first time a man had toughed my bare skin and felt strange and made me want to run. I wanted to wiggle away. "You must obey your Grandmother and all Christian adults. Do you understand?"
"Yes.. Sir..." I stuttered.
"Your grandmother has asked me to witness your chastisement tomorrow night to pray and advise her, and I have agreed to do so. I feel honored that she would allow me to share in the salvation of your soul."
I was horrified at all of this. It wasn't every weekend that I got a punishment night, and it showed me that I was going to get one tomorrow night. My mother most have told her some of the things I had done during the week. But this his further humiliation of having a total stranger present was almost too much to take.
"She has also asked me to aid and advise her in some physical aspects of a young boy's body that she has no knowledge. I am very skilled in pre-adolescent and adolescent physical development and health, and have helped many parents."
Taking me by the arm, my grandmother stood me up. "I need to take you upstairs and check your diaper and get you back in bed., she said as she lead me toward the stairs, the nasty after feel of the touch of his hand still on my bare thigh. I blushed, but was glad to be away from him. "Reverend, would you like to come up in a minute and help with bedtime prayers?"
"I would be honored, he replied."
Grandmother put me on the bed and undid the pin on the diaper. Spreading it wide and telling me to spread my legs, she inspected it closely. I heard the heavy footfalls in the stairs and panicked that he would walk in and see me naked with my legs spread wide. Just as they entered the room, grandmother was readjusting the pin. I could feel that he was very disappointed at not being able to see me totally naked, but also know that he would soon.
He and grandmother sat on the edge of her bed, and I was told to kneel in front of them with my head bowed and my hands folded in front of my face. Grandmother said the little bedtime prayer she always said, and I repeated it. Then the Reverend knelt down by the side of me with Bible in one hand and the other on my bare back. The feel make me sick, but I dared not move as he prayed while stroking my back up and down.
Afterward, Grandmother took me over to the little bed, and put me in it. She never gave me covers. For the first time she pulled up the little rail. I could only shut my eyes tightly as she bent down and kissed me on the forehead. Even with my eyes closed, I could feel his gaze on my diaper-clad nakedness as Grandmother turned out the light and took the Preacher into the bathroom to show him the enema equipment. I tried to pretend like I was asleep as they spoke.
My Grandmother asked him a question in a whisper that I couldn't make out. "Yes," he responded, "it is a very serious problem... the act of a child touching themselves there leads to sensations and sinful thoughts and it is very possible that he is producing some. The only way to tell for sure is to use a doctor's procedure called milking. A boy's little part will often become stiff during an enema, but you just can't tell for sure..." Their voices trailed off as they turned the light off in the bathroom and left through the hall door. I didn't know what they were talking about, but it didn't sound good. I wanted to hear more and remembered that I could hear my grandmother in the parlor through the little vent in the wall. I got up and went over to it once I was sure they were downstairs. I put my ear to the vent and, sure enough, I could hear them talking. This time about spanking.
"...The Bible is correct when it states that the ‘rod of correction' should be used. If you are afraid you are not striking them hard enough, then you need to use other measures to heighten the chastisement. I tell parents to have the child undress totally. It's the humiliation in of being naked before God and a Christian adult that adds to the total effect of the punishment. In such a way, you need not strike them hard, just long and sound. Don't be afraid to leave marks or stripes. They will go away in time and serve as a reminder." I was horrified at the discussion that was taking place.
"You see, before God chastised Adam and Eve from the garden, they were not afraid of their nakedness, but once chastised, they became ridden with shame with their nudity and tried to cover themselves. A spanking must be given in the bare. It's God's way."
Did this mean that the Preacher would see me naked tomorrow night? I didn't want to hear any more and ran back to the little bed.
I had strange dreams that night. In one I was in my grandmother's lap, naked. She had pulled down the top of her gown, exposing her huge, maternal, breasts. She held one hand on the back of my head and was making my mouth on her large nipple, telling me to "nurse and suckle on Grandmother's bosom... take Grandmother's milk..." In my dream it tasted strange and sour.
End Part One
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