Our enemas are ENE-MAZING!

NSFW Deals with nonconsentual consent. Mature persons only. .Don’t try this stuff just because you think it’s easy or safe.

Thursday again. Or is it Wednesday? Days all blur when I awake, naked, put on my apron to fix Mistress’s breakfast. Coffee is ready. Croissant is warm, butter is practically liquid. Fig jam is room temperature, ready to be spread. Mistress comes to the table as I kneel at the floor by her chair.

“The apron, Boy!. Why is it still on?” I take it off, place it on its peg.

” I know you’re sorry. No over the top apology is required. Just be naked and open when I get to the table.Your hand. Now. ”

I offer my open palm.She takes a short tawse off a hook on her belt, and strikes my palm with it. It isn’t so much the pain, but the humiliation. Once again, too often, I am the Bad Boy.

The chore list showed no errands. I would therefore be naked all day. If I had to step outside, it must be at a time when the neighbours were gone or had their blinds closed. I must admit the thought of potential discovery and subsequent embarrassment sometimes caused my cock to stiffen. Excitement, whatever the source, is always appreciated.

I had dutifully performed dusting, changed the bed linen, vacuumed, with no need to venture out.Then I noticed the recycle bin, overflowing with Mistress’s iced tea cups, egg cartons, and the rest of the recyclable detritus of the household. A quick dash was unavoidable. I waited, recyclables hiding my “package” til I thought I was safe.. I made the dash, tossed the junk in the outside barrel, then turned and saw my neighbour, Mrs N—-, peering through a raised slat in her miniblinds.

“ Oh well. Sometimes things just don’t work out, ” I mused and shrugged off my slight faux pas.

I went back in, put on my ABBA Greatest Hits CD , and began cleaning the kitchen and bathrooms. All was going well. The kitchen sparkled, as did the downstairs bathroom. The upstairs bath got my attention next. Toilet, sink, mirror, floor and now the tub. It is a lovely old-fashioned ball and claw foot cast iron tub that Mistress had found at a salvage yard..I began the scrubbing with the cleanser, ABBA wailing away about The Dancing Queen, when, all of a sudden, I felt a hand squeeze my ass..

“Do. Not. Make. A. Sound.” It was a woman’s voice, vaguely familiar.

“Keep your eyes on that tub. Do. Not. Turn. Around.”

I wondered what would happen next. I heard something squirt from a tube, then lubed and gloved fingers pushed at my asshole, and a gloved hand was on my dick,making it hard. Whoever she was, worked rhythmically between the fingers in my ass and the hand jerking me off .At one point, she leaned in to nibble at my left ear lobe, just as I was about to come. I could smell the scent of patchouli, from her, as I felt the rush and release, as my jizz spurted from me.

“Damn!” was all I could think. The orgasm, so surprising , so novel, was a delight.

“Stay there Boy till you hear the door close!” After a minute, I turned, the gloves and tube of lube were on the floor. I put the gloves in the trash, the lube in the nightstand drawer , cleaned the puddle of sperm off the floor. I wondered who my visitor was.

Next morning I had store errands. At the market, I saw Mrs N—- in the produce section. She picked up a honeydew melon, sniffed it, then looked me in the eye and said,

“Do. Not. Make. A. Sound.”

You gotta love the Amtrak Station in La Plata , Missouri.The townspeople show up to meet the trains and wave into the Virtual Railfan LLC camera. Occasionally an Amish person or couple will be at the station, all tricked out in Amishwear.

They are waiting for the Southwest Chief #4 Northbound to Chicago. It is twelve hours late. Things  happen, ya know. It’s a helluva trip. There is a fat guy in a lime green tee shirt, shorts and flip flops. He dominates the scene. Now there’s an old guy in shorts and black compression socks in the camera view. Still no train. The crowd , five people, have now moved off camera.

My day, once I got through the Mom Drama that I self-orchestrated, was a good day. I found peaches on sale at Food Lion. I bought a black and white cake, I got for J’s dessert tonight because she wanted dessert. They also had blueberries and cherries at a good price. . Food Lion is a blue collar store that sells food, as opposed to other stuff, like lawn furniture  and food, the way Kroger does.

I fixed J’s lunch for tomorrow. Fresh fruit all pitted and sliced, same as yesterday, with the addition of blueberries. There is my Waldorf Chicken Salad too. She likes that.

I can’t be too depressed around J. It worries her. I get through it, eventually.

These are very patient people in La Plata. I feel like I am waiting along with them. 

I guess I am.

. 

Post Birthday Stress Disorder. Not my birthday, my Mother’s. Yesterday was my mother’s birthday. She would have been 101. I dunno. Of my siblings, I’m the one who lets my mother inhabit my head rent-free.l

The demons of her depression attack me periodically. I don’t know why. I keep thinking of the Gospel story wherein Our Lord casts the demons inhabiting the Gerasene Demoniac into a herd of swine. The swine proceed to run off a cliff. Miraculous recovery.

So I was pretty desperate today until I took a nap beside J. The TV tuned to some chick show didn’t even bother me. I woke up all better.

Occasionally this happens. The horrors of a relatively safe and happy childhood return. If I knew why, it might not happen ad much.

I put on my favorite Popeye cartoons. I acknowledged to myself that I cleaned the kitchen. (Doing estimable things restores self-esteem). I thanked J for being my wife and let her know how napping beside her helped.

Not really. Figuratively. I have a bad case of wanting to do nothing. And sadness. A friend of ours from the old church lost his son to cardiac arrest over the weekend. The son was maybe 48. Sucks.That’s all I can say.

I’ve spent the day reading porn  from Sinclair Sexsmith’s Sugarbutch Chronicles.  All I can say is that they know how to write. She writes porn that holds my attention. And makes me what to be sexual again.

Alternatively I am also reading Black Reconstruction In America, by W.E.B.DuBois. It is an admirable work for its scholarship and DuBois’ consummate skill as a writer. The author’s Marxist perspective is not concealed and, because of the openness, the scholarship is not compromised. 

But I’m emotionally fatigued. I’ve been obsessing over trains. I want to watch the same train pass through Galesburg, Ft. Madison and La Plata, as if following the same train is some great feat.The LA-bound Southwest Chief #3 is passing through Ft Madison now. I must say the view here is stunning, yet again. 

J works and sleeps.

I have lost a lot of motivation. I am sure it will return. “There ain’t no cure for the summertime blues”, goes the refrain of a Sixties song. I feel them. Living down South, the summertime blues go with the territory.

I have a kinky story idea that I should write down. Maybe in a couple of days.

That’s about it.

The lesser god of Explanations

Was cast down from Olympus

When Zeus tired as the endless words

Left his lips in torrents

When a simple nod would do.

In Acadia, he found a nymph

Prattling on with questions,

As the randy displaced god

Took the pins from her chiton

Then buggered her to silence

As both god and nymph

Learned their lesson.

You don’t want to live in fear

 Because you are

Who you are. 

That isn’t asking 

All that much.

Truth be told I feel the same

But who I am 

has learned to hide a little better.