We were all tired and slept late. Last night’s fun had really been exhausting. I woke up, still a little sore but very pleased with myself, with the two lovely girls laying in my bed and with the world in general. How is it that a good bout of sexual activity can change your outlook on the day ?
After dragging ourselves out of bed and waking up (in that order), we started packing and loading up my van. It was done quickly. I hung up a sign, locked up my shop and by early afternoon we were on the road south.
Ah, the freedom of the road. You won’t find any budding Jack Kerouacs travelling Europe’s highways in this day and age. Probably not in earlier decades either. But even so it is always exhilarating to leave the virtual urban sprawl of Belgium behind and head for the open rolling countryside of France.
I won’t bore you with a travelogue of where we went or what we saw. We made the best time we could to get south of Paris before evening. Then we entered the real France, a seemingly endless progression of small towns, villages and hamlets. I had been along this route and others numerous times and never tired of it. There was a timeless quality to the places we passed.
Camping grounds are numerous and cheap in France, municipal run facilities best of all. The grounds are usually well kept, spacious by European standards and have well equipped washing facilities. Folks generally only stay for one night in these places, since they are mostly way-stations built for the countless number of vacationers heading for the Med and other points south. Still, each camping ground has it’s own atmosphere, with a sort of easy-going bustling coming and going of new arrivals in the late afternoons and early evenings.
Sandra and Nancy enjoyed camping out in such places. There are a multitude of nationalities represented in any given place, with people from all over the Union and beyond. I’ve always had loads of fun trying to guess a person’s nationality by their looks alone and then checking out my deduction by eyeballing their car’s license plates.
I noticed that the girls had maple leaf flags sown onto their jackets and backpacks identifying them as Canadians. This always goes over well with Europeans, since for some reason or other Canadians are considered to be the least offensive of any nationality on earth. Both girls also spoke French of a kind, endearing them even more. Their accents were atrocious to say the least, being just a notch above the slapstick comical French of dubbed Laurel and Hardy movies. But the effort was sincere and it came over very well.
They flirted shamelessly like the young always will, attracting drooling and obnoxiously attired young males. I was able to temper my uncharacteristic protectiveness with the knowledge that for all their swaggering and posturing, none of the ‘mecs’ would ever have the fun I had had with the two ‘petites Canadiennes’.
Somehow or other I became their ‘uncle’ as we progressed from one camping site to the next. I don’t know who started it, but beginning as a spur of the moment thing it evolved into a running joke. It was difficult not to break into laughter whenever one of the girls affectionately addressed me as ‘Tonton Alex’.
As we drove further south and I studied the Michelin map of France, I realized we were not all that far from Belgian friends of mine, Steven and Marlee. He and his wife had bought a run-down farmhouse some 12 years ago and went there every vacation. Owning a place in the south of France is sort of every Belgian’s dream and with prices being so low it’s hard to resist the temptation. But once bought the places have to be fixed up and fitted out with some form of modern plumbing (at the very least), electricity and a dry roof. It’s always more work and money than one’s bargained for.
My friends ended up in the same predicament : working harder on their vacation than during the year and investing all their money in a piece of French rural real estate. Their friends were always welcome to drop by and visit, it being understood of course, that they would pitch in a bit and help out with the work.
I told the girls about the farmhouse and my friends and proposed we go there for a few days. They agreed and we set our course accordingly.
The house is located in the rolling green countryside of the Périgord, lost among innumerable small villages and hamlets. The nearest collection of houses (hardly even a hamlet) was called La Grande Bite-en-Cuisses and didn’t even boast a café or bakery. We passed through, attracting attention from the bored inhabitants, they of course knowing right off where a car with Belgian license plates was headed.
I was glad when we finally pulled up inside the farmhouse gates. It was hot outside and all we could hear were some chickens flapping around in the yard. There was a car parked over by the barn so I knew someone was home. We got out of my van and walked around, the girls commenting on the picturesque site the farmhouse presented. I called out several times and went around back.
“Anyone here ?” I yelled. I saw someone get up off the ground in the orchard and look my way. I recognized Marlee and waved. “Hi, it’s me.”
I saw her pick something up and drape it around her shoulders. Marlee had probably been sunbathing and that was something she and her family never did in swimming suits. Coming closer she recognized me. “Hey…it’s Alex. Hi there. Great to see you.” We greeted each other continental style, kissing on the cheeks. I peeked down and saw that she wasn’t wearing anything under her robe. I thought that it was about time that I developed an urge to get an even tan. It would certainly be interesting if we all went at it together.
But first there were introductions to get through. I presented my ‘nieces from America’ to Marlee. If she was surprised that I was traveling alone with these two young maidens, she didn’t show it.
Her husband Steven, a junior college teacher, was still back in Belgium, grading papers, taking exams or doing whatever it is they do in those cushy jobs. He would be arriving in several days. Meanwhile she and her eldest daughter Karinne had the run of the place and no work projects scheduled. Perfect.
We all trouped over to a table and chairs under the shade of a large chestnut tree and sat down. Over cool drinks we talked about all and sundry, what our plans were for the coming days and similar matters.
Me and the girls, were of course invited to strike down for as long as we wanted to. I usually pitched a tent in the yard somewhere, but this time Marlee insisted I use one of the rooms. They had been refurbished with much sweat and toil and had to be put to use in some manner or other. I consented. Nancy and Sandra preferred to use a tent, I suppose out of a sense of adventure. At least that’s what I hoped. I wouldn’t want to think they were trying to avoid me. Then again when I thought of it, they could just as well have been trying to avoid any show of impropriety. Bless their little hearts.
Whatever the case, we settled in, unpacked, put up the tent and helped prepare dinner. Later in the afternoon Karinne returned from her bicycle outing and greeted me. Kiss, kiss. We went through the ritual. “Uncle Alex. It’s been a long time.”
It had been indeed. Now the ‘uncle’ was just one of those childish holdovers but I thought it endearing. I don’t know what my other, supposedly real ‘nieces’ thought of it, but I am sure that I saw Sandra give Nancy a very knowing look.
I gave Karinne a good look over myself. My, how she had grown ! She was now 18 and going to University this autumn, taking Romance languages. Somehow or other in spite of her parents both being dark-haired, she still had wondrously beautiful long blond hair, parted in the middle and banged in front. She had become quite the dish : slim, soft skinned and good enough to eat. She probably didn’t know that she had the potential for causing very serious mischief among the boys,
The next few days the two girls and I did what we had come here for in the first place : Visit the tourist spots. The region was well known for it’s Paleolithic sites. We viewed the major prehistoric caves and some minor ones as well, all interesting and worth the while. In France one is usually assigned a guide when visiting monuments or historic places, question of giving local teachers and professors a vacation supplement to their meager wages.
After one very learned sounding lecture on prehistoric symbolism in Paleolithic art the girls asked me to clarify certain parts. The lady professor had this quite obtuse theory about the juxta-positioning of male and female symbols in caves in order to represent fertility beliefs (or something like that). The only thing was, in order for it to make sense, sometimes a phallic drawing had to be considered a female symbol and visa-versa. It all depended on the context apparently.
This mystified the girls and me as well. I too couldn’t really figure out how anyone could consider an erect phallus to be female until I started using French words. Une bite (fem) was a prick, un vagin (masc) was a vagina and so forth. I started giving the girls a little lesson in smutty French words, which caused a lot of giggling, but which didn’t really clarify the matter.
While pondering these weighty questions, Sandra studied the Michelin map of the region.
“Hey, Nancy look. There’s a town nearby called la Canada.” She sounded pleased and showed her friend the place.
“Hey neat. Let me see.”
I took a look. Well, they were almost right, but not quite. The town was called Sarlat-la-Canéda, (don’t forget the accent aigue !) and had nothing at all to do with their home country. Still, I knew the place to be a nicely preserved old town, well worth the trip. I suggested that all of us, Marlee and Karinne included, go for a visit tomorrow. Back at the farmhouse it didn’t take much talking to get everything set for the morrow.
Early next morning we were off. Sarlat is one of those exceedingly charming and adorable French provincial towns. People go there to do their shopping, either at an open air market, a covered hall or in any of the numerous small stores and businesses. The place fairly bustled with activity. It is a very nicely preserved 16th century old town, several ‘Three Musketeer’ type of movies having been filmed there. Tourists abound in the summer season and the five of us joined in the crowd.
After a while we decided to split up. Marlee and I took time off from walking the streets and seated ourselves under an umbrella at the terrace of the local Café Américain. The 3 girls went off together on their own to do some shopping or whatever it was they had in mind.
There’s no place in the world more amiable to conversation than an outdoor café in the sunshine of southern France. Whether it was to discuss the price of truffles the coming autumn, the latest political scandal of the republic, affairs of the heart or just for some conniving gossip.
I guess we indulged in the last two mostly, though there was no malicious intent whatsoever. I’m usually out of date when it comes to keeping up with the state of my friend’s lives, so I had a lot of catching up to do.
Marlee was going on her second Pastis and I had daringly ordered a mint flavored soda, one of those things French teenagers order to impress prospective girlfriends with their wimpyness. It was all in character.
“They aren’t really your nieces, are they Alex ?” she asked.
“Whatever gave you that idea ?”
“Oh I don’t know. It doesn’t seem like you to be travelling with family.”
I hemmed and hawed, but as always happens when I am directly confronted I gave the game away. Was it by turning a bright shade of scarlet ? Or maybe by suffering a bout of excessive stuttering ? I couldn’t hide behind my drink so I looked a bit to the side and shrugged.
“Silly, you don’t have to be shy, you know. I won’t say anything.” She laughed. “They’re very cute, but maybe just a bit too young for you ? Hmmmm…?”
What did she know ? I composed myself. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter or I wouldn’t have come by in the first place. But you know, Mar, we’re not really sleeping together… there’s no fucking going on or anything.” We were talking in Dutch so it sounded a shade less vulgar. And technically it was true, if somewhat misleading. But that was the intention.
“Oh, sure. Saint Alex. Well…..anyway, you don’t have to pretend just for my sake you know.”
“Oh, I’m not pretending. No way.”
“Well, it doesn’t really matter. I suppose it’s none of my business anyway.” She took up her drink and merrily looked me in the eyes, “I would have thought you liked ‘em more your own age though.”
“Never had much opportunity.”
“Maybe you should try harder…”
This was beginning to sound like a cheap movie script, though I for one would have liked for it to end in the conventional Hollywood manner : with both of us in the sack. I was unsuccessfully trying to think up some snappy sounding repartee when we saw our three young ladies coming across the square. They spotted us and waved.
“Look what we found.” Karinne said to her mother. She opened a bag and took out several items wrapped in newspaper. “We saw this old junk shop in a side street somewhere and nosed around.”
“Yeah, just the place for ‘uncle Alex’ to go snooping around in,” Sandra said.
“No business while on vacation. That’s my motto.” I replied. “Anyway, what did you get ?”
“All kinds of old cooking utensils and stuff. Look,” Karinne unwrapped the newspapers. “Here are some cake baking forms. Aren’t they pretty ?”
They were. I don’t think they were very old, maybe late 19th century, but the designs were delicately executed and the forms would make nice collectibles in their own right.
“We’re going to bake a cake tonight and use these things.” Nancy also unpacked several more items : cookie forms for gingerbread, an old egg beater, a spate, a mixing bowl, large pewter spoons.
“And last but not least,” Karinne proudly announced, “we found this old cake decorating device.” She unpacked an oddly familiar looking thing. “It’s used to squirt frosting or whipped cream on cakes and pastries.”
Was it now ? “Really ?” I asked. “I’ve never seen one of these things before.”
“Well that’s what the owner said. He called it a ‘pompe patissier’ : a baker’s pump.”
I took the cute little device and examined it, wondering if it was just me and my smutty mind. Or was I just imaging things ? It looked very familiar. I had an inkling that there was one antique dealer in Sarlat who had just missed out on a good deal.
I was certain this wasn’t anything that a baker would use to decorate cakes with. It looked like it was a genuine old apothecaries clyster syringe. First off, I was certain that bakers preferred using cloth bags with a small serrated nozzle at the end for decorating with whipped cream. This metal tubular device, with plunger and bulbous nozzle would be too clumsy for that purpose. Besides, the nozzle was rather large around, and not serrated in any manner.
I looked along the metal cylinder for any identifying manufacturers marks and sure enough found something. It was difficult to read but I was able to make out the faded lettering by holding the device up close. I squinted and mouthed to myself : …Frères Petitrou / Blvd. de Monzizi / Paris…/ fabriquant d’appareils médicales / pompe clyst….
Well, there was no doubt now. The good brothers Petitrou manufactured medical supplies and not pastry pumps. I was holding a genuine old clyster syringe. With some cleaning up it would make quite a handsome piece for anyone’s collection. Mine in the first place.
I tried to keep a straight face as I handed the syringe back to Karinne, complimenting the girls on their finds, but Sandra caught on that I was smirking about something unconnected with cooking.
“What’s the matter Uncle Alex ?” she asked. “We weren’t taken in by the store keeper were we ?’
I asked how much they had paid. They told me and I was quite surprised at the low price.
“Oh no, not at all. Actually I think you took him for a ride. This little ’device’ alone, “I pointed at the clyster syringe, “is easily worth more than what you paid for everything.”
“Oh, is it really ?” Sandra asked. “How come, what’s so special about it ?”
Me and my big mouth. “Well, it’s finely crafted for one thing. See how precisely the plunger still fits in the casing ? And it’s much older than the other things you bought.” I wasn’t going to get any more specific if I could help it, but everyone expected me to act the specialist so I had to gab on for a while. I gave a good performance, if I say so myself.
After we finished our drinks, we piled back into the van and headed for the homestead.
I still couldn’t get over it. What an extraordinary find they had made. I had been fooling around with antiques and junk (not necessarily different things mind you) for about 20 years and had never come upon any kind of old enema device at all. Typical.
Out in the yard Sandra got me alone. “What’s so special about that pastry thing ? I could see from the way you looked at it that’s it’s not used to decorate cakes, is it ?”
I smiled back and put on an act. “Sandi my dear, you are sharp. What do you think it is ?”
“From the way you’re grinning I guess it’s something naughty.”
I tried to wipe the grin from my face, but didn’t succeed. “C’mon Sandi, you shouldn’t be so judgmental.”
She clapped her hands together. “I should have known. It’s another one of those things to squirt water up your ass, isn’t it ?”
I nodded, arching my eyebrows Groucho style. “Give that girl a jelly-bean.”
“Is that all you ever think about ?”
“I didn’t buy it. You did.”
“You know what I mean. I bet you divide things into two categories : irrigation devices and everything else. Don’t you ever think of anything else ?” She wasn’t mad or annoyed, but seemed to be amicably exasperated.
“Sure there’s lots of other stuff I think of : pretty girls and how to get their clothes off….”
“Yeah, I’m sure you do.” I could see a word balloon above her head : ‘Men ! One track minds.’
“And from what I recall, you like both.”
“It’s all right…..sometimes.”
“Want a refresher course ?”
“Maybe, but I don’t have time now….” She laughed and turned away. “I’ve got to go help bake a cake.”
I should have sulked for the rest of the day like I do whenever another of my rival dealers gets the drop on me. But how can anyone stay pissed off at such lovely ladies ? Or even get pissed in the first place ? Come to think of it, I didn’t even have a reason to be pissed. Or if I had a reason for anything then it would have been to be envious. I could think of a thousand good uses to put that syringe to, all of them better than squirting whipped cream. At least onto a cake.
I wrote it off as beginner’s luck and tried to spend the afternoon catching someone sunbathing in the nude. I didn’t have much luck with that either.
The three young girls made dinner while Marlee and I hung out in the yard and played at being landed gentry. Nancy, Sandra and Karinne had hit it off quite well together and were always busy with one thing or another. They were thick as thieves. Tonight’s repast was a point in fact. They put a lot of effort into it, preparing several local dishes with swanky sounding French names, which were in reality just embellished casseroles or stews.
They were good though and Marlee and I complimented them deservedly. After coffee and ‘digestif’ Nancy went into the kitchen and came back with a large cake they had baked in one of the antique cake forms. It was coated with ‘creme au beurre’, a very rich and creamy type of frosting, and decorated profusely if somewhat inelegantly. It looked like they had used the clyster syringe after all.
I thought this so funny that I could not help laughing softly to myself. Sandra, sitting nearby, caught my eye and couldn’t restrain herself either. She too was soon giggling and laughing. Marlee, clearly mystified at all the merriment, just looked at Sandra and then at me and didn’t have a clue at what was going on. This just caused Sandra and I to laugh even harder. We couldn’t control ourselves. Then Nancy and Karinne joined in the contagion.
I couldn’t help myself and soon I had to cradle my head and wipe away the tears that were flowing down my cheeks. All of us except Marlee were laughing like maniacs. We couldn’t look each other in the eyes without starting anew and every time anyone pointed at the cake and made a squirting motion as if using a pump, the laughter intensified. It was all so silly and amazingly comical.
Marlee, who didn’t understand what was going on just sat there, half mystified, half annoyed, probably wondering as all parents do, if some joke wasn’t being played at her expense. When we finally calmed down and started to act reasonably normal again, she asked what had been so funny.
An answer of “Oh, nothing.” didn’t satisfy her, as it hardly ever does. I couldn’t very well pretend that I had had a spontaneous fit of merriment. The girls were all looking at each other with a smile on their faces, probably wondering how I was going to talk myself out of this. I also knew from experience that if you laugh in the presence of a lady without her being in on the joke, she is very likely to think she is the object of mirth. And then you are really in the doghouse.
Sandra prodded me on, figuratively speaking that is. “C’mon uncle Alex, you don’t have to be shy. Tell auntie Marlee what you told me this afternoon.” Daggers from my eyes to her sweet, innocent smiling face. And what was all this ‘auntie’ stuff? “It’s no big deal. Go on and tell her what that pump’s really for.”
“What pump ?” Mar asked. “You mean that cake decorating thing ?”
“It’s not for decorating cakes …..not actually.” I said.
“Oh ? What for then ?”
“Well you see, it’s something an apothecary or doctor would have used to ah….relieve a patient who was bothered by certain ….things.”
“What kind of things ?”
“Well you know….when a patient’s been stopped up for a while…..and can’t go …? You know..”
Karinne rolled her eyes upwards and continued in my place. “Oh mom, it’s used to inject water in your bottom when you can’t go to the bathroom.”
“How do you know ?” Marlee asked her daughter.
“Sandi told me this afternoon. Uncle Alex taught them how to do it. He knows a lot about that stuff.”
Dum-da-dum-dummm…. The theme from Dragnet played through my head. Oh to be able to assume a gaseous form and waft out the room unseen. I reddened and felt my face heat up. Sometimes I wondered about the virtues of being direct and to the point. There was a lot to be said for discretion in certain circumstances. Like this one for instance. It’s always so hard to predict other person’s reactions to certain revelations. This being a prime example. I waited to see what Mar would say.
“He does eh ?”
“Yeah, he does. Sandi and Nancy told me it’s not at all what you’d think it was.”
“No, it feels very good afterwards and it can be real nice going in too. As long as it’s done gently and carefully.”
“I see.” Mar said and looked at me. “Well, I guess it’s good to know that we have an expert in the house should the need ever arise. Shall we get on with dessert now ?” I think I saw a ghost of a smile on her lips and barely concealed amusement, but I wasn’t sure and didn’t really want to continue the subject.
Well, we had our cake and ate it too. The rest of the evening passed pleasantly enough, though I really couldn’t get a reading on Mar’s state of mind. Was she disgusted, repulsed, interested, intrigued or just plain indifferent to the practice of internal irrigation ? I couldn’t make it out and decided to just let things slide.
Mar did give me a comradely goodnight kiss just as on other evenings, so I guess her opinion of me hadn’t hit rock bottom.
I also noticed that she spent a long time in the kitchen that night with the girls, ostensibly cleaning and washing up, though I had a sneaking suspicion she was more interested in the antique device the girls had so unwittingly bought.
I guess nothing more on the subject would have been said or done, if the girls hadn’t gone out walking the next morning and come back with a big bag of green onions.
“Where did you get those ?” Mar asked her daughter.
“We pulled them up from one of the fields back over there.” She pointed down the road.
“”You shouldn’t do that. If a farmer had caught you he’d have raised bloody hell.”
I agreed. Rural feuds lasting unto the fifth generation had been started over far less.
“There was no one for kilometers around.”
“Look how large they are, mom.” Karinne said changing the subject. “Why don’t we make some onion soup ? You know, real French style ?”
It seemed like the youngsters were into a culinary phase : first a clyster cake, now onion soup. Mar just waved them away, telling them to do as they liked with the onions, but not to go out foraging anymore.
Just to stay in Mar’s good graces, I puttered around a bit in the farmhouse, doing little repairs here or there. I had hoped for some communal sunbathing later on during the afternoon, preferably in a suitable state of nudity, but however much I hinted Mar didn’t seem to respond, or want to.
The evening meal consisted primarily of the girls’ onion soup with bread. They had once again devoted quite an effort into preparing it and even though it smelled enormously delectable, I excused myself from eating any. I have this rather violent intolerance to onions, garlic, leeks and the like. It can be annoying at times, especially when eating out. Small portions are something I can take on without much ill effect, but there was no way I could have survived a repast like onion soup.
Telling me that I didn’t know what I was missing, the others dug in and finished the whole brimming pot full, topping it off with loads of grated cheese.
Later in the evening Karinne complained of not feeling all that well, and soon afterwards all of the ladies ended up retiring early. I was hungry and raided the larder for a late snack. I went to bed feeling vaguely unsettled myself. First off because all the others had seemed a bit out of it. I wondered what the reason was. Secondly because it had been since the night before we left Antwerp that I had had any kind of intimate personal contact with my two little Canadians. It wasn’t just that they were such delightful looking creatures and that it would have been a shame to have to resort to naughtier adolescent habits once again. No, I was feeling sort of put out that they could have tired of me already.
Well whatever it was, I slept unrestfully that night, wakening several times to hear someone going to and from the toilet. I was sure that I heard some kind of groaning or moaning going on as well. I was uncharitable in my imaginings I admit, envisioning lurid scenes of lesbian passion enacted in the nearby rooms. I suppose it was quite unreasonable of me to expect to be included in the girls every episode of sexual activity, but it would have just as gratifying to be allowed as an observer, and so little trouble after all.
The next morning I was still feeling a bit out and selfishly I vowed that ‘uncle’ Alex was going to get it off today, somehow or other, with someone or other.
Uncharacteristically I discovered that I was the first one out of bed. I walked outside and enjoyed the morning solitude, the fresh smell in the yard, the promise of yet another sunshine filled day. I returned to the kitchen to find Nancy sitting in a chair, holding her head in her hands and looking rather worse off for wear.
“Boy, Nancy, you look like you raided the wine cellar last night and drank it all,” I tried joking.
“Ugh, please Alex, not now. Don’t talk about food. I don’t feel so well.”
“What’s the matter ?”
“I don’t know, but I haven’t been well last night. Neither have Sandi or Kari.”
“Upset stomach ?” I asked.
“Yes, and worse. I’ve just finished my third bout of diarrhea. The others have had the same problem.”
“My my, you poor little things. Must have been something you ate I suppose ?”
“Do you think so ?”
“What do you think ? You haven’t any fever I hope ? Cold chills, the shakes, convulsions, no frothing at the mouth or the like ?” I was of course exaggerating.
Nancy smiled wanly. “No, just this bloody awful greenish brown crap gushing forth… yechhh.”
“You’ve all got it ?”
Nancy nodded. I thought a bit.
“My bet is that is was the soup. I haven’t any complaints at all and I didn’t eat any. What about Marlee ? How’s she ?”
“Kari hasn’t gone to look yet. I think she’s still sleeping.”
“OK. Look I’ll make some tea for you and then you can go back for some more rest.”
“That would be really nice, Alex. Thanks.”
“Couldn’t you maybe give me something like back in Antwerp ? You know, an enema ? Wouldn’t that get rid of this awful feeling ?”
I would have willingly done so in a flash, to all three no less, but truthfully I didn’t think an enema would have been all that beneficial right now. I told Nancy that it would be best to wait a while for that. She agreed, differing to my advice.
Over tea we talked a bit about the past few days. I asked her if she was enjoying herself, this little digestive disorder excepted.
“Oh sure. It’s been grand so far. This is nothing like what I expected Europe to be.”
That was nice to hear. I told her that I had been a bit worried that they might have been tired of my company.
“Whatever gave you that idea ?”
“Oh I don’t know exactly. I thought you may have been avoiding me…”
“Avoiding you ? …”
“Oh I guess it’s silly, but you’ve been hanging out with Karinne most of the time, so I just figured….Not that I’m not pleased you’ve made friends so easily, mind you.”
“Oh Alex. No one’s been avoiding you for goodness sake. We thought you might have liked to get it on with Marlee, you know…? We wanted to give you both some privacy, an opportunity to ….”
Ah yes. Of course I wouldn’t have thought of that. I should have hung my head in shame.
“…you know, an occasion to be together a little bit.”
I laughed gently. “How sweet of you. That’s very touching.”
“Don’t mention it,” she said with a laugh in return. “Besides Kari’s really nice. You’d like her.”
“Of course I like her, I’ve known her since she was in diapers. I’ve watched her grow up.”
“No Alex, I mean you’d like her like you like us… she’s hot stuff.”
Good grief. My penny finally dropped. “You mean you three have been having it on ?”
Nancy nodded. “Yeah, it was nice. You should have been there with us.”
“You could have sent an invitation.” I was more than half serious.
“Silly, you’re just jealous.”
“Are all Belgians like this ?”
“Like what ?” I asked.
“Hot to trot.” She wiggled her eyes knowingly.
“I really wouldn’t know. I obviously haven’t had as much experience as you and Sandra. Look, why don’t you take the tea pot back into your love nest and see how the others are doing. OK ?”
When Nancy was gone I sighed. Belgians hot stuff ! What a joke that was. I had been living in that country for more than 30 years and always figured it to be the last reserve of Puritanism. Of course, maybe it was all just my perception. Or worse, maybe it was just me.
For some reason or other I felt a depression of the spirit coming on. Why did I always end up missing out on so much ? Was there some flaw in my character ? Should I be more forthright about things ? Take to exposing myself in public for instance ?
Whatever it was, I decided to go check on Marlee and see how she was feeling. With a little bit of luck she might just be waiting to ravish me.
Well, that little fantasy was put to rest as soon as I knocked on her door. Mar was still laying in bed when she told me to come in, looking quite miserable and forlorn.
I told her that the others were in just about as bad shape and were in no condition to be up and about. She smiled wanly as it that were any consolation and told me that she felt just awful.
“I think it’s the revenge of the green onions,” I tried joking.
“Do you think so ?”
“Pretty certain. I’m OK and didn’t eat any of the soup. The girls have all had several bouts of a rather nasty diarrhea just like you.”
“I haven’t been anywhere all night, Alex,” Mar said. “I just have this most awful stomach ache and cramps.”
“Oh ?” I was a bit surprised. “You haven’t had to use the bathroom ?”
“Nothing at all ?”
“Yes, I’m very certain. I wouldn’t forget that.”
“I’m sorry, I just thought…you know.” I wondered if there were anything I could do. “Would you like something to drink ? Some tea maybe ? I can get some if you like.”
“Well….OK, just a little.”
Back in the kitchen I prepared hot water for tea while I tried to decide what to do. Marlee was obviously just as ill from the onion soup as the girls were, but she hadn’t had any diarrhea. I wondered if she mightn’t have a case of advanced constipation and need a helping hand. It seemed quite likely but how does one breach the subject to a friend ? I won’t deny that I would have loved to get her out of her panties for any reason at all, but here was a situation that just might be exploited for that extra added advantage.
Mar was sitting up in her bed when I came back in. She tried to look more kipper than she was and smiled gratefully for the warm drink. She was wearing a rather skimpy and very loose fitting nightgown of sorts and even though she was disheveled with uncombed hair she still looked undeniably beautiful and enticing. The setting was so informal and everyday that it engendered feelings of cozy intimacy, of a taken for granted casualness that should certainly include some manner of personal and emotional closeness. And as odd as it may seem, at that moment I harbored such a desire for Mar that it surpassed any longing I had had for her previously.
“You know what people hereabouts would have done for your disorder in previous times ?”
She shook her head. “Called the local priest to administer last rites ?”
Well at least she still had a sense of humor. “No, that was only when the prize bull got sick.”
Mar politely laughed at my attempt at rural French humor. “No seriously, though,” I continued, “folks would have called the doctor to administer a cleaning out with one of those devices the girls bought yesterday.”
“Oh, really ? You mean the pump ?”
“The clyster pump. Certainly. It was sort of a catch-all treatment for ills and complaints. Did a lot of good sometimes.”
“I’m sure.” She didn’t seem to mean it.
“Well, you know, you have one of those things in your home. You could use it as it was intended.” This I said very delicately, as if suggesting something she might disagree with.
“I don’t know. Maybe I’d better sleep it off.”
“Well, OK. Try and get some rest. I’ll be back later to see how you’re doing.” I left Mar and closed the door behind me.
At least Mar didn’t tell to me get lost. I just decided to bide my time. If she felt better later in the day that was for the good. If she still felt all achy in that no doubt cute tummy of hers, well that was all for the better.
Just to be prepared for all eventualities, I decided to clean out the clyster syringe in the meantime. I supposed I could use one of my personal syringes if she consented, but somehow or other I was determined to use the old device.
I found it in the kitchen, not quite cleaned up after being put to an ignominious use as culinary decorator. There were still traces of creme au beurre inside the main cylinder so I decided to give it a thorough washing inside and out, not unlike, I gleefully contemplated, I was planning to do with Marlee.
I unscrewed those parts I could and put them in the sink, adding a generous amount of detergent and warm water. I let it all soak and then gave the device several good cleanings, rinsing it afterwards. When I was sure no traces of cream were left, I dried it off as well as I could and left the parts out on a towel to dry off. Then I went outside for a walk, hoping I wouldn’t find any irate farmers with shotguns looking for onion thieves.
An hour or two later, at peace with the world and just aching for a chance to give Mar a good cleaning enema (maybe her first), I was back at the farmhouse. The young girls were up and about, though not looking very lively. They were seated around a table, drinking coffee or tea. I joined them.
“What ho ! Up and about ? Yonder lurks the budding morn…or something like that.” I joked.
“Cut it out, Alex. We’re not feeling very well.” Sandra said.
“I noticed…Tummy aches all gone ?”
“Just about,” said Nancy. “Your treatment helped a lot last time.”
“I know, but as much as I’d love to get your cute little behinds out of your panties, I don’t think this is an appropriate time for an enema.”
“Why not ?” Nancy asked.
“Not when you’ve got the runs. Later perhaps.” I turned to Mar’s daughter. “Kari,” I asked, “How’s your mom feeling ? Seen her yet ?”
“No, not yet.”
“I think I’ll go check on her.”
“She’s not used to having diarrhea,” Karinne told me, “Just the opposite in fact.”
Well now, that was nice to know.
I knocked and entered Mar’s bedroom. She was laying in bed, knees pulled up to her chest.
“Feeling any better ?” I needlessly asked. Just seeing her hugging her knees tight told me she was no better off. I bet she was still very uncomfortable.
“No, not really,” she replied.
“You know, Mar, you should really let me help you out here. You’re probably all stopped up and haven’t been to the toilet for days.”
“How do you know ?”
“Kari said something…”
“It’s none of her business.”
“Maybe, but I don’t like to see you like this. And I can help you very easily.”
“With that pump ? I don’t know. It all seems very embarrassing ?”
“It’s nothing more than squirting some water into your intestines, to help dissolve all the stuff inside of you.”
We kept this up for a while. I could sense she was dying for relief but was too mortified by the prospect of getting enemaed. I hoped it hadn’t anything to do with nudity or having to expose herself, which would have been quite ironic given her sunbathing habits.
I didn’t give up though and told her how I had treated Nancy when she had gotten ill back in Belgium. Well, apparently she had heard the story already and some more details as well. I don’t think she was opposed to the procedure on principal nor to the undressing involved. Finally I hit upon what was troubling Marlee : her husband. She had absolutely no idea what he would say or do if he ever found out I had given her an enema. But she was sure it wouldn’t be anything pleasant.
Well, that I laughed off. Whoever said he would have to know ? I could be the soul of discretion and if it really bothered her, the girls and I would leave before he arrived. That put things in a different perspective and after some more talking Mar finally asked me to help her out. She admitted that a good cleaning would probably be best.
It was going to be my pleasure !
I had to keep from rubbing my hands together like some caricature of a shopkeeper making a killer sale, even though that is what I felt like. I whistled a few bars from La Marseillaise, (‘allons enfants de la patrie, il est temps pour le lavement’ : my private version) and hurried off to the kitchen to get what I needed.
Now whatever Marlee might think, she wasn’t just going to get a little bit of water squirted up her backdoor. No sir, I was ready to give her the deluxe treatment. First off I was certain she was impacted to one degree or another. That would have to be softened. I figured that the best manner would be to use some kind of vegetable oil as a preliminary enema.
I looked around the kitchen and took a bottle of virgin olive oil, grinning to myself with the irony of it : enema virgin to be treated with virgin olive oil. I also took some towels along, a washcloth, two canisters and a bottle of liquid handsoap. I went up to my room and got my own personal little squeeze syringe and tube of lubricant. I put what I could into the canisters and draped towels over the whole lot, so not to frighten Mar with an abundance of articles. Then last, but certainly not least, I took the old clyster pump and laid it on top of everything. Then I carried the lot into Mar’s bedroom, not unlike a butler would.
Mar looked up when I entered her room, the perfect portrayal of misery incarnate, but oh so deliciously lovely at the same time. Well, her hour of deliverance was at hand. I set everything down and told her to get out from under the blankets while I went to the bathroom for some warm water. There, I filled the canisters with piping hot water. I delicately set them down on a nightstand next to her bed and smiled at Mar.
“I’ll spread out some towels for you to lay on, OK ?” I said.
She just nodded. I draped the towels over her bed as neatly as I could and told Mar to lay back down again. All the while I was wondering how best to approach this. It went without saying that I wanted to give her a memorable and pleasurable cleansing and if possible to stoke a little fire in that tantalizing bod of hers, maybe get her juices flowing. But one can’t just say : ‘lay down on your back and spread your legs.’ Not if you want to earn the person’s trust and get into her pants that is. So this was going to be another step by step procedure, a gradual working up to more intimate and pleasurable business.
“Why don’t you get back on the bed now and lie down on your side ?” I indicated that she face away from me on her left side, in classic Sims position. Mar was wearing a garment that looked for all the world like an old-fashioned night shirt. It had a small floral pattern printed all over. It was all rumpled and creased, very skimpy indeed and smelled deliciously of warm and intimate female.
“I’m going to have to raise your night gown a bit, Mar. Could you raise your hips slightly ?” I asked. She complied without saying anything.
Now Marlee is not very large at all, coming to just above my shoulders. Nor is she heavy set or full fleshed. Rather her build is somewhat boyish, with slim legs and narrow, firm buttocks. I was finally able to appraise this as I raised her night shirt. She was still quite tense and kept her bottom tightly clenched together.
“First I’m going to insert something to help soften the stuff up inside of you, OK ? It’s just some olive oil. It won’t feel uncomfortable or anything, just relax.”
Mar made a face. “Is that necessary ? I thought it was just some water you were going to use.”
“Well, this is to make it easier. If I just use water alone, one enema won’t be enough. You might need several. I can do it that way too if you like.”
“No, never mind. Just get this over as quickly as possible.”
She didn’t know what she was missing. I poured an amount of oil into my clyster syringe and put the nozzle back in place. It doesn’t have a very wide diameter so I decided to keep things simple at first and just smear some olive oil on the tip. I didn’t consider it opportune to begin sticking my finger up her little rosebud already. It might unduly prejudice Mar against the upcoming procedures. Instead I just discretely sat down on the bed next to her and placed my left hand on her behind. I then gently pried her buttocks open a trifle and unobtrusively but firmly slid the nozzle up into her anus.
“There we are, Mar. In already…” I tried joking as I squeezed the oil up into her constipated bowels. I pressed down as hard as I could to get the largest amount of oil into her. That done, I pulled back out again and let go of her bottom. “…and out before you know it.”
I gave her a little comradely pat on her behind before pulling the night shirt down again. “There, that wasn’t so bad now, was it ?”
“Hmm…no…I guess not.” She sounded a little relieved but still wary that this had gone so easily and rapidly. “Now what ?”
“We wait a bit. Say 10 to 15 minutes.”
“And then ?”
“Off to the little girl’s room to powder your nose.”
“Don’t act so silly.”
“Just joking.” I could see she wasn’t annoyed, just nervous. “But seriously, just go and see what comes out, if anything.”
“And then ?”
“Then we use the heavy artillery.” I held up the antique clyster syringe. “I think you’ve already met Big Bertha.”
“Oh for goodness sakes, you’re no better than a teenager.” At least she was half laughing as she said so.
That was what my wife always said too. But then they always do.
I smiled at Mar as she turned around and sat up. “As long as we keep our sense of humor, n’est-ce pas ?”
“Yeah, heaven forbid you should ever get serious.”
We kept up the banter, silly clichés and all until I saw Mar make a face. “Everything OK ?” I asked.
“That’s normal. Just wait a bit more.”
A few minutes later I figured it was time to send Mar off to the little girls room for a first attempt. I bet she was ever so grateful that she had installed a normal toilet in the farmhouse instead of a typical French ‘squatter’. At least with the modern type of convenience you could relax and sit back to rest every now and then. I had a feeling that Mar was going to need it.
Several minutes later she came back to the bedroom. “How did it go ?” I asked.
“Uggghhh. A little bit came out, but what a mess…”
“Yes, generally people are full of crap.”
“You have a funny sense of humor, Alex.”
She didn’t know the half of it. It did look like my treatment was having an effect so I would have thought some form of thanks to be in order : a pat on the back, a kiss on the lips, a gentle caress on some intimate and private body part…But I could wait.
“OK, are you up to the main part now ? Want to rest a bit ?”
“No,” she shook her head, tossing her curls ever so delectably across her forehead, “let’s get on with it. Now what do I do ?”
“Why don’t you lay down again…I’ll prepare the syringe.”
The water in the canisters had cooled down to a very bearable body temperature. I squirted half a dozen generous jets of liquid soap into one of the canisters and mixed it by swirling my hand around. Marlee was watching me with a frown on her face.
“Is that soap necessary ?”
“It most certainly is. The idea is to stimulate your insides. Soap is very good for that. Don’t worry, I won’t add too much.”
“You’re putting in more than I use to wash my hands with,” Mar said.
“Well, I bet your hands aren’t as dirty.” Now that was below the belt but she thought it a good joke of sorts. She snorted softly.
Next I took the old syringe and applied a bit of lubricant to the bulbous tip. Pushing the plunger in, I then inserted the tip into the canister and sucked up an amount of soapy water. I placed the syringe on a towel.
“Mar, I’m going to put a little gel on you now. This old nozzle is a bit larger than the one on my clyster and I wouldn’t want you to feel uncomfortable as I slip it in. OK ?”
Now we were getting to the good part. Before putting a glob of lubricant onto my quivering finger (anticipation, don’t you know,) I discretely rearranged my trousers to try and disguise the telltale bulge in front. It didn’t really work though. All I accomplished was moving my prick around a bit : from being a left side dresser I was now a right sided one.
I once again pried open her lovely behind with my left hand and rubbed the lubricant in with my right. I felt her flinch and pull back but I steadied her and continued applying the lube solution.
“Never mind, it’s all right. Just relax…”
Well, that was easier said than done but she did stop fidgeting. I took my leisurely time about it, trying to make it as pleasurable as possible for her. Up and down along the crease of her buttocks and in and around her puckering little anus : I pushed into her gently, then retracted my finger, let it slide about over her tight sphincter, rimmed her and then inserted my finger up her backdoor. I twirled it about quickly and then pulled back out again.
“Just getting you nicely greased up. It didn’t hurt, did it ?” I asked.
“No, it was just so …unexpected. That’s all.”
“Good. Then the next part should be a breeze.”
I picked up the clyster syringe and positioned it pointing at her backside. It was quite a heavy instrument all filled up with water and rather cumbersome to hold with one hand. I needed the other hand to hold Mar’s buttocks open. Now I suppose I could have asked her to grab hold of herself and open her bottom for me, but then another thought came to me.
“These old syringes are rather clumsy. I guess they must have had an assistant along in the old days. Look, maybe it might be better if you changed position and rolled over on your back. Or do you want me to call in one of the girls for help ?”
“No, don’t do that. I’ll turn over if it will help…”
This was what I had been waiting for along : a chance to get Mar in the knees to chest position, legs spread open wide. She turned around onto her back, keeping the hem of her nightshirt chastely tucked between her legs. I indicated that she flex her knees so I could get at the appropriate hole. She complied while still trying to keep her ‘naughty bits’ covered. It didn’t really work, though and I guess she must have thought it rather silly on her part as well. A bit of cloth pocked down between her thighs but didn’t really cover her pretty little nether parts.
So now I was finally able to get a glimpse of her charms. And lovely they were indeed, cunny, asshole and pubis. I saw that her genitals sported a bit of hair but that it had been tastefully cropped short and most was already shaven off. Well good for Mar, it was nice to see that someone shared my tastes in pubic fashion. I was dying to feel her soft skin and finger her a bit, testing for any moistness or signs of arousal, but I restrained myself of course.
I told Mar to hug her knees and hold that position. Her anus was sufficiently exposed in that manner so that I could take up the clyster pump and insert the nozzle into her. It went in quite easily and once inserted to it’s fullest length I pushed in the plunger, forcing the soapy solution into Mar’s bowels.
“Ohhhh…” she seemed a bit surprised at the sudden swell of liquid inside of her.
“It’s not too hot is it ?” I asked.
“No, no…. it just feels so …odd…and wet.”
Well that was an odd and novel, if true statement, though I am sure it was more in the imagining that in actual fact. I chuckled.
“Truer words were never said, my dear…OK, here comes the next one.” I squirted another dose up into her backdoor and then two more in short order. Each time she moaned a bit and wiggled her behind around. She also hugged her knees tighter and began breathing deeper. Was it from cramps or passion ?
“Oh my, I don’t think I can keep this in me much longer…” Mar said.
“It’s much too soon to run of to the bathroom yet. Try and wait some more.”
“I don’t know if I can…”
“Sure you can, it’s not difficult. When you feel some cramping just breath through your mouth, ride out the spasms. It will pass quickly. OK ?”
“I’ll….try….” she began rocking up and down and panting rather loudly. “Oh…good….grief…this is…this …is ..soooo…”
The cramp passed and she relaxed a bit.
“Alex, I can’t …hold back next time…I’ll make a mess all over myself…”
“Well, OK. It is your first time I suppose. But I think one more dose of water is in order. Try and take it if you can.”
“Just this last one then…no more…I’ll burst.”
So reluctantly I filled up the syringe a fifth time and injected the contents into Mar’s very filled up rectum. She muttered a series of semi audible invectives as I pulled out the nozzle. I let her sit up, but she still hugged her legs to herself and rocked back and forth, trying to ride out the cramps. Well at the very least I had got her bowels moving. That seemed rather obvious.
About ten minutes had passed since I started out administering her the clyster and I figured it best to send Mar off to the toilet before she really did have an accident. I told her to wait until she didn’t feel any cramping and then to hurry off to the bathroom next door, but not to run. This she gratefully if somewhat un-elegantly did, waggling her bottom with hands clasped around her abdomen as she rushed off.
Well, the walls of this old farmhouse were solidly built but still I could make out what was going on in the next room. There were some grunts and groaning, mingled with a classical symphony of plops, flops and splashes and the odd rude noise. Nothing disturbing or untoward considering the circumstances, but still quite discernable and proof of the effectiveness of my treatment. I was already beaming.
This went on for a considerable time and I was considering going through Mar’s wardrobe and drawers to pass the time, maybe to ogle and fondle her personal underthings and imagine them on that lovely little bod of hers, when I heard the toilet flush. Then there were some washing noises.
I hurried back to sit on her bed, the picture of innocence and patience. A minute or two later Mar came back into her room, looking tired. She sat down.
“Good grief Alex. That was something else. Intense.”
“Are you OK ? Feeling well ?”
“My God, I don’t think I’ve ever shit so much in my entire life.” She sighed.
That was strong language coming from Marlee. “That’s the idea you know…”
“Still…I thought it wouldn’t end. Is it always like that when you use that …thing ?”
I shook my head. “No, not always. Depends on the state of your bowels I guess. But it does get you clean.”
“This is silly, but I’ve never felt so empty inside. It’s like a weight has been lifted out of me.”
“Tell me all about it…”
She didn’t, but she was clearly quite pleased with the clyster and it’s effects. We talked a bit more but it was obvious she was still tired and could do with some rest. I told Mar to climb back in bed for a while and I would go out and look after the girls.
She smiled at me and beckoned me to come closer.
“You know Alex, I thought you were just trying to find an excuse to fool around with me, but this did really make me feel much better. You can be very sweet sometimes you know.” She gave me a rather unchaste and slippery kiss which I gratefully accepted, then turned around and lay back down.
I took the enema equipment and quietly closed the door behind me.
Before going back out into the yard, I stopped in the kitchen for a bite to eat. And to compose myself. I was shaking from what I suppose to be a mixture of physical titillation and relief that all had gone so well.
Oddly, I was pleased with myself for showing such restraint in conducting myself so correctly. I wondered if Mar’s kiss had been just a show of appreciation or an invitation to further intimacies. I rather hoped the latter but then started wondering about the possible consequences. Whatever the case, I was still pondering the possibilities when I heard a commotion going on in the yard.
I was still holding a piece of yesterday’s stale baguette with some cheese in one hand and the canister with my syringe and things in the other as I went outside to see what was going on. Had a chicken been selected for dinner tonight and begun vigorously protesting ? Wild boar on the loose ? Marauding bulls on the rampage ? I wondered whatever it was now.
There was a lady out in the yard talking rather heatedly with the girls. She was waving her arms about and seemed quite agitated.
I stepped outside and asked what was going on : “Mais qu’est-ce qu’y se passe, Madame ?”
She turned around and looked at me. “Qui êtes-vous, hein ? Who are you ? Are you the father of these fucking little thieves ?”
Oh boy, I thought, if it isn’t one thing then it’s another. Well, I was no Columbo, but no great powers of deduction were needed right now. It was going to be onion payback time.
I tried calming the lady down and explaining things. No, I wasn’t their f’ing father, no the mother was indisposed, yes I suppose the girls did inadvertently take a few of your bloody onions, and so on.
Now I’ve always taken honesty (in modest amounts) to be the best tactic in difficult situations, but now I wasn’t so sure anymore. Having conceded that the girls did take some of her onions, she pressed her moral advantage. She was going to call the fucking gendarmes, she was bloody well going to do this, do that and God knows what else.
Aside from being worked up and angry she was quite foul mouthed as well, the deleted expletives cascading from her vulgar tongue like nothing I have ever heard before. Of course French swearing and cussing is entirely different from English language cursing, so when describing her speech you’ll have to make some poetic allowances for my translation.
In between her ‘saloperies de putain’ and ‘merde’ and other colorful idioms I found out that she was a neighboring widow, who was certain she was being reduced to starvation by goddamn mother f’ing rich lazy no good foreigners. If only her late husband and ex-Legionary were still here : he’d give these good for nothing young cunts (her words - not mine) the trashing of their lives.
Well, this looked like Another Fine Mess in the making. The girls were apparently quite cowed and apprehensive, and whatever signs of lingering illness they had, had suddenly vanished. I was unsure of what to do either. I would have liked to tell her to shut the hell up and stuff it, but I thought that wasn’t the right approach.
“Qu’est-ce qu’on va faire maintenant ? Hein ?’ She kept asking. ‘What are we going to do now ?” I thought the ‘we’ somewhat pretentious under the circumstances. The ‘we’ of us who were in the majority would have been all for trussing her up and feeding her to the pigs.
I told the girls that ‘we’ had better pay her something for her onions and get rid of her that way. Trying to be diplomatic about it I asked how much the things were worth and told her ‘we’ would be happy to compensate her for her loss. She smelled victory and launched into another series of lamentations about the price of this and the price of that. In the end I offered to give her 20 francs just to shut her up. That was quite easily three times the store price.
“They deserve a good trashing is what they deserve,” she said.
I said nothing but the thought had crossed my mind as well, though it was more along the lines of a milder form of punishment. Fumbling for my wallet I told the girls I would advance the money, but expected it back. My hands being full, I tried gripping the canister under my arm, but it slipped and dropped to the ground. It rolled between the lot of us, my bright red syringe and tube of lubricant falling out, clearly visible to all.
The lady looked at the rubber device and grinned back at me. “Tiens, tiens, monsieur. You’ve dropped your little toy.” She bent over and held it in her hand. “And it’s still wet too. I wonder where that’s been, hein ? Someone indisposed ? Feeling ill ?”
I felt myself flush. “Actually yes, if it’s any of your business.”
She held out the syringe. I took it and put it back into the canister. “Don’t forgot this either,” she said holding the tube daintily between her fingers and looking me straight in the eye. “You’ll want everything to go smoothly, n’est-ce pas ?”
I took that from her too and put it away. Finding my wallet I took out the money.
“Who’s ill anyway ?” she asked.
I was getting a bit exasperated and wished her gone as quickly as possible. “Everyone but me.” I held out the 20 francs.
“And you’re administering the medicine. How admirable.” She looked at the three girls. “Poor things,” she said not meaning a word. “What’s the matter ?”
“Your bloody onions, that’s what’s the matter,” Kari said, not being able to keep her mouth shut.
“What do you mean, my onions ?”
“We made soup out of them and now we’re ill because of it.”
Oh God, I thought, now she’s going to start all over, never insult a farmer’s onions. But oddly she thought it quite a good joke. “That should teach you not to take things that aren’t yours,” she snorted and laughed at the same time. “Serves you right.”
I was still holding out the 20 francs but she ignored it. She looked maliciously thoughtful.
Reversing her earlier statements about impending financial doom she turned to me and said : “I don’t want your bloody money. I think these girls should be punished. They could use un bon lavement, a good enema. You seem to know all about them. That’s what my parents did to me when I needed correcting.”
I did a mental double take.
“Well, Monsieur ? Surely you don’t approve of their behavior ?”
No, of course I didn’t. I told her that they would get one from me, as they so rightly deserved.
“And when I’m gone you forget all about it ? Oh no ! Do you think I am stupid ? No no. We do it now or I go to the gendarmes. Never mind your fucking money.” She stood there grinning maliciously.
I didn’t know what to say. This neighbor had changed tack so often that I was off balance. First she was enraged at the theft of her onions, then on the verge of poverty and now she wanted to dole out a watery punishment. I figured that I was in the presence of a world class actress or schizo.
“Oh no, Uncle Alex,” Kari said, “You can’t let her do that !”
Couldn’t I ? It was a simple solution, all things considered. And 20 francs cheaper.
The girls protested somewhat, Kari the loudest but that was because I figured she knew nothing about the in and outs of enemas. Sandra looked sullenly at the lady, while Nancy seemed most composed of all.
In the end there was nothing the girls could do except accede or face more trouble than they could shake a stick at. We agreed that she would give the three girls a good cleaning out and then she would forget about everything, bloody onions and money included.
“Good,” she said. “Monsieur, you will now fill a canister with hot water and bring it back to me.”
“Shouldn’t we go inside the house for this ?” Kari asked.
“That would be fine. Then we can have your mother watch. No ?”
“No, no. Never mind….”
The lady took the syringe and handed me the canister. “Do not forget the soap,” she said.
Inside the house I got the water and looked around for a bottle of liquid soap. But then I thought, why make it easy for the lady ? So instead I slipped a bar of soap into my pocket.
The girls were still standing around throwing imaginary darts at the neighboring lady. If looks could kill… She however had sat down on one of the chairs in the yard and looked ready to get on with things. I set the canister with water down on the table.
“The soap ?” she demanded. I took it out of my pocket and dropped it next to the canister.
Instead of asking for liquid soap or anything easier to dissolve, she whipped out a wicked looking pocket knife and started scraping slivers and bits of soap into the canister. I think she whittled at least half the bar into little pieces. Then she vigorously stirred the canister with her hand, dissolving the soap until a white sudsy froth appeared.
I would have thought her ready, but she then carved three longish sticks of soap and wet them with her hands until the edges were smoothed out. These three little batons she placed on the table. I had a feeling that my ‘nieces’ were in for a little surprise.
“Bien, on peut commencer maintenant. Let’s get started now. Who’s first ?”
No one volunteered. She pointed at Sandra. “You, you look like you’re the oldest. And you’ve got an insolent smile on your face. You’re first. Come here.”
I hated to admit it, but the lady was right on both counts. Sandi looked at me, but I sort of shrugged as if to say ‘We’d better get this over with.’ Grudgingly Sandi moved over and stood in front of the farmer. They looked each other in the eye.
“Eh bien ? What are you waiting for ? Out of your knickers and over my lap.” Sandi looked at me in confusion while the lady was getting steamed up. “Well, what ’s the matter ? Playing with yourself made you deaf or what ?”
I came to Sandi’s aid. “You’ll have to excuse her. The girls don’t understand French all that well.”
“No ? What do they understand then ? Hottentot ?” She thought that quite funny.
“They’re from America.”
“Des ‘Ricains,” she snorted, using the impolite French word for Americans. “What can one expect ?” Calling an American a ‘Ricain’ is like calling an Englishman a Limey, or a Frenchman a Frog. Hardly a term of endearment.
“Well, tell her to get out of those shorts, which don’t leave anything to the imagination anyway. Then over my lap.”
I translated and added a word of caution. “Just do as she says so we can get rid of her.”
With eyes still brimming defiance Sandi lowered her shorts and panties and stepped out of them.
“Don’t just stand there, over my lap now.” The lady grabbed her hand and pulled Sandi closer, then pushed her down until she was perched over the lady’s’ knees.
Taking the bulb syringe the farmer filled it up with the hot soapy water. I thought she would then apply some lubricant to the nozzle, but she ignored the tube that was lying on the table. Instead she took the remaining soap and worked up a nice lather. This she spread over the enema nozzle very liberally.
She moved Sandi around a bit until her butt was positioned to her liking : sticking up high. The lady used one hand to open up Sandi’s buttocks and then deftly and unconcernedly pushed the nozzle up her asshole and squeezed.
I could see Sandi flinch, though it must have more from the tension than from anything else, since it would take several seconds at least for the soap to start irritating her bowels. But by the second dose Sandi was definitely feeling a burning sensation and started squirming around. The lady slapped her behind loudly and soundly.
“Hold still or I’ll give you a triple dose. Understand ?”
“Oui Madame,” Sandi said.
As a finishing touch, the lady wet one of the soap batons and stuck it into Sandi’s bumhole, rapidly inserting it in and out several times before pushing it deep up her rectum with a soapy finger.
I saw Sandi’s eyes widen and her mouth flinch in a grimace. “For crying out loud Alex, tell her that burns !!”
That was stating the obvious. In a way I sympathized with my girls, but in another way I was beginning to enjoy this little spectacle very much. “I think that’s the idea. Just grin and bear it. Show her what us Americans are made of.” I told her in English.
“Speak for yourself, Yankee….” Sandi was allowed to stand up and crossed her hands over her belly, rocking to and fro. “Wow, wow …..oh God that burns….She’s a frigging sadist.”
“Tell the girl to wait until all are done. And if she expels the suppo or leaks anything I will start all over,” the neighbor said to me. I did as she asked. Sandi glared at me while alternately hugging her abdomen and pressing her behind together.
The lady then gave the same treatment to Nancy who took it quite well considering the circumstances. She hardly put a fuss and meekly complied, which took some of the fun out of it for our pesky neighbor. After sticking the soap suppo up Nancy’s ass, she slapped it several times ‘for her insolence’ and told Nancy to wait with her friend.
Kari came last and I suppose it was best so. The poor girl hadn’t had any experience with clystering syringes or soapy fingers up her bottom and she seemed quite surprised at the powerful reactions her bowels produced to the irritating substances injected into her behind. She took it well though and also got several slaps on her bottom as a farewell reminder.
None of the girls looked like they were able to contain themselves much longer so I waved them away telling them to hurry off before they had an accident. They scampered off to the toilet as fast and as elegantly as they could, which wasn’t much. I wondered how they were going to establish shitting order and couldn’t help smirking.
“Well, I hope you are satisfied now Madame ?” I said to our neighbor who was wiping her hands on her smock none too elegantly.
“I should have been the one to give them permission to leave Monsieur. But I suppose I could overlook it on condition that you allow me to show you something.”
I sighed. “Whatever now ?”
“You’ll see. Just come along.”
We went out onto the road and followed it a ways, then she turned into a dirt path heading to a strand of woods. I hesitated, none too sure of her intentions nor of my self-control. I was tempted to push her into a ditch and cover her up with manure.
But as she turned around to ask what was keeping me, I could see her face had changed demeanor. She was smiling. “Well Monsieur, you have to admit that was fun, wasn’t it ?
I asked her whatever she meant.
“Mon Dieu,” she said, “Those are three delicious little juicy cunts. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice. “ She pointed at the bulge in my trousers and laughed. “They were good enough to eat, n’est-ce pas ?” She flicked her tongue in and out rapidly. In French you have the same smutty double meaning.
I was flustered and didn’t know what to say. Of course she was right. And I knew from personal experience, while she didn’t. Bully for me.
“I should do this more often.”
I told her that the girls weren’t bloody likely to steal anymore of her onions.
“Oh fuck the goddamn frigging onions. Who gives a sour fart about motherfucking onions ?”
It seemed like she did, but she just laughed it away. “Jesus, Joseph, Mary and all the fucking saints. Are all you Americans so stupid ? That was just a good excuse to get them out of their pants. Mind you, I would have settled for a slap or two on a bare behind, but your little plaything gave me a better idea.”
“You mean you weren’t planning on calling the gendarmes or anything ?”
“Are you out of your mind ? They’d have laughed themselves silly if they even bothered to come out here in the first place. The lazy bastards.”
“Then what was all the fuss about ?”
“Monsieur le ‘Ricain, you are dense.” That I knew, but it wasn’t any of her business. And not to the point. She made an innocent looking face at me. “I am a lonely widow, with no one to comfort me. You understand, no ?”
She came closer to me, while reaching behind her to loosen her dress. “Your body understands all too well, Monsieur. See ?” she said and cupped me in the crotch, pressing her hand up against my stiff prick. “Your zizi knows more than you do. I think he is waiting to make my acquaintance.”
She grabbed my belt and unbuckled it, unzipped me and had my trousers down around my ankles before I knew what was happening. “Good, I think it is time for him to meet Madame Ernestine. What do you think Monsieur le ’Ricain ?”
So she had a name. Well, exchanging names with a lady holding my penis was a novel situation for me. I wasn’t clear on the etiquette.
“At least your are reasonably clean shaven,” she said as she squeezed me. “I think you will like what I have for you.”
She slipped off her dress and smock and unhooked an oversize bra. She wasn’t wearing any panties or knickers. I saw she sported no pubic hair at all on her pubis as she spread her legs open for my inspection. For a lady of her age she wasn’t all that bad looking.
“Feel me if you like,” she said and placed my hand between her thighs. “It is soft, no ?”
It was soft, yes. And sopping wet too. Was she ever hot and worked up.
“Come now. Let me see what you are worth.” Madame Ernestine spread her dress on the ground and lay down, pulling me with her. “Baisez-moi, vite. J‘ai envie. Come, fuck me, I can’t wait.”
She opened her legs and clamped them around my hips while she guided my prick into her waiting pussy. No sooner had I entered her slippery orifice than she started bucking to and fro and up and down while moaning and groaning in utter abandon. I was smothered to her bosom and had to politely find a way to take a breath as she kissed me. In fact, ‘kissing’ would be much too mild a word for what she was engaged in. Oral rape ?
While I struggled to keep my head above water, figuratively speaking, lower down I was just as lost. Her cunt was an ‘extra large’ at the very least and I thought it could have easily provided ample space for two had she wished. This was a lady who had used her lower opening well and often as nature had intended.
Oddly, while I was erect as ever and pumping away for the lady’s pleasure, I felt removed from the proceedings. In fact no matter how long I kept at it I didn’t approach climax or feel like I was close to doing so. I daresay it was to Madame Ernestine’s pleasure, for she ground merrily away, clutching my buttocks, pinching and giving me a good whack every now and then for good measure. Finally she assumed a slightly different position that allowed her to twiddle away with her clitoris. With one hand she wanked and rubbed with gay abandon and the other she used to pinch her nipples. Grunting and groaning with passion she finally climaxed, amid a lot of hip buckling and thrashing about.
Was I ever glad that was over.
She lay on her back, still encasing me with her thighs. Wiggling around she noticed that I was still stiff. “What’s the matter with mon petit ‘Ricain ? Your zizi not working ?” She laughed at her joke and slapped me on the behind. “You’ve been fucking those little sluts too much and haven’t anything left for me, is that it ?”
“Not at all, Madame. I assure you.”
“What the fuck do I care ? But it wouldn’t be fair for you to leave without getting it off with me, no ?”
I thought it would, but said nothing. She must have mistaken my silence for bashfulness.
“Want to do it another way ? Bugger me up the ass ? Some sucky sucky ?”
Spare me, I thought. She was nice and all in her way, apparently eager, but far too rough and wild for my taste. I wondered if I could even survive fucking her asshole.
“I know what you men like, you’re all just little boys anyway, playing with your zizi every chance you get. Come on, come over here and let me rub that prick of yours between my tits. I’ll show you how Madame Ernestine gets little boys to spurt everything out.”
Now I know she was older than I am, but all this ‘little boy’ stuff didn’t do anything for me. Still, I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, heaven forbid, so I did as she said. She made me straddle her and stick my prick and balls between her breasts. Believe me there was flesh enough on them to have smothered at least two sets of genitals. Madame Ernestine excelled in sporting the extra large.
She leaned up and rubbed her breasts together. It felt nice. Then using one hand she began milking my penis, something a farmer should certainly excel at, and massaging my balls with another. I grimaced when she squeezed too hard.
“Oh, what’s the matter ? Want me to go easier on you ? I knew you ‘Ricains had no balls worth speaking of.”
At least she let go and moved lower down, fingering my asshole. She pressed up into me and I felt her slip in. She wiggled around inside of me. That felt much better and it must have shown on my face.
“I should have known. You’re all a pushover for a finger up the bumhole. Well, come on then. If it’s fingerfucking you like, it’s fingerfucking you’ll get….”
It was the magic button for me. In no time at all I was ready to come and couldn’t hold back. I shuddered and spasmed as politely as I could and spurt several long jets of sticky white semen over Madame Ernestine’s balcony.
“Eh bien, voila. I knew you could do it. There, that was nice now, wasn’t it ?”
Recomposing myself, I nodded. “Yes, Madame, it certainly was.” I wanted to extract myself from her embrace, but she still had her finger up my behind.
“Want me to fuck your ass for you some more ? You obviously like it, n’est-ce pas mon petit?”
“Once is enough I think, Madame. Now if you would kindly…?” She kept her finger hooked inside of me. Playfully she pulled me closer.
“I think I have caught me a little fish on my hook, hein ?” She teased me before finally pulling her finger out. It was about time. I was finally able to slump down and rest a bit. I think I was able to enjoy some 45 seconds of post coital bliss, or whatever you would call this, before Madame Ernestine began a monologue on life in general and hers in particular.
If half of what she told me was true, she had certainly never wanted for fucking when her late husband was around. He apparently liked to start the day bright and early with a good banging before going off to milk the cows and he never went to sleep at night without poking his wife in the required manner. Sometimes he came in during the day for a quickie.
“Ah Monsieur, now there was a true man for you,” she sighed in fond memory. “Always ready for a good rogering. And he liked my slit smooth and clean. He picked up that taste in Algeria, when he served with the Legion, 2-ieme REP. Invalided just before the coup. Got his pension, bought this farm and married me. Mon Dieu, but I miss him and his fucking cock.”
I asked her what happened to her husband.
“Some stupid fucking accident while they were inseminating one of the cows. What a way to go.”
Speaking of going, I politely told her that I should be getting back to the farmhouse.
“Mais bien sur, mon petit. Of course, hurry off now, you’ve had your fun.” She slapped me playfully on the behind. “Get back to your little sluts. They’re probably waiting with their legs up in the air.”
God, she had a smutty mind. Even worse than me at my most despicable. She stood up and took her dress, shaking the dead leaves and grass out of it. When it looked reasonably clean she used it to wipe the semen off her chest and then non-chalantly put it on, brushing her hands along the hem.
“Allez le ‘Ricain, one last kiss for Madame Ernestine, d’accord ?” She hugged me to her bosom, squeezed my behind and gave me a slobbering wet French kiss. “I have a field full of carrots over there,” she pointed. “Maybe you can get your little cunts to pick a bagful tonight. I can be back for all of you tomorrow.” I hoped this was her attempt at humor.
“I do not think so, Madame. Les Mademoiselles have learned their lesson, I am sure.”
“Have you learned yours ? I have nothing pressing to do tomorrow except watch the cows shit all over the place.”
I just smiled as I hurried back into my pants.
My God, I thought as I walked back to the farmhouse, have I just been raped or what ? That lady was a veritable sex maniac, and no wonder if half of what she told about her husband was true. Maybe I was just being un-charitable in my opinion of her. I guess I would shop around for whatever I could get if I were in her situation.
Thankfully, Mar was still not up when I got back to the house. At least that would save a lot of explaining. Kari, Nancy and Sandi were all sitting outside around the table, drinking something and talking.
“Good grief, Alex,. Where ever were you ?” Sandi asked, though non too concerned. It sounded like she was berating me.
“You wouldn’t believe me.” I sat down.
“Did you get rid of that maniac ?”
“At least for today. How are you doing ? Did you get rid of all the nasty stuff she put into you?”
“It’s not funny,” Sandi said. “That was so gross sticking soap up our behinds. Is she a pervert or something ?”
A good observation, but I declined to comment. I just put on a contrived smile and shrugged.
“Oh come on,” Nancy interjected. “It wasn’t all that bad. All the soap did was make you have to go real bad. Anyway, I bet you would have loved it if Alex did it to you.”
That’s my girl, Nancy. She was going to get some sweet considerations from me for that remark. I looked at Kari and arched my eyebrows. “And how are you feeling ? More or less OK ?”
“I guess so, but it still burns.”
“Did you expel the soap baton ?” She nodded. “Well maybe there’s still some soap residue still in you. Did you rinse afterwards ?”
“I washed myself.”
“I mean did you rinse with clear water ? You know, with the syringe ?”
“Squirt some more inside of me ?”
“Of course, to flush out the soap.” Apparently this had never occurred to any of the girls.
“Maybe you should let Alex take care of that for you Kari,” Nancy said to her friend. “He’s real gentle with this stuff.”
Kari looked at me with those beautiful eyes of hers. “Oh, would you Uncle Alex ? Please ? Before mother gets up ? I don’t want to tell her about this.”
We all agreed to that and I was personally ever so pleased to take care of Kari’s irritated little asshole. The two of us went into the bathroom. Without my asking, she stepped out of her shorts and panties and handed me the squeeze syringe.
“Should I lay over your lap now, Uncle Alex ?” she asked.
Should she ? By all means. But first I looked around for a tube or bottle of something to soothe her burning backdoor with. I took a tube of hand lotion. I filled the sink with tepid water and loaded up the syringe. I beckoned and Kari lay down ever so willingly, baring her behind for me with both hands.
Her anus was a bit reddish and seemed tender as I rubbed in the lotion. I don’t think I was imagining things, for as I applied the cream. Kari pushed out with her anal muscles and puckered her little asshole as if inviting my ministrations. Gently I inserted the syringe nozzle and squeezed the water into her. I gave her two more bulbs and had her sit on the toilet and expel.
When I got up to leave her alone she told me not to bother. She didn’t mind me staying.
When she was done, she came back over my lap and I squirted three more syringes filled with clear water into her rectum. This she also unconcernedly passed into the toilet bowl, wiping herself while looking at me when she was done.
As a final touch, I anointed her rosette with the lotion again, taking my sweet time about it. Kari relaxed and seemed to enjoy the rubbing and stroking, so I lastly inserted my finger into her anus, ostensibly to apply some of the cream inside of her. She said nothing and lay still while I went about my business. If she felt my prick straining up and pressing against her belly she pretended not to notice. Just as I said nothing of her glistening and distended little cunny. When she got up, my trousers were somewhat moist on the lap. And I know I didn’t spill any of the water I used to clyster her with.
“Feeling better now?” I asked.
She walked around still sans culottes. “Oh yes, Alex. Thank you so much.” She came and gave me a sweet and rousing kiss. “Nancy and Sandi are right. You really are a sweet guy. It’s nice to know there are still gentlemen around who won’t take advantage of a girl.”
Oh if only she knew !
A few hours later, a much more healthy looking Marlee appeared in the yard. She was still a bit sleepy, even after her long fortuitous nap, but looked so much better than this morning.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully. The girls hung out in the yard or up in Kari’s room and at dinner time everyone had a healthy appetite, though no taste for onions in the salad. I tried to tempt them, but was greeted with a chorus of protest.
The young girls went to bed early that night, thankfully leaving me and Mar in each other’s company. She got out a bottle of white wine and poured us both a glass. We talked a bit about this and that.
“You know Alex, I haven’t properly thanked you for taking such good care of me earlier on today.”
“Oh that’s all right. You know I’d do anything for you Mar.”
“That’s nice to hear, because I have just the thing in mind…”
She leaned over to me and whispered a few sentences. I broke into a grin, she laughed and we both hurriedly finished our wine and went upstairs hand in hand.
What passed during the night was ever so pleasant but not really pertinent to this story. Let’s just say that Mar and I got better acquainted than ever before and enjoyed each other in an intimate manner indeed.
And what surprised me most of all was even though my resolve had come true once already that day, I was able to get what I wished for and much more a second time.
Yes, Uncle Alex really got it off today. That was for sure.