My Secret Paris Diary - Part 1

Author : Michael

 

 

Introduction

What you are about to read is a diary I kept as a boy of sixteen during a ten-day trip to Paris many years ago as a guest of my Aunt Clementine, a pediatrician, eccentric and bon vivant. Some of you may have already read my account of a visit from Aunt Clem some six months prior to my trip abroad which was posted here under the title "Michael Meets La [sic] Clystere," and which will now appear as originally written, as "Auntie Clem and Le Clystere." Of course neither of this youthful efforts was intended for publication, in fact I made sure they were kept safe from prying eyes. especially those of my mother. But now that the principals - Auntie Clem, Solange, my mother - are no longer with us, and having taken the added precaution of changing the names of the other people mentioned in this account (except for Hector, the dog), I felt it safe to offer it on these pages, where it could be read and, I hope, enjoyed by some of its readers.

Michael T. Garland Cape Cod, 2001 Wednesday evening

 

 

 

 

Looking out the small round window of the airplane all I see is this blackness. Below us, 30,000 feet down, there's nothing but cold water, the Atlantic ocean. I pull down the shade and recline in my large comfortable First Class seat. Can't believe I'm actually going to Paris, France! But it's true, thanks to my Auntie Clem. I shut my eyes and imagine I'm already there.

"Filet mignon or roast squab?" came the stewardess's voice. I opened my eyes. She was tall and black-haired and she was talking to me.

"Um, roast squab, please."

I had really wanted the filet mignon, but decided it would be more sophisticated to order the squab. And when she asked if I wished red or white wine I said red because I had heard that it was O.K. to drink red wine with chicken, and squab was like baby chicken.

 

 

Later

I'm very fond of my pediatrician aunt, because although her physical examinations are pretty embarrassing to a boy my age, unlike my Mom, who continues to treat me as if I were still a little boy, she treats me as befits my age, even though I do look, and sometimes act, younger than I am. So, in spite of whatever embarrassing medical things might be in store for me in Paris, at least I will be out of the clutches of my overly protective mother for a while! The squab was tasty, if a bit difficult to carve with the tiny knife and fork, and when the plane hit a bump some wine spilled onto my lap, but otherwise I enjoyed my meal, and now, being unaccustomed to wine, I I'm about to doze off.

 

 

Thursday: In Auntie Clem's flat

Some bumpiness woke me up, and looking out the window I saw land below, and a river, and then the stewardess announced that we were beginning our descent. ;Then, out the other side, I saw the Eiffel Tower, and Paris spread out around it. It was my first trip outside the US, as well as my first plane ride, and I was as excited as a little kid.

In the airport it was very confusing, with everyone talking a strange language, and I didn't know which way to go. Then suddenly I heard my name, and there was Auntie Clem, waving to me, a broad smile on her face. She was dressed in blue pants, an orange shirt, and wore a green beret. I ran toward her and she embraced me, kissing me on each cheek and then my mouth.

"Darling! It's so wonderful to see you! You look so fine and grown up!"

I knew the last was just flattery, because it had been less than six months since she last saw me, and I knew that I still looked about thirteen, but I was glad she had said it anyway. While we got my bags and went through customs she quizzed me about what I had been doing, especially what mischief I had gotten into, and whether my mother had had occasion to use her trusty hairbrush on my "charming derriere," but she did it in such a joking way that I didn't mind being reminded of those humiliating sessions over Mom's lap.

Her car was just what I expected: a sporty little two-seater Alfa Romeo Spider.

"I hope you can squeeze into this tiny thing, dear. My Delahaye's in the shop." I had no idea what a Delahaye was so I just smiled knowingly. I threw my bags in the trunk and we took off at a dizzying speed. I was terrified by the way she drove, but I soon realized that everyone drove like madmen. She just drove a little faster than anyone else. She loves fast cars.

Soon we were in Paris itself. We crossed a bridge and drove along Boulevard St. Germain with its sidewalk cafes, mostly empty, as it was early yet, then up Boulevard St Michel and came to screeching stop near a large apartment building facing a park.

"This is it!" Auntie Clem announced. "And that's the Jardin du Luxembourg, the Luxembourg Garden, where you can walk Hector."

"Hector?"

"You'll love him. He's big but very gentle." I guessed Hector was a dog.

We crossed the vast cool lobby to the elevator, an ornate cage operated by a small man with a large mustache and a snappy uniform.

He tipped his cap to Auntie Clem and she introduced me to him.

"Enchanté," he said. The elevator was creaky but it got us there, to the top floor, a penthouse apartment which took up the entire floor.

We entered into a foyer that led to a large, high-ceilinged living room facing the park. Immediately we were greeted by a large shaggy-coated dog who jumped up on me, nearly knocking me over.

"A bas, Hector!" commanded Auntie Clem. "You see, dear? I loves you already!"

"What kind of dog is he?" I asked.

"Part griffon, part something else. He's really very sweet, just overly enthusiastic sometimes. Solange? Oh, Solange?"

"Oui, Madame, je viens," came a voice, and soon after that a woman, younger than Auntie Clem, with a very nice figure, reddish hair, brown eyes, a pointy nose, and thin lips. She had a nice bust. too.

"Michael, this is Solange, my Girl Friday. She's indispensable."

"Enchanté," I said, mimicking the elevator man as best I could. Solange extending her hand and smiled.

"Welcome to Paris," she said, with a heavy accent.

"You and Solange will be seeing a lot of each other," said Auntie Clem. "Because of course I will have to be at the clinic some of the time."

"The clinic?"

"Yes. Didn't you know? I run a clinic for poor children. It's on the other side of Paris, in a slum. I also see private patients, both in their homes and here, and I charge them plenty, but the clinic is my labor of love. Perhaps I'll take you there one day. And now, Solange will show you to your room, where you may want to lie down for a while, as I don't suppose you got much sleep on the airplane."

"Come this way, Michel," said Solange, in a tone one might use to a child. I followed her to my room, which also faced the park. It was a simple room, probably meant for a child. It had no bathroom, but on the side opposite the bed there was a sink and a thing I'd never seen before. It was like a toilet only longer and had no lid. Solange saw me looking at it.

"That's called a bidet. Women use it for washing themselves, but you can use it also. I will show you how a little later. Your toilet is across the hall, but if you just have to pee there is a chamber pot under your bed. For your baths you will use Madame's bathroom. This is an old building, you know, and does not have many modern conveniences. Now perhaps you will like to lie down, yes?"

"Yes, thank you, Solange."

" Dormez bien. Sleep well" She left, her heels clicking on the floor. I was just loosening my belt when she returned carrying a ring of keys.

"Here is for the front door, the big one. And these two are to the flat This is for the upper lock, it turns to the left to open, and this is for the lower lock, it turns to the right. O.K.? A bientot, then. See you later."

I loosed my clothing and lay down. Soon I was fast asleep. When I awoke, I found a note had been slipped under the door. It read:

"Michael darling, Solange has gone shopping and I'm off to the clinic. We'll both be back by lunch time. Love, Auntie C." Beneath it was a little heart.

Safely alone, I got back in bed and did what any boy my age would do who had been left safely alone for a while. My first time on foreign soil! When I was finished I washed my handkerchief in the sink and draped it over the towel rack. Then I went out to explore the apartment.

I went first to my Auntie's room, where I found Hector. The dog roused himself and greeted me like an old friend. I patted him and told him in English that he was a good dog. Auntie Clem's room was very large, and faced the park also. I wasted little time there, though, as it was the bathroom I wanted to check out.

The tub was huge, and rested on claw feet, and had a shower attachment. There was a regular toilet, and also a bidet like the one in my room only with fancier fixtures. But it was another sort of hose and attachment I was looking for. I checked behind the door and there it was, the red rubber Davol open-top fountain syringe, with the long red hose and the black curved vaginal nozzle at the end. I checked the medicine cabinet next. A jar of Vaseline was the only object of interest. I was disappointed in my search. Then I remembered about the private patients. Where did she minister to them? Was there a special room somewhere?

I went down a hallway towards another room that obviously faced the park. It was the counterpart to my room, and I assumed it was Solange's, so I didn't go in. Instead I went back to the foyer. Where was the kitchen? Was there a dining room? I found them both, the kitchen small and windowless, the dining room bigger, with windows facing an interior court.

Another door led to a linen closet, another to a storage room, but with the third, which was right off the foyer as one came in, I hit pay dirt.

It was between the kitchen and the dining room in size. In the center was what was obviously the examination table, complete with straps and stirrups. There was a sink on one side, and cabinets on either side. The windows had been painted over, so no one could look in. I guessed it had perhaps been a library or conservatory, and that Auntie C. had decided it would make a good examination room because her patients could reach it without actually entering the flat. I decided to do a little exploring

On shelves near the sink were enamel and stainless steel canisters with tubing attached. Looped over wall pegs were rubber tubes of various thicknesses and lengths, some ending in a blunt tip with a hole at the side, others with an open tip. There was also an in-line pump, with which I was very familiar.

In the back were bulb syringes of different sizes, with various sorts of nozzles. Seeing them caused strange sensations in my stomach and elsewhere. In one drawer there were nozzles of all shapes and sizes, some quite formidable. In another were various kinds of instruments which could only be for peering inside bodily orifices. One of them, long and not at all friendly looking, I recognized as a sigmoidoscope similar to the one Auntie Clem had inserted to the hilt into my rectum on a memorable occasion in the not-too-distant past.

I was examining these instruments of pleasurable pain or painful pleasure with great interest when suddenly I knew I was not alone. I turned around and there was Solange, arms folded, a cold smile on her face.

"So," she said, "are you finding things of interest in here?"

"I thought you had gone shopping," I foolishly blurted out.

"Evidement," she said, using a word that needed no translation.

"I guess this is the room Auntie Clem uses for her patients," I said lamely.

"How clever of you to figure it out figure that out, Mister Sherlock Holmes!" said Solange with a smile that was not necessarily a smile.

Since I had no reply to that, she continued. "Yes, this is where she examines her young patients, the paying ones, not the charity ones.

As you have discovered, it is well-equipped. I am sure you are familiar with some of those implements from first-hand experience, no? Others maybe are strange to you. But who knows, perhaps before your visit is over your curiosity as to their use will have been satisfied."

And with that she smiled with satisfaction at her little speech, then turned and left, leaving me standing here feeling very foolish indeed.

Lunch was simple but good: a mushroom omelet and a green salad, accompanied by white wine, and for dessert a flan. Auntie Clem and Solange lapsed in and out of French, and when Auntie Clem asked me what I had done in the morning I blushed and said, "Nothing much."

I wondered whether Solange had told her about my snooping. I rather suspected she had not, that she would keep this knowledge to herself, and extract her pound of flesh from me at some later time. She was very cordial to me during lunch, but I felt that she resented my presence just a bit. I was beginning to see that the relationship between the two women was more than that between maid and mistress. I recalled Mom once saying, "Clementine should have been a man." I assumed at the time that she was referring to Auntie Clem's love of doing "masculine" things like driving fast cars, flying airplanes, playing polo, and smoking cigars. It occurred to me now, watching them chat together, that she may have meant something else.

As I rolled my napkin and slipped it into the napkin ring that would be mine for the duration of my visit I could not suppress a yawn.

"I know you'd like to take a nap, dear, but it's better if you stay awake. The sooner you adjust to Paris time the better. I want to wear you out so you'll sleep well tonight Tomorrow morning I have scheduled you for a physical exam, at the request of your mother. Solange will prepare you for it this evening after supper, which will be very light. It is important not to overeat at first, and to keep your bowels open."

I blushed again on hearing this, partly because it was the sort of statement Mom would never have made, specially at the table, and partly because I suspected what was in store for me. Mom and Auntie Clem see eye to eye when it comes to the importance of "keeping the bowels open", as well as to the means for doing so. I looked at Solange. She was smiling that enigmatic smile of hers.

"How about going for a walk!" Auntie Clem said enthusiastically. I said I would love to, if I didn't fall asleep while walking. I was eager to see Paris, of course, and Hector, who appeared suddenly to be bilingual, perked up his ears at the word "walk." Solange declined, however, so it was just aunt and nephew and dog who stepped out onto the streets of Paris. I was wearing chinos and a knit cotton polo shirt and sneakers, as it had warmed up considerably.

For me, everything was new and fascinating. The French looked so different from Americans. Struggling as I was to come up with some of my high school French, it amazed me to hear small children babble away fluently in this strange tongue. I saw old men in blue pants and black berets, women in black dresses, and boys, even some my age, in tiny blue short pants. Everything was different, even the cars, which were small and funny-looking.

We walked down Boulevard St. Michel (Auntie Clem pointed out that it was called after my namesake saint, St. Michael ), turned left onto Blvd. St. Germain, with its famous sidewalk cafes, then across a bridge onto an island where there was the biggest church I had ever seen, called Notre Dame, or Our Lady. Then we crossed another bridge to the Right Bank and walked past the Louvre, the main museum of Paris, which Auntie Clem said she would take me to one day, and when we got to the Tuileries Garden we sat down on a bench near a pond where some little kids were sailing their toy boats.

Scratching Hector behind the ears I asked Auntie Clem how long Solange had been with her. She said for sixteen years.

"She was nineteen when she came to me. She grew up in an orphanage, and later became a nurse to the children there. She has had a lot of experience with children, mostly boys."

"Why mostly boys?"

"There always seem to be more boy orphans than girl orphans, I don't know why."

I didn't care. I'd only asked the question to stall, because I was screwing up courage to ask the question that had been on my mind for the past hour or so. Finally I took the plunge.

"How is she going to prepare me for my exam?"

"Well, sweetie, you remember how it was last time, don't you?"

Did I ever! Auntie Clem had given me this huge enema with a special thing she called a clyster pump that she had brought back from France, but not before Mom, true to form, had given me a very hard and totally embarrassing spanking in front of her!

"So, she's going to give me a clystere, then, right?" I asked quietly, staring at the children sailing their little boats and hearing that loaded word hang in the Parisian air.

"You got it, kiddo."

I continued stroking Hector. I was thinking: "I came all the way to Paris to escape my mother's enemas, and now I'm going to get one from a complete stranger."

She must have read my thoughts, because she said, "I know, sweetie, it's embarrassing to be given such an intimate treatment by someone you don't know, but Solange won't be a stranger to you for long. She may seem a bit cold at first, but that's just her way. Her bark is worse than her bite. And she gives nice enemas, provided you cooperate with her. As I said, she has had lots of experience with children."

"But Auntie Clem, I'm sixteen!"

"I know, dear, but to her you're still a child. And let's face it - you don't really look sixteen. "

"I know," said I sadly.

"Don't worry, your body will catch up with your years soon enough."

"Yes, but meanwhile..."

"Meanwhile you just have to accept the fact that people will treat you according to how old you look, never mind your actual age."

"But you don't."

"That's because I know you."

"Well, Mom knows me, and she doesn't."

"Ah, that's because she doesn't want you to grow up. She wants you to stay a boy forever."

"Like Peter Pan."

"Exactly."

"But why?"

"Because she's afraid you will become a wild teenager. She wants to maintain control over you."

"With her hairbrush."

"That's the only way she knows. She was worried about your coming here. That's why she made me promise that Solange would have the right to spank you if she thought you needed it."

"She did? She made you promise that?"

"I'm afraid so. But don't worry---Solange isn't going to spank you, unless of course you do something so stupid she has no choice."

"What else did my other make you promise?" asked I suspiciously.

" Only that we continue your enema regime."

"My enema regime?"

"Yes, dear, your Mom is afraid that French food will upset your tummy."

" But that's absurd! Does it upset the tummies of sixteen-year-old French boys?"

"They are used it it, dear, you're not."

"So how often am I supposed to have them?"

"That's up to Solange."

"Solange! Not you?"

"Solange is responsible for your health and hygiene, dear. It was your Mom's request."

"Does she know Solange?"

"She's never met her, but she knows a good deal about her, through me. And she trusts her." "I wish you were the one who would give them to me."

"So do I, dear. I love giving you enemas. But I don't always have time, and besides, I think you'll find Solange is very good at what she does. She's---"

"I know, Auntie Clem, she's had lots of experience practicing on those orphan boys!"

We both had a good laugh at this. I decided there was no point in worrying, that I would just have to accept whatever Solange might have in store for me.

I realized I had been watching a little boy sailing his boat. He would lie on his tummy on the rim of the pond and poke the boat around with a little stick. I hadn't been aware that I was watching him until suddenly he started bawling. It seems his boat had sailed out of reach of his stick.

"Mon bateau!" he wailed. "Mon bateau!" But a kindly park attendant, a fat little man with an enormous mustache, seeing the little boy's distress, came with a net on the end of a very long pole and fished out his boat, to the relief of the boy. Auntie Clem, following my gaze, joined me in watching the little drama.

"If only all of life's problems were as easily solved," she said, glancing at her watch. Then she said we'd better be going as we had a ways to go.

We walked for miles, it seemed, to wear me out so I would sleep through the night and be on Paris time in the morning, and when we finally got back to the flat we were pretty pooped, even Hector, so when Solange told her she had a visitor she made a wry face, but when she heard who it was her face brightened.

"Ah, Beryl!" she exclaimed, rushing toward a rather plump lady with a lorgnette. "So good to see you! I've just been for a long stroll with my nephew from the States. Michael, this is Beryl Coudrey, an old friend from my days as a schoolgirl in England."

I shook hands with the lady, bowing slightly in a manner I hoped appeared suavely European. If she had offered her hand I would have kissed it.

"What a charming boy! Clementine, you've been holding out on me."

"I want him all to myself, Bunny, so don't get any ideas. Besides, he can be quite naughty at times, his mother tells me. Isn't that right, Michael?"

"She thinks so," I said, managing a smile. "She can't accept fact that I'm growing up."

"And how old are you?"

"I'm sixteen."

"Sixteen!" exclaimed Mrs. Coudrey, who obviously thought I was younger.

"Well, just," I said.

"And not too old to be spanked," added Auntie C.

"Auntie Clem!"

"Well, it's true, isn't it?"

"Yes, but---"

"And why would God have given little boys bottoms except for them to be spanked," put in Mrs Coudrey.

"But I'm not---"

"I know, you're not be a little boy anymore, dear," said Auntie Clem, but you've still got a little boy's behind, and your mother's just making up for lost time."

"Lost time?" asked Mrs. Coudrey.

"She didn't start spanking him until he was thirteen."

"Why ever not?"

"I don't know. Perhaps it never occurred to her to do it.."

"How very odd." What made her change her mind?"

"A friend persuaded her to try it---he was getting into trouble a lot--- and then once she started spanking him she discovered what she had been missing all those years!"

"I'm sure she did," said Mrs Coundrey, turning towards me. "I raised three boys and two girls, and they all got spanked until they were well into their teens. My late husband Reggie caned the boys because that's the way it was done at his school, but I never liked the cane myself. Too cold, somehow. I like having a bottom over my lap for a nice warm spanking with my hand or maybe a slipper. A hairbrush in extreme cases."

The conversation continued along these lines for some time, with me sitting uneasily on the part of my anatomy that was under discussion. When the topic had been exhausted, Mrs. Coudrey tasked me how I had enjoyed the plane trip.

"It was boring," I answered truthfully, "there was nothing to see and it was hard to sleep."

"He could use a good night's sleep," said Auntie C.

"Yes, and perhaps un petit quelque chose to assure a good night's sleep?" said her friend with a wink. Auntie C. nodded her head, and then they lapsed into French, and although I was sure they were talking about me, my French wasn't good enough to get more than the general drift. I knew what lavement and clystere meant because I had looked up "enema" in the big French dictionary at school, and of course I had been introduced to the clystere on her last visit, but since they are foreign words they lack the emotional force of the English word.

I was glad they were speaking French, so I didn't have to hear the word "enema," which for me it conjured up such conflicting feelings of shame, embarrassment, and forbidden pleasure that when I heard it used in public it was like people were looking right into me and reading my secret thoughts and feelings. And as a matter of fact it's a word you don't hear or even read very often, as if there's something shameful about it.

My Mom, on the other hand, goes out of her way to use it, especially when it applied to me. She might be talking on the telephone, and casually say, "Well, I have to go now, Michael's waiting for his enema." Or if a friend drops by when I have a cold and asks about me she'll say, "Oh he's feeling much better now, after his enema, aren't you, dear?" And the friend will say, looking at me, "Yes, there's nothing like an good enema to when is a child is under the weather." And so on. It's always a "good" enema. And I'll never forget the time we traveling somewhere and I missed a b.m. and she took me to a drugstore and said in a loud voice "Where do you keep the enema bags?" There were several people in the store and they all turned to look at us, and specially at me. Whenever she uses that word to outsiders in my presence I long for the ground to open up and swallow me.

After "Bunny" left I retired here to my room and read my French phrase book that seemed to tell me how to say all sorts of things I would never need to say, like "Please do not put starch in my shirts", and nothing useful, like what to say to a girl in French. Then I wrote in this diary, but I have to stop because it's supper time.

 

 

Thursday continued

4 a.m. Can't sleep, so I'll finish my account of yesterday. After supper - chicken soup and bread, with a glass of red wine - I heard Auntie Clem talking to Solange in the kitchen, and I caught the word "Michel" which I had thought was a girl's name but then realized it could also be "Michael" in French, and then her voice dropped and I didn't catch another word, but I knew she was giving Solange instructions that involved me.

Sure enough, her next words to me were, "Michael love, Solange has offered to give you a nice hot bath to relax you, and then a little enema to help you sleep."

There it was, that word again. I had used it in the park talking alone to Auntie Clem, referring to a possible future happening, but now it was uttered in the presence of Solange, and referred to something that was about to happen to me. The word seemed to hang in the air long after the others had faded.

I tried to maintain my poise as the sophisticated Parisian.

"Actually, Auntie Clem," my bowels are working just fine, so I don't think---"

"I always take an enema both before and after a plane trip, and it helps me get over jet lag and adjust to a new place and time. I think you'll find it helpful also. Besides, as you remember I'm going to give you your physical tomorrow, and you must be clean for that, inside and out. This will be just a small one; Solange will give you the bigger one tomorrow morning. So be a good boy and get ready for your bath now---do you have a robe? Good---Solange will run it for you. Now scoot."

So, the matter was settled. I was to have not just one but two enemas, and both were to be given by Solange.

Back in my room, as I was undressing, I felt a little tingle of excitement mingled with dread of what lay ahead. When I was naked I looked at myself in the mirror, turning this way and that, and I had to admit that I didn't look anywhere near sixteen.

While my pubic hairs are no longer countable, my little bush is still kind of sparse, and though my penis is in proportion to my overall size, like the rest of me it's small for my age. And although my voice changed a year ago, instead of becoming a baritone or a bass I am now a tenor, and not a very secure one at that, for excitement or distress can cause it to rise into the treble range again! And except for my pubic hair, and some hairs in my armpits, and of course my head, my body is smooth and nearly hairless. Oh, there are tiny golden hairs on my lower arms and my calves, and a suggestion of fuzz on my upper lip, but I have absolutely no need for a razor.

I turned sideways to look at that part of my anatomy which was the focus of so much attention, i.e. my behind, and which, I have to admit, is next to my face maybe the most noticeable part of my body, being quite full and stick-out, without being in any way fat. It's the sort of behind which when I bend over to pick up a tennis ball, say, my underpants get caught between my cheeks, and my shirt catches on the "shelf" it forms. Mom often refers to it as "your saucy bottom." I've often wondered bow a part of one's body could be "saucy."

My dictionary said it meant "impertinently bold and impudent," which seemed to refer to a person, not a thing. She must mean that because it sticks out it calls attention to itself in a provocative way. It definitely is the sort of bottom that people like to pat or give a playful spank to, especially if I'm bending over, in which case it it is always referred to as "a tempting target." I guess some behinds are more "tempting" than others, and mine is one of them.

Having finished my self-examination, I put on the flimsy little bathrobe I had outgrown but which Mom insisted I take, and for which I was grateful at the moment, and walked down the hall to Auntie Clem's bathroom, carrying my towel. I found Solange there, adjusting the temperature of the water.

"There you are, mon petit, all ready for you. If it is too hot just add some cold water."

I thanked her, waiting for her to leave, but she didn't.

"Here," she said, "hand me your robe."

I felt myself coloring, but tried to act suave, as if I were in Japan, where, I had read, there were women bath attendants. Perhaps it was true in France too. After all, Auntie Clem did say Solange was going to give me my bath. So, wanting to appear like the sophisticated world traveler I wasn't, I undid the belt and slipped the robe from my shoulders, turning around as I did so. Better that she see my backside than my front. As she whisked the robe off of me I stepped quickly into the tub and sat down.

I thanked her again, and this time she did leave, smiling much as a mother would at a child who is being a bit silly, and closing the door behind her.

Alone, I stretched out and felt the warm water envelope me. I lay there for a long time, luxuriating in the sensation of soothing warmth. I was on the point of drifting off to sleep when there came a knock on the door. It opened before I had a chance to reply. It was, of course, Solange. I quickly sat up.

"I didn't hear any splashing about, and thought you might have fallen asleep. Then I remembered madame said your maman bathed you still, and so I came back, thinking perhaps you were waiting for me."

"Oh, I was just soaking," said I, ordering my semi-erect penis to shrink, "and I'm quite capable of bathing myself, thank you." My reply sounded snotty to me, but I hoped it wouldn't to Solange.

"If so, you are an exception, for it has been my experience that boys are quite careless in bathing themselves. But I will give you the benefit of the doubt. Let me see you do it yourself." And she sat down on a low stool.

I sighed. I knew she was just having a bit of fun at my expense. I soaped the washrag and began washing myself--- face, neck arms, chest and stomach.

"You see?" I said attempting a smile. "I really can do it."

"You forgot behind your ears. Boys always do. Here. Give me the cloth." And she soaped the cloth and scrubbed behind my ears. "And I may as well do your back while I am at it, since you can't reach back there anyway. " She scrubbed the back of my neck, then more gently did my back

"Now stand up so I can do your behind."

"I think I can reach that part myself," I said, a bit insolently.

"Perhaps, but in my experience boys don't wash their behinds properly, and in this household we don't like dirty behinds. Stand up, please."

Remembering that she had spanking privileges, and realizing that my behind was quite vulnerable just then, I decided not to contest the matter. Grasping the edges of the tub I stood up, quickly covering myself in front and clenching my bottom cheeks. She tapped me on one cheek with the back of her hand. "Do not tighten. I cannot wash you back there if you tighten."

Obediently I relaxed my bottom and suffered the indignity of having Solange wash not just the fleshy globes themselves, which she did with loving care, but the inner slopes as well, and the crevice beep between them, soaping and scrubbing my most private place. She even twisted the washcloth into a point and inserted it an inch or so up my bum. I felt my cock stiffen under my hands.

Just then Auntie Clem appeared in the doorway, a big smile on her face. My expression, I knew, was more of pain than joy.

"Why the sad face? Most boys would consider themselves lucky to be bathed by a pretty young woman." Her eyes went to my crotch.

"Perhaps your eyes don't tell the whole story," she said with a knowing smile. I smiled back, and as Solange was quite occupied with my posterior I felt it was safe to quickly open and close my hands, affording Auntie Clem a glimpse of why I was in distress. She positively guffawed, and I got the giggles too, so that Solange gave me a smack on the bottom and told me to hold still.

"Well, I'll leave you two," said Auntie Clem, "But I'll be in to see you later, Michael." And she left.

"There!" said Solange. "Clean as the whistle! Now you can sit down and I will wash your toes, another part boys neglect."

She not only washed between each toe, she washed my feet, then my calves, then behind my knees ("another spot boys miss"), and my thighs.

"I will leave you to finish up, but if I find you have not done a good job I will return with a stiff brush and scrub you all over until you are as red as a boiled langouste." She smiled, and I had the impression this was a line she had used on many a small boy at the orphanage. She handed me the rag and left, closing the door behind her. Immediately she opened it again and popped her head in.

"When you are finished, come back to your room. I will be waiting for you there."

I didn't have to ask her why. Although her parting words had an ominous ring, I was relieved to learn that it I would be given my enema in my own bed and not in Auntie Clem's bathroom, or worse yet, the examination room. An enema given in bed would be more informal and friendly than one given in the clinical atmosphere of that little room where Solange had caught me snooping. I was anticipating my first enema on foreign soil with mixed feelings: on the one hand, I had all the stomach butterflies that always preceded an enema, but on the other hand it occurred to me that a little bedtime enema might be not so bad after all.

On the off-chance that Solange's promise to scrub me down with a stiff brush was not just an idle threat I washed my privates very thoroughly, peeling back my foreskin and washing underneath, which I sometimes forget to do.

Then I got out of the tub and dried myself before putting on my flimsy little robe and walking back to my room.

There I found Solange making her final preparations. My eyes took in a basin of milky water, a red rubber tube with an in-line pump, what the English call a Higginson pump, a nozzle, longer and more pear shaped than ours at home, and the usual accessories: a jar of Vaseline, opened, a rubber glove, a roll of toilet paper, a small towel. On the bed was a rubber sheet, and in the center a pillow had been placed. A towel was draped over it.

"Are you nice and clean in your private area?" asked Solange.

"Clean as the whistle," I said, mimicking her use of the definite article. "I will believe you, this time. Now please remove your robe and lie down with your hips on the pillow and facing away, with your legs bent. I believe you have been asked to assume this position before."

I said I had , and placing my robe on a chair I crawled naked onto the bed and assumed the enema position. I showed her I needed so further instruction by by flexing my upper leg more than my lower, and sticking out my bottom. I closed my eyes and entered the world of childhood.

"I see you have been well taught," said Solange. I didn't answer. I heard the snapping noise of her donning I rubber glove, and felt the mattress sag as she sat on the edge of the bed.

"You have a very pretty behind for a boy. Many girls would be jealous."

I didn't know what to say to this, but as it turned out I didn't need to respond at all, because she said, "Of course it's not your doing, just an act of Mother Nature." Then she got down to business.

"Now I am going to discover if you are impacted, as you have not had a bowel movement since leaving America. Relax and push and it will be easy for you." And so saying she lifted my upper cheek so that I felt the cool air on my anus, then her Vaselined gloved finger swirling around my entrance, then poking in with a corkscrew motion.

"Now I'm going higher," she explained, and I pushed back obediently as I felt her finger thrust into my rectum, causing my penis to stiffen. Though it was embarrassing to have this woman who I had only just met perform such an intimate act, I found myself getting aroused by her probing finger. I pushed my bottom back, and uttered a little groan.

"You are liking this, no?"

"No... I mean yes."

"I thought so. Boys usually do, though most of them do not admit it. They think it is not manly to like such a thing. You like enemas too, no?"

"Sometimes. It depends. They can be nice, but they can also be horrible."

"This one will be very nice. It will be just a small one, to clean out your lower bowel. Tomorrow we will go higher. That will require some greater amount of water to be injected. But this one will be easy for you." And she withdraw her finger, causing me mixed feelings: I was sorry her digital massage was over, but glad she had stopped before I had an "accident."

Her finger was replaced by the black nozzle. I felt her open my cheeks with her thumb, and then the nozzle poking against my pucker. It felt bigger than what I am used to, but it went in easily, and when the thickest part passed, the rest slipped in of its own accord, due to the shape. Now it was securely lodged in my bottom, and felt very nice, I have to admit.

"Ready?"

"Mmmm."

"Then here we go. " And I felt the warm water enter me as she squeezed the bulb. I was back in the nursery, a little boy again. As she gently pumped the warm water into me I tasted again that bitter-sweet sensation of of submitting to the will of a woman, of being in her power, under her thumb, of surrendering all control to her. No matter how difficult an enema might get later on, there was always that delicious feeling that overcame me in its first stages. I liked knowing the water was not just running from a can or bag but was being pumped into me by the squeeze of Solange's hand. That made it more personal. Her fingers would close around the bulb, then squeeze it gently, sending the warm water into me. It was almost like being fed as an infant.

"How are you enjoying your first enema in Paris?"

That broke the spell and brought me back to the present time. I was not two, or six, and in my nursery. I was sixteen, and I was in Paris. Also, her question needed an answer.

"O.K. so far, thanks."

"We are not going to fill you very full tonight," she said for the second time. "We will save that for tomorrow morning's enema, which will clean you higher to prepare you for madame's examination."

I could not understand why I had to be cleaned any higher than her finger might reach, but decided I didn't want to know why just now, so I relaxed and enjoyed the feeling of the warm water willing me up.

"There, that's enough for tonight," said Solange, and I was almost disappointed when took the nozzle out of me and wiped me off.

She didn't make me hold the enema, as I always had to do back home, nor did she massage my tummy. She just handed me my little robe and sent me to the water closet across the hall to expel the enema while she cleaned and put away the equipment, probably in the examination room.

I was still seated when she returned to check on me. She stood in the doorway of the tiny W.C. with her arms folded and asked how I was doing.

"Fine," said I. "I think I'm done."

"You'd better be sure. We don't you to leak onto the sheets, you know. Perhaps we'd better take preventive measures. Meanwhile, if you think you are drained you may put on your pajama top and pop into bed, but leave your bottoms off. And don't flush the toilet, I want to see what was inside you." And she was gone, leaving me to wonder what she meant by "preventive measures."

When I was finished I wiped myself and dashed across the hall to my room without bothering with my robe (who would see me anyway? Hector?) and put on my pajama top and got into bed to wait for Solange.

I noticed that my handkerchief, the one I had used to j.o. into and which I had draped over the towel rack to dry had been carefully folded and placed on my nightstand. I wondered if she had guessed what I had used it for. Probably, since she must have found many "stiff" handkerchiefs at the orphanage.

When she returned she was bearing an object that looked very much like one of Mom's Tampaxes. Evidently this was the "protective measure" to which she had alluded. Mom sometimes diapered me after an enema, especially if I was sick but sometimes just because it was one more way of showing who was boss and of keeping me a child under her control. But she had never used a Tampax. I told Solange this.

"Then it will be just one more new experience for you to tell your friends about when you go home," she said, laughing at her little witticism. "But before I insert this I want to give you something that will help you sleep."

"I don't think I need anything to help me sleep," I said, "I'm about to doze off right now. Enemas do that to me."

I should have known better than to question anything Solange decided was indicated.

"Yes, I know enemas are very relaxing, and that you may be sleepy now. However, your inner clock has not yet adjusted to Paris time. It is important that you sleep right through the night, and that you awaken, refreshed, at, perhaps eight o/clock. To insure this I am going to administer this small suppository. Turn onto your side, please."

Sleepily I obeyed. She took the small suppository out of its little envelope and sat down on my bed.

"Push your bottom out towards me more," she said. "That suffices." Parting my bottom cheeks with her left hand she poked the little cone into my hole, then pushed it up as far as her long, bony finger could reach, causing me strange and exciting sensations. She held her finger there holding it there for a minute or two before withdrawing it

"There. By the time it melts you will probably be drifting off to sleep." I didn't say that I probably would be drifting off to sleep even without the little thing melting inside me.

"And now for this little sausage," she said, once more parting my cheeks. I felt something cold and slippery, not greasy like Vaseline. I recognized it from my last physical as KY jelly, or the French equivalent. The Tampax was thicker than a nozzle, of course, and not as smooth; nevertheless, Solange managed to work it into me so that it passed my pucker and she stuffed it all the way in so that only the little string dangled outside.

"This way any water will be absorbed, and in the morning we will extract it. Now lift your legs and we will put on your bottoms."

When she had helped me into my pajama pants and tied the cord she tucked me in. Then she sat down on my bed beside me. I wondered for a brief moment whether she was going to ask me to say my prayers. But no.

"Your mother says in her note to me that you need regular enemas to keep your bowels open."

She was sitting on my bed looking down at me lying there the way Moms do to their little children. It made me feel very small.

"Um well, that's what she thinks," I said.

"Ah, but don't mothers know best? Don't you say that in English too? Yes? Then it must be truth, no? And if your mama says you need often enemas then you must need often enemas."

I had no answer to that.

"And how do you take your enemas?"

I didn't understand the question.

"You mean in what position?"

"No, no, mon cher, I mean do you take them without a fuss or do you make trouble for yourself and others?"

I told her I used to make a fuss but I don't anymore.

"Ah, so. You discovered that you would get the enema anyway, and that fussing only earned you a spanking, Is that it? I thought so. So you have learned that it is better to take your enemas without a fuss. Good. We shall get along fine, you and me, for I am the one who will be giving you your enemas, while you are here."

She mussed my hair as if I were ten years old.

"I have given many many enemas to young boys and to young girls too, and if they do not make a fuss then all is well, but if they make a fuss then I must take measures they do not like, and their enemas are not nice at all. As I used to say to my children, you may have your enema avec une derriere blanc ou avec une derriere rouge. Tu comprends?"

"Oui, Solange. Je comprend."

"Bien." And she tucked the covers up to my chin and gave me a little peck on the cheek."

"Dorme bien, mon petit. I will tell your Auntie you are put to bed." And she left.

A few minutes later Auntie Clem appeared. She sat down on my bed and smoothed my hair.

"Are you feeling a bit better now?" she asked.

"I was feeling fine before, " I said with a smile, "but yes, I'm feeling even better now." "Solange gives very nice enemas, if she likes the patient."

"I guess that means she likes me, so far, anyway."

"Yes. Keep on her good side and all will be well. Cross her, and, well, don't cross her. She is set in her ways. I am told orphans are like that. They like routine. Change upsets them. Also, try to remember that to her all patients are children. If you remember that, you'll get along fine, you two."

With that she kissed me good-night, wished me sweet dreams, mussed my hair again and started to rise from the bed, but changed her mind.

"Oh, one more thing. I'll be wanting a sperm sample tomorrow, so try to refraining from beating off tonight. Use that hanky for your nose and nothing else. I know that's a tall order for an adolescent boy, but it's important. Will you do that for me?"

"Of course, Auntie Clem," I said, blushing furiously.

"Good boy." And with that little bombshell she gave me another peck and left, closing the door behind her. I turned onto my side, gave my pucker muscle a twitch to flake sure the Tampax was still inside me, and soon, whether because of my sleepless night on the airplane, the excitement of my first day in Paris, the nice soothing enema, or Solange's little suppository, or perhaps a combination of all of them, I soon drifted off into a deep and dreamless sleep.

But then I woke up an hour ago, at 4 a.m. feeling wide awake, so I got my diary and brought it up to date. It's now after 5, and I'm sleepy again.

 

 

Saturday:

Yesterday was a long day and I didn't have a chance to write in this until this morning. After writing in the wee hours of yesterday morning I went back to sleep and was very groggy when Solange came in to wake me.

"Bonjour, Michel," she said, "you have slept well?"

It took me a few seconds to remember where I was, but there was Solange, drawing back the curtains to let in the morning Parisian sun, and gradually it all came back.

"Time to wake up, bon petit, we have things to do. "

Things to do? Oh, yes, I was to have a physical. This meant another enema. A bigger one. "But first, we must get that little thing out of your behind. Turn on your side, please."

Still only half awake, I turned on my side and closed my eyes. I felt Solange undo the cord of my pajamas and slip them down over my hips, exposing my bare bottom to the cool morning air. Then she gave a little tug on the string that dangled out of my bottom. Nothing happened. She pulled harder. Still nothing.

"Push, like you're going potty." I pushed and Solange pulled, but the thing wouldn't come out. It was stuck!

"Merde! Get out of bed and come with me."

I stumbled out of bed and followed Solange, holding up my pants with one hand and holding onto her with the other. She led me down the hall and into the little examination room where she had caught me snooping the day before.

"Step out of your pants and onto the table, on your back," she ordered. Fumbling, I obeyed.

"Feet in the stirrups," she ordered, "and slide down toward me."

I felt my knees being bent up toward my chest, and my buttocks being stretched open, exposing my hole. Next I heard the snap of the rubber glove being donned, and then the lubricated finger. I felt a gob of Vaseline being pushed into me, felt her finger working to dilate my anus.

"Now I want you to push very hard. We must get this damn thing out of you."

I pushed and Solange worked her finger inside me and pulled, and at last it started to come out, stretching my hole.

"Push hard!" said Solange, "It's coming!"

I pushed and she pulled, and bit by bit the thing came out. She held it up, and I saw that it had swollen to twice the size it had been when she had inserted it the night before.

"You had some enema water in you and it leaked onto it, engorging it. Well, better it than the bed." She wiped her brow and smiled.

"Now you have some idea of what it's like giving birth to a baby!"

"I'm glad that's one thing I'll never have to do."

Solange laughed and tweaked my nose. Obviously she had been very worried about what Auntie C. would say if she hadn't gotten the thing out of me, because clearly she was very relieved.

"I would have used a diaper, but we are out of them. I will get some today. I thought this would work as well. I was wrong. You may go use the toilet if you wish before we start your enema."

I climbed down from the table and looked around for the toilet.

"The commode is over there," said Solange, pointing to a straight-backed chair with a lid, a toilet seat, and some sort of container underneath. Feeling very exposed, I sat on the commode, but was unable to do anything except pee, which I did noisily. I wanted to go back to bed, but I knew that was out of the question, so I just sat there, uneasily watching her prepare my fate. I knew this enema was not going to be as nice as the one last night. She reached up onto a high shelf and took down a large enamel can with a handle and a small spout at the bottom. Then from a hook she took a long red tube and attached it to the spout. Next she took a black nozzle from a drawer and attached it to the end of the hose. So far, none of this was new to me. But then she took another thing from a drawer that I had never seen before. It was a length of tubing with two fluted bulges, quite near each other. At the other end of the tube were two thinner tubes a few inches long. She attached two black rubber bulbs to the end of these little tubes. Then she squeezed one bulb, and the fluted thing swelled up to the size of a golf ball, maybe even bigger. She did the same thing with the other. Then she deflated both of them.

My heart was pounding, for I realized that at least one of those balloons was going to be inside me, pumped up. My mouth was dry with apprehension.

"Are you doing anything over there?" Solange had shot me a glance and seen I was watching her.

"No, I can't do anything."

"Then come over here and I'll show you something."

Uneasily I got up and went over to where she was, my hands covering my privates.

"Why are your hands there? Are you hiding something? Have you been doing something naughty?"

"No."

"Then take them away, you silly boy. I know what you've got between your legs. Your will have no secrets from me."

Blushing, I removed my hands, revealing a semi-erect penis. Solange looked at it, smiling knowingly.

"Boys."

Just one short word, but she put a lot of meaning into it, like "disgusting, dirty-minded little creatures" and the like. I think it's really unfair of God to have made boys so their sexual feelings are on public display, while girls can have all the sexual feelings they want and no one knows, unless they look at their nipples, which are supposed to get stiff.

"I don't suppose you've had this used on you before, have you," said Solange, holding up the strange-looking nozzle.

"No," said I, thinking I didn't want to, either.

"Let me explain how it works, then. The tip is inserted in your bottom and the first balloon also. The other balloon is outside. Then I inflate both balloons, the inner one first. and they both press against your anus, one inside, the other out. This way, no enema can leak out, so you can relax and not worry about trying to hold it in when you're feeling full. Understand?"

I did. I also understood that I would have no control over how much water was injected. I would be totally at her mercy. But I kept this to myself.

"Good. Now we fill this canister with warm water and add just a bit of soap."

I watched as she adjusted the water temperature from the tap, testing it with her wrist until it felt just right, filled the can almost to the brim, shaved some soap off a bar with a kitchen knife, and stirred her witch's' brew with a wooden stick.

"Next we check the temperature, so. Bien. Forty-one degrees."

Forty-one! Practically ice water! Then I remembered: they're on Centigrade.

"What's that in Fahrenheit?"

"I don't know exactly. Maybe a hundred and five degrees. Nice and warm but not too hot. And now, if you will get onto the table on your left side with your bottom toward the edge, we will begin your enema or lavage, as we say in French."

Feeling like a condemned man getting into position for the guillotine I assumed the submissive position and awaited the inevitable penetration of my posterior. This was always the time when butterflies in my stomach competed with little electrical tinglings in other parts of my body as I waited for the first touch of finger or nozzle on my most secret spot, now on public display. My heart was beating fast in anticipation.

I heard Solange move the I.V. stand into position and attach the can to it. She draped the double balloon nozzle over my hip and went to get something else, Vaseline probably. No, not Vaseline. Her hand obscured all of the tube except the cap. When she squeezed the tube, a transparent, thick, jellyish blob came out. I asked what it was.

"Kah Eegrek."

Huh? It was Greek to me. Then I remembered: "i greq" was French for "y". It was KY. , the same stuff she had used to insert the Tampax, and that Auntie Clem used on me for my last physical six months ago.

"It's a jelly, very slippery, and it will not harm rubber, as will Vaseline. It is used by doctors." As she spoke she anointed the first balloon carefully and thoroughly. I didn't point out that it wasn't slippery enough to let that Tampax come out of my behind easily.

"Now we are ready. Push your bottom over more and draw this leg up. "

I felt her hand on my upper buttock, prying it open. Then I felt the soft rubber nozzle, which entered me easily. The balloon was more difficult. It did not seem to want to go in, and Solange had to sort of stuff it in with her fingers.

At last it plopped into my rectum. She wiped her hand, then grasped the first bulb and gave it a squeeze. Immediately I felt the balloon inflate inside me. It was a curious feeling, but not unpleasant. I felt her pull back on the tube, forcing the balloon tight against my anus. Then she inflated the outside balloon, and I felt it expand against my anal opening.

"Now your anus (she pronounced it "anoose") is sealed tight from inside and from outside. It is impossible for the water to escape."

And again I reflected on what this might entail if I were in the hands of a sadistic nurse.

"Now I'm going to start filling you. Are you ready? Yes? Here we go."

I heard a click and a second later felt the water hit my insides. The enema had begun.

At first it was quite pleasant: the warm water flowed in gently, bathing my insides and slowly filling me up. I felt my member stiffen, responding o the flow of warm water over my prostate gland. Now and then Solange placed her hand on my stomach and helped push the water further up. And once her hand grazed my penis, but she didn't say anything.

"Now your descending colon is full," said Solange after a while, "so we will stop the enema and turn you onto your back so we can fill your transverse colon and perhaps your descending one as well. I will hold the nozzle and please turn slowly. Good boy. And now, we will just place your feet in the stirrups again, like so, and fasten with these straps so they don't accidentally slip out. Voila! And this strap goes around your chest, comme ca, so that you don't slide if I tip the table this way or that.."

Being placed in bondage completed my feeling of utter helplessness. Solange could fill me until it came out my mouth is she wanted to. As I heard the click of the clamp being opened I uttered a silent prayer.

"Now I want you to take deep breaths," said Solange, "while I work the water up with my hands."

And taking a bottle from under the table she poured kind of oil some onto her hands and rubbed them together, then poured a bit more oil directly onto my by now somewhat swollen stomach and spread it around. Then she began massaging me, "walking" the water up my bowel with her long fingers. I ordered my penis to shrink, but as usual it took no notice.

"How's our boy doing?" came Auntie Clem's voice from behind me, and then she came around so I could see her. She was still in her bathrobe and was holding a cup of coffee. She would probably have been smoking a Gauloise Bleu except that smoking was forbidden in this room.

"He's doing fine," said Solange, shutting the clamp. "He has taken it very well, so far."

"Good boy," said Auntie Clem, smiling down at me.

"Well," said I, also smiling, "what choice have I got, tied up like this and with those balloons blocking my...um... preventing anything from leaking out?" ("Anoose" was not in my vocabulary, and t"asshole" was too coarse for present company).

"Don't worry, dear," said Auntie C., "Solange knows your limits. But Solange, I notice you're using the double inflatable nozzle. Is that because he made a fuss or something?"

"Oh, no, madame, he has behaved very well. I am only using it to make him feel more, how do you say, more secure."

"I see. But why such a large enema?. And the double balloon, was that really necessary?"

"You instructed me to give him a thorough cleansing, so I---"

"Well, yes, all right. Carry on. Give him a good washing out."" And she turned to go.

"Oui, Madame, je lui donnerais une tres bonne lavage."

This little interchange---almost a spat--- between my Auntie and Solange was carried out in French, but I was able to understand it well enough. It was the first indication that all was not smooth sailing between the two. They were two strong-willed women, and little differences were bound to arise. Also, I guessed that the real reason Solange was using the double inflatable nozzle on me was that she had dilated my "anoose" in extracting the Tampax, and didn't want Auntie C. to know about that little fiasco.

When A.C. had left the room I noticed Solange's face was quite red. I knew she was angry, and I hoped she wouldn't take it out on me.

"Now," she said, "after that interruption, we will resume our work." She turned a crank and I felt the table tipping backwards so the blood rushed to my head. She turned another crank and the table tipped me so my right side was lower than my left.

"This will urge the water to go up and over to your right side, across the transverse colon. And now, we shall see how much water you can take." And she opened the clamp and resumed filling me.

After a while Began to feel quite uncomfortable.

"I think I'm getting full, Solange," I said.

"Yes, you are getting full, but you are not full yet. Your ascending colon is still quite empty. We will remedy that right now."

As the water flowed further up into my colon she walked it with her fingers urging it across my stomach and down the other wide. I felt very bloated. Then I heard the sound I had been waiting for, the sucking sound that meant the can was empty. I breathed a sight of relief.

But my relief was short-lived.

"Excuse me a moment," said Solange, "while I get some more water."

I lay there hoping that somehow the water had been cut off in the building, but to my dismay I heard her filling something with water and then stirring it around with her little stick. Soon she was back bearing a pitcher of milky water, which she poured into the can. Immediately more water began flowing into my already quite full bowel. But Solange's massaging and the angle of the table helped the water find the vacant part of my colon, and the enema became tolerable again.

Then, rather suddenly, I knew I could take no more.

"I really am full, Solange," I said.

"Just a wee bit more and we're through. Can you stand just a bit of pain? For an enema to be really effective there sometimes must be a little pain."

"I've noticed that," said I, breathing with some difficulty.

"Perhaps a little shake-up will help," said Solange. She flipped a switch and the entire table started vibrating, slowly at first, and then with increasing speed, as she turned a knob. The effect was quite dramatic, for very soon I felt better. Solange kept the table shaking for perhaps five minutes, at the end of which she said,

"And so now we are finished."

"You mean I took all the water?"

"Yes, like a good boy.. You have two-and-a-half liters inside you now. Of course you realize I could give you more. Would you like some more?"

"No thank you, Solange, I don't want to seem greedy," I answered, smiling, realizing only too well that I was completely at her mercy.

"Then I will let you up."

No sooner were these words out of her mouth than my Auntie reappeared, now wearing her doctor's white smock with various pockets, out of one of which protruded the earpieces of a stethoscope.

"How's the patient now? Mercy! He looks ten months pregnant! How many liters did you give him, Solange?"

I could feel the tension rising between the two again. They started speaking in French, which I understood pretty well.

"I have cleaned out his entire transverse colon and I believe most of the ascending one too," she announced proudly. "I believe he is well-prepared for the procedure to come."

"But Solange, I'm only going to do a rectal, you know. I don't need his entire colon emptied." Solange looked at her as if she were insane.

"I beg your pardon? What did you say? You are only going to do a rectal?"

"Well, a digital rectal followed by a proctological examin---"

"You are not going to use the new tube?"-

Now it was my Auntie's turn to be dumbstruck.

"I didn't tell you? Or have you forgotten? It hasn't arrived yet. Not until tomorrow, probably."

"Not arrived yet? Impossible! I don't believe this! It cannot be!"

"I'm afraid it's true."

"You never informed me!"

"But, Solange, why is it so important?"

"Don't you see? I went to all the trouble of washing him out thoroughly. Over two liters of water! Almost his entire colon is filled! And now you tell me he is only to have a proctoscope inserted a few centimeters up his rectum! ."

"Well, it's not the end of the world, Solange. And he's getting a good cleansing, so no harm done."

"No? Merdre, alors! C'est incroyable!" And she launched into a tirade against, I gathered, the delivery service and perhaps the whole French medical world. Auntie Clem tried to calm her, but she raved on. Meanwhile, both of them seemed to forget that I was lying there at an angle and with my stomach stretched as tight as a drum and with an overpowering urge to get rid of my enema. It finally got so uncomfortable I had to interrupt them.

"Um, excuse me, please! Excuse me? May I say something?"

"Yes, dear? Oh, my, of course. Let him up, Solange. Undo his straps and let him off the table." And she turned the crank, bringing me up to a level position. Then she stormed out of the room. Solange, still fuming, undid the straps on my chest and ankles, closed the clamp on the tubing and disconnected it from the canister, and deflated the outer balloon.

"Now I will help you to the commode," she said, and awkwardly I got myself off the table, now feeling ready to burst, and allowed Solange to lead me to the commode. When I was seated she deflated the balloon that was inside me and quickly pulled it out, getting her hand out of the way just in time, for I started gushing immediately I sat on I commode for what seemed like ages, ridding myself of a tremendous amount of matter. Solange, meanwhile, was cleaning up, paying no mind to the noises I was making. When I felt I was quite drained I told her I was ready.

"Then wipe yourself off and walk around a little. You may find you have more enema inside you still." I did as she had asked, and sure enough she was right. I rushed back to the commode just in time. This happened twice more before I was sure I was empty.

"All right," said Solange. "Here are your pajamas. You may put them on now, and go back to your bed and rest. There is no point in your getting dressed as you will just have to get undressed again when Madame examines you. Besides, you may still have some water in you, so try to stay awake. There is a potty under your bed, remember, in case you can't make it to the W.C. (which she pronounced "doobleh vay say").

I put my pajamas on with some relief and started to leave when Solange stopped me.

"Come here," she said, smiling. When I had come over she said,

"You were a very good patient. I know an enema can sometimes be difficult but you were a good boy." She mussed my hair and gave me a little peck on my cheek. I felt I had to say something.

"And thank you, Solange. You are a very good enema giver."

"Well, I have had lots of practice. And with you here I hope to have a chance to get still more practice." I smiled, and as I turned to go she gave my bottom a friendly little pat.

Back in bed I thought about that scene between A.C. and S. and decided that S. had every right to be annoyed, but that she over-reacted. I thought A.C. could have been more apologetic. After all, Solange went to a lot of trouble of cleaning me out in preparation for a procedure which was not to take place after all. I wondered what the "new tube" was, and was thankful I wasn't going to find out, at least not yet. I wondered if this spat was going to poison their relationship for the whole time I was in Paris. I felt somehow to blame, for if I had not been there it would never have happened. Perhaps it was the change in routine that made one of them forgetful.

I had not bed in bed for more than ten minutes when Solange came strutting in, shaking down a thermometer and carrying a jar of Vaseline. She seemed to have regained her poise.

"I nearly forgot," she explained, calmly, "Madame wants to establish your basic temperature, which means taking it four times during the day, rectally of course. So undo your pajamas and flop over onto your tummy for me, please." With something like a sigh I complied, and I felt Solange pulling down my pajama pants. She shook down the thermometer, dipped it into the Vaseline jar, and, prying apart my cheeks, stuck the little glass rod into my orifice and gave it a little twist. I gave a grunt of pleasure, because even though having my temperature taken this way always made me feel like a 3-year-old, I loved the feeling of that little rod in my rectum.

Solange left her hand casually on my behind, maybe to make sure the glass rod stayed in place, maybe because she liked the feel of my warm cheek under her hand. Her other hand she ran up and down my back, causing delicious little shivers.

"No wonder your maman still spanks you," she said, running her left hands over my twin mounds. "Who could resist the temptation?"

And she gave me a playful little pat which sent a message deep into me via the thermometer. From time to time she gave it a little twist, sending electrical charges through my loins and causing my penis throbbed in response. I was glad I was lying on my belly.

Too soon she whisked it out, wiped it off, and read it. Then she exited, leaving me lying their with my bare bottom sticking up in the fresh Parisian morning air. This soothing zephyr, combined with my recent ordeal, combined to carry me off once again into the arms of Morpheus.

"Well, well, that's the prettiest sight I've seen all day!" I felt the bed sag as Auntie Clem sat down, then her large bony hand on my behind. She seemed buoyant, in a playful mood. Perhaps she and Solange had kissed and made up. Perhaps this sort of thing happens between two people who had lived together for a long time.

"You shouldn't go to sleep with your bare bottom exposed like that, dear. You never know who might come and find you like that. "

I giggled.

"I know enemas make one sleepy, but you must get up now. We have work to do."

"Umm," I muttered, relishing the feel of my Auntie's hand on my bottom, drinking in her special perfume as she bent over me and nibbled on my ear.

"Time for me to have a good look at you, inside and out. It's been over six months, you know. Do you remember my last little visit ?"

How could I forget it! It was etched indelibly in my memory. But in my sleepy state all I could manage by way of response was "Mmm hmm."

"The big clyster syringe I left with your Mom, does she ever use it on you?

(Does she ever!)

"Mmm hmm."

"I found another one at an estate sale in Saint-Ouen. I have yet to try it out. Perhaps before you go....but right now it's time for our physical, so rise and shine!" She gave me a series of sharp little smacks on my bottom.

"All right!" I cried. "I'm getting up!" But I made no motion to do so. She must have suspected the reason for my reticence, for she smiled a crooked smile and then got up and started towards the door.

"I'll be in the examination room. Don't keep me waiting." At the door she turned and added, "I have spanking privileges too, you know!"

I knew she was just teasing me, but I also knew she was a busy woman and didn't like to be kept waiting, so I got out of bed, pulled up and tied my pajama pants, willed my erection to subside, and when it had obeyed me for once, followed Auntie C. into the Chamber of Horrors.

The first part next was routine: I was told to remove my pajama jacket and sit on the examination table. Auntie Clem peered into my ears, my nose, felt the glands under my jaw, made me say "Ah" while she peered down my throat. Meanwhile Solange took my pulse and blood pressure. Auntie C. stuck the stethoscope into her ears and listened to my heart, then thumped my back while I took deep breaths.

Then she told me to get off the table and as I stood there she undid the string of my pajamas and with a swoosh they were pooled around my ankles. I stepped out of them and I stood there naked in front of the two women, one in front, the other in back.

Auntie C. then took hold of my balls and rolled them between her fingers.

"Any sensitivity there?"

"Nope." Well, there was plenty of sensitivity, but not of the kind she meant. She kept on rolling them for a long time, saying she was checking for testicular cancer, which sometimes occurred in boys my age. She showed me how to check for it myself, and said that if I found any lumps I should tell my mother at once.

"Oh, sure," I said. "And get a spanking for playing with myself?"

"Well, would you rather she did it? "

"No!"

"Well, those are your choices. Take your pick. And now let's see how your John Thomas is progressing," she said. "I think it has grown i since I last saw you."

Actually it had grown quite a lot in the last few minutes, due to her fondling of my balls. But I didn't point this out to her. Instead, I said, "It's still smaller than my friends'."

"So, do you measure each others' cocks in the showers or something?" she asked, taking it in her hand. This was embarrassingly close to the truth, but I denied it.

"No, I can just tell mine's smaller."

"Well, it's true you are a few years behind in your development, but there's not a damn thing you can do about it, so stop worrying. You'll catch up sooner or later."

"I hope it's sooner."

"That's up to Mom Nature. Beating off ten times a day won't help in the slightest. It'll just make you too tired to do anything else. How many times a day do you beat off, by the way? Still three times a day?"

I had to say one thing for Auntie C. she didn't mince words. There was no talk of "self abuse" or "pollution" such as we heard in hygiene class. But it caught me off guard, It wouldn't have been so bad if Solange hadn't been standing right behind me I could feel her eyes focused on my bare behind. I knew my ears were red. I imagined her smiling that smile of hers, delighting in my embarrassment. "Boys," she was probably saying to herself.

"Um, pardon?"

"I said, how many times a day do you masturbate? Jack off? Beat your meat? Wank? No, that's for English boys. Whatever you call it nowadays. Just answer my question, please. I'm not your mother, I'm your aunt, and right now your doctor, and I want to know for medical reasons only. So don't be coy with me, Michael How often do you jack off?"

"Oh, well, it depends. I guess, maybe not so often anymore."

"I see. Has the novelty worn off, then, or have you found another outlet for it?"

"Outlet?"

"Well, a poor choice of words, perhaps, but you know what I mean. Have you put it in a girl yet? And don't worry about Solange, she's heard it all before."

"No, not yet."

"A boy?"

"No!"

"A sheep? A dog?"

"Auntie Clem!" I couldn't help giggling at this.

"Then you're a virgin, right?"

"Yes, I guess so."

"Well either you are or you aren't. So which is it?"

"I'm a virgin." But somehow it sounded wrong to me. I'd heard of girls being virgins, but never boys.

"All right. Now, I'll wager my sister, your mother, gets after you for abusing yourself, as she calls it, doesn't she."

"Umm hmm."

"What does she do?"

"She makes me wear this thing at night."

"Thing? Could you be more specific?"

"It's a plastic cup, like you wear in baseball."

" I didn't know you played baseball."

"I was in Little League."

"Not since then?"

"No."

"But you still have the cup? And it still fits you, even though you haven't played baseball since turning twelve?"

"Well, they make them big enough for the biggest boys on the team, and some of them are pretty big,"

"You mean, in this department." All through this strange conversation she was still holding my cock in her hand, and it was growing or shrinking, depending upon the turns her questions took.

"Yes."

"I see. And what's to prevent you from taking it off, jacking off, and putting it back on again?"

"She has a little lock in back."

"How ingenious. And what if you have to pee in the night?"

This was the one question I had been fearing. I couldn't answer it in front of Solange. I looked at my Auntie, and pleaded with my eyes. She read my message.

"Well, never mind, for now." I breathed a sigh of relief. I'm sure Solange was disappointed. "I think I gave you my standard lecture on masturbation on my last visit, but in case you need a reminder, let me just say that masturbation is normal and even necessary until you can find a better receptacle than your handkerchief or the ground. But until you find a willing girl you will have to use your hand. And that's O.K., unless it becomes an obsessive compulsion, as is the case with one of my patients. Contrary to what your mother may tell you, it's not going to grow hair on the palms of your hands or make you go blind or mad. Just remember, all things in moderation. And remind me to write to her about this business with the cup. I can suggest a better method for controlling excessive masturbation. Now pull back your foreskin please."

My relief at the inquisition ending was tempered by having Solange appear at my side to examine my exposed glans as Auntie Clem took hold of my penis and inspected the head very closely, turning it this way and that.

"Solange, a Q-tip, please. .. Thank you. Now let's make sure our boy is going a good job keeping himself clean."

She took the Q-tip in her right hand---her left was holding my penis---and ran it around the base of my glans, causing a tickling sensation. She looked at the cotton tip. She sniffed it.

"Very good, Michael. Solange, I want you to check him often, to make sure he didn't just clean it for this occasion."

"Oui, Madame."

"And Michael, keep it clean and it shouldn't cause you any trouble, provided of course you don't stick it in dark places without protection. You know about rubbers, I assume."

"Oh, yes."

"Good. Now, speaking of dark places, turn around and let's see your backside."

My Auntie ran her hands over my behind, then pried apart my cheeks and took a good long look at my pucker.

"Looks nice and clean. I'll have a look inside in a minute. First, though, go over to the scales and let Solange get your height and weight."

She gave my bottom a little pat. I got on the scales.

"Right in the center," said Solange, adjusting me just so with a hand on my lower back. She slid the weights back and forth until the scales balanced, hen jotted down my weight, in metric measure.

"Now turn round and stand up very straight. "

She moved the bar so it just grazed the top of my head, then made a note of my height.

Then she started taking other measurements, using a tape measure and calling out the numbers to Auntie C., who wrote them down on a sketch of the human body: neck, biceps (tensed and relaxed), chest ( inhaled and exhaled), waist, hips, thighs, calves, and last but not least, my penis, which, in its usual perverse way, was not only limp but had shriveled up, trying to embarrass me by making itself as small as possible. I don't remember what it measured, because since it was in centimeters it didn't mean anything to me. "

Auntie C. then handed Solange a pair of calipers, and she measured the amount of fat or flesh on various parts of my body but mostly around my waist and my buttocks. It was embarrassing.

Nude photographs were next. I was stood against a grid on the far wall and photographed full- front, half-side, full-side, three-quarters back, and full back, then the other side. Close-up shots were taken of my head, on all sides, and my genitals, with Solange holding a ruler on my flank.

"And now," said my Auntie, "for the Grand Finale! Hop onto the table so I can have a peek and a feel up your bum, after which, or perhaps during which, I will take a sperm sample."

"How do you want me?" I asked, climbing onto the table.

"On your back with your feet in the stirrups. Solange, a rubber glove and the KY, please."

I heard the snap of the rubber glove as Solange strapped my ankles into the stirrups and shifted me forward so that my knees were forced back towards my chest and my bottom was stretched wide open .

"Here we go, then," said Auntie Clem, placing her lubricated finger at my hole. The jelly was cold and slippery. Her finger went right in and up to my button, where it did a bit of exploration, much to the delight of my cock. She screwed her finger around this way and that for a few minutes, and I was about to warn her that she might have a sperm sample sooner than she expected when she stopped her poking around and withdrew her finger.

"The scope, please, Solange."

"Voila, Madame."

The scope was cold against my anus, but it went in with ease. As Auntie Clem worked it all the way in I felt my cock taking notice again. When it was in up to the hilt she withdrew the plunger and peered in. Just then the doorbell rang.

"Sacrebleu!" cried Solange."

"Merde! " cried Auntie C. "It's probably Madame Dufy, with little Didier! I'd forgotten they had a nine o'clock . Tell them I had an emergency, and that I will be with them in fifteen minutes."

Solange left, but came right back and said back that Mrs. Dufy was on a tight schedule and that if Didier couldn't have his shot now they would have to come back another time.

"Impossible woman! All right, send her in."

"But---"

"We'll do him on her lap. Send her in while I prepare the gamma globulin and cover up our boy here.." Auntie Clem fished a hospital gown out of the drawer and draped it over me, hiding what needed to be hid, but leaving the proctoscope in me. Then she loaded the syringe. Seconds later Solange re-entered, followed by Mrs. Dufy dragging a screaming little boy.

"Undo his pants and sit here," said Auntie Clem to Madame Dufy. "The table's occupied, as you can see, so we'll have to do it on your lap. Take his pants down and hold his arms. Solange will hold his legs and it'll be done in a flash."

Meanwhile the little boy was kicking and carrying on, but they managed to get his pants down and get him placed across his mother's lap. Solange held his ankles and Auntie Clem drew up another chair and prepared a spot on the child's chubby little bottom with an alcohol swab. She told him, in French, that it would hurt less if he relaxed his bottom, but he refused to unclench his tiny cheeks so she just jabbed him with the needle, and of course he shrieked as if he were being killed. But it was all over very quickly and soon the little boy's pants were up and his Mom thanked Auntie C. and took him out.

That little interruption over, Auntie C. once again turned her attention to me. She made sure the scope was still all the way in, then proceeded to look around, with the aid of a tiny light. After satisfying herself that all was well in that department she withdrew the proctoscope.

"Well, that about does it, I guess," she said.

"Have you forgotten about the sperm sample?" asked Solange, obviously pleased to catch her mistress in another memory lapse.

"Ah, yes, thank you, Solange. I think we'll have him on his side for this one, it will be easier to catch the sample that way." Solange unstrapped me and turned me onto my right side, with my legs drawn partway up.

"I could simply have you masturbate, or do it myself," said Auntie C, "but I prefer the "milking" method. It seems more ethical, somehow."

Solange approached with what looked like a wide test tube. She reached between my thighs and put it over my penis and held it there.

Auntie Clem, meanwhile, had put on a fresh glove and was working a bit more KY into me. Then she inserted her finger as far as my magic button.

"Now just shut your eyes and relax, dear, and let what happens happen."

And she began to stroke my prostate gland, slowly and gently. I closed my eyes and sighed.

"Solange," said Auntie C. as she slowly sent me into the Elysian Fields, "Didier wasn't our nine o'clock. "

"I know, Madame, Jean-Claude was."

"That means jean-Cloude should---"

She was interrupted by the bell.

"I'm afraid that's him," said Solange.

"Go let him in. Michael can hold the glass in place. Tell him to read a magazine and I'll see him shortly."

"Oui, Madame."

This little interruption had also caused my Auntie to stop her massage, and hence my juices to ebb. It was beginning to feel like Grand Central Station in this place. Solange returned a minute later and resumed her post with her hand between my thighs. Auntie Clem resumed her stroking.

"Is his mother with him?"

"Yes,

"Merde. I'm going to have to tell her I can't treat her son if she's with him."

"Quite right."

Now I was reaching Nirvana. Auntie Clem's strokes were coming a little faster now, and I was groaning and gasping, Solange was holding my head with her free hand, I felt the juices rise and then I exploded in a wonderfully powerful orgasm, shooting copious amounts of sperm into the vessel Solange was holding. When my spasms had ceased and it was clear I had shot my wad Solange milked down my cock, squeezing the last few drops out of it, and handed me a small towel. Then she disappeared carrying my specimen.

"Well," said my Auntie, "how did you like your first milking?"

"Second," I corrected her. "Remember your last visit?"

"I must be getting senile. I'm forgetting everything. But I take it you found it not unpleasant."

"I wish you could milk me every day."

"That's nice to hear. But one of these days you'll find yourself a girl, and then there will be better things than being milked." I couldn't imagine anything better, but I didn't say so.

"And now, I must see to Jean-Claude. You may go outside if you wish, or perhaps you would just like to rest. But if you do go out you must be back by noon for your temperature reading, after which I'll take you to lunch. How does that sound?"

"Fine. Can I take Hector? And can I have something to eat first? I'm starving."

"A very light breakfast. I'll tell Solange. And of course, take Hector. Now off the table with you and make a dash for your room. Here, take your pajamas."

Covering myself in front I fled from the examination room and caught, in passing, the startled expression of a woman and a boy in short pants, both of whom had a fleeting glimpse of a naked teenage boy holding his pajamas in front of him but leaving himself completely exposed behind. I have no idea what they thought of it.

In the park Hector strained at the lead, sniffing and peeing on every bush, tree, fencepost, hydrant, or other object where some other dog had left a message for him. As before, the park was full of children in smocks running around and shrieking, under the watchful eye of nuns. On a bench were two paunchy men in berets smoking Gauloise cigarettes, talking and gesticulating. I couldn't understand much of it. The French the people spoke was so different from what I had learned in school.

Soon I found myself on the other side of the park. Hector was still pulling eagerly at the leash, so I let him take me wherever he wanted to go. I didn't mind, except that I think some KY was leaking out, because I felt all squishy behind. We went on and on at a rapid clip. The streets were narrow and twisty, and before long I realized I might have trouble finding my way back.

I knew that if I could get to the river I would be able to get my bearings, so I turned in the direction I was sure it was. However, I didn't seem to be getting any nearer it. Soon I came to a small park with a church, from inside of which came the sounds of someone playing the organ. On a bench, reading a book, was a girl who looked to be about eighteen. She was quite pretty, dark haired and slender. She was wearing a white blouse and a plaid skirt. A small dog, a terrier maybe, lay quietly under the bench.

Hector, upon seeing the dog, immediately strained at the leash, and I found myself being dragged over to where the girl was sitting.

"I'm sorry," I said, "um, pardon, mon chien, je----"

"Vous etes d'Angeterre?" asked the girl, looking up from her book.

" Les Etats Unis."

"Ah, American boy! How you do!"

"Fine, thank you. Do you speak English?"

"Un peu. A little bit. And you, do you speak French?"

"Un petit peu." Patting the bench next to her, she asked me to sit down. I did. The two dogs, having met, had little to say to each other. I asked her what her dog's name was, and she said "Is a nice dog," said the girl. "How is he called?"

"Hector. And yours?"

"Gaston. And what sort of dog is Hector?"

I told her what Auntie Clem had said.

"Ah, un métis! How do you say in English?"

"A mixture. A mongrel."

"Ah, so. and you, how are you called?"

I told her. "Michael."

"Ah, Michel en Francais. And me, I am Francine. And what age have you?"

"J'ai seize ans.."

"Seize?" And she used her fingers to verify that she'd heard correctly. Obviously, she thought I was younger.

"Et vous?" I asked. "

"I have eighteen years. And how long are you living in Paris?"

I explained that I was staying with my aunt for ten days, and that this was only my second day in France. Francine in return told me she had graduated from the Lycée and was now beginning to study medicine. I told her that my aunt was a children's doctor, and Francine said that's what wanted to be too. She said she was not from Paris, but was living there with anther girl in a small apartment nearby, and that she came here because it was a peaceful park and there was often someone practicing the organ in the church, which was called St. Sulpice. She said a famous organist named Marcel Dupré used to play there. We chatted a little more in English with snatches of French, then, glancing at my watch, which read a quarter to twelve, I realized I had to get back.

"I must go," I said, "I must be back by noon."

"Et pourquoi? Pour dejeuner? For lunch?"

"No, to have my temperature taken," I said, and immediately regretted it.

"Your temperature? For why? You are sick? Not sick? Then for why? I am not understanding."

So I had to explain about how my aunt needed to find out my true temperature exactly for some reason, and so I had to have it taken four times today.

"Ah, I see. And it must be very accurate, no?"

"Yes."

"Not in the, how you say, arm hole." And she make the gesture of sticking something in an arm pit.

"No."

"Or the mouth."

"No."

"So that is why you are turned red. It must to go in your popo, just like when you were un bébé. Very embarrassment, no?"

"Yes, very embarrassment."

"But only for today."

"Only for today."

"Then you must to go."

"Yes. Um, perhaps you can help me...I am a little lost...perdu...the dog went this way and that How do I get to Les Jardins du Luxembourg?"

Francine gave me directions, which I repeated, and I discovered to my relief that I was not as far from home as I feared. I asked if we could meet again and she said, Bien sur, that she came there most mornings to read and listen to the organ music. I said I would come again, but I couldn't say when, because I didn't know my aunt's plans. She said she would be looking for me. Then we said goodbye and I hurried off.

I felt very flushed with success. Only my second day in Paris, and already I had met a girl! Who knows where it would lead? I regretted having told her amount my temperature, why and specially how it had to be taken, but she seemed understanding. After all, she was going to be a doctor herself.

I got back to the apartment just as the clock struck twelve, and Solange was ready for me with the lubricated thermometer. As I lay face down on my bed with my pants and underpants down, the little glass rod sticking out of my behind, I thought of Francine, and wondered if we would meet again. I recalled our conversation about the temperature-taking, and it occurred to me that maybe she had been teasing me a little by asking such probing questions, and that she seemed to enjoy my embarrassment. If she could see me now! And also, if she could see the effect the little glass rod is having on my pipi !

I met Auntie Clem at the Brasserie Lipp for lunch at one o'clock. Solange had told me it was a famous place and so I put on a jacket and tie. I got there before she did, and was seated. "

"Une personne ?"

"No, deux. J'attends quelqu'un."

"Tres bien."

I felt very grown up. I also felt uncomfortable sitting there alone with nothing to eat or drink. I didn't know what to order; there didn't seem to be any soft drinks except bottled water, so I ordered a Campari soda which I'd heard of but had no idea what it was,. It sounded Italian, and I thought I might be mistaken for an Italian. A young writer, maybe, or composer. The waiter didn't bat an eye when I ordered, and promptly brought it. I took a sip. It was very bitter, but I smacked my lips as if I hadn't had a Campari since leaving Florence. I was nursing this when Auntie C. appeared. I was glad to see her, as it occurred to me that if for some reason she didn't show up I would be in a pickle, as I didn't have a sou on me.

"Darling! Sorry I'm late. I see you got yourself something to drink. What is it?"

"Campari and soda."

"Where did you acquire such cosmopolitan tastes?"

"I don't know. From a James Bond movie, maybe."

"I thought he only drank martinis, shaken, not stirred."

I ordered choucroute garni, a specialty of the house She ordered veal kidneys and a glass of white wine, and beer for me.

"It goes better with the choucroute."

"Of course," I said. When it came it was a huge plate of sausages and meats on a bed of sauerkraut.

After lunch she took me to the Eiffel Tower, a tourist must. I thought I was going to splatter choucroute garni all over Paris when we reached the top, but managed to keep it down. Then Auntie C. said she had to go back to the clinic and that I was free until four, which was "temp time."

I crossed Seine and walked back toward the Boul Mich, stopping to watch some men washing their dogs by soaping hem and then throwing them into the river. Some boys were swimming naked nearby . A woman saw me watching them and said, "Dommage que c'est si sale." "Too bad it's so dirty." I walked along, stopping at book stalls, wondering if they carried "dirty" books and whether "sale" was the right word to use in asking for them. Somehow I didn't think it was. And what was the point anyway? I had no money.

When I got back to the apartment Solange greeted me once again with the lubricated thermometer.

After this ritual had been completed she took me into the examination room and had me "faire pipi" into a glass vial. Next she took some blood from my arm. Then I was free until supper, so I changed into some shorts, as it was quite warm, took Hector and went out. I decided to go to St. Sulpice, not because I thought Francine would be there---she had said "in the mornings"---but because I wanted to practice getting there and back.

When I reached St. Sulpice I noticed a little shop called La Signe de Piste that seemed to be all about scouting. There was scout clothing and equipment in the window, and paperback books with drawings of boys in threadbare shorts on the covers. Inside h saw a well-dressed man sorting through a bin of photographs. I watched me for a while, but when our eyes met I looked away. I had a funny feeling about him.

"Come on, Hector,"I said, " we mustn't be late."

Inside the little park I found the same bench where Francine had been sitting, and sat down on the very same spot, imagining she had kept it warm for me with her bottom. I had not been there very long before I saw the well-dressed man coming towards me. I had a moment of panic, but it soon passed. After all, I had Hector. I reached down and patted him, and he looked up at me adoringly. I heard I man's footsteps draw near, then stop, his polished black shoes just a few inches from Hector's paws. Then a hand reached down and patted Hector. On his wrist was an expensive-looking watch with an alligator strap, and he had gold cufflinks.

"Expecting someone?" he asked in good but accented English. I looked up. He was quite handsome, with longish graying hair, an aquiline nose, blue eyes, and full lips.

"No," I said, "just resting."

"I heard you say to your dog 'we mustn't be late.'"

" I meant, um, to hear the organist."

"He only practices in the morning."

"Ah, yes," I answered casually, as if it were a matter of little or no importance to me.

"American?" he asked, still patting Hector.

"No, he's French," I said, glancing at the man.

"I meant you, not the dog."

"Non, monsieur, Anglais."

"Vraiment? And what school do you go to?"

"Eton."

"Eton!" said the man, sitting down very close to me "I have read about Eton and other English boys' schools. Personal accounts, you know. Written by men who were boys there. Tell me, is it true what they say about English school discipline? The birchings? The canings?"

"Oh yes, or course," I replied in my best English accent that I had picked up from movies. "We are a nation of tradition, you know.

Some things never change there, what?"

"Ah, yes. And I have heard about prefects, and their fags. Is that also true, that the prefects bugger their fags?"

"Of course," I said, "what else are they for?"

"And you," he said, placing a large hand high on my bare thigh, "Do you do the buggering, or are you the one buggered?"

"A little of both," I said, feeling the man's hand creep slowly up under my shorts. "Turnabout is fair play, and fair play is what England is all about, don't you know. And now, are you going to remove your hand from my leg or must I call that gendarme over there?"

"Sorry," said the man, withdrawing his hand, "I thought---"

"You thought wrong," I said curtly, and the man quickly rose and left, giving me a very nasty look. I smiled and gave him a flirtatious little wave, batting my eyelids at him. I felt very pleased with myself.

When I got back to the apartment I found Auntie Clem there alone. Solange had gone for the night. She asked me if I'd had a nice walk and I said it had been interesting. " "

"It was interesting," I said. "It's fun walking around Paris. But I wonder if I could take a bath now. I feel sort of sweaty."

"Of course, dear. Undress in your room. I'll run the water."

Undressing in my room, I felt good about being alone with Auntie Clem. It's not that I dislike Solange, but I sometimes feel when she's there that we're a triangle, and that I'm competing with her for my Auntie's affections, even though I am her nephew and she is just a sort of gloried maid.

Or is she more than that? They've lived together for a long time, after all. I sometimes wonder about my aunt's sexual proclivities. Anyway, tonight I would have her to myself. I wrapped the towel around my waist and walked down the hallway to her bathroom, feeling strangely excited.

She was still adjusting the water temperature when I came in, but by now I felt quite comfortable about being seen naked by her, so I dropped my towel, stepped into the tub, sat down and lay back.

"Oh, that feels nice," I said, aware of my semi erect penis, and of her large breasts partially visible under her housecoat. She looked down at me and smiled.

"You're going to make some girl very happy some day," she said.

I wondered whether I should tell her about Francine, but decided to keep that to himself for now.

"Well, today I made some man very unhappy, or at least angry and disappointed." And I proceeded to tell her about my encounter with the man. When I had finished she said,

"You handled that very well. You weren't scared?"

"Oh, no, I knew Hector would protect me."

"And the gendarme."

"Oh, I made that up. There was no gendarme." She laughed and tweaked my nose.

"You're a funny boy. A combination of innocence and savoir faire. And I'm glad you feel comfortable enough to tell me about such things. I hope you will have no secrets fro me."

I had no reply to this, for of course I al ready had kept one from her.

Back in my room, I felt unsatisfied. I had hoped she would at least have offered to soap my back, but no, she had left me alone to bathe himself for the firsts time since arriving in Paris. Of course I knew I was much too old to be bathed, and while I hated being bathed by Mom, who always managed to make me feel like a small boy, I would have liked being bathed by Auntie Clem, specially as we were all alone. I wondered if she was maybe afraid of her own emotions, afraid of getting carried away. Or maybe I'm flattering myself.

We had a late, small supper. I wasn't very hungry after my enormous lunch, and she's was a light eater anyway. We had a delicious vegetable puree soup she had made, along with bread and wine, and some pears with cheese. The wine made me lightheaded and a little sleepy.

"Why don't you get into your p.j.'s," said my Auntie, " and I'll be in to see you. There's one more temp reading to be had."

So I came in here and undressed went into my room, undressed, got into my pajamas, brushed my teeth, peed, then flopped down onto my bed, on my stomach. I took a book from my night stand and started reading "The Case of the Red Hand," by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Then, worried that I might fall asleep before my Auntie came in, I undid my pajamas and slipped them down over my hips, so that I would be ready for her. Then I returned to Sherlock Holmes.

I hadn't heard her come in, so engrossed was I in the book, but gradually I became aware of being stared at. She was wearing her bathrobe. I don't know what she had on underneath, if anything.

"I was just admiring your delectable bottom," she said, "which you thoughtfully bared for me." She sat down on my bed and ran her fingers over it. "No wonder that man tried to pick you up." She took the rectal thermometer from its case and shook it down.

"But he couldn't have seen my behind. I was sitting on it at the time."

"He was probably watching you when you left the 'Signe de Piste.' You were wearing your old shorts, remember. They fit you like a glove."

She lubricated the thermometer with Vaseline.

"An experienced eye would have had no difficulty in appraising your bottom, and deciding that you were definitely worth following." She parted my cheeks and inserted the thermometer.

"Why do you suppose he was in that store anyway?" she asked.

"Maybe his son is a Scout," I said, wriggling my bottom as I felt the little rod inside me.

"Right. And maybe the moon is made of green cheese. That store, with its bins full of photographs of young boys in scant attire, is a noted hangout for pederasts. Just thought you ought to know." I She gave the thermometer a little twist, sending messages to my insides

"Oh." I had never heard the word "pederast" before, but I had a pretty good idea what it meant. I made a mental note to look it up later.

Instead I asked, What does 'Piste' mean?"

"Trail." A 'signe de piste' is a marker, sometimes a blaze on a tree, sometimes a little pile of stones, showing where the trail goes."

"So the store really is for scouts and scoutmasters."

"Yes, dear, but it's also a sort of trail blazer for men with a certain interest in young boys."

"Pederasts."

"Exactly."

'What do you call women with a certain interest in young boys?"

"Mothers."

We had a good laugh, but I still wondered. She hand her hand on my behind, with the thermometer sticking up between her fingers, and if she moved her hand even a little I felt it inside me.

"Auntie Clem?"

"Yes, dear?"

"What if I had gone with him? What would have happened?"

"Silly boy, he would have buggered you stupid, of course. Now let's see what your temp is.' And she whisked the rod out of my behind, read it, wiped it off, and put in back in the case. I felt unsatisfied, but if she had diddled that thing inside me much longer I might have given her another sperm sample. I wondered when I was to be milked again, and whether she would so it, or Solange. Probably Solange, I decided.

"Is my temperature normal?"

"Normal for you," she said, writing it down on a small pad. "Tomorrow I'll give it to Solange and she'll average the four readings and come up with a basal rectal temperature for you. People vary, so it's important to know what yours is."

"Auntie Clem?" I asked, turning over onto my back and pulling up my pants to cover my erection.

"Yes, dear?

I wasn't sure what to say. There were a lot of things on my mind, but mostly what I wanted was to keep her with me a while longer. It was the next best thing to what I really wanted, which was to sleep in her bed. It was strange: when I was with Mom, who treated me like a little boy, all I wanted was to be big and grown up, but now, with my aunt, who treated me more like a grown- up, I wanted to be a kid again and sleep in her arms and have her cuddle me. But of course I couldn't' tell her that.

"Nothing," I said. "I've forgotten."

"Funny boy. Are you getting sleepy?"

"No."

"Would you like a back rub?" she asked, smoothing back my hair.

"Yes, I'd really like that."

"Get ready, then, while I get some lotion."

I flopped over onto my tummy and pulled my pajama jacket up to my shoulders.

I left my pants as they were, sort of at half-mast, with part of my bottom showing. Soon she was back with the lotion, which felt cool and nice on my skin. As she worked on my neck and shoulder muscles I said, "Auntie Clem, why was Solange so upset this morning?"

"Little things set her off easily, dear. She was preparing you for another sort of procedure, that's all, and when she found out you weren't going to have it she hit the ceiling."

"What procedure?"

"There's a new diagnostic tool called the flexible sigmoidoscope. It's going to revolutionize the way we examine colons. It is not in general use yet. I am probably the first doctor in Paris to have one. "

"But you don't have it."

"I didn't then, but I do now. It came while you were out."

"Are you going to use it on me?"

"Umm hmm." She was working on my back now.

"Will it hurt?"

"I will try to make it as comfortable as I can. Now don't worry your head about it. And now I have a question for you. You remember telling about that cup your Mom locks onto you at night to stop you from playing with yourself?"

"Umm hmm."

"And you remember my asking what happened if you wanted to pee, and you were embarrassed to answer?"

"umm hmm."

"Well?"

"Auntie Clem, she puts me in diapers!"

"I thought so."

"It's awful!"

"Well, it protects her sheets, doesn't it? I mean if you peed into the cup it would probably leak around the edges, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, but the whole thing is so babyish!"

"I have a patient who's nearly as old as you and still wears diapers at night. He likes them."

"Why?"

"He feels safe in them. If he doesn't wear them he can't sleep for fear of wetting the bed. With diapers he sleeps like a baby."

"Exactly! He sleeps like a baby because he's being treated like one! Well, I'm not going to let her do that to me any longer!"

I had turned partly onto my side so I could look into her eyes. She had an amused expression.

"You look so charming when you're aroused," she said. "And you are aroused, I see," she added, glancing down. I flopped onto my belly again, and she resumed her massage. She had reached the base of my spine. I wondered if she was going to continue the downwards.

"Auntie Clem, I also met a girl today in the park."

"Well, now! You've had a busy day, haven't you? First a man, then a girl. You don't waste any time."

"The girl was first. That was this morning. The man was this afternoon."

"I see. And how did you break the ice?"

"She was the one who spoke first. She was sitting on a bench, reading. She noticed Hector." One of her hands strayed down a little further, the fingers lightly grazing the upper part of my bottom.

"She probably noticed you, and used Hector as an excuse to break the ice."

"She was very nice. She speaks pretty good English. She said she is there most week-day mornings. She said she'd like to see me again."

"Maybe she has designs on you," said my Auntie teasingly, her hand, getting bolder, now all the way under my pajamas, caressing my behind.

"One must be careful with these Parisian girls."

"Why?"

"They have a reputation for being what used to be called 'fast.' "She may think you more experienced than you are." She pulled my pants down and began a more vigorous massage of my buttocks.

"Well, the only way you can get to be experienced is by having experiences, right?"

"I can't argue with that," she said, pummeling and slapping by behind.

"Anyway, I don't think she's that sort of girl. She 's bookish. Probably an 'A' student."

"They're often the most dangerous kind," she said "Just be careful, sweetie. Now I'm going to let you go to sleep. Do you think you're on Paris time now, or would you like another little suppository to assure a good night's sleep?"

"I don't think I really, need, one," I said, haltingly, wanting one but being shy about admitting it "but if you think----"

"Well, it can't hurt. I'll be right back. I'll need you on your right side, not your left."

I turned onto my right side, which felt strange because I was so used to being on my left for enemas. I drew up my legs and stuck out my behind She returned a minute later holding the little thing between two finger. She sat on the bed and I felt her part my cheeks and the little cone going in. She pushed it up as far as her finger could reach and held it there for a while. It felt so nice, and I was sorry when she took her finger out. She pulled up my pants but didn't tie them. The leaned down and kissed my cheek.

When she had gone, I tried to imagine that I was lying in bed with her, both of us naked, and that she was holding me close and caressing me. I reached for the little handkerchief. There was just enough Vaseline to let my finger slip into my bottom. My other hand went to my front. If no one was going to milk me, I would milk myself.

I slept like a log and now it's morning and I have brought this up to date just in time because now I smell coffee brewing so I'd better get up.

All the above I wrote this morning, Saturday, because I was too tired last night to write. Now I can smell coffee brewing, so I'd better stop.

Sunday a.m. s

I didn't have time to write yesterday so I'm doing it now.

Yesterday was a beautiful spring day. I was standing on the little balcony looking down at the park when I felt Auntie Clem's hands on my shoulder.

"How would you like to go flying?"

I whirled around and hugged her by way of response. I knew she had a plane but didn't dare ask to be taken up in it. After breakfast---I could hardly east I was so excited--- we got into the Spider and zipped out to the small airport where she keeps it. It's a Cessna, with four seats. I was hoping it would be the open kind, with me in the seat behind her, both of us wearing goggles and leather helmets and she doing loop de loops, but this was a beautiful little plane, silver with stripes.

We climbed in, taxied down the runway, and took off, circling high above Paris, but low enough so she could point out the landmarks.

It was great looking down, with the Seine curving its way through the city and beyond like a silver snake. After circling the city for a while we Auntie headed southwest. Before long we came to a town on a hill with a huge church in the center.

"That's Chartres Cathedral," she said, "maybe the most famous church in France. Let's go down for a closer look. "

She put the plane into a steep dive, and I felt my breakfast rising. Then we leveled out and circled around the little town. A few minutes later we landed at a small airstrip. We took a taxi into the town, where we spent an hour or two looking at the beautiful cathedral and wandering around the streets. Then we had lunch at a restaurant she knew of.

We sat outside and ate écrevisses, which were like crayfish. We washed them down with Vouvray. I felt a little tipsy, and started laughing. A.C. asked me what the joke was, and I tried to explain that I was just happy.

On the way back A.C. let me take the controls for a while, and I soon got the hang of it, and was banking left and right and going up and down. It was easy. A.C. said the hardest parts were taking off and landing. She took us down for a closer look at Paris before coming in for a landing.

Back at the flat she announced that we were to meet Beryl ("Bunny") Coudrey at the Tour d'Argent restaurant at eight, and that she was going to take a nap. I read my guide book, had a bath (unsupervised!) and put on my best clothes.

It was a clear night and we had a fine view of Paris from the restaurant. A.C. and "Bunny" each had two martinis, and they got a little drunk, I think. They talked about stuff I wasn't interested in, then "Bunny" asked me what I liked best about Paris. I thought a while and said, "St. Sulpice, because it has a nice little park." Auntie Clem and I exchanged knowing glances, and "Bunny" had no idea what the secret joke was.

Dinner was delicious. I had pressed duck which the place is famous for. The waiter pressed it right at the table, using a duck press. (Well, what else would you use to press a duck, dummy?) After dessert they had brandy and A.C. smoked a small black cigar. It was almost midnight when we got back home.

Monday morning: It's 5 a.m. and I am in bed with a diaper and rubber pants covering my abused bottom and penis. Yesterday was a day I wish I could forget. It started out so well, and ended so badly!

Auntie C. had set it aside for sight-seeing, which I was really looking forward to. We "did" the Louvre, Notre Dame, Ste Chapelle, the Jeu de Paume, (another museum, with more modern stuff than the Louvre) then took a ride up the Seine on a boat called Le Bateau Mouche. ("Mouche" means "fly", the insect.) We passed a big bargelike thing which was actually an outdoor swimming pool. We saw lots of little boats going up and down the river, and sometimes kids swimming. Afterwards we had a long lunch at and outdoor restaurant, then we strolled up the Champs Elysées and had dessert and coffee at a sidewalk cafe and watched the passing parade.

"I am glad we have had this day together," Auntie Clem said on the way back, "because you see, I'm going to be away for the next two days."

That came as quite a shock to me.

"Away? Where?"

"I have to attend a conference in Brussels. It's all about new procedures in pediatrics, so I can't miss it. I'm terribly worry, but you'll be in good hands with Solange."

I wasn't so sure about that.

"When are you leaving?"

"Later this afternoon. I'm catching a five o'clock train."

I felt sad and uneasy at being left alone with Solange, but at least I had my date with Francine to look forward to.

It was still mid-afternoon when we got home, and quite warm, so I changed into shorts, kissed Auntie Clem good-bye, and took Hector for a walk. We strolled through the Jardins du Luxembourg for a while, with lots of children playing and their elders sitting on benches chatting, then we wandered over towards St. Sulpice. I was not looking for Francine, of course, because our date wasn't until today, so I was really surprised when I heard my name called and there she was. She was wearing a very pretty yellow dress.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"No place in particular. Just walking Hector."

"Would you like to come up to my place?"

I hesitated. I wasn't sure when I was expected back.

"My roommate is not there."

"There was no mistaking her meaning, but she spelled it out anyway. "We can fock. " I'm spelling it that way because that's the way she said it.

I gulped and muttered something unintelligible.

"What do you say?" she asked. I wasn't sure whether she was asking me what I said, or asking for an answer to her proposition. It was an awkward moment. I took a guess. "I say yes."

"Good. Come along, then," she said, smiling and offering me her hand. Hector followed somewhat reluctantly, having to pass by all sorts of dog markers without being able to sniff them. It was happening very suddenly. I felt like a lamb being led to the slaughter.

"Are you prepared?" she said, glancing at me sideways.

"Prepared?"

"You have any condoms?"

"Condoms?"

She looked exasperated.

"Yes, condoms, rubbers!" She practically shouted it to the roof tops.

"No," said I. "I...I wasn't expecting to---"."

"Then you are not prepared. We must to stop at a pharmacy and you will buy some. Do you have some money?"

"No."

"Then I will borrow you some." And she reached into her pocket and gave me a 100 frank bill. We walked along, me feeling a schoolboy who had forgotten his homework.

"Here is one," she said, stopping in front of a drugstore. "You go in and ask. I wait here with Hector."

"But I don't know the word."

"'Condom', just like in English."

I went in the drugstore, shaking. I was hoping there would be a man behind the counter, but it was a woman. She was with another customer. I pretended to be looking for something in the toiletries. When the customer left I summoned all my courage and approached the woman, who was small and sharp-faced and had dyed red hair, like so many French women.

"Vous avez des condoms?"

"Quel age avez-vous?"

"J'ai seize ans."

"Seize? Vraiment?"

"Oui, madame," I said, fishing in my pocket for my passport, which luckily I had with me.

"Hmmph," snorted the woman, comparing me with the photo. "Combien?"

"Um, six."

The woman fished under the counter and produced a packet.

"Quatre-vingt cinq."

I handed her a hundred franc bill, took my change and my package, and left, feeling twenty pounds lighter.

"Did you get them?" asked Francine, when I rejoined her.

"Of course," I answered, suavely.

"Let me see."

I showed her the package. She looked, then smiled.

"Come on, then" she said, and off we went

Her apartment was a fifth floor walk-up in an old building. She ushered us up the stairs and into her apartment quickly, in case the concierge was snooping as usual. Gaston greeted us, growling at Hector, but soon they were friends again. Francine locked the door and slid the chain across. The apartment was tiny, just two rooms. The bedroom had only one bed.

"My roommate sleeps on the sofa," explained Francine, starting to undress. My mouth felt dry. With shaky fingers I started unbuttoning my shirt.

Hector was watching me. I hoped he wasn't going to tell (joke). Francine had her yellow dress off already and was watching me in panties and bra. When I had gotten my shirt off she raised her arms and said, "Unsnap me, please," turning around. As U unsnapped her bra I noticed she had hair under her arms. She turned around again. . Her breasts were small but pointy. I thought they looked nice.

"Come on," she said, "we do not have until the cows are coming home." I unzipped my pants and took them off. Now we were both in our underpants. She took hers off and turned to face me. She had a big V-shaped bush.

"Well?" she said, looking at me.

I whisked down my underpants and stepped out of them. She checked out my equipment.

"Are you really sixteen? Seize ans?" I felt my cheeks redden.

"Yes. My birthday was the fifth."

"Ah, so you are only just sixteen."

"Yes."

"And this is maybe your first time."

"Yes."

"Well I don't have time for a lesson today," she said, moving toward the bed. I watched her bottom cheeks, the way they moved as she walked to the bed. It was a nice behind, very white, like alabaster, but there was something about her walk that made it seem, well, maybe bossy is the word. Maybe I thought that because of her remark about my looking younger than my age. We were not off to a good start. Everything seemed rushed.

""Don't forget the rubber." I had, or course. As I bent to get it out of my pants pocket she said,

"You have a pretty behind." Well, at least she found that side of me acceptable, though I would've preferred another word to describe it. A language problem, I decided. I took a condom from the packet and unrolled it. I saw immediately that it was too big. Even if I was erect, which I was not, it would probably fall off, I thought. What to do? I turned to face her, holding the condom on my penis with one hand and holding the tip in the other.

"It's too big," I said, attempting a smile.

"Evidemment," she said, but then she smiled too. "Come here, American boy!"

She held out her hand, and drew me down onto her lap and cuddled me in her arms as one would a child. Her right hand was on my inner thigh, high up, her left was rubbing my back. Then she took my face and directed it toward her breast. I took it in my mouth and closed my eyes. She rocked me back and forth, humming a little French lullaby.

At first I resented being treated not just like a child but actually like a baby, but I liked sucking on her tit and the warm feeling her closeness gave me, and her hands stroking me. And I liked the feeling of her hand on my behind, as she let it stray down between my cheeks and around my hole. It tickled and made me squirm, but she knew I liked it. The evidence was in front. She whisked off the condom and flung it aside, then grasped my now erect organ in her hand.

"Now it's getting bigger. Would you like to put it inside me for a while?"

I needed no urging.

"You must to take it out before you, how you say, I don't know the word."

"I understand. I will pull out in time."

She lay back onto the bed and I went between her legs and entered her. It felt incredibly warm and nice, so nice I just wanted to stay there forever. "Now you're supposed to move in and out, that's what focking is."

"I know, I just don't want it to be over too soon."

"O.K., baby," she said, running her hand down by back and over my behind. I began slowly "focking" her, trying to hold back, wishing I didn't have to pull out. I tried to do it slowly, but I knew it was going to be over soon.

"Now don't forget, you must not do it inside me."

"I won't," I said, but I guess she didn't trust me, because when I started pumping faster she suddenly turned onto her side and pulled away from me, so that my cock fell out. Then she pulled me over onto her belly so I was on top of her again but not inside her.

"I am sorry," she said, "I was afraid. You must to understand what is like for a girl. The boy says he will take it out but then he is having so much a good time he forgets. And then he says he is sorry but he is not as sorry as the girl. So you can do it on my stomach but not inside me. Is all right?"

I said it was all right. The only trouble was my cock had gone soft. But she took a bottle from her night table and poured some onto her hand and then onto my cock. It was some kind of oil.

"Now rub up and down on me," she said, and I did, and very soon I was hard again. Then she ran her oily hands over my behind and down between my cheeks. I rubbed faster, feeling my orgasm getting near. And when she poked her finger right into my hole and wiggled it around I exploded, coming all over her stomach.

Francine wiped us off with a face towel, and then we lay naked together. I dozed off, but awakened when I felt something licking my behind. It was Hector! I pushed him away, but he went around and started licking Francine's behind.

"What a lecherous dog you have! And bisexual as well!" My giggles shook the bed. Then I looked at her bedside clock. It was five-thirty.

"I have to go!"

"Let's shower first."

"I don't have time!" I said, throwing on my clothes. "I'm late already!"

"All right, little boy, run to maman."

"You don't understand! My aunt's away and Solange is in charge!"

"Your nanny."

"She's going to be mad as hell! I'm in deep shit!"

"What is this, 'deep sheet'?"

"Merde! Beaucoup de merde!"

I was dressed by now, sort of.

"I'm sorry, Francine, but I really have to get back before she...before steam comes out of her ears. Can I see you again?"

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Tomorrow around ten, in the park."

She took my face in her hands and kissed my mouth, then buried her face in my shoulder.

"You're a sweet boy," she said. "but if you want to fock you must ask your auntie for a smaller condom, one that won't slip off."

I said I would, and putting Hector's leash on him we shot out the door and down the stairs. The concierge poked her head out when we reached the bottom but I shot right by her. We ran all the way back to the flat. Hector thought it was fun, but I sure didn't. I was out of breath and my heart as pounding when we got back to the flat. I fumbled with the keys but finally got in. Solange was there to greet me, if that's the right word. She was standing just inside, her arms crossed, her face red, her eyes blazing. When she spoke her voice trembled with rage.

"And just where in the Lord's name might you have been for the past four hours? Do you know what time it is? Do you know what worry you have caused me? I was about to call the police!"

I apologized profusely, trying to calm he. I said I had just taken Hector for a walk, and that we had gone quite far, and that I got lost and had to ask several people for directions, and it just got later and later.

"And is that how you got lipstick on your shirt? By asking for directions?" I looked down and to my horror saw a smear of red on my shirt, where she had buried her face.

"So. While the cat is away the mouse will play, yes?"

"No, Solange, it wasn't that."

"You wasted no time, that's evident. I think you have some explaining to do,."

I decided to tough it out.

"Look, Solange, I'm really sorry I caused you to worry, but really, I'm old enough to take care of myself. And as for what I've been doing, well, I think that's my affair."

"And I'm making it mine. Do not forget that I am responsible for you when your aunt is not here, and that any disobedience will be dealt with in the appropriate manner. It is quite clear to me that you consider yourself quite the man about town, when in reality you are just a boy still in short pants."

"I only put on short pants because it was hot."

"Yes, and now you've made it hotter yet---for yourself. If you think you are going to wriggle out of this so easily you are sadly mistaken. You come home shockingly lake, smelling of cheap perfume and with lipstick on your shirt. If you think I am simply going to let the matter drop you are quite mistaken. Come with me."

And taking me by the hand she led me into my room and closed the door behind us. Sitting on my bed, she drew me between her thighs.

"Undo your trousers and take them down," she ordered. I remembered she had "spanking privileges," and supposed that was what she intended to do. I looked at her pleading silently.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Do you want me to take them down for you as if you were a small boy?"

"No," I said meekly, unbuckling my belt. Soon my shorts were pooled around my ankles.

"And your underpanties."

Again I hesitated, and this time she quickly reached out and pulled them down herself.

"Raise your shirt, and hold it up."

She took my limp penis in her hand and turned it this way and that.

"Obviously inflamed," she said. She leaned forward and sniffed it, then smiled that enigmatic smile and nodded knowingly. She pulled back my foreskin and sniffed again.

"You've been with a woman, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"I thought as much."

I knew what the next question was going to be before she opened her mouth.

"Did you use a condom?"

"Yes."

Our eyes met. Again she bent down and sniffed my penis, then looked me in the eye.

"I believe you are lying. "

"You can look in my pants if you don't believe me!"

"Hand them to me."

"I stepped out of my pants and handed them to her. She fished in my pockets and found the rubbers. She unrolled one and held it up. It looked big enough for a horse.

"This?" she asked mockingly. "This you put on your pipi?"

I was blushing furiously and my heart was thumping.

"Yes. "

"I'm sure it fell right off. Useless! You know, I suppose, that you can catch bad diseases from such women?"

"She wasn't one of those, Solange, she is a friend."

"A friend? Here only a few days and you have a girlfriend you know well enough to...I find that hard to believe. Turn around."

I dutifully presented my backside.

"Bend over and spread your cheeks."

I assumed this most debasing of positions. I felt her breath on my hole as she sniffed me back there. Then I felt her finger poke around and go right in. She gave it a twist and withdrew it. I couldn't see, but I know she was sniffing her finger.

"So! Not only has your pipi has been in some woman's dark hole, but someone's thing has been in your dark hole. Straighten up and face me. Now, how do you explain the fact that you are lubricated back there? Some 'gentleman' you met in the park perhaps? It would not surprise me. You are a very pretty boy, and there are lots of men in Paris who would find your behind tres appetissant."

I wondered whether A. C. had told her about the man who tried to pick me up. Probably. I'm sure there were no secrets between the two. I was very close to tears at being grilled in this humiliating manner.

"She gave me a massage, with baby oil."

"And poked her finger in? Or was it a godemiche?"

That was a new word to me, but I had some idea what it might mean.

"Only her finger."

"Well, we shall see whether you are telling the truth. But first, you have been a very, naughty boy, and you know well what happens to naughty boys, don't you." And she looked me hard in the eye. I bit my lip and said nothing.

"Well, do you or don't you?"

I nodded.

"Tell me, then, what happens to such naughty boys."

"They are....spanked."

"And where are they spanked, Michel?" she asked, letting her hand softly caress my behind.

"On their bottoms."

"Yes, on their little round bottoms. And of course their trousers are taken down first, aren't they?"

"Yes."

"And their underpanties, too?

"Yes."

"Then you are all ready for your spanking, aren't you, Michel?" And she patted my behind several times.

"Please, Solange. I'm too old to be spanked like a little boy."

"Your mother doesn't think so, and neither does your aunt. You have been disobedient and very naughty, and since I am in charge of you during your aunt's absence I am going to exercise my authority. Evidently you thought you had outgrown your need for spankings. It is time you were reminded that you have not, that you are after all still only a boy. Now get over my lap."

I looked at her pleadingly, but saw her mind was made up. I couldn't believe this was happening to me, a boy of sixteen, in Paris, the City of Light, but it was happening. I had no choice but to submit.

With tear-filled eyes and trembling lips I slowly draped my body over her lap and stretched out across the bed. I buried my face in my arms and lay there submissively as she proceeded to untie my shoes and remove them, along with my socks, then pull down and off my pants and underpants, so I was now naked save for my little shirt. Next she adjusted me to her liking, pulling my inner thigh toward her, opening and exposing my tender inner flanks. then stretching out her left leg, so my bottom was higher than my shoulders.

Then she placed her hand on my behind and just held it there, not saying or doing anything. It was as if she were reminiscing about her days at the orphanage, and all the tempting little bottoms she found reasons to spank, or maybe even spanked without finding a reason. It had probably been a long time since she had had a bare bottom across her knee and at her mercy..

One spanking is much like another, and so, finding myself in this all-too-familiar position, the feelings associated with all my previous spankings rushed back: shame, embarrassment, fear of the inevitable pain, fear of breaking down and crying, and, yes, fear of getting an erection.

For me there was something sensual about spankings. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that Mom only started spanking me when I was thirteen and on the cusp of puberty, at which age the act of having my pants and underpants taken down and having fingers touch my bare behind and other nearby parts never failed to give me a roaring hard-on. Mom either pretended not to notice my arousal, or else she would reprimand me sharply for "thinking dirty thoughts" at such solemn occasion. It never seemed to occur to her that she was causing my arousal by touching my naked body.

Maybe this happens to little boys of six or eight as well. I'm sure Solange would have known. In any case, she seemed not to notice when I grew stiff during her inquisition and reprimand. And now, as I lay across her lap, she must have felt my organ pressing against her leg as she gently stroked my behind. But she didn't let on.

So, mingled with my feelings of fear and apprehension were feelings of warmth and safety, of being "in the right place". How did that old Shaker hymn go? I did feel that I was "where I ought to be." I did feel guilty about what I had done, and I wanted to be rid of that guilt. And this was the only way. I waited for it to begin.

"Give me your right hand," she said suddenly. She took hold of my wrist and, pushing my little T- shirt up out of the way, bent my arm up my back. Now she had a grip on me. The game was about to begin. I said one spanking is much like another, but there are differences, too. In choice of weapons, for instance. Mom favors the hairbrush, a more lethal instrument than many people realize. Solange, it seemed, was going to use only her hand. Surely this wouldn't be so bad. I was almost looking forward to it. She placed her hand on my behind, and spoke.

"Perhaps you did not expect, on your visit to Paris, to find yourself in this shameful and embarrassing situation. But then, I did not expect you to behave in such an outrageous and irresponsible manner. So one can say that you brought this on yourself. You acted foolishly and dangerously, and now you are going to be given a lesson. This will be a long spanking, since I am going to use only my hand, but I assure you, you will feel it before I am finished. Now we will begin."

The first blow was delivered with what felt like a snap of the wrist. Her long fingers splashed across my naked skin. She continued in this way, being careful to give equal attention to every part of my behind, and producing a tingling sensation that was quite nice, even though I knew its cumulative effect could be awesome. But she was in no hurry.

As a sort of counterpoint to her splashy spanks, she kept up a verbal litany, delivered mostly in French, that she had no doubt refined over the years at the orphanage. It went something like this:

"You have been such a naughty boy, you know you have been a naughty boy, don't you, and you know what happens to naughty boys, don't you, yes, they get their bottoms spanked, their little bottoms must be spanked and spanked, there is nothing like a spanking to make a bad little boy good, all boys need spankings, lots of spankings, on their bare behinds, to make them good..."

And so on, with variations on the theme.

Solange was nothing if not methodical. Not content with just smacking the crests of my buttocks, she gave equal attention to the outer slopes and even the inner ones, letting go my wrist to pry open my cheeks to do so. Nor did she neglect my thighs, especially the tender inside flanks.

My initial mortification at having been taken over the knee of a woman I had only known for a few days for the purpose of being given a spanking as if I were a child gradually subsided as I felt myself regressing through the years until I was thirteen again and across my Mom's lap for the first spanking of my life.

My feeling of regression didn't stop there. I got younger and younger as the spanking progressed, so that soon I felt like a little boy of eight or nine being taken over his nanny's lap for a good warm spanking, even though that had never happened to me! This feeling freed me from my feelings of embarrassment, letting me "be" that little boy I never was, to experience something I had been deprived of.

Yes, "deprived of" is right I really felt all through my childhood that I had missed out on something by not being spanked. Hearing other boys talk about their spankings made me feel left out. "Lucky you!" they would say if I told them I was never spanked, but I didn't feel lucky at all. I felt left out, denied one of the rites of childhood.

As my bottom grew hotter and hotter under the incessant slaps of Solange's flexible fingers I let go of my teen-age self and gave in to my secret wish---a wish I never knew I had until now---to revert to a time when I was taken care of and didn't have a worry in the world. So I started crying, not so much from the fire in my bottom as from the feeling of release being spanked like this gave me.

I don't know whether Solange had any idea that her spanking was affecting me this way, but I'm sure spanking me transported her back to those good old orphanage days when she often had a wriggling, squirming boy or girl over her lap as she spanked his or her tender bottom. Her continuing litany reinforced this:

"That's it, mon petit, cry as much as you want, for your tears are the only way you will be cleansed of your sin and guilt. You must be spanked and spanked hard, for you have surely been a very naughty boy, and it is only by being well-chastised that God will forgive you and you will be made clean again."

I fell so deeply into the role that I really believed every word she said, and hoped she would keep on spanking me until all the badness had been spanked out of me.

I needn't have worried, as Solange apparently had no intention of letting me off lightly. Before long the fire in my bottom was just as intense as during any spanking Mom had given me, and I was crying so hard that I had trouble catching my breath. When she finally stopped, I just lay there, limp and exhausted, crying and sobbing for a long time. I longed to rub my blazing bottom, but Solange maintained her viselike grip on my wrist and even prevented me from kicking by holding my legs. I had to be content with twitching my bottom muscles, which gave precious little relief.

Now came the post-spanking speech.

"You have been a very naughty boy today, Michel, for which you have been well and justly punished. I hope you have learned your lesson. Have you?" I was slow to answer. Another "Have you!" accompanied by a smack to my blazing hot bottom elicited a "Yes!"

"I hope so. Now, when you are able to stand up, you may do so." I didn't feel I could just yet, so I lay there still sobbing and catching my breath, and Solange waited patiently, holding me immobile.

When I had regained my composure somewhat, I said I thought I was ready to get up, and I did, a bit unsteadily, and stood before her, looking at the floor. My eyes were watering and my nose was running, but she was now holding both my wrists. She let go the right just long enough to tilt up my chin with her thumb, so that I could not avoid her gaze. Her face was flushed from the exertion of spanking me, and perhaps from excitement as well.

"I expect it has been some time since you were taken over someone's knee and spanked like a little boy, hmm?"

I nodded affirmatively, reflecting that it had not been nearly as long as she thought.

"I don't suppose you expected to have it on French soil, did you? No, I thought not. Nor did I imagine that I would have to administer one. But then, I did not imagine that you would do such a foolish and dangerous thing as you have done. Perhaps you thought that with Madame away you would play the cat," she said, not getting ther expression quite right. Now it was my cue to say something.

"I am very sorry I disappointed you, Solange, by acting foolishly and stupidly, and I promise to be a good boy from now on and stay out of trouble." I said this knowing full well that I had no intention at all of breaking my date with Francine. But she smiled at my little speech, and nodded.

"So much for your punishment, Michel," she said, "now we will have to see what damage was done, if any. First, however, I am going to bathe you, as I do not like working on a dirty boy. Come with me." And taking me by the hand she led me down the hall to Auntie C.'s bathroom. She left me standing there while she ran the bath. When it was full she told me to take off my shirt and climb in. I could tell from the rising steam that it was to be a very hot bath, and I was not wrong. I stepped in and squatted down. As soon as the two crests of my bottom touched the water I sprang up again with a yelp.

"Sit down!" she commanded, giving my red bottom a resounding smack that brought tears to my eyes. She was back at the orphanage again, taking care of grubby little boys. Not wishing to incur her anger I sat down, gingerly at first, wincing as my bottom touched the water, then quickly sitting down all the way. and easing my body under the water so that just my head was out. It was like getting into very cold lake water, only the opposite. Solange let me soak like that for a couple of minutes while she lathered up a wash cloth, then washed my upper body and feet and legs, scrubbing hard, then made me stand up and hold still while she really went at my midsection, really going at it, roughly washing my penis. This is one job she usually lets me do myself, but this time she wanted to make sure it was squeaky clean, and also maybe teach me a lesson. She skinned back my foreskin and washed the glans with the rag and her hands with the same briskness she would use in washing a small boy's ears or toes.

When she was done washing my private parts she turned me around and attacked my behind. She soaped and washed by buttocks with great thoroughness, slipping her soapy hand between my cheeks and subbing up and down my crack. She did not invade my bottom with her finger, though. That would come later, when I was in the stirrups.

When she had finished with the washcloth I assumed she was done, but no such luck. She soaped up a long-handled bath brush she attacked me again. I was in no position to object, considering the weapon she held in her hand, so I stood motionless as she scrubbed me from top to toe, not even sparing my poor behind, until my skin turned red.

Finally she ordered me out of the tub, and, sitting on the closed toilet seat, drew me between her thighs and dried me briskly with a rough towel. When it came to my feet I had to stand on one leg and hold onto her shoulder while she dried first one, then the other.

Then she rose and, taking me by the hand, said, "Now we go to the examination room."

As she led me down the hall I knew better than to ask why, and was sure that whatever she was going to do, I would not find it pleasant.

The room was refreshingly cool. I watched as she placed a fresh paper sheet on the table, smoothing it out carefully. Then she made me climb onto the table and lie back. She placed each foot in a stirrup and secured it with a strap. She adjusted me so my legs were flexed back, stretching open my buttocks. She ran another strap across my chest and secured that also. I could move only my arms and head.

She got some stuff from the cabinets in back and put them on the table behind me. She came at me with a small bottle with some darkish liquid in it.

"This is a powerful antiseptic and germ killer that I am going to apply to your penis. This is necessary because that condom you showed me could offer very little protection considering the size of your thing. This will sting a little, but it is nothing to what you will suffer if you become infected. And remember, you brought it on yourself."

She unscrewed the cap, to which was attached a small rod like the ones that come with mercurochrome or iodine bottles. She dipped the rod into the brownish liquid and, taking my penis in her left hand, began painting it with the rod.

The sting was immediate and fierce. I gasped and sucked air.

"Hold still!" she ordered, because I guess I was squirming as much as my bonds allowed, which wasn't much. She resumed painting my entire penis. Then she pulled back my foreskin and dipped the rod into the bottle again. I held my breath. The burning was even worse, and I became vocal. Ignoring my noise she painted my glans, paying especial attention to the area underneath the head. I tried to tell myself that she was only doing this for my own good, that she had my best interests at heart, but I couldn't help suspecting that she was perhaps acting out of spite.

"I am now going to treat the inside of your penis, the urethra. It will hurt, , mon cher, but it is necessary. It will be easier for you if you make you penis a little bit stiff."

I hesitated, wondering if I had heard correctly.

"You know." And she made a gesture with her hand. "Just like all dirty minded boys do at night. Or do you want me to do it for you?"

Blushing furiously I worked my cock to make it as stiff as I could under the circumstances, which wasn't very stiff. Again she smiled her special smile when she saw me achieve a semi-erection. Then, after dipping the rod into the bottle, she took hold of my penis and inserted the rod right in, pushing it in as far as it would go. I let out a sound which probably could be called a scream. I kept on making noise as she repeated this process four times, until my urethra was bathed in the horrible stuff.

"Voila!" she exclaimed. "Fini! Finished!. No more! It will continue to smart for a few minutes, then gradually subside. You may find peeing a little painful for twenty-four hours, and I definitely would not recommend your masturbating for a day, if you can hold off that long. And now, we will turn our attention to your behind."

Again she went away for a few moments. When she came back it was with a thing like the scope Auntie Clem had used on me, only not quite the same.

"This is called an anal dilator," she explained, coating it with KY. "It is like the proctoscope which you are familiar with except that it can open up inside you and dilate your anus. After dilating your anus I will insert some narrow forceps holding a piece of gauze and I will take a rectal smear which when examined under a microscope will tell us who or what has been in your bottom. Take a deep breath. "

I did, and I felt the snub nose of the plunger press against my rosebud. A bit of pressure and I felt my anus beginning to open.

"Now let it out." I did, and the well-lubricated tip entered me with ease. She worked it in to the hilt, only a few inches, and withdrew the plunger. I felt my anus being stretched open as she turned a screw on the side which opened the blades of the little device. After a while it became quite uncomfortable, which I think was her intention.

"The anus is remarkably flexible," she commented, giving the screw another turn. "Now perhaps you have some idea of what it felt like when your mother gave birth to you. Imagine how wide a woman's vagina must be to permit an infant's head to come out." It was not something I really wanted to contemplate in my present position.

"Men don't give a thought to what women must go through in giving birth. Oh, no, they just have their way and disappear, leaving the poor girl or woman to suffer the pains of labor, which are far worse than anything you have experienced or will experience today. Far, far worse." And she gave the screw another turn. I wondered whether she was speaking from experience, and whether something like this had turned her into a man- hater.

"Of course," she went on, "some boys like having their anuses stretched. These are boys who like to play the girl's role. They don't have to worry about babies, of course, only syphilis and gonorrhea."

Another turn of the screw made me utter a sound.

"You're beginning to feel it? Well, Michel, I won't stretch you any further. Now, to business. I am now going to take a smear with these forceps." And she showed me the long narrow pliers with a piece of gauze in its jaws. "You will feel only a little tickle."

She was right. It didn't hurt, it just tickled, and it was all over in no time. She took out the dilator the and wiped me off.

But she was not through yet. After some opening and closing of drawers she came over to the table holding a hand syringe to which was fastened a thin tube. From her apron pocket she took out a bottle. She took off the cap, and squeezing the air from the bulb inserted the tip of the tube into the bottle and sucked its contents into the bulb. She then held the bulb upright and squeezed out any air.

"This is going in your rectum, as you may have surmised. You will experience a burning sensation for a while, but it is necessary to prevent any infection." I wondered why she couldn't wait until she had read the smear, since that would test negative, but I knew she would have some reason not to, so I just gritted my teeth and prayed it would soon be over.

I felt the little tube go in my anus and work its way up my rectum until it was entirely inside me. Then it felt the oily liquid being squeezed into me. For a few seconds I felt nothing. Then it started to burn, slowly at first, but with mounting intensity. I felt my eyes well with tears, partly from the discomfort. but mostly from the injustice of it. I tried to tell myself that she was just being conscientious, but I couldn't help feeling that it was all unnecessary, and that she really just wanted to punish me for my bad behavior.

Slowly she withdrew the thin tube from inside me, then took something from her other pocket. It was about five inches long, thick toward the base, which was flanged, and tapering toward the tip, which was sort of penis-shaped. I didn't have to ask what it was for.

"I am going to insert this, and you will retain it all night. It will prevent the medicine from leaking out."

My anus being already well-lubricated, she simply pushed the blunt nose against it until its walls opened and allowed it to enter me, stretching me wider as she pushed it in. It was a bit uncomfortable getting past the widest point, but once in it lodged snugly in my bottom, the flange pressed against my anus.

She wasn't quite finished yet. From yet another drawer in the room she took out a thick piece of cloth that I realized as a diaper.

Placing it on the table she freed my ankles from the straps.

"Feet up," she said, "there's a good boy. We'll just put this nappy on you so you won't stain Madame's sheets with that fluid if it leaks out during the night. The injection I gave you is oil- based, and oil has a tendency to leak."

I thought of saying, "I thought that's what that plug is for" but knew better than to cross her in her present mood.

"There we are. Off the table with you. My, don't you look cute!" She made me stand in front of the full-length mirror on the back of the door.

"All you need is a pacifier in your mouth! Now, it's bye-bye time!"

"Don't I get any supper?"

"I'll bring you some warm milk to help you sleep."

Back in my room I threw on a tee shirt and dove under the covers. But no sooner had I done so than Solange entered carrying rubber panties!

"Let's just get you into these while your milk is warming."

"Solange! I'm not two years old, you know!"

"I know, mon cher, but what if you must make pipi in the night? I don't want you removing the diaper. So this way, you can just make pipi in the diaper. That's what it's for, you know."

When she had put the rubber pants on me she left, returning a few minutes later with my milk--- in a baby bottle!

"Yes, yes, I know, you're not a baby, but isn't it easier to drink from a bottle than from a glass when you're lying down? This way you can't spill any, and you can take your time drinking it. So, here, open your mouth. There. Now, you remember how to suck on a bottle, don't you? Good boy! Now, good night and sweet dreams. I'll be in first thing in the morning with your enema." She gave me her little smile as she made her exit.

The stuff in my bottom had stopped burning, and the plug actually felt rather nice when I worked my sphincter muscles. I sort of wished I could play with it, but of course with the diaper and the rubber pants that was hard to do, so I just sucked on my bottle until I fell asleep.

Sometime in the night I woke up with a full bladder, and was starting to get up when I remembered the diaper. So I just turned on my side and let it come out. Much to my surprise It felt very pleasant to have my diaper fill with warm liquid. It must have triggered some infantile regressive feeling, because before I drifted off to sleep I put my thumb in my mouth.

I woke up to the unpleasant feeling of cold wet pee against my skin. It was still early, and I knew Solange would be angry if I took off the rubber pants and diaper, so I reached for my diary and brought it up to date. It's now 8:30 a.m. Monday morning, and still no sign of Solange.

Keeping a diary of my trip was Mom's idea---she gave me the diary to write in---but I soon realized it was not going to be the kind of diary you show your Mom. So what am I going to do when she asks to se it? I guess I'll just say I lost it. Now here comes Solange so that's all for now.

 

 

Monday 1 p.m.

I am lying in bed with a suppository melting in my rectum and a fresh diaper and little vest my only garments. The suppo is supposed to put me to sleep but I will write as much as I can before I drop off.

When Solange came in a little after 8 a.m. this morning dressed in bathrobe and slippers she was carrying a tray with a bulb syringe standing upright on it. It was not a rectal syringe, but a female douche syringe, with a long, thick, curved nozzle with a bulbous tip. There was a tube of KY beside it, and a face towel. I was so anxious to have my diaper taken off that I was eagerly looking forward to the "little enema" she had promised me. Was I in for a surprise!

"Lift up," she said, pulling my rubber panties off. Then she felt my diaper.

"You did pipi during the night. Good boy. That's what diapers are for. But no caca?" she asked, feeling under me.

"No," I said.

"Then we'll have to wash it out with this little enema." She undid the safety pins securing my diaper and slid it out from under me. She inspected it carefully, and noted a small oily stain in the center.

"A good thing you were wearing this," she said, "or you would have stained the sheets. See?" And she held the diaper close to my face. Then she pushed my legs back toward my chest with her elbow and took hold of the flange of the rubber plug.

"Pushie," she said, " like you're going potty." I obeyed her babyish instructions and I felt the wide part of the plug stretch my anus and then plop out, causing a brief twinge of pain. She help it up and sniffed it. Then she wiped my bottom and crotch area with the dry part of the diaper.

Next she smeared some KY over the fat tip of the douche syringe, pushed back my legs with her left elbow so my cheeks were stretched open, aimed the fat tip of the nozzle at my pucker, and pushed. I felt it go in, and she poked it all the way up so that the rubber flange was pressed against my anus, forming a seal. It had hurt a little in an achy way when she pushed it round a bend, but after a while it felt O.K.

"They say good things come in small packages," she said, "let's see if that is true!" And she quickly emptied the contents of the syringe into me, squeezing the bulb with both hands. She quickly took it out, let it fill with air, and and even more quickly rammed it back into me and held it there.

At first it just felt like a small, warm enema. But then things started happening. My stomach began to churn. It felt as if there was a little storm going on inside me. It was very strange. Soon I started getting cramps. She saw me screw up my face

"So, are you enjoying your little morning enema, mon petit?"

"No! What did you put in it!"

"Two harmless ingredients, milk and molasses. That's all. Very tasty, both of them, no? But when they mix, a chemical reaction occurs. It's a very effective little enema for cleansing, though of course it can be difficult. So, to make it easier, I will insert the plug again. But first, a bit of air." And she squeezed the bulb. I felt my bowel being bloated with air. Then she took out the syringe and reinserted the plug until the flange was snug against my "anoose" She let my feet come down and rest on the bed but my knees were still flexed. The air was adding to the discomfort of my cramps. I was in a bad way.

"How long do I have to I hold it?" I asked.

"Until you have released your sperm into this little towel. You may start anytime."

I couldn't believe it. She was telling me to masturbate right in front of her. Then I remembered something.

"But you said not to do it for twenty-four hours."

"Oh," she said, coloring a bit, "I meant twelve hours. Now get busy."

"I can't, Solange! Not with you watching!"

"You had better try, unless you want to hold that enema in all day."

"But why, Solange? Why are you doing this?"

"Why, why, why, you sound like a child of six years. Because, that's why. Because I like to see how you do it when you are alone in bed. I like to see your face when it happens. Here, I'll give you something to look as while you are working." And she pulled open her robe and showed me her tits!

I stared at them in open-mouthed amazement. They were not huge, but they looked very firm, and they stuck out and up. The nipples were dark. She took my hand and guided it to the left one. It was very warm, and the nipple was hard. I guess she got a charge out of giving me that nasty little enema.

After she had let my hand explore her tit she guided it down to my penis and left it there, as if to say, "You know what you have to do." I knew she wouldn't let me up until I had done it, so I started jacking off as hard as I could, looking at her tits as I worked away. It sort of took my mind off the awful enema, but it was hard work, what with all the churning and cramping inside me, but finally I knew I was going to make it.

Even though my arm was sore I stepped up the tempo, looking at her tits to keep my mind of what was happening in my bowels, and then I felt it coming, and to my great relief shot into the towel a copious load of spunk. In spite of that nasty enema inside me, or maybe partly because of it, my orgasm was violent and strong, and I pumped out my sperm for some time. When at last I was dry I shifted my gaze to her face and saw that she was smiling down at me.

She said I was a "good boy" and that now I could use the potty which was under my bed. Another little twist of the knife: I wasn't even allowed to use the W.C., but had to do it in the potty like a child. But my need to go was so urgent that I didn't care. I knelt on the floor and fished it out from under the bed.

"What about the plug?" I asked.

"When you have positioned yourself on the potty I will take it out."

After I was seated, my knees on a level with my head, so that I must have looked like a giant grasshopper, she reached under me and unceremoniously yanked out the plug, quickly getting her hand out of the way of the cascade that came surging out of me.

My relief was so great I forgot I was using a child's potty and just enjoyed emptying my bowels. Actually not much came out, just the enema mixture and a lot of air, but it took a long time, and my bottom was sore from sitting before I felt it was safe to get off the potty.

When I did, Solange wiped me off and told me to sit on the bidet. She adjusted the temperature of the jet and I sat there feeling the little jets of warm water splashing against my bottom hole. It was quite nice.

After a while she returned from cleaning the enema equipment.

"That's enough douching. Now get up."

I stood and again she wiped off my bottom. I glanced at the clock on the dresser. Quarter to ten! Francine would be expecting me in fifteen minutes!

"Can I get dressed now, Solange?"

"You may not."

" I was just thinking of Hector. He probably needs to go out."

"Hector has already had his walk. I took him out while you were still asleep. But perhaps it is not Hector you are concerned about. Perhaps you had anther motive for wanting to go out. Well, let me tell you, mon petit, you are not going anywhere by yourself today I do not trust you. You may think you are a big boy now but let me say that Paris is filled with people on the prey for boys like you, both men and women, and I am going to see that you stay out of trouble for as long as I am in charge. So for today you are staying where I can keep my eyes on you."

"Well, can I get dressed anyhow?"

"No. You will have no need for clothes. I will put a clean diaper on you in case you have more enema water in you. And you may put on your little undershirt. But that's all. Now onto the bed with you, on your back, feet up, so I can diaper you. Quick like the bunny!" She emphasized her order with a stinging smack on my behind

I felt utterly humiliated by being treated like an infant. She was even worse than Mom. But I knew she was in charge, and out of fear of worse things to come I obediently lay down on my bed and raised my legs to be diapered.

First, though, I was powdered, and some ointment was applied to my anal region and worked in thoroughly. Then the diapers. But no rubber pants. I got up and she made me raise my arms so she could put my little undershirt on. Now I was "dressed."

"Breakfast time," she announced cheerfully, and I envisioned an omelette and a couple of croissants, maybe. But no suck luck. She seated me on a stool in the kitchen and gave me a glass of orange juice followed by some cereal with bananas and yogurt, and a big glass of milk. At least I didn't have to drink it from a baby bottle. I was hungry, so I licked the bowl clean.

"Now we do the dishes," said Solange. She opened a drawer and fished out a little apron, which she held out to me. "Here, let's put this on you so you won't get soapy water all over you. Turn around." She tied it in back and gave me a little pat on my well-padded behind.

"So, Michel, how do you like being a baby again?" she asked, running the hot water for the dishes.

I said I didn't.

"Come on, now, admit that it has its advantages. You don't have to worry about anything. You are totally taken care of. Your food, your dress, your bodily functions. Confess, it's not so bad, is it?"

I said I missed my freedom.

"But freedom just gets you into trouble. So, until your Auntie returns, you are deprived of all freedom. Now, here are rubber gloves to protect your delicate skin. Put them on."

"They were very tight on me, but I managed to get them on. Then I set about washing the dishes, rinsing them, and putting them in the drying rack, while Solange tidied up the kitchen. I was just finishing when the doorbell rang. It was then about 10:30, I guess.

"That must be Janine," said Solange.

"Who is she?" I asked nervously.

"My girlfriend. She knows you are here."

Great! Just what I needed!

Janine was short and kind of plump, not as good-looking as Solange but sort of cute and she smiled and laughed a lot.

"You must be Michel," she said, extending her hand as I stood there in my ridiculous garb. I quickly took off my right glove and shook her hand.

"Solange has told me so much about you," she said. (Great). "And you have sixteen years?"

"Yes," I croaked, my voice choosing this moment to sound as if I were just on the brink of puberty. I took off my other glove and wiped my clammy hands on my little apron.

"Il est tellement mignon," said Janine. So she thought I looked :cute.

"Perhaps so," said Solange coldly, "but looks can be deceiving. He has been a very naughty boy and is being punished. Lift your apron, Michel."

Blushing, I raised my apron so Janine could see I was wearing diapers.

"How sweet!" said Janine. "Turn around, let me see the back."

I hesitated for just a moment, looking at Solange.

"Janine is a governess also," she said, "she has charge of a girl seven and a boy nine, so she knows all about children." So that meant she knew all about boys of sixteen? I glared at Solange, but turned slowly around. I felt Janine's plump hand on my diapered bottom..

"He has a plump behind for a boy."

"Yes, he does, as you shall see later on."

Just what I didn't want to hear.

"Now," said Solange, "Janine and I are going to have coffee and croissants. You may go to your room and play."

I looked at her hard. Being sent to one's room, in my experience, was a punishment. And being told to "play," ---- well, it was just too much.

"Oui, maman!" I said, with all the sarcasm I could muster, and strode out, aware of four eyes glued to my diapered rear. I went straight to my room, went in, and slammed the door as hard as I could. Then I threw myself down on my bed, face down, and burying my face in my arms, cried. I cried from anger at Solange for treating me this way, and for myself, because I knew what was going to happen next.

And sure enough, a minute later I herd the sound of four heels pounding the floor and coming my way. The door opened. A moment of silence, then:

"It seems our boy has been throwing a temper tantrum, Janine."

"It does indeed."

"Do you have anything to say for yourself, Michael?"

"No!"

"You will soon regret that. Janine, on madame's dresser there is a broad-backed ivory hairbrush that madame uses to brush her long locks. As you know, and as Michel also knows, the other side of the hairbrush, the smooth back, also has a purpose, namely to redden naughty boys' bottoms. Would you be so good as to fetch it? I am afraid I must teach this boy a lesson. "

I felt the bed sag as she sat down, and her hand on my heaving shoulders.

"I am sorry you have acted so childishly, Michel. I had hoped that your spanking of yesterday would have sufficed, but apparently no. You have forced my hand. I cannot let you get away with this sort of petulant behavior, especially before a guest.

"I'm sixteen! I'm tired of being treated like a little boy!"

"You may be sixteen, but your behavior is more like that of a boy of six. Therefore you will be given a punishment suitable to a boy of six."

"I'll tell Auntie Clem on you!" I cried.

"Good! And I'll tell her everything you did."

"I don't care!"

"We will see about that." I felt her fingers untying the little apron, then unsnapping the safety pin that held my diaper on. Soon I felt the breeze on my bare bottom. She didn't remove my diaper, though, just let it lie flat on either side of my hips. Before long Janine came into the room. I didn't look at her.

"Mon Dieu!" she exclaimed, looking down at me in my revealed state. "Quel beau spectacle, alors!"

"I told you you would see it, but I never thought it would be so soon. Lift up, Michel."

I did and she stuffed a pillow under me.

"Here's another," said Janine helpfully, and again I was told to lift up for the second pillow. Solange opened my legs so she could access the tenderest places. My bottom was arched up and slightly open. A perfect target. Solange sat at my left side and pushed my T-shirt up out of the way. She told Janine to hold my feet, and soon I felt her hands grasp my ankles and hold them part.

"Now, Janine," she said, placing the hairbrush squarely on the crests of my behind, " you will witness how this boy can still sing soprano." And with her left hand pressing down on the small of my back she started laying into me.

She spanked really hard, and yes, soon I was singing soprano. At one point Solange asked Janine to spread my legs even more so she could baste my inner thighs, at another to open my buttocks to give her access to those inner slopes. I pitched and lunged and arched my back as they worked me over, and it went on and on.

When they were finally done I was sort of incoherent and out of breath. They held me tight as I lay there, twitching my blazing buttocks, taking deep breaths and holding them as long as I could to try to control myself. I felt a hand exploring my behind, and Janine exclaiming about how hot it was. Solange wiped my eyes and let me blow my nose.

"Now what do you say?"

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?"

"For behaving childishly.

"Did you deserve your spanking?"

"Yes."

"Say it."

"I deserved my spanking." This confession brought fresh sniffles, but at last Solange was satisfied. She refastened my diaper over my blazing bottom and they left me therewith instructions to come out when I had gotten control of myself. I lay there sobbing quietly and trying to rub my bottom through the bulky diaper.

Soon I had a terrible urge to pee, but I didn't dare fiddle with my diaper so I just let go and peed into it. It felt warm and nice and I dozed off. When I woke up the diaper felt clammy and cold. I turned onto my side and drew my legs up.

Solange came in and said I could get up now if I was going to be a good boy. I said I was wet and would she please change me.

"I am busy," she said, smiling her smile, "but perhaps Janine will change you."

"Oh, never mind----" I started to say, but Solange was on her way out of the room.

Monday evening:

I had to stop writing then as the little cone in my bottom was carrying me off into the arms of Morpheus. It's evening now, and I've been diapered and put to bed, and even though I feel drained from all the enemas they gave me this afternoon, I'm not sleepy. But before I get to that I have to pick up where I left off above.

I lay there waiting for the next bit of humiliation, namely being changed by Janine, but it didn't come. I was tired of my bed so I got up and looked out the window to see what was going on in the park. As usual there were some kids in black smocks being herded around by nuns and some old men and woman sitting on the benches, just as it was on my first day here. I never thought then that I would be standing in soggy diapers looking out the window. Then I heard footsteps--- not Solange's---approach, and quickly lay down again, on my stomach. It was Janine.

"What were you doing ?" she asked.

"Nothing."

"Oh, yes you were. I heard you scramble back into bed just before I opened the door."

"I was just looking out the window."

"Why?"

"No reason. "

"Hmmph! Probably up to no good. I know about boys. Turn over so I can change you." I must have winced as I did so because she smiled and said,

"Is your poor behind still sore?"

Still? It had only been fifteen minutes. But I nodded. I closed my eyes so I wouldn't have to make eye contact with this strange new woman who was performing such an intimate procedure. I felt the safety pin being undone and my wet diapers being opened.

"Lift up your bottom."

I lifted up long enough for her top whisk the wet diaper away. I felt the warmth of her breath and body before I felt the warm wash cloth on my privates. I felt her grasp my penis in two fingers and hold it up out of the way while she washed my scrotum and the area around it. Then she washed my penis. I relaxed and luxuriated in being tended to like an infant, so that I didn't even mind her cleaning my not-so-private parts She took a long time cleaning me. Obviously she was enjoying her work.

At last she was done there. She got up and rinsed the rag in warm water and returned to my bed.

"Feet up so I can clean your bottom." I drew my legs back tight against my chest, exposing my recently ravaged anus to her view.

"My, what a rosy behind!" she said, touching it lightly. Then she started cleaning me, swirled the rag around in gradually smaller circles until she reached my hole. She washed it very carefully and thoroughly. It felt nice.

"Your anus ("anoose") looks inflamed. I'm going to apply some ointment to it." She moved to where I could see her. She unscrewed the cap of the jar, put on a finger cot and dipped it into the jar. The I felt her free hand on my scrotum and then the lubricated gloved finger on my anal area. She worked her finger around in a circular motion, drawing ever nearer the center.

"I'm going to go in you with my finger now."

I felt my face get hot at the thought of this stranger invading my bottom, but my very vulnerable position and the afterglow in my behind discouraged me from any protest, It would have been fruitless anyway, so I just lay there with my eyes closed and awaited this latest indignity.

Her finger---I was getting to be something of a connoisseur of fingers---was fatter but shorter than Solange's. She pushed it right in and worked the ointment around inside me. Then she took it out and dug her finger into the jar again and stuck it back in. She gave me a thorough massage with whatever the stuff was, spreading it all around inside me. I was mortified to realize that my cock was totally ignoring my command to remain limp. After a few more little pokes and twists she withdrew her finger and wiped off my anus, reluctantly, it seemed to me.

Then I was powdered, which had the effect of making my independently minded organ get even more rampant.

"Ah, boys," she said disapprovingly as she placed a fresh cloth diaper under my bottom.

"Feet down." She pulled the new diaper up tight between my legs and pinned it. She took a pacifier from her pocket and stuck it in my mouth. She pulled my little vest down and patted my thigh.

"You look so cute," she said. She gave my nose a tweak and left the room.

As soon as she was gone I took the stupid pacifier out of my mouth. I felt like throwing it across the room but knew that would only earn me another spanking, so I put it on the night table within reach, so I could put it back in my mouth if anyone came. And it was a lucky thing I did, because I only heard Solange's distinctive footsteps in the nick of time before she burst into my room and announced that my lunch was ready.

I was placed on a stool at the kitchen counter and given a child's lunch---a tuna fish sandwich, custard, an apple, and milk---while they ate grown-up food and talked about me as if I weren't there.

"After he is finished eating we will put him down for his nap."

"But hasn't he just had a nap? What if he doesn't sleep?"

"He will. We'll give him un suppositoire."

"Ah, delicieux! And do you take his temperature also?"

"Of course. But after his nap."

"And if he has a fever?"

"Well, first of all, he will get some enemas."

"What fun!"

And so on in this vein, all for my benefit of course. When I had finished eating and washed my dishes and folded my napkin and put it into the napkin ring I was escorted back to my room and told to lie down face up on my bed. I was unpinned and the diaper pulled back, exposing my genitals to their gaze.

"C'est un peu faible, mais c'est mignon," said Janine, thinking I wouldn't understand. So she judged it to be "a bit puny" but "cute," did she? Solange smiled at her friend's assessment of my masculine equipment.

Solange opened a blue jar and took out a little cone wrapped in foil. She was about to put on a finger cot when Janine asked, in French, if she could do it. Solange said of course, adding,

"I hope your finger's long enough. You have to get it way up there, you know, so it won't come down and slip out."

Solange held my legs back while Janine went between my thighs and poked the little cone into me and pushed it up as far as her plump finger could reach.

"Hold it there for a while," Solange said. "Can you get it up any higher?"

"No. This is as high as I can reach. It's quite warm in here."

"Of course, thirty-seven degrees, more or less."

"And after his nap we will discover whether it is more, or less, no?"

While this conversation was going on Janine was wiggling her finger inside me in an effort to push the little cone higher, causing the usual reaction in my puny but cute organ, which Solange noticed, because she said,

"I think you'd better take out your finger now."

"Why? Oh, I see ."

Satisfied that the little suppo was securely in place and melting, they drew my diaper up and pinned it. The pacifier was placed in my mouth and the curtains drawn to make the room dark. Both of them kissed me good night, then they left. Feeling sure they would not come back, I fished out my diary and wrote as fast as I could, knowing my time was limited.

And sure enough, it wasn't long before I started feeling drowsy, and I knew that the little cone had melted in my warm insides, and would soon put me to sleep. I fought against it, though, and managed to stay awake a while longer before succumbing to the arms of Morpheus. But first, of course, I put this diary away.

When I woke up from my nap both Solange and Janine were in my room. Francine opened the curtains and let in the afternoon light, and I rubbed my eyes.

"Did you sleep well, mon petit?" asked Janine, bending down like a mother to an infant.

"Yes, thank you," I answered as politely as possible.

"We are going to take your temperature now," she said. "And you know where the thermometer goes, don't you," she added, pulling back the sheet and undoing the safety pin. " It goes in your bottom, because it's the safest place, and because boys can't be trusted with it under their tongues. My little seven-year- old Suzie I know I can trust with it under her tongue, but her older brother Girard, never. His must be taken in his behind. So just turn over onto your tummy now and Solange will insert it while I hold your bottom cheeks open so she can find the little hole where it goes."

I did, and they did, and I felt that little glass rod slide into my behind. They left the room then, Solange saying they'd be back in a few minutes. As soon as they were gone I started playing with the little rod, poking it slowly in and out. I played with it like this for some time, enjoying the sensations my manipulations were sending through my loins, only stopping when I heard them coming back. Solange whipped out the thermometer and wiped it off and read it.

"Don dieu! Il a un fevre!"

Of course I knew right away why it read high, and Solange smelled a rat. "Michel, were you playing with it?"

"No! Of course not!"

But I don't think she believed me, because she gave me a very suspicious look. She could have taken another reading, I suppose, which would have caught me out in a lie and maybe earned me a third spanking, and maybe this was going through her head as she stood there looking at me. But she had another idea, evidently, for soon a slow smile spread over her face.

"Well, Janine," she said, " I suppose we must try to bring down his fever."

"How?"

"Cool enemas, of course."

"Ah, yes, cool enemas." And both of them smiled at me. I looked up at them, first one, then the other, my face burning with embarrassment. They left me lying there with my bottom bare while they prepared my first enema. As I lay there awaiting my fate, I felt my cock stir under me.

They gave me six enemas this afternoon, all with cool, plain water, except that they added salt for the last two! None of them were very big, but six enemas is a lot. They worked as a team, switching roles between each enema. And, oh, did they have fun!

They used a colon tube which was inserted quite high into my bowel, and let the water run in slowly. They used fat nozzles and curved ones. They used the Higginson syringe and the feminine douche syringe. They used every position they could think of: on my left side, on my back with my legs drawn up, on my hands and knees with my chest down and my bottom up and out, even over the lap, baby style. And if my John Thomas stood up and saluted, they snickered, and flicked it with a finger to make it behave. Oh, yes, they had fun all right.

Each enema was held for ten minutes, by which time Solange figured the water had warmed to meet my body temperature. I was allowed to expel each flushing into the chamber pot, then placed on the bed again for the next one. It took all afternoon, and left me quite exhausted, but--- mirabile dictu!---when Solange checked my temperature again, this time both orally and rectally, it was normal by mouth and sub-normal by rectum.

I was then oiled, powdered and diapered, and allowed up, but was confined to the flat for the rest of the day. And my temperature was taken every hour, "just to make sure," said Solange, looking at me with an expression that said,

"Perhaps you will think twice next time before playing with the thermometer in your behind."

Now I'm going to go to sleep, because it has been a long and tiring day.