Perverts 'R' Us

Back Room Lube Jobs

By Grade School Nurse ( M+/F+/b+, voy, enem, hum )

As told to Grade School Nurse by Darrell Dean Singleton III.

Norbert and Emma Jenkins were a queer old couple in the late 1950's sense of the word. They ran a gas station on the highway between Fredericksburg, Virginia and Bowling Green when I was an NCO at Camp A. P. Hill, and though they were the quintessence of a Norman Rockwell picture in every other respect, they had a funny quirk of character that was embarrassing to say the least. Though it was generally known in the neighborhood by the old timers, it was reacted to differently by different people.

Their older neighbors who had known and loved them for years fell into two categories: those who preferred to deny it completely, and the ones who were secretly amused. Another group found it a windfall of luck for gossip which they exploited on every occasion, looking furtively behind them at Rachel's Diner or whispering with their hands hiding their mouths on street corners. Then there were the morally indignant who had the sheriff "speak to them" on several occasions until as he said to the Jenkins, "It all blew over."

It was early in the afternoon on a Thursday about the end of May in 1959 when we were en route to an enema orgy in D. C. It was for servicemen from bases as far apart as Hill and Quantico and Norfolk and was run by a really swinging madam who had a salon with phony nurses; mostly hot young Filipinas, adept in the fine art of prostatic "refreshment."

Right after leaving base, we noticed my gas gauge was almost on empty, so we pulled into the Jenkins' "Gas & Fudge" and filled up. Having neglected it earlier, we all thought it would be a good idea to use the biffy before starting out again and we did, one by one until I was the last one. I was just shaking out the last drops at the urinal when I heard a low sobbing coming from somewhere in back. I couldn't pinpoint where it was coming from, and so I thought nothing of it. Some little boy's mother was probably fixing to take the hairbrush to his bare ass or something, which used to happen a lot back then.

When I got back to the car, John and Terry asked if I had heard anything back there. I said yeah and just what I thought it was. They said something like, "Well, I don't think we're gonna be invited in to watch, so shit on it" and "All I can say is I hope she gives him a real good ass burn" and I hopped back in the front seat and we sped off.

The session on 9th Street in D.C. was the best I ever had and I think the other guys felt pretty much the same way. At one point we had eleven troopers laying side by side on pillows on this long upholstered bed like a banquette and the "nurses" had their middle fingers up each guy's ass with a red rubber, bulb-type enema syringe, filled to bursting with hot water laced with oil of almond in the other hand, and all the guy had to say was he couldn't stand it anymore because he was ready to cum and she would pull the finger out and insert the syringe. Then when she took her thumb and squeezed the smooth disc on the butt of the syringe and the water would flow in he would throw his head back and moan and curse and roar and get this crazy wild look on his face and shoot his wad.

And we could all watch the effect it had on each one of us cause the madam had this huge 20' long pier glass mirror screwed to the wall, and we were either laughing our heads off because it was so goddamn funny to see or totally fucked up with bliss and wondering just what was so goddamn funny.

By the time we piled back in the station wagon late Sunday night we were so "pump fucked" out that most of the guys just konked out and slept the whole way back. I was wide awake though thinking about what I almost saw at Jenkins' the previous Thursday and wondering if it was a little boy getting his bare ass spanked by his mother probably with dad watching and egging her on and all of a sudden I was getting another hard on. Terry Loring was obviously feeling the same way cause he said, "Betcha you're thinking about that bawling back at Jenkins', right? I just nodded and he laughed, "For sure she was gettin' ready to burn up some boy ass." Then his grin turned to a sullen frown and he scratched his crotch and said in a whisper, "God, I hope she singed it good."

It was about a week later that I found myself back at the Jenkins'. I was joshing around with old man Jenkins while his grandson Clayton was pumping gas and this guy I recognized from the base who was in civvies drove up with his hot buxom Hillbilly wife and their twin boys, Franklin and Forrest, who were ten. Norbert saw them coming first, like he was expecting them and when they got out of the beat up Ford he gave me a wink and said, "Gotta see how the little men are feelin' today."

Norbert stretched his arms in an arc high above his head and balanced on his toes and said, "So how are the little men doin' today, Luke?" Duane Russell and Dean Roger looked like they were ready to cry and yelled in almost identical words and a defiant tone, "W-We're f-f-fine! ... H-How are we s-s-sposed to be?"

"Oh, mercy me! Looks like someone got off on the wrong side of the bed today, Luke. ... How about it, Jolene?"

Jolene flipped the ash off her cigarette and said, "Oh, you know, Norb, they're always a little crabby when we come over here."

Luke said, "Could be better, Norbert. They could always be a little bit better," and laughed.

The twins roared in unison "W-W-W-We're j-j-just f-f-fine!"

Emma Jenkins came in from the back as Norbert bent down and looked the twins in the face and said, "They look a little pale today, Luke. A little bit pale."

The twins roared, "H-H-He always says that!"

Emma joined Norbert in examining the twins' faces and said, "Oh, dear. I think you're right, Norb. They could use a little more color in the cheeks. Let's go in back and see."

The twins started roaring, the tears coursing down their cheeks as Jolene herded them ahead of her saying, "Come on, Franklin, honey. Come on, Forrest, sweetheart."

I was left standing in front of the huge art deco glass showcase filled with trays of fudge. Just before the door closed behind them, Norbert Jenkins turned around and, holding the door said, "Are you comin', Dare? Come on."

We walked down a long hallway, dimly lit by two huge, square, grimy windows on the left. We entered a door at the far end into a big square room that looked like a doctor's examining room. Jolene, holding onto Franklin, sat down on a chair against the left wall and Luke next to her on another with Forrest by his side.

Emma sat on a chair across the room, next to a table covered with a white tablecloth that reached to the floor. On the table was a chipped white enamel tray. Next to it against the wall was a high cabinet with a glass door. In it were: boxes of cotton, several jars of Vaseline, a large flask with etched horizontal lines marking liquid capacity, a blue glass half-filled with alcohol holding several thermometers, another one of clear glass and more thermometers, a couple of bars of Nurseaid soap, and a 1935 model Sears Roebuck red-rubber bulb syringe standing on its smooth disc butt end with the shiny black, hard rubber nozzle pointing straight upward. Beyond the cabinet was a big white porcelain sink and on the drain board a large white enamel pitcher.

Franklin was now sitting on his mother's lap. Norbert walked over to the cabinet and opened the door. He picked two thermometers from the clear glass and shook them down. He told Franklin to open his mouth and inserted one. Forrest, now sitting on his father's lap, got the same treatment with the other thermometer. Norbert sat down on a straight-back chair across the room. He was giggling softly and broke the utter silence of the room with, "Nice day, ain't it folks? We just could not ask for a nicer day."

After about six minutes, Emma Jenkins removed the thermometer from Franklin's mouth. She read it and said, "Normal."

Franklin screamed, "See!"

Emma, sounding as if she was reciting a frequently used comment, said, "Let's look at Forrest's." She removed his thermometer and pretended to have trouble reading it. She squinted. She said, "It just may be a teeny bit high." Franklin and Forrest both roared. They knew what was coming next.

Emma Jenkins said, "When it comes to twins, mother, what's good for one won't hurt the other one. ... Let's be smart about this. ... A stitch in time saves nine."

I heard a door creak at the back of the room. I could see Clayton had entered the room and crept behind the door of a closet in the corner. He was peeping out from behind it, though he might as well come out into full view because he was laughing audibly and, pointing to the twins, saying, "Yoo hoo, I see you."

Emma Jenkins gestured to Jolene, who got up and brought Franklin over to a chair next to the cabinet. She sat down as Emma put a folded thick white towel over her lap. Jolene turned the roaring Franklin around and lay him face down over the towel on her lap.

Emma sat on a chair opposite them and pulled on the straps of Franklin's overalls, lowering them to his knees. His plump, round ass cheeks filled his tightly-stretched BVD's like wind in two big sails. Silence reigned in the room. Emma grinned as she grabbed hold of the waistband of the bawling boy's BVD's and slowly hauled them down to half-mast.

They popped out almost explosively, inch by inch as she in a sawing motion stripped the boy's lovely alabaster-smooth buttocks of the last vestige of his modesty. No sooner were they clear of the chubby rotundities of his arse cheeks where they parted at their plumpest curves, just outside of his pink immaculate anus, than I heard shrill whistles and rude hooting from the back closet. Norbert and Luke were applauding loudly while Forrest, trying to get loose, was slapping his delighted father in vain protest.

Emma picked up a thermometer from the blue glass and dried it with a pinch of cotton. She shook it down and then dipped it in a jar of Vaseline, daubing the tip with a glistening gob. She told Jolene to arch Franklin's buttocks up a teeny bit higher. She smiled pensively as with the thumb and forefinger of her left hand she delicately parted the shrieking boy's plump arse cheeks at their lower curvatures. She delicately anointed his arsehole with the bulbous tip, trued it, and then inserted it with exquisite leisure to half its length up his anus.

Both boys were roaring now, Franklin over his mother's lap, Forrest pummeling his father with might and main. Pandemonium reigned in two camps: the shrieking boys united in their rage and Old Norbert, their father, Clayton, and me cheering on the determined "nurse" Emma, abetted by Jolene. Franklin's fury was gradually exhausted as he lay whimpering over his mother's lap. Forrest was being held by the wrist at arm's length as he strained to free himself from his father's iron grip.

Emma slowly extracted the thermometer and held it to the light, reading it. She frowned and said, "A bit high, but probably from all the fuss he's made. But a little, er, squirt or two won't hurt him a bit." Franklin started roaring all the harder now.

Emma had filled the flask with hot water, at the bottom of which a cake of Nurseaid soap was emitting a grayish fluid. She picked up the syringe and displayed it for all to see, delicately cupped in the palm of her hand, her thumb caressing the smooth disc butt end. The nozzle extended from between her forefinger and middle finger. She dipped the nozzle to the hilt into the water. The hot fluid rushed into the bulb with a high-pitched gurgling sound. She held the syringe aloft, just long enough for the wisp of vapor from the nozzle to dissipate.

She asked Jolene to arch the bellowing boy's plump naked buttocks higher, and then she delicately parted the smooth white cheeks of his arse and slowly sent the syringe with practiced dexterity straight into his quivering anus. Franklin's shrieks resounded as the men applauded and twin Forrest threw himself down on the floor, beating the carpet with furious thuds of his heels.

Franklin having his arse filled and evacuated several times with hot infusions was released to his father's tender care and Forrest took his place. Nurse Emma, instead of choosing a fresh thermometer from the blue glass, decided the one she just used on Franklin was fine for the purpose. She picked it up and polished it with a pinch of cotton soaked in alcohol. She parted Forrest's superbly plump and smooth nether cheeks and poised the thermometer. She proceeded in much the same manner as with Franklin, amid cheers from her husband, the twins' father, Clayton, and me.

That was the first of many afternoons I spent in blissful attendance at the sorrowful encounters of Franklin and Forrest's naked buttocks with Mrs. Jenkins' thermometers (fore and aft) and enema syringe.