Perverts 'R' Us

The House on the Hill

By Grade School Nurse ( F/f/f/b, voy, enema )

As told by Maynard Manning.

It stood alone on the crest of a hill in Duluth. It was a grey-colored gingerbread Victorian house that looked like it hadn't been painted in half a century. The slates on the roof of the widow's walk were loose and creaked in the wind as he walked hand in hand with his father along the balustrade and up the long flight of stairs to the massive carved oak door. It must have been sometime after Maynard's tenth birthday in late October, because he remembered the deep orange and yellow of the sere leaves that whirled in the musty smelling eddies of a fierce wind.

His mother had died the previous year in a crash when the Model T plowed into the bridge. His father was devastated and took to drinking more than usual. He had a quirky obsession with the idea that boys especially needed the constant attention of their mothers or some other woman for simple reasons of personal hygiene, and that without it they would become slobs or worse. So his mother and three older sisters were occupied much of the time first with Walter his oldest brother and then successively with Clarence and Steve and Fred and finally with Maynard.

Years later he found out that the paper his father was always reading that was called "Justice Weekly" and came out of Canada must have been the proximate cause of their visit to the house on the hill. It carried personal ads by and for people who shared his views on the mother-son hygienic connection and on the father's obsessive voyeuristic intrusions which recaptured his own bitter-sweet boyhood memories.

His father was strangely quiet on the trolley ride to the Hoffmann's. He kept staring at him with that, "I know something you don't" look he often gave him when there was nothing good in store for him. It was the same look he used to give him when he would walk by his room and see the enema syringe that the boy's mother had set in readiness on the table next to his bed. It was the look he had on his face when his sisters would whisper to each other and giggle behind their hands and his brothers who were less delicate about it would punch each other and taunt, "Oooohhh, Maynard's in for it! Mama's gettin' it ready for him!"

His father removed his hat and pulled up the heavy bronze door knocker and let it fall with a dull thud. The door opened with a creak and they were face-to-face with Augusta Hoffmann, a buxom, severe-looking woman in her late sixties who looked like she belonged in a Rubens painting. She was a widow with a beautiful full round face and her graying blond hair was braided in a tight bun. She wore Pince Nez glasses, which were secured to a silver brooch on her huge bosom by a black velvet ribbon. Her immaculate white nurse's uniform clung to her statuesque figure as if painted on.

Behind her at a respectful distance stood her son, Norman, who had inherited his father's freighting company in Two Harbors, though he left the business to his managers and seldom went there. He was exceptionally handsome and looked like one of the men in the Leyendecker Arrow shirt ads. He was smiling sheepishly and biting his nails.

On his right and left were his sisters, Christina and Greta. Mrs. Hoffmann smiled warmly to father and grinned as if in pity at me. She held the door open and gestured with her head and said in a tone more like an order than an invitation, "Please to come in." She doubled herself up in a bow and putting her nose an inch from mine removed her Pince Nez and asked, "You're Maynard?

I stuttered, "Y-Yes."

She said, "Speak up! And stand up straight.!"

Mrs. Hoffmann gestured to his father to take a seat and he sat down in a capacious wing-back armchair heavily upholstered in burgundy velvet. He still held Maynard's hand as the boy stood next to him.

A low whirring noise came from the winding marble staircase. We looked that way and saw an old man in a quilted wine-colored dressing robe approaching from above on an oaken stair elevator. He was grinning and wheezing and when he got to the bottom he maneuvered his wheelchair out of the box and around in a circle and finally wheeled it forward until it faced father and son. He was obviously half-deaf because he almost shouted as he asked, "Is he here? Is this the boy Maynard? Is he here yet?"

His sister answered, "You needn't shout, Clarence! He's here. He's just come. Come, I'll introduce you to Mr. Manning."

She made introductions all around and did her best to fend off her brother's insistent questions as he turned back and forth from father to son and, fixing them with an intense stare, asked, "He's naughty, is he, Mr.? He's naughty, I can see it in him! ... Spank him with a hairbrush, your wife, does she? She should! He needs it, that's for sure! Does she spank him on his bare arse? Does she? Does she? How long's it been, little girly boy, since she's had your knickers and your bloomers down, eh? How long has it been? Not a long time, I'm sure!" He hoots and giggles and continues with the interrogation, "How long's it been, little girly boy, since she's had your knickers and your bloomers down, eh? How long has it been? Not a long time, I'm sure!"

"She's dead, Clarence," chimes in Sister Augusta. "I told you that. The poor boy's mama is dead. That's why he's here. Now stop asking all these questions. You'll find out soon enough."

Maynard sat on his father's lap or stood beside it, shifting his weight nervously for at least three quarters of an hour, which passed while the sisters served tea. He met Uncle Clarence's wicked stares and embarrassing questions and rude laughter with clenching fists and stamping feet and sticking his tongue out to him which far from angering him seemed to delight him.

Mrs. Hoffmann outlined her philosophy on the "rearing" of boys at length while Uncle Clarence leered at him and kept shouting to his sister, "Show it to me! Show me! ... I want to see it! ... Show it to me!" and his father was assailed with myriad questions, all of which centered on the boy and showed an intense interest in the most detailed relations of his mother's methods of discipline and particularly of her attentions to his personal hygiene in what Augusta Hoffmann called his "nether regions."

Augusta Hoffmann would from time to time put her palm up to Uncle Clarence to make him desist and said, "In good time, brother. In my own good time!"

Finally she gestured to her daughters, who approached us as if used to the instruction and standing behind the boy as he sat on his father's knee, each gently but firmly inserted her hand under each of his armpits with an upward motion. He reared violently and let out a pitiful bawl and pushed them away.

Augusta, used to such reactions in boys, spoke in a half-whisper to the father, "Please to help them, Mr. Manning. The boy is being unreasonable." His father smiled calmly and gave him one of his cold stares with the implied message that it would be much better for him if he went peaceably. They dragged him to where Augusta Hoffman was enthroned on a huge chair of burgundy velvet and ormolu. They lowered his suspenders and placed him face down over her broad lap.

Uncle Clarence had wheeled his chair to just behind where the boy's buttocks swelled into his tweed knickers and BVDs beneath. He was wheezing and mumbling loudly like a madman, "Now! ... Show it to me! Show me! ... Now! ... Show it to me! Show me! ... I want to see it! ... Show it to me! ... Now! Now!"

Norman and his father were standing behind him. Norman was clapping his hands softly and whispering audibly to the father, "Oh, Sir, how you honor us! Oh, Sir, this will be l-l-lovely!"

Augusta took a huge white handkerchief from her pocket and polished her Pince Nez. She adjusted the stiffly-starched cuffs of her uniform and grabbed hold of the waistband of Maynard's knickers. Christina and Greta were lifting him gently by the arms. She raised her right foot up on the toes and slowly lowered the knickers and the boy's big-for-his-age buttocks were presented, stretched tightly in their cotton BVD's for all to see.

Uncle Clarence was ready to fall out of his chair as he shrieked as if in anger, "Pull them down! ... Goddamn it, Augusta, pull them down! ... Pull them down right now!"

Never one to be rushed at what she does best, Augusta gave her brother a look of disdain and calmly said, "You will wait patiently, Clarence. You are always in such a rush. As I've told you so many times before, what is worth doing is worth doing well. And I will be the judge of that."

She picked up her spectacles on their black ribbon, polished them with her handkerchief, and held them up to her eyes, surveying the broad expanse of the boy's round arse cheeks under the tightly-stretched cotton underpants and said, "It's a pity gentlemen that he's not wearing panties, like the naughty little girly-boy that he is." She slipped the glasses over the bridge of her nose and set to caressing his buttocks through his BVDs and said, "But no matter, we still have a very good feeling of what lies beneath. Nice and plump and soft like a little girl's hinder, yet firm and pliant to the touch like a boy's. And I can assure you we will have an even better feeling for the lovely arse beneath once we've divested it of its temporary protection, er, you know, his panties."

As Maynard looked behind him, he could see she had a weird glow in her staring eyes and a poutish grin on her lips that betrayed intense pleasure. She fondled each of his protruding buttocks slowly, with a soft warmth of loving ardor that radiated from her palms like electricity and made them tingle with delight.

Finally she grabbed hold of the waistband of the boy's BVDs and, arching his buttocks higher by flexing her right toes, hauled them slowly down to the middle of his plump, firm round thighs. Shrill whistles and loud applause reverberated through the room from Norman and the boy's father.

"Wheeeet! ... Wheeeet! ... Ohhhhhh, l-l-look at the b-beauty of it! ... Wheeeet! ... Wheeeet! ... Wheeeet! ... Wheeeet! ... Wheeeet! ... Wheeeet! ... L-L-Look at the g-goddamn b-beauty of it!"

Old Uncle Clarence was bending forward in his wheelchair and drooling with excitement as he stared wide-eyed, straight at the bellowing boy's plump white naked buttocks while agitating his hands under a huge stained white handkerchief over his lap. He giggled with delight, "Tee hee hee! Tee hee hee! ... Tee hee hee! Tee hee hee! ... O-Ohhhhhh, b-blessed Lord Almighty! ... O-Ohhhhhh, s-sweet Jesus, she's exp-posed it for us! ... S-She's got that b-b-b-big b-b-beautiful arse all b-bare and exp-p-posed for us all to see! O-Ohhhhhh, b-blessed Lord Almighty! ... It is b-b-beautiful b-beyond every b-belief ... b-beyond i-imagination! ... O-O-Ohhhh, t-that's it, s-sister d-dear, arch it r-right up there! Arch it, I say! Let us see what's h-hidden d-down in t-there in b-between his f-fresh white chubby arse c-c-cheeks! ... Tee hee hee! Tee hee hee! ... Tee hee hee! Tee hee hee! ... O-Ohhhhhh, b-blessed Lord Almighty! ... S-S-Spread 'em! S-S-Spread 'em! S-Spread 'em, darling! ... S-Spread 'em, darling!"

Uncle Clarence shrieked as Augusta regaled her audience with a sight calculated to produce the most the lubricious reactions in the staring men and finally reached into her right pocket and pulled out what looked like an ivory object, three inches in length, round at the butt and tapering elegantly to a nubbed point. She flourished the dildo before the assembled voyeurs and held it out to Greta, who was presenting a small jar of Vaseline, dipped it and scooped out a gob.

Norman's hands were thrust deep into each of his pockets and grabbing his manhood as he seconded Uncle Clarence's insistent demands, "O-O-Ohhh, f-f-fuck him, m-m-mother! ... F-F-Fuck him w-with it! ... F-F-Fuck that b-b-beautiful p-pink asshole! ... F-F-Fuck the l-l-little b-b-big assed g-girly-b-boy punk, m-m-mother! ... O-O-O-O-Ohhhhhhhh, f-f-fuck him w-with it!"

Augusta Hoffmann delicately parted with the thumb and forefinger of her left hand the roaring boy's plump white naked buttocks at their rotund cleavage just outside his anus and slowly inserted the dildo. She repeated and varied the operation several times with what Norman called the "short tickles and the long jabs, alternating with the jazzy twists."

The boy's father, Norman, and Uncle Clarence were leaning forward and staring fixedly and grinning maniacally. Their faces were flushed with excitement, inches away from the nurse's operations. At least once each of them threw his face heavenward and spent in his trousers.

Finally Mrs. Hoffmann resigned her patient to Christina and Greta and with a brisk jump to her feet, announced in a low but sonorous voice, "Very well, then. Let's show you the scene which has served me so well over the years when Norman was in the precise same case as young Maynard here." Norman Hoffmann blushed crimson to the roots of his hair and smirked nervously. He stared at Maynard and his father and continued biting his nails. "Come along," said his mother.

By the time they were ready to ascend the staircase, Maynard was well aware that there was no hope for him but to bolt. So he did just that. And though he knew the odds were dead set against it working, he raced down the stairs and made for the door. But as he struggled with the heavy iron door handle, the sisters were on top of him, prying him away and back into his father's arms.

Shrieking with rage, he flailed out at him with clenched fists and kicked and punched and clawed and bit, but still he had the usual weird feeling that it was just exciting him all the more. Augusta Hoffmann beamed with admiration. Putting her lovely long fingers to her lips, she grinned and gushed her delight to the father, "Oooohhh, Mr. Manning! It's a fine brave boy you have got here! ... Oh, how he fights! ... Here's a boy who will not have it! ... How angry he gets! ... Oooohhh, I love that in a boy, Sir! ... Of course it will never do in the end, but how I love to watch it! ... "Oooohhh, Mr. Manning! It's a spunky boy you have got here!"

Through the hot tears gushing down his cheeks, Maynard could see his father's eyes were glued to Augusta Hoffmann's immense arrogant derriere as it slowly undulated from side to side underneath the tightly-stretched white linen of her nurse's uniform. Slowly they ascended the double-flight of stairs to the third floor. Norman Hoffmann and his sisters were behind them and Clarence Hoffmann last of all in his elevator chair. On the third floor, they followed Augusta down a long hallway on the left to the back of the house.

They stopped at the door to the corner room. As they approached, Maynard smelled a very familiar odor, the sharp aroma of Nurseaid soap mingled with the sweet greasy scent of Vaseline. When they finally arrived at the open door, he was furious with terror and rage at what he saw - not that he was not expecting it.

Crows were cawing in the lightning-blighted trees of the high precipice overlooking Lake Superior. A dismal lighthouse rose from the crest of a far bay, its sooty black stone tower piercing the grey clouds of the glowering sky a mile away, yet seemingly inches from the shiny, black, hard-rubber nozzle of the old fashioned 1935-model Sears Roebuck bulb-type enema syringe that stood stock-straight, like a soldier at attention on its smooth disc butt end on the linen cloth of the table beside the bed - Norman Hoffmann's boyhood bed.

On entering the room, Christina and Greta removed the trousers that Maynard held sheepishly up by the belt, his shirttails providing a temporary screen between his rotund BVD-clothed buttocks and the prying eyes of the three leering men. Soon he was propped up face downward on two immense pillows, his strap-shouldered shirt trussed up behind, the sheet covering his legs up to the knees, his big ivory-smooth, alabaster-white, deep-cleft buttocks prominently displayed as the center of attention to all present.

The curtains were rustling in the autumn breeze. As he flailed his head, his cheeks flushed with bawling and embarrassment. He turned his face to the window in the left corner of the room and was enraged to see two wide-opened eyes peering through the space between the drawn blind and the sill. He lets out a blood curdling roar, "A-A-A-A-Arrrrrrgggggghhhhhh! ... A-A-A-A-Arrrrrrgggggghhhhhh! ... A-A-A-A-Arrrrggghhhh! ... H-H-He's w-w-w-watching! ... A-A-A-A-Arrrrggghhh! ... H-H-He's w-w-w-watching!"

All eyes turned to the window. Augusta chuckled and beamed with pride, "Oh, there's Axel. Poor old Axel the gardener up on his ladder, pretending to fix the leaks. It's fine. It's all right. Let the poor man have a little peek. It reminds him of his boyhood in Sweden." Axel put a finger into his grinning mouth and, flushed with bliss, winked repeatedly to Norman, who roared with rage and shame, "A-A-A-arrrrrrgggggghhhhhh! ... G-G-g-get away, y-y-you d-d-dirty old l-l-loon! ... G-G-g-get away! ... A-A-A-arrrrrrgggggghhhhhh! ... A-A-A-arrrrrrgggggghhhhhh! ... G-G-g-get away! ... G-G-g-get away! ... G-G-g-get away!"

The bedside table was covered with a white linen cloth that reached to the floor. On it was a chipped white enamel tray and on it: a large flask of steaming grayish water, a cake of Nurseaid melting at the bottom, a blue glass, half-filled with alcohol holding three or four thermometers, a box of gauze, a large opened jar of Vaseline, and the old fashioned, red-rubber, bulb-type enema syringe, standing on its smooth disc butt end.

Maynard's father and Norman were leaning forward on their straight-back chairs, Uncle Clarence in his wheelchair, wide-eyed, panting with excitement, grinning from ear to ear, their stares directed back and forth from Maynard's big bare buttocks and his bawling, tear-stained, accusing face. Uncle Clarence was ranting, "G-Gracious, M-Maynard, dear! B-B-Bawling are you? B-Bawling like a b-baby are you? Why, p-pray tell? Why? Tee hee hee! Tee hee hee! ... O-O-Ohhh, G-God b-bless you, s-sister d-dear! G-God b-b-bless you! Y-Y-You've g-got him r-right w-where we w-want him! I'll s-wear to that. Y-Y-You've g-got him r-right w-where we w-want him! With his B-BVD's hauled d-down to h-half mast a-and h-his b-b-big b-b-bare arse a-arched up f-for your m-m-minutest inspection! ... Y-Y-You've g-got him r-right w-where we w-want him! And m-may G-God b-b-bless you for it!"

Uncle Clarence's nose was an inch away from the crest of the roaring boy's big bare buttocks where, as he said, "They are at their fullest, where they kiss each other" just outside his tight squeezed immaculate pink anus.

His sister intervened, "No touching, brother! No touching allowed. It's not proper for a man to be about doing what a woman does best. What's best for a boy is what shames him most, and that I'll warrant you is being given a nice hot, soapy enema by a determined woman. She's the expert, and the boy knows it, which is why he's so shame-faced and bawling his fool head off. And the men watching? That makes it even worse for him. He's so ashamed. Look at him. He's ready well nigh to die for shame. Ah, it's all so beautiful, don't you think?"

They all enthusiastically concurred. Nurse Hoffmann picked up a thermometer, shook it down, and inserted it into the boy's mouth. He blubbered in distress. The men, laughing raucously, comment in unison, "That's where she puts the first one, Maynard. We're not saying where the other one goes."

After some minutes, she removed the thermometer and read it. As always, she shook her head and said, "We nurses have utterly no confidence in the 'fore' reading of a boy's condition. The 'aft' is much to be preferred." The men laughed uproariously.

She gestured to Christina, who held out the jar of Vaseline. She picked up the "other" thermometer, dipped it into the jar, and pulled it out, tipped with a gob of grease. She nodded to Greta, who trussed the boy's shirt further up over the rotund curvatures of his deep-cleft buttocks and delicately parted his arse cheeks with her thumb and forefinger.

Nurse Hoffmann beamed in a coyly self-satisfied way and winked at Mr. Manning as she directed the thermometer with expert aim straight into the roaring boy's anus.

Maynard's howls of rage and shrieks of shame permeated the whole atmosphere of the hill, "W-W-W-Whhhhhhaaaaaahhhhhh! ... A-A-A-Arrrrrrgggggghhhhhh! ... W-W-W-Whhhhhhaaaaaahhhhhh! ... Arrrrrrgggggghhhhhh! ... W-W-W-Whhhhhhaaaaaahhhhhh! ... Arrrrrrgggggghhhhhh!"

Nurse Hoffmann repeated the procedure five or six more times. Then she wiped the Vaseline from boy's anus and picked up the syringe. The men had all spent again by now.