I was lucky enough that the best fantasies are merely an elaboration and "embroidered" version of the way it really was. Mother, a registered nurse, was also a dedicated bridge player. Every Saturday afternoon three of the neighbor ladies would come to our house for endless hands of bridge. It wasn't long before I realized that no one could be that interested in bridge cause the "gals" got very heated between hands. I soon found out why.
I was ten and my sister Susan twelve. Mother took care that before her friends arrived everything in the third floor bedroom at the back of the house was "in readiness" with the "instruments and necessaries" convenient to her hand.
I could just imagine the looks on their faces as the ladies arrived judging from the barely stifled titters during the greetings as they wended their way up the stairs to the second floor parlor. The laughter grew louder and their comments finally audible as they ascended the last flight to our bedroom. As usual, mother told them what they wanted to hear, that Susan and Bartlett had a teeny bit of a temperature and she hoped they did not mind if their game was occasionally interrupted while she "took care of some business." This invariably caused a flurry of mirth and exaggerated denials in response.
Susan was as usual situated on the far side of the bed toward the window opposite old Mr. Wilson's next door where he lurked in his wheelchair behind the parted lace curtains next to his son who was standing beside him. They were both staring gape mouthed fixedly into the bedroom with flushed faces and shy grins. She was lying prone, propped up on two cushions covered with a thick white cotton towel. Her dress was hiked up in back and her white satin pink lace trimmed panties were hauled down to half mast.
I was in the exact same position looking into her tear stained face with the sole difference that it was my T shirt that was raised and my BVD's, not panties that were deftly stripped down to the middle of my thighs.
Each of us had a thermometer sticking out of our mouth. They always stayed there until the ladies arrived. Once they arrived, they were removed, read and the "aft" thermometers would take their place.
On the bedside were a large chemist's flask filled to the rim with hot water. A cake of Fels Naphtha was melting at the bottom and a long glass stirrer protruded from the greyish fluid. A beautiful Firestone 1935 model red rubber oval enema syringe stood upright like a soldier at attention on its smooth oval butt end. An open jar of Vaseline was next to a blue glass filled with alcohol and several thermometers, its etched surface showing lines and numbers. A large box of gauze, one of cotton and a white chipped enamel bed pan completed the picture.
Susan howled as mother extracted the thermometer from her mouth, read it, and shook her head. She set it aside and picked up another thermometer from the glass, wiped it with cotton and shook it down. She asked Mrs. Manning to hold the Vaseline jar, dipped the thermometer into it, scooped up a gob and, delicately parting the girl's superbly smooth white buttocks with the thumb and forefinger of her left hand, with her right sent it straight up to half its length into her pink immaculate anus. A sensual smile illuminated her face as she winked and nodded to the applauding ladies and turned to me. She extracted the thermometer from my mouth as I bawled my head off. 😉 🌹