Perverts 'R' Us

A View From The El

By Grade School Nurse ( M+/F/m, enema, voy, ir, inc, nonsex )

As told by Reginald Collins III

We're talking to Colonel Reginald Collins III. The "Colonel" was the terror of boys and the delight of nurses in a half dozen cities and towns for over fifty years. He retired from the Army in 1982 at the age of 70.

GSN: What happened on the elevated line In Woodside, Queens?

RC: Oh, Lord, that was a real high point in my long history of watching boy pumping. It was just hearsay for so long a spell down in Baltimore that I finally cornered the reputed source, a big handsome black man who looked a lot like Morgan Freeman who was a supply sergeant down at A. P. Hill.

Now I know when someone's lying and when he's not and from his first word I could tell that Charles Jenkins was telling the truth. He had kinfolk in Flushing and used to spend a lot of time up there visiting when he was on leave. One beautiful Saturday morning in late May, he was on the IRT on his way into Manhattan and just as the train pulled into the 61st Street station, over on the right he saw in the window of the back of this brownstone, which was down a courtyard between two buildings in front, what looked like this 1935-model, red rubber enema syringe standing on the window sill.

This gave him quite a charge naturally and he started imagining all kinds of nice thoughts of a grandmother with a grandson who got it regularly. Don't you know all of a sudden he heard a frightful bawling, and he could see right into the room through the half-open window a beautiful little brown boy in his night shirt running around the bedroom with what looked like his grandmother - a tall, handsome, white-haired black woman with steel-rimmed glasses and an enormous backside in hot pursuit. He sat there with his eyes popping out and a raging hardon until the train pulled out of the station. He could not concentrate on the movie on 42nd Street and determined to find out if the syringe would still be standing in the window on his way back home. He judged the car precisely and sat on left hand side on the return trip. The syringe was missing.

GSN: I have a feeling he had the window "on surveillance" after that.

RC: You are so right, dear lady. Next Saturday, same thing. Red rubber syringe in window, bawling boy and determined grandmother as before on the way into town. Both gone on the way back. On the third or fourth Saturday, Charles took an earlier train. He exited the open doors of the train and walked down the double-flight of stairs to the street. He walked down the street and turned left at the corner. He walked past three or four stoops and stopped in front of the fourth.

The same little boy who was about four years old was sitting on his grandfather's knee. The grandfather was whispering into his ear and kissing his cheek. The boy was bawling softly and punching the old man with his clenched tiny fists. This seemed to please the grandfather immensely as he giggled with delight. Jenkins had no doubt the grandfather was crucially involved in little Waylon's weekly encounters with grandma's red rubber syringe and was "rubbing it in." He tried hard to repress his hot blush.

Sgt. Jenkins pretended to be looking for an address. He walked on a few steps and saw in a courtyard between the brownstone and the one next door three white men playing basketball. One of them was Waylon's father, a tall skinny white man with a sparse red beard who looked no older than a high school student. The game broke up and Terry Manning walked up to Charles and asked if he needed any help. Charles just hemmed and hawed and hinted he was lost and kept eyeing granddad and Waylon sheepishly and asked if the boy was all right.

Terry laughed and said, "He's okay. He's just cranky cause his grandma's, er," He flashes a toothy grin at Charles and wags a finger at Waylon who screams, "N-N-Noooo! ... N-N-Noooo! ... N-N-Noooo! ... N-N-Noooo, s-she's not! ... N-N-Noooo, s-she's not!"

"She's gettin' ready to give him an enema."

Minutes later, Sgt. Jenkins was sitting next to the boy's father and grandfather in the third floor bedroom at the rear of the house with the window open behind rustling curtains and the platform of the El beyond. Little Waylon had been "positioned", as his grandfather put it, face downward in the middle of the bed on a large white pillow with his nightshirt hiked up behind exposing his conveniently-arched, lovely plump light chocolate buttocks and thighs above the linen sheet which had been pulled up to his knees.

He clenched his fists and beat the pillow as he looked daggers at his father and grandfather and shrieked, "W-W-Who's h-h-he? ... W-W-Who's h-h-he? ... M-M-Make him g-go away! ... M-M-Make him g-go away! ... H-H-He c-c-can't w-watch! ... M-M-Make him g-go away! ... Nooooow! ... M-M-Make him g-go away! ... Nooooow! ... Nooooow! ... Nooooow!"

Terry Manning was giggling with delight. He teased, "Who is he? Who is he, Wayl? ... This here is Sgt. Jenkins. He likes watching little boys like you get enemas from their grandmas. ... He fuckin' loves it. ... Can't he watch? ... Aw, come on now, Waylon buddy. Be a buddy. We'll let him watch a little while, okay? Okay? ... He'd love that. ... Okay?"

"Nooooow! ... M-M-Make him g-go away! ... Nooooow! ... Nooooow! ... Nooooow!"

Grandpa always had his five cents to put in. "Make him go away? ... Oh, Waylon, buddy, now why would we want to do a thing like that? ... That wouldn't be very nice. When all's he wants is to watch how grandma gives you a nice little enema just the way his mother used to do to him. ... That wouldn't be very nice now, would it? ... It's not gonna kill you, Wayl. So let's just let him watch, okay? But let's ask him, okay, Waylon? ... Let's ask him how he feels about it, okay? ... Should we ask him?"

"Nooooow! ... M-M-Make him g-go away! ... Nooooow! ... Nooooow! ... Nooooow!"

Grandpa half hid his grin with his hand as he asked Sgt. Jenkins, "How about it, Sarge? Want to watch? ... He don't want you to. ... That's kinda obvious, ain't it? ... But how do you feel about it? Huh? Huh?"

Charles Jenkins brought his face to within inches of Waylon's wide open mouth and tear-stained cheeks and then back and forth from face to naked buttocks and back several turns until he put his hands together in an attitude of prayer and in a loud whisper and mock pleading voice said, "Aw, please, Waylon. Let me watch. ... Huh? ... Let me watch? ... I want to. ... I really want to bad, okay? ... Please let me watch? ... Huh? ... Let me watch? ... Pleeeease?"

Waylon started punching his face in a paroxysm of rage and shame and shrieked, "A-A-A-A-Arrrrgggghhhh! ... G-G-G--Get a-a-away! ... A-A-A-A-Arrrrgggghhhh! ... G-G-G--Get a-a-away! ... A-A-A-A-Arrrrgggghhhh! ... G-G-G--Get a-a-away!" ... N-N-N-N-Noooooooooooo!"

Sgt. Jenkins squealed with delight as the screaming boy's grandma entered the room holding a large, chipped, white enamel tray holding the necessaries for the impending session, which she set down on the bedside table. She intruded her face between Waylon's and the grinning Sergeant's and said in a slowly enunciated quiet, deep contralto voice, "Now that's enough, boy. No more pleading. You just cut that foolishness out right now. And I guess I don't have to tell you what's gonna happen if you don't.

"The very idea! Telling this nice gentleman he can't watch. Where'd you get the nerve, Waylon, darling? Where'd you get it from, sweetheart? ... He'll watch if he wants to and ain't you or anybody else gonna tell him he can't, you hear? Do you hear me, boy?"

"A-A-A-A-Arrrrgggghhhh! ... N-N-N-N-Noooooooooooo! ... A-A-A-A-Arrrrgggghhhh! ... N-N-N-N-Noooooooooooo!"

Eugenia Watts smiled complacently and, ignoring Waylon's "outrageous" demands, addressed the men in a condescending tone, "Now don't start pitying him. There'll be none of that. This is woman's work. Your father might have pretended to pity you, Sgt. Jenkins, but you and I know it was all a sham. And he loved it. He loved to contemplate the plain truth that when a woman makes up her mind to give a boy an enema, there is more chance of an ice cube in hell not melting than that he shall not get an enema.

Everyone knows that underneath all that mock sympathy there's a deep and abiding mirth. That all that 'just a little bit more' means just the reverse, a whole lot more. And that when you men ask 'How can these women be so mean?' you're really begging her to carry on 'til you've had your wretched thrill. Until the next time.

Now watch if you will and let's not hurry this. But there'll be no touching. This is woman's work."

Eugenia Watts bent over slowly, taking care to present her majestic bottom at eye level to each of the panting men in turn as she selected a thermometer from the six or seven in the blue glass, half-filled with alcohol. She wiped it with a pinch of cotton, shook it down, and inserted it into the bawling boy's mouth. He accepted it in a practiced manner in the corner of his mouth with tears streaming from his cheeks. His grandmother smiled pensively at the men and said, "Purely decorative. There's another, er, more sensitive place." They applauded loudly with claps and whistles.

She busied herself with objects on the bedside tray as the men sat well forward in their chairs and stared at the "lovely" spectacle of the bawling bare-arsed boy before them, craning their necks while giggling and commenting in a half whisper.

The boy's father: "What's she gonna do next, Waylon? Huh? ... What's she gonna do next?"

Grandpa: "Oooh, What's she talkin' about, buddy? ... There's a-another one? ... She's got another one? ... And she's gonna put it ... someplace else? ... Where's that? ... What's she talkin' about?"

Sgt. Jenkins: "Ohhh, boy oh boy! ... Ain't you ashamed, boy? ... Lettin' us men see your grandma doin' what she does best? ... Just look at the lovely fat cheeked bare naked ass on him, fellas! ... Just look at that beautiful sight! ... Ohhh, boy oh boy! ... Ain't you ashamed, boy? ... Get a look at that big beautiful bare naked little boy's ass!"

Eugenia Watts removed the thermometer from the sobbing boy's mouth and examined it, frowning. She expressed undisguised disappointment at the "normal" reading and, smirking at her husband said, "Never mind, grandpa, as I've told you so many times before, the only accurate reading of a boy's temperature is from, er, where did I tell you last time?"

Grandpa beamed and shouted, "Where the sun don't shine!" Laughter and applause resound in the room.

Eugenia placed the thermometer on the tray and stood with her hands on her hips and waited for the laughter to subside. All was rapt attention. She carefully selected another thermometer from the glass and wiped it with cotton. She poked the bulbous tip into a large jar of Vaseline and pulled it out.

The men were craning their necks and mumbling in a low murmur, "Ohh, l-look at this!" "W-Wait and see what's c-coming up next!" "She's gettin' ready for the ... the "other" one!" "Ohh, w-watch this!"

She tucked Waylon's nightshirt well up about his waist. She stood aside so each man had an unimpeded view and, delicately parting the bawling boy's plump smooth cappuccino buttocks at their chubbiest curvature, just outside his immaculate pink arsehole, she softly anointed his anus with the greasy thermometer and then slowly inserted it with a twisting motion halfway to the hilt.

He shrieked, "W-W-W-Whhhhhhaaaaaahhhhhh! ... A-A-A-Arrrrrrrrgggggggghhhhhhhh! ... W-W-W-Whhhhhhaaaaaahhhhhh! ... A-A-A-Arrrrrrrrgggggggghhhhhhhh!"

She flashed a broad, toothy grin as she nodded approvingly and, polishing her granny glasses with her apron, said in a clear whisper, "Gentlemen, I don't think he likes it." This evoked raucous laughter from them and roaring rage from Waylon.

She gave each man ample space to indulge his wide eyed fascination and time to voice his freely-voiced sarcasm. She delighted in their persistent and varied questions.

Sgt. Jenkins asked, "How often do you do this, Mrs.?"

She replied, "About three times a week. Not often enough."

Grandpa: "Is it doing him any good?"

"A world of good. An un-pumped boy is a bully or a sissy."

Terry Manning: "What makes him bawl loudest? ... What shames him the most?"

"Many things. He hates to have his hinder bared by a woman. He hates for her to put her thermometer in there. He hates it when she fills the bulb and sticks in the nozzle. He hates it when she squirts the soapy liquid up his butt. Most of all he hates and dreads that you men are watching. It hurts his boyish pride."

Each of her responses prompted cheering and applause, "Ohhhh, bless you, Mrs.!"

"Oh, boy oh boy! She's really got him where she wants him now!"

"Oh, wow! Leave it to the women to put the boys in their place!"

All the while Mrs. Watts was extracting the thermometer from Waylon's anus, examining it, polishing it, lubricating it and reinserting it with great delicacy, all to the extreme delight and mounting excitement of the men brought to a fever pitch by the boy's intense rage and hoarse bawling.

Finally she reached for the syringe. A telling silence reigned in the room, disturbed only by heavy breathing as she picked up the syringe and, cupping it in the palm of her right hand, the shiny, black, hard-rubber nozzle poised between her first two fingers, she grinned proudly and presented it for inspection to each of the men in turn. She invited them to feel it and her cold, white hand which they did, eagerly caressing her hand and running their fingers over the smooth oval rubber of the bulb, halved at the equator with a finely-formed raised ridge, and pressing with their thumbs the smooth disc butt end so that quick puffs of air exited the rounded tip of the nozzle.

She brought the nozzle tip to each man's ear and, pressing the butt end, sent a sharp hiss of air into each one's ear. One by one, they shuddered with delight and, grabbing themselves at the crotch, moaningly pleaded that they couldn't stand it any longer.

Mercifully, Mrs. Watts stepped over to the immense flask of hot, soapy water and, squeezing the bulb, dipped the nozzle into the grayish fluid. It filled the bulb with a low gurgling sound as she filled it several times, and in between sent a thin jet cutting into the surface of the slimy lake. She filled it once more and, delicately spreading the roaring boy's smooth hinder cheeks with the thumb and forefinger of her left hand, slowly inserted the nozzle, and pressed with her thumb on the disc butt end of the syringe. The warm water rushed into the shrieking boy's anus as the men were seized with shaking and moaning and wailed like banshees as they spurted a different, but equally heated and explosive fluid into the handkerchiefs in their hands, which were hidden deep within their pockets.