I first met Uncle Bartram as a result of my mother unexpectedly opening the door of my bedroom minutes after I had begun enjoying what I had hoped would be a leisurely if forbidden enema coursing through corrugated red tubing from a bulging smooth red rubber bag whose built-in loop was hooked onto one of the four posts of my bed. Mother said nothing after taking in the sight but silently closed the door and in subsequent days referred to it not at all.

School was over for the term and June had just begun when, at breakfast, she read to me the brief contents of a note from Uncle Bartram indicating I would be very welcome for a few weeks at his place in the northeast. I couldn't help thinking there was a link between the discovery of my private vice and this note, and subsequent events proved me right.

A three-hour journey on a sparsely populated bus brought me to Uncle Bart's pleasant little village where at the dusty terminal, he met me: about five feet, seven inches tall, and nicely trim with a beaming face and manner. As I stood on the platform listening to his greeting, I recall thinking we were about the same height with roughly the same sandy colour to our hair. Bartram was mother's brother, unmarried, and somewhere in his mid-40s. I remembered him visiting our tiny home during several holidays and he was never without pleasing presents: a small train set one year that produced a sensational whirring sound as it whizzed about its circular track, and a clock kit that I adored with wooden gears that clicked reassuringly.

Bartram's cottage was several miles out of town on a country lane and we passed the time catching up on some family incidentals. I was interested to learn I had two cousins living near to Uncle and that I would doubtless meet them during my visit. The cottage proved to be as hospitable as Bartram and my bedroom was cozy and smelled of some lovely wood that I assumed might come from the paneling on the walls.

After a very welcome lunch, we walked down from the cottage to a stream that intersected his considerable property. June had brought a benign warmth to the trees and shrubs and the stream had cut fairly sharp curves in the otherwise mossy banks. As we watched the superbly clear water flow and eddy in one of the curved banks, Uncle remarked as he watched some flicking and glassy minnows that they reminded him of "little Indians" on their appointed rounds. I didn't know how prophetic the remark was, but something about his description of the "cleansing water" and the darting Indians gave me a private thrill. I enjoyed thinking about it.

After a wonderful night's sleep in the large bed that dominated my room, I showered in the elaborately tiled and private bathroom, slipped into cotton underwear, a summery shirt and the shorts I loved: blue and tight fitting ones with my school emblem on the right cuff. I was fascinated to see a familiar horizontal box on the bathroom closet's shelf that winked: Davol at me. I didn't dare open it, but I liked the thought that it was there. Perhaps I would have a chance to fully explore it. Little did I know how much exploration waited for me!

What I recall most about the visit to Uncle Bartram was his civility; always pleasant, never hurried, everything he did, he accomplished with a certain grace of movement. From his comfortable chair in the living room, he asked if I would like a cup of tea from a tray that held two cups and a tea cozy. This was a wonderful treat and I replied with enthusiasm and soon was sipping from a delicate cup a fragrant tea smoothed with milk and some sugar.

Bartram then began a kind of quiet musing that I have long remembered; it was about pleasure and how much people don't have enough of it but that it was there for the taking. He had offered me a pastry that was on the tray: some twisted sweet baked dough that had raspberry jam insinuated in it and covered with thin almond slices. He asked me to consider how many people might simply consume rather than savour the pastry especially when taken in combination with the bracing tea. I certainly yielded the point since far too often I had found myself too distracted to ever enjoy anything in a concentrated manner. I liked Bartram's voice; it was soothing and reassuring, convincing in its non-insistence. The more he referred to pleasure, the more I felt private places within me respond; it was a central warmth that made me even more relaxed in the comfortable chair I was in just opposite Uncle.

Uncle paused for a moment and then resumed but in a different direction. He assured me that his dear sister, my mother, wanted only positive things for me and that she had written him of her discovery of my experimentation. Something about his tone made me more relaxed rather than tense since it was clear in his smile and demeanour that he was going to propose something. He went on: Mother had asked him to guide me in what he again referred to as my experimentation and he alluded to his history as a naturopath as the foundation for his ability to help. I had said nothing from the moment he mentioned the communication from my mother and when a pause occurred, I was hard pressed to say anything since I would be forced to articulate what had to that point only been private thoughts. But, I finally found the air to say that I would "welcome his help." And that cliché seemed to mark the beginning of a new intimacy between us since his broad smile seemed to confer his agreement to the mutual pact we seemed to have just made.

The rest of that day passed in some errands to and in the village and some mowing of the western lawn that extended down from the cottage to the verge. But, undeniably, my thoughts were often in the direction of that morning's conversation and I found my shorts tighter because of an interest that had as its origin my privates. Late that night as we listened to some glorious music of Grieg, Uncle said we "might begin" the following evening and I fell asleep very much wondering what that might entail.

The next day was a bit of a blur; we visited a neighbouring boys' camp at which Uncle was the resident nurse-consultant. I waited for him lakeside admiring the stillness of the lake from a wooden chair and welcoming the chatter of the various campers in their respective games. After about an hour, we went into the village and had a wonderful lunch at a small tearoom where everyone seemed to know and welcome Uncle. Dinner at the cottage was similarly pleasant and about when the sun's descent was causing angular shadows, Bartram asked if I'd like to see his consulting room which proved to be off his bedroom, large, and with windows that favoured the east.

I virtually tip-toed through his bedroom trailing him as he unlocked the paneled door to the consulting room. My first sight was so richly astonishing that I recall being mesmerized. Equipment of every type and design was visible in glass-fronted cabinets; the walls and floor were tiled with the same intricate designs as my bathroom. But, clearly, the focus of the room was a large and tricky 'couch' which afforded a look out into the eastern gardens and which was surrounded by sturdy metal poles with hooks on which hung, and here my heart truly skipped a beat, enema bags and hoses beyond anything I could have imagined! But there was more: portable and large mirrors, a very large sink with hospital style faucets, and even more cabinets with shelves freighted with bottles, equipment, and leather cases.

Bartram had asked something to the effect of whether I liked the room and several minutes elapsed before I blurted out that I thought it was glorious, and I did. He smiled at the appraisal and suggested I climb onto the couch so that he might adjust it to "my needs." Without any hesitation, I clambered onto the soft surface while he adjusted one panel that raised my head and chest and a clever bottom panel that was shaped like a U once he removed a center insert. The net effect was to lift my legs and spread them while permitting Uncle access.

After asking whether I felt warm enough, and after receiving my acknowledgement, he suggested very simply that clothes were an encumbrance and in several smooth motions, slipped my topshirt over my head and off, undid my shorts and dismissed those leaving for the moment only my white cotton briefs. He murmured some compliments about my overall shape saying something once again about pleasure and being receptive to it. His voice was almost beguiling in its lilt. I could feel my skin warming to the leather surface of the couch as Uncle explained he wanted to introduce me to some adult pleasure which would last to the full extent of my years.

He explained that the couch had been imported from Germany and had many important features one of which was, in effect, a giant funnel that extended up from the floor which could be positioned with great precision such that expulsion need not require any interrupting trip to a bathroom. I was fascinated; it seemed as if the couch had been designed with my most private thoughts in mind!

I soon discovered that everything that Uncle needed was within reach of his position at the end of the couch. He could turn a tap in the sink and temperature controlled water would issue from the long spigot. Various ointments were on a near and low table and, later, I discovered so were a variety of nozzles many with different sizes to their shapes and curves.

With a "let's begin," Uncle adjusted the leg end of the couch such that my legs were nicely spread; he removed yet another center section so that I could feel support for my back up to but not fully beneath my bum. With his ever present smile, he wordlessly removed my briefs and from my recumbent position, I could see that my penis had responded fully to the sights and even smells of this special place. It nestled in the rather large bush of curly hair that I had sprouted but it all seemed very natural in the setting accompanied by Uncle's lavish praise of my body.

He had filled an enamel container in the sink and from an opaque but flexible container, he squeezed perhaps ten tiny drops of a viscous fluid into the container. He chose a beautifully shaped one-piece large rubber bulb and expertly filled it. He then moved two of the rolling portable mirrors so that I might see everything of the procedure, something that pleased me intensely.

He brought up the flexible funnel from its floor mooring and positioned it carefully. Then, I watched what seemed to be a film but starring myself in the mirror as he approached my exposed anus with a finger that had been smeared with a yellow lubricant. The touch was magnetic: the red tip of my penis showed an immediate tear of glistening fluid as Uncle worked the lubricant into my anus with a gentle twisting. That was followed by the tapered tip of the rubber bulb and his squeezing of about a pint of warmed and clouded water into me. The effect was transporting. I was afraid I couldn't process it all since the novelty and the very audacity of his actions filled me with some mutually incompatible feelings that I wanted to savour one by one.

But that special feeling of urgency in my bowels was a familiar one from my many sessions at home with the bulging red rubber bag. Uncle had now placed his wide and warm hand on my lower abdomen and let it remain still while he further squeezed the bulb. I instinctively closed my eyes even though I wanted them riveted on the sight in the mirrors. There was a distinctive heaviness to my rectum that seemed to say "forbidden" that riveted my attention. The bulb's lubed tip withdrew, my sphincter closed tightly, uncle's hand remained on my belly while he pulled the accommodating funnel closer and urged me to expel. I did and the initial effluvia vanished. Uncle brought a flexible hose from the sink with a sprayer on its end, and gently rinsed my nates into the funnel, drying everything with a soft towel from an assortment on the low table.

"Ready for wasserbelly?" was the next thing I remember from uncle. Naturally, I was, since even my mouth felt different after the first infusion and release: watering more easily. Bartram asked which of the hanging bags I favoured. Shiny red had been my home favourite but I had espied a heavy, semi-clear bag with an imprinted shell on it and he smiled at my choice. It was soon hanging at the end of the couch, complete with heavy, semi-clear tubing, but no nozzle as yet. Uncle ran two quarts of warmed water into another enamel container with a spout. While it cooled for a bit and before adding anything to it, Uncle slid open a metal box from the low table and removed three wax-coloured suppositories which were easily four times the size in width and girth of an ordinary suppository. He adjusted the leg panels so as to further raise my legs and increase access to my anus. After some additional lubricant was applied to my pink corrugations, he slipped what he called the "first Indian" into my rectum: cool and slippery, it disappeared into my innards followed by its two companions. Uncle said we now needed to encourage the three little Indians upwards and onwards. He quickly poured the two waiting quarts into the semi-clear silicone bag and attached a fairly thick, wide bore black nozzle onto the heavy tubing. The nozzle was slid into my waiting gut and he permitted perhaps a pint of water to flow before snapping the clamp.

He then moved around to the side of the table and began massaging my belly with broad upward strokes on the left side with his smooth palms, across my navel region, and down the right side stopping at the perimeter of my bush. He said the Indians needed some time to work and that I should tell him the first signs of any different sensations. Uncle then applied some antiseptic smelling ointment to my medium-sized nipples and slowly rubbed the lubricant in causing sensations that were very new and distinctly pleasurable. He murmured something about the need to enlarge the sensitive tissue; with this, he found two flexible cylinders on the table, squeezed them gently, and applied them to my nipples where they stayed and waggled with the slightest movement. Before I could think any further of those delicious chest sensations, I began to sense a dark cloud forming in my abdomen and told Uncle of it.

"Good," was his appraisal and began telling me of the special connection between ‘wasserbelly pain” and deep seated pleasure. Given how often he had said wasserbelly to this point, it was working its own magic since the winking slit of my penis was issuing strings of viscous fluid. My gut felt disturbed, almost violated, but yet I didn't want it to end. In fact, I found myself wishing it would deepen. Uncle's kneading of my abdomen resumed, expertly, and he allowed another pint of water to enter via the black nozzle as I watched the level slowly drop in the semi-clear bag. The urgency deepened and a low almost silent moan escaped my lips and my eyes reflexively closed. Bartram began murmuring something in German while he plied the flesh of my belly that responded with what seemed to be waves of differing kinds of cramps. Most strangely, I wanted them all and when Uncle deftly removed the suction cylinders from my nipples which were

now moderately extended and swollen, he twisted them gently with his thumb and forefinger. The linkage between the heaviness in my gut and the fluttering pleasure of my nipples was inescapable: one reinforced the other and, best of all, Uncle knew it. I began to see vistas that had been occluded by inhibition and ignorance. A virtual slug of fluid emitted from my penis slit which Uncle caught on a finger and brought to my lips. I greedily sucked it almost not wanting to relinquish the finger and its slippery cargo.

The snap of the clamp allowed the remaining quart to course into my intestines which were now aroil with movement: the Indians were indeed on the prowl and the warpath was inside me! Uncle alternated between kneading my belly to raising new pleasure from my nipples while I tried to process every sensation. I knew from the rising tension in my penis that I wasn't far from the point of climax but upon conveying this to Uncle in a kind of verbal shorthand, he whispered that I should concentrate on making the rounds of pleasure feeling everything there was to feel.

The funnel was brought up, I expelled perhaps half a dozen streams, was laved and dried off. My belly felt aglow and Bartram poured another two quarts of heated water into the silicone bag, added what looked like half a cup of some yellowish liquid, and then substituted a stunning looking device for the original black nozzle: a latex coloured bulb that he slathered with a clear liquid. By cleverly twisting it at the mouth of my anus, something I could see clearly in the mirrors, he inserted the pouting tip and then the collapsible balloon until I could feel it nicely positioned. A small squeeze bulb permitted him to inflate the balloon to excellent effect within me and I must have been wide-eyed at imagining the mechanics of the insertion and what it signaled.

With that lovely click of the clamp, the liquid began to drop in the semi-clear bag and I could see the level of the solution drop away. But, now the feeling in my belly was ‘higher' and more distinct; this liquid was more aggressive than the previous one and I instinctively reached for my nipples to provide some pleasure as a counterpart to the pain. Bartram murmured ‘good,' ‘good' when he saw my direct involvement. The fluid continued to drop and my neck and face flushed from the intestinal outrage; this was truly new and forbidden: an invasion of my innards and by someone who knew what he was doing! I began moaning and breathing more demonstrably all while admiring and even pinching my nipples. The solution reached the bottom of the bag and ran halfway down the silicone tubing and stopped.

My belly was beautifully swollen and Uncle began sweeping motions of it with his palms finding just the right spots to press to enhance the sensations. It was simply without peer in my life to that point. And at some point during the sanding of my belly flesh, he began brushing my penis and finally encircled it with what proved to be his lightly lubed hand. A spermatic jet arched into the air and landed at the base of my neck while my anus tightened against the balloon in my rectum to be followed by four more liquid lines landing on my swollen belly. The seminal smell was very strong: starchy and faintly antiseptic. I felt as if I might actually faint.

The funnel was used, I was washed and patted dry, and somehow brought to my bedroom where I stretched against the sweet sheets and fell into what seemed to be a swoon.

That was my introduction to Uncle Bartram and his consulting room of pleasure. There's much much more and all of it is a tribute to his unimaginably enlightened view of pleasure and its potency. I, of course, did eventually meet my cousins but those accounts wait for another day.