Charles Begins His Adventures

by bluepervina - © 2001

( nosex, Fm, inc, enem, hist )

This story is Part 1 of what I hope to be an ongoing Victorian series. This story will be the only one of the series without explicit sexual acts.

 

My earliest memories are of the tube. Soft, yellowing, over one-half inch in diameter, the tube was my childhood's most constant companion. Every morning and every night the tube's end was polished up with bacon grease and slid deeply up inside my rectum. There was delivered to me all the warmth and good intentions of my Mother's love. I lay on my side, knees tucked to my chest, eyes closed, mouth gone slack, and I loved it. I loved my Mother for giving me the tube. It was but the first of her many priceless gifts.

I have no memory of pain from the insertion of the tube. I have no memory of worry, nor of fear, nor of shame. It was what all boys did, my Mother had always assured me, smoothing out my hair as I lay there fetally, breathing deep. It was what all young men did, too. How was I supposed to know what they did in their private rooms, alone with wives, mistresses, mothers? She asked, and I couldn't answer. I was no different from other boys, so she had forever said, and how was I supposed to know different, being so young?

The weight and bubbling in my stomach gave me some discomfort, of course, but it always passed--just as headaches come and go, my Mother said. A natural bodily state is nothing to worry about. A boy must be clean inside, and the throb and gurgle of the water sweeping through my bowels simply indicated that I was becoming, indeed, clean.

It was a splendid ritual, in its own right. Mother came to me alone, the servants off cleaning elsewhere or preparing meals. She carried with her a large pitcher of water, which she set above the coals in the corner fireplace, heating it for a short while. As the water warmed, I settled into position to receive her preparations for the tube. On my belly, knees drawn up beneath my chest, arms stretched out upon the bed, my bottom poking up nicely and bathing in the warmth of the fire. Mother went to the smaller chiffarobe and extracted the necessary tools: rubber tube, rubber bag, the bag's hanging pole, and the pail of bacon grease. The pole was stood beside the bed. The tube, bag, and pail were placed upon the bed down past my feet somewhere. Then Mother stepped away for a moment.

To make her work easier, Mother always came to me dressed only in her nightgown and robe. As I always took the tube first thing in the morning or last thing at night, she saw no sense in dressing up in clothes that she would just have to take back off in order to service my health. The robe fell to the floor behind her, and she was able then to move about me in nearly the most free manner possible, since only her nightgown's silk rustled between us. It was common in those days, and still is today, for women to wear nothing beneath their nightgowns--a fact which stirs most men, considering these times of hoop skirts, whalebone corsets, pantaloons, and female overdressing in general, where all the public man sees of woman is the shell around woman. My Mother gave me early the gift of knowing the truest beauty of woman: skin, hair, musk, and sweat, the thin and defenseless cling of a nightgown.

Mother climbed up on the bed behind me and, sitting on her knees, gently rubbed and squeezed my buttocks with both hands. After nearly five full minutes of soothing massage, she dipped her fingers into the bacon grease and began to rub them over my anus. She always worked her fingers upon me in the same manner: the right hand's first three fingers pressed against my anus from the tips flat down to the second knuckle, rubbing and rubbing counterclockwise. She went back for more grease twice always, and on that final application her left hand invariably settled on the back of my pelvis, just above the cleft in my bottom. As the right hand finished its final tour around my softened anal border, the thumb of her left hand smoothly, painlessly pushed its way through the relaxed ring of muscle. Flexing her thumb for a few moments, Mother soothed my anus further, stretching it some, and then the three fingers of her right hand returned with more grease, slowly pushing in.

To this day I cannot imagine living without such love! My entire body lay folded there, infinitely calm, pulsing with every beat of my heart from head to toe. I could think of nothing but the hands working on my rectum. I could feel nothing but the pleasure of those hands, which searched deeper and harder inside me until the very core of a man's joy was reached. Pressing, rubbing, just long enough for my breath to catch, Mother then withdrew.

The terrible emptiness in those few seconds is what I have forever since associated with the eternal punishment and torture of hell. All that gives me happiness, hope, and meaning is taken away, and I am ignored and abandoned and alone. Love disappears and has forsaken my spirit for all of the rest of time.

But the tube! Quickly plunging to the deepest part of me, saving me, bringing back to joy, back to my Mother, it pushes in and in and in. I often wept to consider how life might be without such a salvation as this. Often my sobbing only increased as Mother reached out to stroke my cheek with her left hand. If my cries did not subside (and why should they, when tears of gratitude are but the gifts of joy?) Mother often leaned up to me and kissed my upturned cheek, her breasts heavy on my back, shoulder, arm outstretched. Her nipples scraped across me through her nightgown as she withdrew, and my sobs were caught and stilled, somehow, by that final empathic touch.

Moving to the fireplace, Mother collected the pitcher and brought it to the foot of the bed. Only once did I see what she did there, in my latest teen years, after over a decade of frustrated wondering led me to hide a small mirror in my hand in order to look back secretly upon her. She had always spent those few minutes making very strange sounds behind me, and with the mirror I discovered what they were. I'd known she did something with her nightgown. I'd also known that the pitcher was placed on the floor about two feet back from the cedar chest at the foot of my bed (I'd inspected the ring of moisture the pitcher had left behind on the floor after Mother had gone back to her room). I'd also always heard a familiar hissing and the sound of pouring water. For years I agonized over what she did there behind me, as I lay assuaged and waiting up on my bed. This is what the mirror showed me: the pitcher, only half full, was far enough away from the cedar chest for my Mother to comfortably squat over it and grip the edge of the chest; once squatting, she pulled her nightgown up with one hand until the edges were all collected and yanked tightly against her breasts; then she proceeded to empty her entire bladder into the pitcher.

In that one brief, surreptitious moment I saw far beyond my innocent pleasures. For the first time, I knew that my Mother gave me the tube as much for herself as for me. Her face at the moment of her bladder's release softened and reddened, her eyes tightly closed in a strange rapture of relief, her mouth hung open, and she slowly rolled her head from side to side as the last sprays of her salty gold spasmed out from deep inside her body.

Finished, she remained squatted above the pitcher, and I could see her anus twitching, contracting. Mother ducked her head fiercely and held it down, looking down at herself, I thought, and all I could see was the top of her head and her anus flexing, flexing. Her breathing grew more pronounced, and in a few seconds one--two--three squirts of a clear liquid burst from her nether lips. Then I finally knew what that last sound was which I'd agonized over trying to guess: she moaned, but she instantly hid the moan inside her throat, a coughing that was mostly grunting, a hoarse declaration of her love.

Mother picked up the much-heavier pitcher at that point, stood, and let the hem of her nightgown fall back around her ankles. I thought briefly about what her private parts had looked like--all that hair! But I wasn't much surprised by that at that point in my late childhood. By then, I'd seen the private parts of every female in our house except Mother. Yet, it was quite special to finally see her, too. Admittedly, she kept her hair longer and did not appear to ever trim it down there, but I imagined I could quickly grow to love such a wild and musky patch as that.

She poured the strong mixture into the large rubber bag and hung it on the pole. My mirror disappeared, and the rest of this ritual continued on its familiar route. Mother sat down on the bed beside me and helped me roll slowly onto my side. Then she stroked my hair and said, as always, "Now comes the love of a Mother for Son," and she released the stopper on the tube. "May you live forever pure."

Oh sweet love! Is there anything in the universe like the sensation of being bodily filled with warm love like that? My body inevitably shuddered through wave after wave of blinding happiness as the waters swept through me like the surge of an omnipotent tide. Mother stroked my hair and sang soft hymns, and I receded deep inside myself, trying in my mind to see what I could more than feel. I wanted to find that throbbing ball of ecstasy in my rectum and push on it myself, to fire the gun Mother had loaded. I screamed inside to explode and paint the walls of my exterior world with the joy of being full full full 3;.

Finally I heard her speaking to me. Never did I know how long I remained in my rapture, but inevitably her voice was what brought me back. I imagine I made some noises in the midst of it all, perhaps I squirmed and clenched my toes. Mother patiently waited for heaven to descend, and then she brought me back. "You are a very good boy," she always said. Then the tube, slow as a glacier, but hot, not cold, slid inexorably out into Mother's supple hands. My anus clamped shut reflexively, but its erratic spasms could not help but open it back up very soon.

"Let me help you," she said, and carried me gently to the pot in the corner. Awkwardly, clenching, I touched down and sat on the cold pot. It was high and deep and made with a special lid with one small hole through which I expelled, limiting the amount of waste which splashed back up. Forever shivering from this delicious relief, I spent quite some time squirming atop the chamber pot. I had to wait until the last spasm and squirt was wrung out of me, or else I'd regret it in public--or in my sleep--later.

During this time Mother went about the business of cleaning her hands, retrieving her robe, and putting away her equipment. Coming back to me, she bent to kiss my forehead. "My perfect boy," she always whispered. "My perfect man." With one more kiss she straightened and headed back to her room. The pitcher, held negligently in one hand, dripped a wet trail after her.

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Copyright 2001 by bluepervina.

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