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From: campblood@aol.com (CampBlood)
Subject: Youth Remembered (childhood, thermometer)
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Youth Remembered
I can’t remember the first time my mother ever
took my temperature with a rectal thermometer. Nor
the second. Nor third. What I do remember, though, is
the thousands of time she probed me from the time I
was five until I was about fourteen. The procedure was
always the same, almost ritualistic in it inability to
waver. I would lie on my tummy with my pants down
before Mom ever even entered the room. I knew it was
coming after all, why bother with modesty? She would
arrive with thermometer and Vaseline in hand, smiling at
my willingness to cooperate and let her have her way
with my bottom without a fuss.
The Vaseline jar always sent a queer sense of
unholy excitement through me. To this day I cannot
look at one without thinking of Mom and her
thermometer. The lid would be snapped off and placed
on my headboard. Mom would always insert the
thermometer in the pale grease to lubricate it, and I
would swallow hard as it was left standing erect. It was
always kind of fun to examine new jars of Vaseline after
Mom had used them a few times because I could count
the number of holes in the grease and know exactly how
many times she had penetrated my bare bottom. It was
not uncommon to count forty of fifty holes before the
lubricant would start to run together or get pushed out
of shape by Mom’s little finger.
The thermometer was not the only thing to be
lubricated. Mom felt that my bottom needed a generous
coating of Vaseline, both inside and out, in order for the
thermometer to slide in without discomfort. As I got
older and more adventurous, I realized this was not
always entirely true. Often, when I was in my more
masochistic moods, and masturbating with reckless
abandonment, I would often insert a dry thermometer
into my bottom. It pulled at the skin of my anus only
briefly and the sensation could not really be described as
pain, but rather as an unwelcome advance. I genuinely
enjoyed the feeling very much. As I would insert and
retract the thermometer from my pulsating rectum and
spasming anus, the pulling sensations of dry glass on
unlubricated membranes began to assuage into a
pleasant glow, starting at the center of my anus and
working out to engulf my whole bottom and finally
spreading to my vagina. I would orgasm in quick pants
and flushed quivers. It was, needless to say, a truly
enjoyable adolescence.
Of course, being a small child of about eight, I
had no idea of such pleasures awaiting for me in the
budding of my womanhood, and I firmly believed that
the thermometer would do terrible harm to me without
the aid of the Vaseline and Mom’s careful ministrations.
She would always sit on the bed with me, something
that made me feel especially close to her in these times
of hushed anticipation, and gently rub my bare bottom in
small circles, telling me I needed to relax the muscles.
This was done no matter how relaxed I thought I was,
and no matter how loose my gluteals were, and I was
often forced to wonder, even during my childhood
years, if Mom really enjoyed touching my bottom
cheeks. After a while she would reach over and scoop a
little dollop of the Vaseline onto the little finger of her
right hand. I would be transfixed by the sight of that
finger, the grease resembling a blister as it was retracted
from the depths of the jar. I knew where it was going, I
knew I was powerless to prevent it’s assault on my
exposed bottom, and I admit that by the age of eight, I
no longer wanted to stop Mom. I very much longed for,
perhaps even needed her to touch my anus and massage
the lubricant into my tiny pink vortex. To me, the entire
procedure was an act of love. I quickly learned to
associate lying face down with my bare bottom facing
the ceiling with my mother’s undying adoration and
would literally wait for her to tell me it was temperature
time. And Mom was never one to disappoint a child in
waiting...
Strong fingers and a thumb were gently pushed
into the crack of my bottom. The fingers would then
open, pushing the cheeks of my bare bottom away from
each other, the left thumb holding the right cheek at bay,
the fingers on the left cheek. To this day, it amazes me
at the speed and the ease at which my mother could
always expose my anus to her view. To her it seemed as
natural a thing to do as breathing. There were never any
hesitations, never any reluctance, only myself feeling the
cool air swirl around my anus as I closed my eyes in
morbid anticipation and childish excitement.
It is truly electrifying to have another person
touch your anus. One must cast aside the
embarrassment factor and a repressed mental outlook on
sexuality, not to mention overcoming the unlikely
prospects of poor personal hygiene, and it will be noted
that the anus and surrounding skin is incredibly and
intimately sensual. It is, after all, simply teeming with
nerves. This fact did not seem to be lost on my mother.
She would reach across to lubricate my bottom, the bed
creaking just a little, and at the sound of those few rusty
springs I would always hold my breath and clench my
eyes as tight as I could, lost in a world which is alive
with physical sensation, anticipation and love.
Mom would never talk, just simply begin to
gently rub the Vaseline around my anus, being sure to
also lubricate the soft skin held tautly apart my her firm
hand. My anus would always contract, a reflex I later
learned, but not knowing at the time I would always try
with all my might to keep my bottom hole from
shrinking and pulling away from Mom’s finger. I would
even arch my back a bit, pushing my bottom up at Mom,
thinking this would compensate for my tiny opening
made even smaller. It never seemed to help, though, but
was still rather fun to stick my bare bottom up in the air.
Something deliciously naughty and forbidden... After a
while, I noticed that although my anus would clench at
her initial touch, once Mom began to rub the area
between my cheeks more thoroughly, I slipped into a
blissful state of total and utter relaxation where Mom
rubbed the Vaseline lovingly. And even though my
breathing was rapid and my pulse racing, my bottom and
anus had surrendered to her touch. My anus lay
exposed and open to my mother’s thermometer.
It was often at this time that Mom would
attempt to push some of the Vaseline into my now
relaxed orifice. Using only her little finger, she would
stiffen the digit and softly, so very softly, begin to tuck
the grease into the folds at the very center of my
opening. Each swipe seeming more wicked, each stab
driven by more and more gentle force, my mind acutely
aware of my mother’s intentions despite no words
having been spoken, the entire universe for me reduced
to the resilient pressure now being applied to my tender
anus. I would always whimper into the pillow, though
from pleasure I am not sure. Whimpers turned to a
gasp, though, as my mother’s persistence was always
rewarded with the ring of my muscle surrendering to her
Vaseline-laden probe of a finger.
For a while, I would lie impaled up to her second
knuckle, suspended in a whirlwind of vague humiliation
and overwhelming physical sensation. Then, softly,
wordlessly, Mom would begin to slide her finger in and
out of my bottom with a regular rhythm that left me
breathless with both joy and tactile pleasures. Mom
never inserted her finger into me further than the second
knuckle, although there were countless times where I
would have loved her to, but rather kept up a slow
steady pace of in-out, in-out, in-out. I remember my
legs used to twitch on their own from these sensations,
and Mom always seemed amused by this. Finally, after
an eternity of internal lubrication, Mom would withdraw
her finger. She always continued to hold my bottom
open and I wondered if she like to watch my anus
spasm, twitch, and close after her lubricating efforts.
The thermometer was removed from the grease,
sticky and shining like an icicle in the bedside light. My
heart lurching in my chest as I saw Mom grab it
carefully as to not to drop it. Still holding the cheeks of
my bottom wide open, Mom would shake the
thermometer down over my bared and highly stimulated
wrinkled opening. I always expected some of the
Vaseline to fly off and hit my bottom, but it never did.
Mom would whisper a preview, and then I would feel it.
The sensation of having the silver side of the
thermometer applied to your previously stimulated anus
is perhaps beyond words. If there is a singular word to
describe the overwhelming rush of pleasure, I have yet
to encounter it. I felt my breath catch in my throat and
my heart stop, and for some reason always became
acutely aware of my toes curling in response to the
metal knob of the thermometer resting at the exact
center of my most private orifice. The thin glass probe
was thrust slowly into my being, my mother seeming to
take forever and sliding in further than I ever felt ready
for. My eyes would literally tear at the sensations, for
as I said, this to me could only be described as love.
Nobody else I knew in my childhood cared enough
about me to do this. Nobody else ever seemed
concerned that I might be getting ill, may be coming
down with a cold, may have a fever brewing. Only my
Mom. For that I loved her. And for that I loved her
thermometer.
Only after the thermometer had been inserted
about three inches did Mom finally release her grip on
my bottom cheeks, thus allowing them to spring back
into their original position, narrowing my crack and
putting light pressure on the glass rod extending up
from deep between them. Her hand would lightly cup
my bottom, two fingers holding the thermometer in
place. I lay in almost sensual abandonment, of course
mildly embarrassed by the intimacy of the act, but all
perceptions of humiliation were always overpowered by
feelings of blissful security as Mom lay her hand on my
bare bottom. I would shiver in the warmth and glow of
this act.
Five minutes of sheer pleasure goes by quickly
when you are eight years old. Always too soon, I would
feel Mom’s hand leave my bottom and grasp the end of
the thermometer to remove it. My buttocks were never
parted for this portion of the procedure, because I think
Mom knew it felt better to have the slippery probe
rubbed against the insides of my bare bottom cheeks.
Not every time, but occasionally, she would twist the
thermometer ever so slightly as it was withdrawn, the
exquisite sensation giving me goosebumps on my
bottom and thighs.
The void... Emptiness... The feelings of utter
chagrin as the thermometer is removed and held to the
light for a reading. My rectum had been transformed
into a willing receptacle for another temperature taking,
but I was to be deprived. My temperature was usually
normal...hardly ever a reason for rechecks.
It was all right, though. Tomorrow would be
another day. After my bath Mom would want to check
me again. Her devotion to my health was really, truly
exceptional.
Would you not be forced to agree?
Please e-mail comments, always willing to trade rectal temp literature.
Cordially,
nicky :o)
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