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 ut 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 goose bumps 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?
- pretty much a true story with a few minor augmentations…