A true story

I can't believe that it's almost half a century since this happened, but my recollections are as clear today as though it were last winter or the one before. But it was during the winter of 1957/58, that I developed and installed my simple periscope in our rented house in Winnipeg.

Bear with me as I provide some preamble.

Having left school in 1941 without finishing junior high, and with the war already in its second year, I had easily found work with a national railway company. During the next 15 years, I had grown up, been transferred several times, served in the navy, resumed my career, been promoted, met and married my wife, and acquired three children. Much of this had evolved in a small northwestern Ontario town, during which time, Canadian railways acquired the 40-hour week.

I had been sent to that town in 1947, where, due to a labour shortage, I got one day off a month until the strike in 1950. So, when I suddenly had two days off each week, I soon got bored with nothing to do. I was never interested in hunting or fishing, so eventually, I sickened of playing solitaire and began to read – something I'd rarely done for reasons which are, in themselves, another story altogether.

At first it was the sleazy magazines that lay around our work facility, but I gradually advanced to paperbacks, and eventually to non fiction. Before long, I faced up to the fact that I was illiterate, and returned to the day classes at the local high school. By the spring of 1957, I had almost completed my junior matriculation, and my wife and I agreed that I should go on to university – a decision which precipitated our move to Winnipeg. Even before we moved, I'd managed to rent a lovely little cottage on the south side, and we moved into it as soon as we arrived.

As I've said elsewhere in Speculum, I've been a klismaphiliac since I was five. It should come as no surprise, then, when I tell you that when I learned that my girl friend was an enema addict, ten days after we met, I decided to marry her before she could escape. However, it was 20 years before I got up enough courage to tell her of my fetish, so at the time of this adventure, she didn't know I had it, unless she suspected something by my willingness to give them to her, and my frequent need of them myself. Meanwhile, sex was great.

But good as it certainly was, our sex had been gradually diminishing as my education progressed. More and more homework was necessary, and while I could and did some of it at work, I had to do considerably more at home. This kept me up late at night after work, isolated me from my family during the days and evenings, and especially, restricted the times during which normal conjugal pleasures could be enjoyed. Often, we had sex no more than a couple of times a month.

As I progressed through university, many a co-ed turned me on, but since my wife – I knew – was absolutely true to me, I owed it to her to live likewise. I don't know what she did during those years, but I masturbated. Many a time, I'd give her an enema or she'd give me one, and I'd go back to my homework, shut the door, and masturbate. The kids were small and constantly around home, so while there was time for enemas, there wasn't time for sex. And, having to concentrate on mathematics, physics, and chemistry, plus the technicalities of my full time night job, I didn't have a lot of brain power left over for imagination.

But that little cottage had a rather ancient hot air heating system. The registers were installed upright in the walls, at floor level, and were about a foot square. Each had a moveable barrier that would shut it off. Moreover, a couple of ducts heated two rooms at once through registers installed back-to-back. Such was the situation between the bathroom and our master bedroom, where I struggled on a card table with the door shut.

Often, I'd hear my wife go into the bathroom, run water in the sink, swish it a bit, and then . . silence . Sometimes a bit of gentle bubbling . . .and later, the gush of expulsion . . Now does any klismaphiliac worthy of the epithet really need help in interpreting that scenario?

While she was in there I'd listen and often I'd look longingly at the heat register. I'd get down on the floor, look through both ducts, and see what her feet were doing, but not much else. Certainly not the activity transpiring farther up towards her middle. My problem was how to get a better view. Somehow, I had to devise a periscope that was small enough to hide.

One day, while looking through some junk boxes for something or other, I found a small, rectangular pocket mirror. Right away, I recognized it as the solution. The next time I turned to my homework, I studied the interior of the heat register and noted a metal covered beam about six inches below floor level. I was sure it would work, and since the register easily came off, I set my mirror where it had to go to create my periscope, applied a bit of masking tape here and there to keep things steady, and . . voila! It would work!

Except for one small challenge. The registers had to be fully open for me to watch my wife's enemas, and after some experimenting – always done while wife and kids were out – I glued black thread to the bottom of the bathroom shut-off barrier. (There's undoubtedly a name for the metal sheet, but I've forgotten it.).

BUT . . . it worked!

Sure enough, the next time she went into the bathroom, I got down on the floor, gently opened the registers, adjusted the position of my eye relative to the mirror, and there, dead centre, was my wife's beautiful bum turned towards me at the sink. I watched her movements as she made the soap suds, and saw her take the bright red adult Defender bulb syringe from the medicine cabinet above the sink. I even heard the little bubbles in the water as she filled the syringe, and then watched her wriggle as she slid her dress up, took down her panties, and reached behind her with the syringe. I watched her pry her cheeks apart, and beheld again the lovely little bum hole I had come to know so well. And then she stuck the nozzle up into her bowels, and gently squeezed the bulb! By then, I could have pole vaulted down the street . . .

I changed my view frequently, so that I could observe the sensuous movements she made with her feet, scan her nyloned legs and shiny wedge-heel slippers, then back up to her bum to watch several more injections, and then, as she emptied the syringe and put it back in the cabinet, I eased back to my books, and enjoyed my erection.

This arrangement lasted for only a year, because we lived too far from the university for practical purposes. We had to move closer if I was to function at all, so reluctantly, we left that nice little cottage and moved into a much more modern facility within a mile of the campus. Unfortunately, it had new heating ducts and registers, which didn't allow periscopes.

By then, I had mentally photographed everything I'd seen, and recalled these scenes time after time when our life style returned to normal, and our sex along with it.

And although I told her about my fetishes – I admit to three major ones and as many minors – and she accommodated me willingly in all of them, I haven't told her about the periscope yet.

What do you think? Should I?