August was in its closing week; the summer had been the best of my life and, in fact, everything prior to staying with Uncle Bartram seemed part of the past and rendered in black and white. Uncle's lawns and garden presented a profusion of colour and texture and in the early evening, he and I would slowly pull at errant weeds and then water everything profusely from his deep well. I had planted some calendula and was gratified at their tidy complexity; often a collection of three or four occupied a small crystal vase in the kitchen. I often brought one into my bedroom as an icon of that unique summer.

The sociable country mailman had just delivered the usual packet of magazines, catalogues and posts when Uncle paused in his perusal and allowed; "Package for you." I was taken aback since I had received nothing in the weeks of staying with Uncle. I was handed a small package about the size of a pencil case when I noticed that it was Mother's handwriting on the outer label. That gave me pause and I urged it, unopened, into the right pocket of my shorts that now bore the Camp Carthage logo courtesy of Uncle's affiliation with the place.

The prior evening, Uncle had invited me to the Camp for one of its socials. I had been disinclined to attend given my native shyness even though I knew two of the campers very well, Nao, and Tristan, about whom I've written in the past. And, in truth, in my many visits there accompanying Uncle in his role as nurse practitioner, I found everyone friendly and open. In looking back at the social, I'm more than happy I attended.

Camp Carthage certainly had its own distinctive character. The lads [and girls] were generally sent there for the resolution of some problem, physical and mental, and usually emerged nicely improved. Certainly Nao and Tristan were splendid examples of the male in fine fettle.

The camp's season extended to virtually the end of August and it held a series of collective events to mark the closing. One was a camp production that proved very amusing especially for the sense that everyone in it had given his all and the audience's appreciation was genuine and sustained. I was struck how civil it was with none of the rudeness I associated with my own lackluster school in my home district.

But, following the dramatic offering, the low tables of the dining hall were moved aside to fashion a dance floor. A modest record player appeared along with a collection of discs and it was apparent lantern lights had been strung for a festive atmosphere. At first, there was the usual reticence among the attendees but within minutes of the first song, a romantic one, the floor soon held couples in various gliding poses.

I sat with Uncle on one of the adjoining benches and it pleased me when I saw his hand in the soft grip of the camp's director. Imagine my surprise when Luc, a lad I had observed from a distance at lakeside, asked formally: "May I?" I only blinked my assent and walked as if in a slow dream with him to the middle of the floor murmuring: "I'm not very good at this." His reassurance was all I required and I found myself beguiled by my arm on his firm back, our chests exchanging the sound of cotton on cotton, and most touching of all, his warm cheek against mine as we moved slowly in small circles.

I knew Luc was from Morocco, he of the ready and sturdy smile, a study in cocoa with dark eyes, large and luminous. He smelled of the kind of soap I associated with the one department store in our village: fragrant but with low notes of something like spring fern.

I was in near delirium from the warmth and contact with Luc; in my mind he had been unapproachable since I knew from what Uncle had told me he was extraordinarily popular and liked for all the right reasons. To think I had the freedom to actually share a dance with him was the work of miracles. I could see once my eyes permitted the perspective of the dining hall to regain some stability that there were other lad/lad couples as well as lad/girl and even girl/girl. It all seemed not only possible but desirable under the pastel lights, the August coolness of evening, and the moderate volume of songs I knew vaguely for their sweet lyrics. Every time Uncle came into view, he was smiling reassuringly and later took his turn on the floor with the director; something about the sight brought tears of gratitude to my eyes.

I danced that night with Nao and Tris and then Luc again along with others and after some cocoa and cookies, Uncle and I drove to his cottage in the aging Citroen whose seats were as comfortable as the evening had been. Sleep that night was easy and relaxed filled with dreams in which shapes glided and turned but without fear and any dread whatever.

At breakfast, Uncle said he needed to work on the summary reports for his charges at the Camp and intended to spend most of the day there. He suggested I stay and amuse myself at the cottage and asked after the package: "Everything all right?" Through a blush, I had to admit I hadn't opened it. He nodded and indicated that should I require anything, it doubtless was somewhere in the cottage. I smiled since his consulting room held every 'toy' I could imagine in the world of the water arts.

The Citroen disappeared from the driveway's end and the feeling came over me that I knew at home: having the house all to myself with forbidden thoughts coursing through my head bringing a increased heartbeat and a lovely tight feeling in my shorts. I knew the delights of the consulting room well, but thought it too imposing for a solo performance. My only trip there was for a box from a drawer that held some things I knew I wanted to use in my own bathroom.

I repaired to my comfortable bedroom in the western wing, closed the door, and sat on the wide bed examining the parcel from yesterday. It was overwrapped in brown paper which I carefully undid to find a nondescript pencil box with its own lid: opening it, I was startled to find my two favourite black hard-rubber nozzles from home! One was the pipette used on me as a child but the other was my favourite curved nozzle with eight holes, two on each side of the four planes. I began trying to assign a motive to Mother mailing these to me but decided it was beyond my reasoning.

But the sight of these favourites filled me with that special sense of wanting to use them. I liked the feeling of being alone and being able to ritualize sex. The comfortable adjacent bathroom was private and beautifully constructed with tile everywhere including the floor which was also covered in a fluffy large rug. I walked slowly into the bathroom, closed the solid door with the full-length mirror on its back, and consulted the closet shelves which were behind some stylized shutters.

I knew from my initial perusal some weeks ago that I had seen a Davol box but my inventory revealed much more. I recognized unguents similar to Uncle's favourites in the consulting room as well as several other boxes that were lightly covered with towels. Most fortuitous of all, there were boxes of prepared solutions, each with their respective squeeze bulb and their labels displaying words that were increasingly familiar to me.

I put the pencil box on the tiled counter admiring its content's black starkness and began to undress. Polo was shrugged off, shorts dropped easily, sandals dismissed. I could see in the natural lighting coming through the western windows that I had gained a creditable tan and my unruly hair looked blond streaked and even somewhat tamed. My briefs held a familiar shape and I slowly tugged them off to good effect.

In turning again to the closet, I encountered myself in the large mirror: nicely reassuring. My penis showed full interest; I appraised my nipples, the result of nightly suppos that Uncle had prescribed: they were now full, almost puffy, delicious to the touch. After I had participated in Nao's visit to the consulting room, my scrotum remained clean-shaven and while my raphe wasn't as prominent as Nao's, it was nonetheless exquisitely sensitive and visible. I thought about shaving my pubes which sent a special thrill through me but thought that Uncle might prefer to do that himself at some point.

I took one of the cartons holding a prepared squeeze bulb noting that it was an eight-ounce size, not the piddling quantities sometimes sold for the purpose. Not knowing its efficacy, I decided to play it safe and inject it while standing. I had selected a small tub of carbolated Vaseline whose smell was primitive and held it to my nose while inhaling deeply. It never failed to promote what I assumed was lust in some primitive form. It had been used on me since I was a child and the sexual association with its distinctive smell was absolute.

With legs slightly parted, and in surveying the mirror image to my left, I stood at the counter and inserted the greased tip into my waiting anus. Just the initial insertion brought a thin clear thread from my peehole which spun in a strand down to my thigh. I was able to use both hands to squeeze the bulb so that almost all of the eight ounces were now within me. The effect was electrifying. A sense of a large bolus forming was in my rectum and that special urgency that I loved. The fullness expanded and seemed to have an undercurrent of intense warmth to it. My scrotum contracted and my penis was pointing well past the horizontal.

I held the squirming solution as long as I could but had to seek the toilet to expel some initial effluvia. From habit, I sought out the anti-bacterial wipes from the counter and dug deep into my cleft first one way and then another. I felt relieved enough to contemplate the main event.

One of the Davol boxes, once on the counter, revealed a three-quart red rubber glazed bag with bright red tubing and some assorted nozzles. The gleaming faucets were soon producing a warm, nearly hot mix of water that I used to fill the bag to bulging, affixed the tubing, and then my favourite douche nozzle that had been sent me in the post. There were a variety of hooks on the walls and I hung the bag on the one to the left of the sink, inserted the nozzle, and ran a test through the nozzle admiring the eight tiny jets of water and their symmetry. Perfect. The hot rubber smell was another favourite and I inhaled gales of it.

More water running with greater prominence to the hot. But, this time, in filling the bag to capacity, I had unwrapped a Palma Cristi castile soap bar from the closet and held and rubbed it under the water as it coursed into the bag. Fragrance was wonderful and the bag grew heavy and distended and then overflowed. I affixed the hose, closed the clamp, and looked for a hook adjacent to the position I wanted to assume on the soft carpet.

Finding it, I took a large towel from the warming rack, placed it on the carpet, hung the bag on the hook, and assumed a position on my back with my spread legs facing the large mirror. The red hose snaked down and terminated in the black nozzle with its multi-holes. I had already scoured the pipette from the pencil box and now held it between my lips, an icon from my past, reassuring in its blackness and small soft curves. All that remained was to secure the two "bee cups" that I had procured from the consulting room to my nipples. These were small glass cups of the right size with a similarly small rubber bulb. Once my nipples had a light coating of the petrolatum, I fixed the cups in place and I could see and feel the flesh being pulled into a cone shape.

The douche nozzle disappeared into my rectum and the old familiar feeling of forbidden pleasures came over me; my mouth actually watered and I could see the beginnings of a blotchiness on my upper chest. After a moment's hesitation, I clicked the catch open and the magic began. At first a mild tickling in my rectum which began to spread followed by a welcome heaviness on my left side. My eyes were riveted to the bag noting its subtle change in shape as the soapy solution flowed into me through those eight tiny holes. I kept rolling the pipette about between my lips reminding myself of the multiple enemas I received as a lad, secretly enjoying them all.

My guess was that over a quart had entered me and I could feel the welcome distention which was now accompanied by some slow cramps, these being the best of all. I had an invader in my gut and it was rummaging and rude, and I found myself thinking I would even welcome it being savage. Bag was now half empty and I was closing my eyes, the better to savour the sensations. My belly was decidedly full and I reminded myself that the bag's capacity was three quarts, not the nominal two! That thought alone brought another gush of clear fluid to my penis' tip.

The final quart slowly made its way into me and the overall distention was superb. I could feel my colon protesting and began to rub it in smooth circles with the palms of my hands. But what I needed was compensating pleasure and I released the bee cups from my nipples which were now large turgid cones that inflamed my lust further. I applied some ointment and began twisting and tweaking them; each felt as if I now had two separate penis glans on my chest: the sensations were glorious and I knew I was close to a spermatic explosion.

The bag had collapsed to a shadow of itself and I decided to lubricate my penis while holding the three quarts. The conclusion was shattering since I kept twiddling my left nipple with my left hand while stroking my solid penis with the other all the while saying the mantram that had begun years ago using my pet name for my penis: What does dibble like? Oh yes, what does dibble like? Tell me what dibble likes. Cramps are what dibble likes and loves and likes and loves... until a heavy jet of sperm shot out of my peehole onto my lower chest followed by two or three more while my anus clenched around the favoured nozzle. It was spine melting and I soon had to consult the commode to release gush after gush imprisoned within me while all the time kneading and milking my well-used and slippery penis.

Uncle asked much later that afternoon whether I had amused myself; the blush in my cheeks told him volumes and he said only, "Good for you."