Perverts 'R' Us

When A Boy Blushes (Part I)

By Grade School Nurse ( M+/F+/b+, enem, humil, ir, spank, voy )

From an underground magazine interview, July 22, 1972

GSN: We're talking to Dr. Jerrold Floyd Saylor.

In his long and, from a polymorphous perverse position, illustrious career, he has held positions both legitimate and imposture as a hairbrush salesman, teacher and principal in grade schools, hockey and wrestling coach, police and probation officer, youth counselor, pediatric physician, and pastor. His often rejected doctoral dissertation on the rubor verecunda pueri is an exhaustive study of shame and blushing in boys and younger teens. Welcome, Dr. Saylor.

JFS: I thank you. [laughing] Please call me Don. Only grade school nurses can do that.

GSN: [laughing] I surrender the privilege. Our listeners wouldn't like it. Just what is this rubor thing and when does it kick in?

JFS: I'll try to cover both of those in an example. Rubor verecunda pueri is the natural rouging, or reddening, of the face, the cheeks in particular, of a boy whose modesty has been insulted in some way. In my daddy's case it was what happened every time the school nurse entered the classroom and surveyed the pupils. The boys were cowering with their faces in their books.

More often than not, she would approach Daddy and say with a smirk in an audible whisper, "Jerrold, your father will be picking you up today. Be in my office at three o'clock."

It meant a warm almond oil enema preceded by a lengthy examination involving a perfunctory temperature reading "fore" followed, to Granddaddy's great delight and Daddy's misery, by a long drawn out one "aft." The look on Daddy's face when she made this announcement, as on the face of whatever other boy who was having his "turn", was remarkable for its abrupt change: from the healthy pink cheek of boyhood to (on first hearing the nurse's approach) stony paralysis and a look of sudden terror, then a rapidly reddening flush beginning on the crest of each cheek and radiating outward to the neck, temples and hair roots and finally to the very tips of his ears, which by now were fairly sizzling like a spluttering crimson neon bulb.

The onslaught of this abrupt violent physical and psychological change begins with birth of course, but the subject of my study is its occurrence in boys. Suffice it to say that Daddy's visits to the nurse's office were not the only situations where it "kicked in" as you say. At his daddy's insistence, Daddy and his brothers were given frequent hot, soapy enemas by Grandma from their early years. It does not seem to have affected his brothers that adversely. In Daddy's case, as he confided to me years later, he could not perform much less enjoy his marital duties unless he had a fresh image of mine or Don's or Billy's regular "pumpings" deeply etched in his brain.

Chronologically speaking it was in that order as he passed on from eldest to youngest in his voyeuristic pleasurings. The big problem was premature ejaculation. So that he could only with great difficulty restrain himself in this way and invariably had to withdraw with mother to the bedroom sometimes in the middle of the operation. Sometimes too it "happened" en route down the hall. Most often it happened when he was hopelessly incapable of harnessing the precipitous gush of smooth sticky warmth that drenched a six-inch circumference circle at the front of his of BVD's.

These frequent visits to the nurse's office were obviously a major factor in the development of his obsession with nurses and their "ways" with boys but they were not the only ones. Grandma had another scenario in the making at home. Mrs. Manning was (again from a game plan earlier devised by Granddaddy) particular in her insistence that Grandmother continue the "treatment" once he got Daddy home and that he convey to her the always same yet varied in minute hints on the correct positioning of the boy's buttocks, the importance of the "exposition" or what Granddaddy called the "raising of the uppers and hauling down the aft sails", the elegant methods of parting the rump cheeks, the cleanly and delicate way of anointing his anus with Vaseline, how to hold and insert the thermometer, the finesses of insertion, manipulation and extraction, the importance of showing first father, then son, the beauty of the classic red rubber bulb enema syringe, the soft oval smooth disc-butted syringe nestled so comfortably in her hand, the correct means of filling the syringe and the ideal and time-honored system of insertion (in spite of his howls), expulsion, and extraction so essential to a boy's "fundamental" nature and a woman's right and duty to nurture it.

GSN: I couldn't have said it better myself. And it surely isn't hard to imagine that any one or all of these extravagant infringements is eminently capable of raising a blush in a boy. So you were just as affected by your father's treatment of you in this respect as he was by his father's. Is this hereditary?

JFS: With the already mentioned differences, it runs in families. As I said, my brothers and uncles have got it but not to the extent it's got me.

GSN: And there's no hint of sex involved.

JFS: Not at all. Unless you want to call obsessive masturbatory compulsions sex.

GSN: And girls? Are girls involved?

JFS: In every generation at least one brother or cousin is wholly concentrated on girls.

GSN: In what way?

JFS: Well, they simply get their jollies watching nurses (but sometimes doctors) and that means mothers or step-mothers or aunts as well take the little girl's temperature from behind or give her a nice hot, soapy enema. A heartily appreciative audience of both sexes is more often than not desirable.

GSN: Give me an example.

JFS: Well, the best one to come to mind is my uncle Clarence. He had a drug store filling station outside of Fredericksburg in Virginia. The back-room of his filling station was the first integrated jack-off room in the South. That was not hard, 'cause he only admitted trusted patrons. By patrons, I mean free guests. They had to be totally committed to the idea that a little girl ought not to be long separated from her mother's enema syringe. Race was not an issue. Clarence's back-room proved that white men and black could commingle in perfect amity where a powerful incentive obtained. That incentive was the enjoyment of perfect security and secrecy in an atmosphere of sensual indulgence. They were known within the group as the Brothers of Mama's Butt Pump.

GSN: This is warming to say the least. Tell me more.

JFS: Uncle Clarence's wife, my aunt Hilde, ran a day school. A couple of the guys from A. P. Hill had little daughters in Hilde's school. She could tell right away which ones were "into it." Well, PFC X and sergeants Y and Z were married, and their wives liked nothing better than satisfying their letches, which were watching Mama take the little girl's temperature "that way" prior to giving her a nice hot, soapy enema. Naturally Hilde was given carte blanche when it came to marching little Susan off to her office for same.

Well, troopers are bigger gossips than old women over the back fence and before long Hilde had the reputation of being the lady to see if you wanted your wife to get some good pointers on pumping little girls' sweet round butts. So while the other kids were having nap time one little girl was roaring face down over the arm of Hilde's soft leather couch with her knees on an ottoman and her dress hiked up in back and her pink white lace trimmed panties hauled down to half mast and her lovely plump white (or, in Sally Mae's case, black) buttocks arched up at the perfect angle to receive, though very unwillingly, aunty's well-greased thermometer or bulging steamy red rubber bulb syringe.

To say "before too long" would be an understatement. This kind of news spreads like wildfire and within an hour of a well-soaked sergeant Y bragging on the phone to several likely NCO's a club, Brothers of Mama's Butt Pump, was formed. A chat with Clarence and a meeting house was named, the obvious one: the secret back-room of Clarence's gas station.

GSN: So the poor little girls got it ... uh, in "the end" at home and at school and ...

JFS: And in the back of Aunt Hilde's drug store. The day school was down the road a piece. Uncle Clarence and my cousin Maynard took care of the gas station. But they were ever on the alert with their eyes focused and their ears trained on hints from motorists passing through with little girls in tow. Lacking that, if they read them right, all it took was a word or a wink to discover just which daddies would be all for watching Hilde teach their wives a thing or two about pumping little girl ass. Rare indeed was the daddy, once slotted, who could not find something in the neighborhood to occupy him and his family where such a pearl of great price was awaiting him at three o'clock when day school let out.

GSN: Well, did the "clients" overlap?

JFS: Often they did. Sergeant D's was a black family. His wife, to quote him, "Be giving lil' Sally Mae a nice hot Fels Naphtha enema every day whether she needs it or not. If it's up to me, she needs it, that's for sure. She gets another one from Mrs. Saylor once she's in school. Then for good measure when day school's out we march her right on over to the club for another nice session of heat to the seat by which I mean some nice squirts of hot soap suds up her lovely plump bare naked ass. Down there's several sweet big-assed little white gals getting it all lined up one after the other with their daddies just laughing and clapping and whistling their heads off."

GSN: You don't mean to tell me those little girls aren't blushing, do you?

JFS: Good Lord, no! They blush almost as bad as the boys. There seems to be a physio-cultural thing about blushing in boys, though. Doubtless it has something to do with the extra onus we put on boys to be manly like their dads. Crying, blushing, wailing we expect from girls. But the very fact that we do makes it ever so much more humiliating to a boy when he does. And it's a shame that feeds on itself. The more he feels he's violating his "manliness" the more confused he is. He sees himself as brave and in control whereas he's actually much more vulnerable than the girl. His dire frustration leads inevitably nowhere but to the next level: rage. He's been "caught with his pants down," a very embarrassing (in both the literal and pun sense of the word) situation to be in.

The only honorable way to react is through rage and fury. Which is precisely what excites the little boy in his father or teacher or, hopefully, in his nurse at father's instigation. Nothing lubricates a grown-up little boy with still fresh memories of nurse's jar of Vaseline, "fore and aft" thermometer and enema syringe in his brain like a fiercely raging little son pummeling him with his fists with might and main. Which also explains why this father derives so much delight in playing with him like a cat with a mouse: pretending to have enough influence over to nurse to spare him that extra squirt, not knowing whether he should intercede in his behalf or not, putting him in the hopeful expectation of being able to jump off the bed and adjust his clothes and then dashing these never-to-be promises to the ground with a sarcastic petition to nurse,

"How about just one more nice little squirt this time, Mrs.? It won't hurt him to have just one teeny little squirt more." That delivered, the roaring boy pounds his pillow with his clenched fists while staring through tear dimmed eyes at his father who winks and puts his hand to his mouth as if to muffle his message, whispering to nurse just loud enough for Billy to hear, "Maybe another teeny little squirt, Mrs., how about it? Just a teeny one this time."

Then, while nurse is preparing it, he puts his mouth down to Billy's right ear and whispers a lie, "Sorry, buddy. But she thinks you need a couple more. It won't hurt you." Blushing crimson anew in rage and hurt, Billy roars on and shows once again just what might be happening when a boy blushes.

GSN: What about your time spent as a brush salesman? What did you learn from that about a boy's blushing?

JFS: Oh, that really brings back tender memories. Tender for me and my clients, that is. Not at all tender for the boys though that was surely the condition of their buttocks when step-mother began by putting them over her knee on the parlor davenport in response to my request that she show me how she went about it.

GSN: We're all ears. Please don't skimp on the details. Let's hear it from first to last.

JFS: I was in my late teens and in Bible college in Minneapolis. I worked as a busboy in the neighborhood and in mid afternoon there was nothing doing so I would find a park bench in Loring Park and either take a nap or study. Usually it was the nap. Once I was roused from a death like sleep by the sound of a boy pleading. Without raising my head I opened one eye and saw directly in front of me down the hill toward the lake a tall well-dressed man who looked Indian. He was walking with a handsome boy who looked about ten with a huge mass of light brown hair falling over his brow. He looked English and was wearing a linen shirt and short putty grey linen pants that clung to his plump jutting buttocks like the skin on an onion. One fist was in his eye and he was blubbering,

"D-D-Don't t-tell s-step-m-mother! P-Please d-don't t-tell s-step-mother!"

The man betrayed a malicious grin as he held the boy's hand and continued up the hill saying, "What matters it if I tell her or not? She'll have the hairbrush in readiness when we arrive home in any case whether she learns it from me or no. She whispered to me this morning that her palm is itching to hold the brush. I think you know what that means. Hey? Hey?" he giggled softly. "And I fear I don't have to tell you where she means to put it, do I, Reggie? Do I?" he laughed more loudly in short tenor titters.

I was suddenly struck with the notion that I had seen the man before. After a little reflection I realized he was one of the teachers at the college. His name was Rakesh Jafri. I then noticed that they were walking directly toward me and knew this was intentional.

Mr. Jafri pretended not to know me and looking me straight in the eye with a look of disdain directed toward the boy said, "He thinks she'll spare his plump saucy arse. He's asking me to intercede for him. He's dreaming. He knows better."

Reggie turned beet red to the tips of his ears and, stamping his feet fitfully, wailed, "O-Oh, d-don't l-let h-her, sir! P-Please d-don't l-let her!"

GSN: I think I know where this going. And I love it.

JFS: You should love it. Minutes later we were walking up the hill to a large corner house on Oak Grove Street. The man raised the massive bronze knocker and brought it down with a thud. Not waiting for a response, he opened the door and nodded to Reggie to enter with me behind. A beautiful and severely majestic woman in her late middle years appeared and, saying nothing, pointed to the corner of the parlor. Reggie whimpered and walked straight to it and stood facing the wall. His hands went immediately behind him covering each large buttock with its respective palm.

Not knowing me, she did not bother to wait for an introduction but said, "He knows where to go. He's used to it."

Mr. Jafri introduced us and gestured to me to take a seat in an armchair set against the window at a forty-five degree angle to the sofa. Mrs. Barlow spoke, amazing me with her tacit admission that she knew all about me,

"We need young men like you, Mr. Saylor. It is not proper that a woman should interfere with the manly rites of tutorship. It is enough that you know where to send the boy when he is in need of ... ahem ... of some timely ... some timely irritation where it will do him the most good. I trust, Mr. Saylor, that you know where that is?"

I must have looked quite stupid as I sat there tongue-tied but roiling in my entrails with excitement until Mr. Jafri nodded and mouthed an answer which I picked up on without skipping a beat, "Y-Yes."

"Quite so," said Mrs. Barlow. "A place we women hesitate to name but one which is always on your lips." She raises her voice slightly in Reggie's direction and says, "Which is where, Reggie?" he sobs in confusion. She repeats the question in a menacing staccato tone of voice.

Reggie howls, "M-M-My b-bum, m'am!" Mr. Jafri explodes in a fit of giggling.

After some minutes of half-whispered conversation between us Mrs. Barlow again addresses the unhappy boy in the corner, "Mr. Saylor has to leave now, Reggie. But he will return when your father gets home. He may be joining your father's company. He will surely be pleased to witness a demonstration of his ... of his product. I fear that he will expect that demonstration to be made by me upon ... so sorry to say so ... upon you. As to on which precise parts of your anatomy I think you and these gentlemen already know. Suffice it to say that, as Daddy always says, 'the sun doesn't shine there.' But let me hasten to add the step-mother burns there."

GSN: "The mother burns where the sun (son) don't shine" is the way I used to hear it. Those were the good old days? But you went back to your dishwashing job?

JFS: I had to. The afternoon dragged on interminably. I felt what seemed like a hot ingot of dripping lava at my crotch and saw a lovely woman with hairbrush raised and the firm, plump naked buttocks of a howling boy in every glistening plate that passed through my hands into the draining rack. At five thirty I left my station to the night shift and raced across the park and up Oak Grove to the Barlow's home. Mr. Jafri let me in. Reggie was gone upstairs to his room awaiting his step-mother's summoning him to his "accounting."

Mr. Frank Barrett Barlow, an aged insurance executive who looked as if he was once an exceptionally handsome man and still retained traces of it, was in his dinner jacket smoking a cigar and sipping brandy as he perused the evening news. He studied me closely as Mr. Jafri introduced me but in time after some awkward pauses and small talk his mood changed suddenly and he smiled affably and winked and said, "Ever seen a boy catch it, Mr. Saylor?" He chewed his cigar and his eyes narrowed as he continued "I mean really catch it?"

I blushed and said, "I ... I guess so."

He howled, "Guess so? You guess so? I'll be damned if I don't believe you, Mr. Saylor! Betch'a you caught it pretty bad yourself when you were a boy of ten or so, isn't that so, son? Isn't that so?" I admitted it. He seemed pleased. "And it didn't hurt you a bit, did it, son? Did it now?" I agreed. He let out another howl and said, "Didn't hurt you none now that is! It surely did hurt back then though, didn't it? I'll warrant you it did back then it did! And back there too, if you follow me!"

He giggled and, motioning to a lanky, pimply, and bespectacled boy in the shadows, the houseboy picked up a chair and, grinning madly, set it beside the old man's. He almost begged me to sit down as beckoning toward the chair he said, "Do, good sir, do me the honor of placing yourself right there the better to observe the ... the timely accounting to be rendered this imminent hour. That's my dear Reginald you hear wailing up there in his room as we speak. Presently my lovely wife, his step-mother, will march him by the ear down here to conduct some ... some shall we say 'unfinished business' in her inimitable manner upon a certain part of his anatomy that I would hesitate to mention in the presence of ladies. Save in the presence of my darling wife, good sir, who I can assure you has seen enough of his plump, saucy buttocks to think nothing of it!"

GSN: He's just marvelous. He sounds like the quintessential old pervert voyeur of boy spanking. I doubt his wife kept him waiting long.

JFS: Indeed she did not. True to his word, in not many minutes we see Mrs. Augusta Barlow descending the staircase with Reggie in tow being fairly lifted off the steps by his left ear which, like his right, is protuberant from frequent past exertions of the same type. His father is sitting beside me with his newspaper covering his lap. Dexter, the house boy, is less inhibited. He is standing in the shadows and staring with a gape mouthed grin on his face and his left hand busily occupied in the crotch of his baggy trousers. Mr. Jafri is seated at the far right end of the sofa.

Old Barlow says, "Rakesh there is anxiously awaiting my dear wife's pending demonstration of the penitential effectiveness of his product on poor little Reggie's bare naked buttocks sad to say. Sad for Reggie. Not sad for us. I hope he will take you into his employ. He is a brush salesman who loves his job so much he swears he would work for nothing. He gladly supports the cost of a well-made hairbrush in households which cannot afford it, provided of course that he has unlimited access to the sessions where it is used. I trust you understand by now, dear sir, what I mean by 'sessions.'"

Reggie is made to stand for some ten minutes face to the wall blubbering in the corner. Amusing conversation fills the period. Finally Augusta Barlow asks that he turn and face the assembled company. Mr. Jafri picks up a large walnut case standing beside the sofa and opens it deftly, displaying the contents. He makes several passes through the room. The old man consumes the contents with his eyes but no one touches the wares. Dexter wanted to once.

Old Mr. Barlow advised against it, "For a woman's hand alone, dear Dexter. You can look but you mustn't touch. Desecration that would be. See that smooth oval back there? See it, do you? Shines like a damn mirror the finish does, doesn't it? That's destined for finer flesh than ours, my boy. That's going to find as its target the lovely rotundities of a ten-year-old boy's bare ass it is. And none to wield it but the lovely hand of my beautiful wife. Stunning what she can do to a naughty boy's bare bottom with that little hand. Absolutely stunning!"

Augusta examines them all. She selects the one that fits her hand best. She runs her fingers softly over the smooth oval back and holds it out at arm's length and says, "Yes, it fits the hand nicely and the point of contact is a perfect size for this particular naughty boy's plump, naked buttocks. The smoothness is alluring. It fairly cries out to kiss a blubbering boy's smooth, naked rump cheeks."

She calls out to Reggie, "Get your hands away from your bottom, boy! There'll be plenty of time for rubbing between swats. We are not cruel. We'll allow you ample time to amuse us by rubbing your saucy rump to your heart's delight once we've started. And it's so charming to see what little good it does you. A burnt rump hurts, my dear. That's its nature. And good for that! Now assume the position!"

GSN: Oh, dear, here comes the best part. Dare I expect an "exposition" is in the offing?

JFS: Just listen. The howling boy places himself obediently over his step-mother's lap. His stocky buttocks straining upward into his putty grey knee pants end up in a direct line of vision for me, his father and the delirious Dexter half hidden behind the curtain. Rakesh is seated to the step-mother's right. He grabs Reggie's hands and holds them at arm's length firmly in his own.

Augusta Barlow approves, "Now hold his hands throughout if you please, Mr. Jafri. We'll release them from time to time for rubbing."

Jafri grins and, caressing Reggie's tousled shock of brown hair that falls over his forehead into his streaming eyes, says in a half whisper, "This is going to hurt, dear! Oh, we'll soon see how this specimen fits her hand, darling boy. We'll know soon enough how worthy the dart is of the target."

Old Barlow roars with delight, "Not now, dearest. Not now, but soon. Let him wiggle that superb ass for us. Let's see you caress it as you do. And pinch the chubby cheeks gently. And run the side of your lovely hand up and down the lovely cleft as you do. And don't forget to give that naughty boy your usual lecture. Let's give dear Mr. Saylor here a good show. Show him how it's down, love."

Augusta is never quite sure what Reggie is being spanked for. "She's of the school," says her husband, "that says 'spank his saucy buttocks to a cinder first and ask questions later.' Where a woman and a boy are concerned if she doesn't know what she's spanking him for, he surely does!" He turns to me and swears, "By God, they lay abed nights boys this age do and feel their naughty buttocks 'til dawn! It's spanking what they need and a strong armed woman to do it! Hot and often is how they need it, the shameful rascals!"

The dire instrument lies on the sofa to Augusta's right. She picks it up and taps the back gently against her palm. She remarks the hardness and coolness and declares with a lilting laugh that it seems so unfair to pit such a formidable weapon against such a tender target. She mentions casually that Mr. Jafri had caught him tickling himself where his rump cheeks part behind. He had merely been itching. "No matter," says step-mother, "we well suspect there's more to it than that. After all, who can blame a boy with such a lovely rump for caressing it from time to time? But blamed he must be. Which is why he finds himself in this em-bare-ass-ing situation so much of the time. Besides, father insists. What have you to say for yourself, Reginald? Why is step-mother taking the time to spank your naughty bare bottom? Why?"

Reggie roars, "N-N-Noooooo! ... O-Oh, D-daddy! O-Oh, D-daddy! ... D-Don't l-let her! ... O-Oh, D-daddy! ... P-Please d-dont l-let h-her!"

Old Barlow is rocking with laughter, "Now, now, Reginald my dear. You know only too well where your bare buttocks are in question there's a better chance of an ice cube in hell not melting than that my dear wife will spare you one swat of her brand new hairbrush. You're asking the impossible." He feigns pity and taunts in a simpering voice, "I promise you, boy, I can do nothing. Her mind is made up. She's determined to scorch some nice fresh boy flesh and that with great pleasure, so what can I do? Huh? What? Huh? Huh? What?"

Reggie howls all the louder, "Whaaaaaahhhhhh! ... O-O-O-Ohhhhhh! ... Whaaaaaahhhhhh! ... O-O-O-Ohhhhhh! ... Whaaaaaahhhhhh!"

The lecture continues, "Remember, dear Reginald, how you had to take your meals standing for days after your last encounter with step-mother's hairbrush? Remember?"

He roars, incapable of answering except with, "N-N-N-Noooooooo! P-P-Please d-d-don't! ... N-N-N-Noooooooo! P-P-Please d-d-don't!"

"I think you do, Reggie, however hard it is for you to admit it. Quite understandable in the light of the condition of your lovely fanny afterwards, don't you think, gentlemen?"

They respond in unison, "Yes! Oh, yes! Surely! Oh, yes! Understandable indeed!"

The step-mother continues, "Well, now, Reginald darling, let's give up the pleas and wailing. They go unheeded. Let's get to the 'bottom' of this matter."

Old Barlow's bloodshot eyes are glued to the roaring boy's jutting bottom. He looks behind him to Dexter and shouts, "Oh, here it comes, Dexter! ... Look at this, Mr. Saylor! Look at it! Here it comes! Oh! The exposition! Oh! The exposition! The glorious exposition of the matchless ass!"

The step-mother raises her right foot on its toes and slowly draws down the bawling boy's knee pants. His plump, round buttocks fill his BVD's like a gale force wind in two enormous sails. Rakesh is fondling the desperate boy's hair with one hand. Old Barlow and I are on the edge of our seats, our eyes focused on the thrilling spectacle at hand. Dexter is breathing hard and stroking an enormous boner inside his pants.

The step-mother grabs hold of the waistband of the boy's BVD's and slowly hauls them down to the middle of his thick white thighs. She raises his naked buttocks slightly, aiming them in our direction, and declares with pride, "This, I believe, Reginald darling, is what these men call 'hauling his panties down to half-mast.'" She cups each cool rump cheek of the boy's buttocks in each palm and caresses it tenderly. She teases, "Are you not ashamed, dear Reginald, that step-mother has to put your lovely naughty rump cheeks to such a shameful exposition? She caresses each cool cheek in turn, runs the edge of her hand delicately up and down between the deep cleavage, spreads the cheeks with finesse, showing us the boy's tight, pin-immaculate anus. We are craning our necks and rubbing our eyes. We break into a pandemonium of laughter, whistling and applause. Rakesh holds the frantic boy's hands in an iron grip.

Augusta continues, rolling her right sleeve high up on her thick smooth biceps, picking up the handsome oval faced hardwood hairbrush at her side, patting her palm lightly with it, "It's hard, Reggie, darling. Oh, it's so smooth. That's because the man who made it knew it was destined for a naughty little boy's smooth white buttocks. Sweets for the sweet and smooth for the smooth.

Sad to say, though, dear, the hairbrush, Mr. Stinger here, will wax in strength while poor Reggie's smooth round fanny cheeks will wane. What's good for step-mother's nice new virgin hairbrush is indeed very bad for the condition of Reggie's bare rump." She shows the quaking boy the hairbrush front and back, she swishes it inches from his face and flourishes it toward us, she asks, "What say, you, gentlemen, shall we put a little heat in this naughty boy's seat?"

We burst into loud assent, laughter, whistling and applause. Only Rakesh sits transfixed holding the roaring boy's hands in a firm grip, his eyes burning rays of heat dead center into the cleavage at the chubbiest lower curvatures of his naked ass cheeks. The step-mother raises her arm high above her head. Utter silence reigns in the room. She holds the hairbrush in suspension for some seconds, and then brings it down with a swishing sound followed by a loud thunderclap as it sears two glowing red hot discs dead center on the summit of each of the howling boy's hinder cheeks.

He roars, " Whaaaaaahhhhhh! ... Whaaaaaahhhhhh! ...Whaaaaaahhhhhh! ... "Whaaaaaahhhhhh! ... "Whaaaaaahhhhhh!"

Before she has a chance to raise her arm a second time Dexter has spent his delightfully troublesome load and the rest of us are rapidly arriving in the trains of an identical passion.

Reginald is wiggling his scorched butt furiously and looking behind. He reads with alarm and shame the lecherous delight on our faces as we stare like madmen at the glowing prints of the hairbrush on the crest of his arched buttocks and roars anew, "D-D-Don't l-l-let them see! ... N-N-N-Noooooooo! ... D-D-Don't l-l-let them see! ... N-N-N-Noooooooo! ... D-D-Don't l-l-let them see! ... D-D-Don't l-l-let them see!" He's blushing beet read to the tips of his ears.

His step-mother pretends to be touched, "Oh, look, gentlemen! He's ashamed. He doesn't want you to watch step-mother sear his lovely white arse flesh. He's em-bare-assed. He doesn't understand why this can't be just an intimate little session between him and me. He finds you all so crude and two faced. His blushing face is almost as red as these two glowing circles I've decorated his buttocks with just now.

Well, see here, little man! What good is it spanking the daylights out of a naughty little boy in private?

Men love to watch. It reminds them of when they were in your place. It's delightful to them to be on the sidelines for a change. They can enjoy the fireworks and remain unscathed. It's the best of both worlds. The world of their boyish misery and shame in the safety of their present. It's not their buttocks she's using as target practice this time. It's yours! And I'm their mother. She's up to her old tricks again. But they're not the ones with the exposed fanny. Her sizzling hot hairbrush is not directed toward them but you. They absolutely love it!"

After two or three more swats delivered on the short-changed cheek the step-mother allows him a short space for rubbing to the great delight of all present. Then, back to the blitzkrieg followed by more rubbing. After several sensuous applications of Noxema to the afflicted parts he is finally released running like a bat out of hell up to his room.

GSN: And just in time. Time's up I regret to say. We'll have to continue next issue. I'm on my way to Baltimore on an enema appointment with two seven-year-old black boy twins. You'll hear all about it I promise.

JFS: Until then, dear lady. I want a detailed description. One we can devote the whole issue to. Bye bye.

GSN: Thank you ever so much and keep the big boys blushing. We'll talk about that too next time.

JFS: As always, Heddy, my great pleasure.

from an underground magazine interview, July 29, 1972

GSN: Dr. Saylor, are you there? Come on in.

JFS: Here I am. How are you dear?

GSN: How am I? I'm dying to give you that report you asked for.

JFS: Which one is that? [laughing].

GSN: You have the nerve to ask me that? You have that much nerve? [laughing].

JFS: Okay! Okay! Just kidding. But seriously, did you give the little black twins a nice hot and wet Saturday afternoon?

GSN: That's putting it mildly.

JFS: All right, let's have it. I'll shut up. I want the dope down to the smallest details.

GSN: Well, it needs a little background. Douglass Singletary is a retired black naval officer I met in Newport News years ago. He married a woman with six kids. They were all "raised by the hairbrush" as Doug used to say, which is the reason he and Charlene got along so well. But with regard to enemas, they were soul mates. From what I heard from Doug, his daddy and grandaddy used to get their jollies watching his mother pump him several times a week. Then during his years in the navy he would be a regular visitor to red light district houses they ironically called "pump palaces" in the Annapolis/Baltimore/D.C. triangle where there were Filipina girls dressed up like nurses pumping all the enema-obsessed soldiers, sailors and marines who came in from as far away as Quantico, Norfolk and Benning.

Now he's in a wheelchair but every time he gets depressed all he has to do is watch Charlene "fixing to give the twins an enema" and he suddenly gets a new lease on life. His buddy Chief Don "Butch" Larson who is at least twenty years his junior comes up all the way from Norfolk on weekends and for two weeks twice a year and you better believe the Fels Naphtha fumes are wafting out of the flask and the red rubber syringe and "fore and aft" thermometers are working overtime during his visits.

I arrived at the house on North Clinton around one p.m. It was to be a surprise for the twins and I can assure you when I walked up the steps to the porch and Charlene ushered me in through the screen door and those twin boys saw me in my nurse's uniform holding my black bag by the straps each one of them blushed hot to the roots of their hair and the tips of their ears.

I really can't say which was louder, the cheers and laughter of Doug and Butch or the shrieks of fury from the twins but I'd call it a draw. They made for the back door like lightning but each one was caught by an ear by Charlene who marched them back to the living room where they were grabbed, Delton by Butch, Darrell by Charles Jackson, the old black man next door, and set on their knees once they succeeded in getting Charlene to put a stop to the kicks and punches they were showering on them. All it took was a third warning and a look from their mother that reduced them to blubbering babies. Doug was in his wheelchair with the usual old cum-stained newspaper over his lap with his hands underneath. He was grinning like a madman and the paper was rustling and he giggled as he drawled,

"I don't think they like the looks of you, Mrs. You look like trouble to them. Well, let 'em see what you've got in that bag of yours. I got a feeling they'll like that even less."

I slowly undid the strap of the flap and reached in. I pulled out a jar of Vaseline and set it on the table beside my chair. The instant they saw it they let out a howl. This amused Doug, Butch and Mr. Jackson no end. But after some searching questions about whether and when and how often their mother used Vaseline on them met with elaborate denials and equally forceful contradictions from the men I reached in again and pulled out a flask of alcohol and several thermometers, an act again met with howls and this time pleas instead of denials. Their step-father was ever more insistent with every rustle of the paper and demanding in a peevish half-whisper,

"Oh, Mrs., ask 'em if they know the difference between those thermometers there! Ask 'em if they know the difference! They know, for sure, but they don't want to say it. Just ask 'em now. Ask 'em!"

I gladly satisfied his wishes, asking, holding up the oral thermometer,

"Where does this go, Delton? Where does it go, Darrell? Does your mother ever use anything like this on you? Where does she put it?"

Their only response is howls that all but drown out by the men's rude laughter. Finally Mr. Jackson interrupts with another question, pointing to his mouth all the while,

"That's the one she puts in here, ain't it, boys? Ain't that one the one that goes up here?"

Again, the only response from the twins is bitter howling and furious shrieks,

"Whaaaaaahhhhhh! ... N-Noooooo! ... O-O-O-Ohhhhhh! ... Whaaaaaahhhhhh! ... N-Noooooo! ... O-O-O-Ohhhhhh! ... "Whaaaaaahhhhhh! ... N-Noooooo! ... O-O-O-Ohhhhhh! ... Whaaaaaahhhhhh! ... Whaaaaaahhhhhh!" ... N-Noooooo! ... N-Noooooo! ... N-Noooooo! ... Whaaaaaahhhhhh!" Finally, exhausted, they yell in unison, "Y-Y-Y-Yes! ... Y-Y-Y-Yes!"

Never to leave an amusing taunt undone, their step-father, with a wicked wink, poses the much more interesting question, "Oh, yeah! Oh, yeah! You two got that right there all right! But show 'em the other one, Mrs.! Where does that one go? Huh? Huh? Where does that one go? Where does she put that one there?"

He points to his own rump which is sitting on the wheelchair and repeats the question, "Where does that one go? Huh? Huh? Where does that one go? Where does she put that one there?"

The only response he gets is a long loud howl and snorting gasps in unison of shame intermixed with rage, "Whaaaaaahhhhhh! ... Whaaaaaahhhhhh! ... Whaaaaaahhhhhh! ... Whaaaaaahhhhhh! ... Whaaaaaahhhhhh! ... Whaaaaaahhhhhh! ... Whaaaaaahhhhhh!"

Minutes later Charlene is marching them by the ear up to their bedroom on the third floor at the back of the house. Their step father follows in the electric stairs that convey his wheel chair and Butch, Mr. Jackson and myself bring up the rear. Charlene deposits them both in their bed whose blanket and sheet have been turned down to the foot. Their heads are resting on pillows and two enormous cushions covered with thick cotton towels support their midriffs so that their lovely plump rear ends are propped upward with their moon shaped arse cheeks filling their taut BVD's like a gale wind in two pairs of enormous sails.

Two chairs are placed at forty-five degree angles in each corner of the room facing the bed with their step father's wheel chair between them. Charlene and I busy ourselves in the bathroom with running hot water and arranging the flask, soap and my instruments on a large chipped white enamel tray which will soon be set down on the table beside the twins' bed.

We hear with delight the rough banter of the men the furious responses of the twins, "What's that I hear coming from the bathroom, Delton? What is it, Darrell? I do believe it's running water. What do you suppose that's for? Huh? Huh? What could that be for, fellas, [addressing the other men]? What's going on in there?"

"I think those women have got something up their sleeve, fellas. I think they're gonna come in here with something for the twins that they ain't gonna want to see. What do you think? What do you think, twins? Huh? Huh? Huh?"

Again all they got in reply was, "Whaaaaaahhhhhh! ... Whaaaaaahhhhhh! ... Whaaaaaahhhhhh! ... Whaaaaaahhhhhh! ... Whaaaaaahhhhhh! ... Whaaaaaahhhhhh! ... Whaaaaaahhhhhh!"

As if things could not get worse for the twins, they did. By the time Charlene and I were back in the bedroom with the laden tray there was a young man at the window of the house next door. The window was no more than ten feet across a courtyard and opened directly on the twins' room. Maynard Wilson, a divinity student at a local Bible college, was sitting in a straight backed chair, leaning forward with his chin and his hands and a weird grin of rapt fascination on his face. He was clearly sporting a huge boner in his pants.

Mr. Jackson was jabbing his thumb in the twins' direction and holding his hand to the side of his mouth as he shouted to Maynard, "Lookit the lovely bare asses on 'em, Mr. Wilson! Just lookit that! They're arched and ready for nurse Bohmert. Here she comes now!"

I'm polishing a thermometer with a pinch of cotton and alcohol and shaking it down while Charles deftly grabs hold of the waistband of each twin's BVD's in turn and slowly hauls them down to half mast, then hikes up their T shirts well above the upper curvatures of their plump light chocolate buttocks so that their asses are perfectly framed with the shirttails above and the tight stretched BVD's beneath as in a lubricious still life.

The twins are looking straight at Maynard and howling, "Oooohhh! ... Whaaaahhhh! ... Oooohhh! ... Whaaaahhhh! ... H-H-He c-can't w-w-watch! ... P-P-Please d-d-don't l-let h-him w-w-watch! ... Oooohhh! ... Whaaaahhhh! ... Oooohhh! ... Whaaaahhhh! ... H-H-He c-can't w-w-watch! ... P-P-Please d-d-don't l-let h-him w-w-watch!"

The men's reaction is predictable: raucous laughter, cheers, and whistles while taking care to give Maynard an unimpeded view. He undoes his belt and reaches into his crotch and emulates the step father in his gropings under his newspaper.

I pop a thermometer into Delton's mouth as he splutters with rage. After some minutes I read it and react as always, giving the men immense pleasure,

"Normal. No matter. There are more accurate ways. I think he knows what I mean." Delton pounds the pillow and wails. I shake the thermometer down again and insert it in Darrell's mouth with identical results.

The men are all in a salacious frenzy by now and struggling to hold off creaming by wrapping their arms around their waists. Their heavy breathing is drowned out by the twins' bawling.

They are rocking on the edges of their chairs and muttering in unison, "Ugghh! P-Pick up the o-other one! ... P-Put it in t-the other p-place! ... O-Ohhhhhh! P-Pick up the o-other one! ... P-Put it in t-the other p-place! ... Ugggghhhh!"

Charlene holds the jar of Vaseline as I dip the second thermometer in and pull it out with a nice gob of grease on the bulbous tip. She delicately parts the roaring boy's buttocks at their lower cleavage where they're chubbiest just outside his tight pink anus. I aim the thermometer precisely and slowly insert it. The boy screams. Each of the men is spending.

I rotate the thermometer in the twin's anus and work it in simultaneous twisting and minute in and out thrusts and reversals. The men watch while experiencing the last throes of orgasm.

I wait a long spell during which Charlene occupies herself with trussing further up first Delton's, then Darrell's shirttails which keep falling down from their squirming. The men are moderately recovered and back to hooting and rude commentary,

"O-Oooooh, Lord have mercy, that's a beautiful thing there! A naughty twin boy bare-ass naked with his ass sticking right out there with a thermometer up his asshole! And his brother right there next to him bawling his head off cause she's going to be going over there next! O-Oooooh, sweet Lord Jesus, just look at the two of them their nice chubby buttocks sticking up there four sheets to the wind! O-Oooooh, Lord have mercy, ain't that a lovely thing to see I ask you now! O-Oooooh, sweet Jesus, stick that thing in the twin of them next! O-Oooooh, just you wait, honey, she'll be coming over to you next! O-Oooooh, give it to him, Mrs. Give it to him!"

Darrell receives the same treatment to the utter delight of the enraptured men. Finally I ever so slowly pull the thermometer out of his anus, read it, and make my usual comment, "Normal too, gentlemen, but a little enema won't hurt either of them. The beautiful old fashioned 1935-model Sears Roebuck red rubber bulb syringe stands next to the steaming flask of soapy water on its smooth disc-butt end. I say,

"Hand me that syringe, Charlene."

The step father comments, stuttering with emotion, "O-Oooooh, T-There it is, M-Mrs. S-Standing right there at attention like a soldier with the hard rubber shiny black n-nozzle s-sticking s-straight up like the b-bayonet on a rifle!" The men are on the point of shooting a second load.

To prevent that, I warn them, "Gentlemen, I sympathize with your agony. But drop those busy hands and hold off a bit. We're just beginning here. The message does no good.

I cup the syringe in the palm of my hand and show it to each twin in turn who demonstrates great abomination for it, then to their step father, Butch Larson and Charles Jackson and finally Maynard Wilson across the courtyard, each of whom exclaims with glee, "O-Oooooh, It's n-nice! It's s-so n-nice! Nice! Nice! It's s-so n-nice! ... Don't t-tell me that's g-going in t-there? (pointing to Delton's anus). O-Oooooh, I believe it is! O-Oooooh, I believe it is! I believe s-she m-means to s-stick it in there! O-Oooooh, I believe she does! I hope she does!"

I return to the table and dip the syringe into the warm water. I press the smooth disc butt end with my thumb. The water rushes into the syringe with a low hissing sound. I lift it out and hold it some inches above the grayish lake and squeeze again so the thin jet is expelled in a straight spray into the placid surface of the water. I repeat this several times to the men's delight and the twins' terror. Charlene delicately spreads Delton's smooth firm plump ass cheeks again and I very slowly insert the nozzle to half its shaft and gently squeeze. He roars as the viscous warm infusion drenches his rectum.

The men are spending a second time with violent spasms and mad laughter mingled with curses,

"A-A-A-Arrrrgggghhhh! O-O-O-Ohhhhhhhh, s-s-sweet Jesus! ... O-O-O-Ohhhhhhhh, L-Lord A-Almighty! ... A-A-A-Arrrrgggghhhh! ... A-A-A-Arrrrgggghhhh! ... A-A-A-Arrrrgggghhhh! ... O-O-O-Ohhhhhhhh, L-Lord h-have m-m-mercy! ... O-O-O-Ohhhhhhhh, s-s-sweet Jesus! ... A-A-A-A-A-A-Arrrrgggghhhhhhhh!"

They are in no condition to properly appreciate the dozen or so successive rounds of insertions, expulsions and further insertions and extractions of the nozzle into the hoarse but still roaring twins' tightly squeezed but vulnerable ass holes. But then, as their step-father sagely says, "What did I tell you, twins? A woman's way with a boy is ever tireless."

End