rectal thermometer examination

October 10, 2010

Rectal Thermometer Doc examines a babe inserting a termometer into her ass.


Dr Tushy Exam Nurse examines a blonde babe getting a thermometer up her ass.


I can’t remember the first time my mother ever took my temperature with
a rectal thermometer. Nor the second. Nor third. What I do remember,
though, is the thousands of time she probed me from the time I was five
until I was about fourteen. The procedure was always the same, almost
ritualistic in it inability to waver. I would lie on my tummy with my
pants down before Mom ever even entered the room. I knew it was coming
after all, why bother with modesty? She would arrive with thermometer
and Vaseline in hand, smiling at my willingness to cooperate and let her
have her way with my bottom without a fuss.

The Vaseline jar always sent a queer sense of unholy excitement through
me. To this day I cannot look at one without thinking of Mom and her
thermometer. The lid would be snapped off and placed on my headboard.
Mom would always insert the thermometer in the pale grease to lubricate
it, and I would swallow hard as it was left standing erect. It was
always kind of fun to examine new jars of Vaseline after Mom had used
them a few times because I could count the number of holes in the grease
and know exactly how many times she had penetrated my bare bottom. It
was not uncommon to count forty of fifty holes before the lubricant
would start to run together or get pushed out of shape by Mom’s little
Rectal Thermometer Exam A chick comes for a gynecology exam and gets it to the full.

The thermometer was not the only thing to be lubricated. Mom felt that
my bottom needed a generous coating of Vaseline, both inside and out, in
order for the thermometer to slide in without discomfort. As I got older
and more adventurous, I realized this was not always entirely true.
Often, when I was in my more masochistic moods, and masturbating with
reckless abandonment, I would often insert a dry thermometer into my
bottom. It pulled at the skin of my anus only briefly and the sensation
could not really be described as pain, but rather as an unwelcome
advance. I genuinely enjoyed the feeling very much. As I would insert
and retract the thermometer from my pulsating rectum and spasming anus,
the pulling sensations of dry glass on unlubricated membranes began to
assuage into a pleasant glow, starting at the center of my anus and
working out to engulf my whole bottom and finally spreading to my
vagina. I would orgasm in quick pants and flushed quivers. It was,
needless to say, a truly enjoyable adolescence.

Of course, being a small child of about eight, I had no idea of such
pleasures awaiting for me in the budding of my womanhood, and I firmly
believed that the thermometer would do terrible harm to me without the
aid of the Vaseline and Mom’s careful ministrations. She would always
sit on the bed with me, something that made me feel especially close to
her in these times of hushed anticipation, and gently rub my bare bottom
in small circles, telling me I needed to relax the muscles. This was
done no matter how relaxed I thought I was, and no matter how loose my
gluteals were, and I was often forced to wonder, even during my
childhood years, if Mom really enjoyed touching my bottom cheeks. After
a while she would reach over and scoop a little dollop of the Vaseline
onto the little finger of her right hand. I would be transfixed by the
sight of that finger, the grease resembling a blister as it was
retracted from the depths of the jar. I knew where it was going, I knew
I was powerless to prevent it’s assault on my exposed bottom, and I
admit that by the age of eight, I no longer wanted to stop Mom. I very
much longed for, perhaps even needed her to touch my anus and massage
the lubricant into my tiny pink vortex. To me, the entire procedure was
an act of love. I quickly learned to associate lying face down with my
bare bottom facing the ceiling with my mother’s undying adoration and
would literally wait for her to tell me it was temperature time. And Mom
was never one to disappoint a child in waiting…

Strong fingers and a thumb were gently pushed into the crack of my
bottom. The fingers would then open, pushing the cheeks of my bare
bottom away from each other, the left thumb holding the right cheek at
bay, the fingers on the left cheek. To this day, it amazes me at the
speed and the ease at which my mother could always expose my anus to her
view. To her it seemed as natural a thing to do as breathing. There were
never any hesitations, never any reluctance, only myself feeling the
cool air swirl around my anus as I closed my eyes in morbid anticipation
and childish excitement.

Male Medical Examination Man is at medical exam and nurses get thermometer up his ass

It is truly electrifying to have another person touch your anus. One
must cast aside the embarrassment factor and a repressed mental outlook
on sexuality, not to mention overcoming the unlikely prospects of poor
personal hygiene, and it will be noted that the anus and surrounding
skin is incredibly and intimately sensual. It is, after all, simply
teeming with nerves. This fact did not seem to be lost on my mother. She
would reach across to lubricate my bottom, the bed creaking just a
little, and at the sound of those few rusty springs I would always hold
my breath and clench my eyes as tight as I could, lost in a world which
is alive with physical sensation, anticipation and love.

Mom would never talk, just simply begin to gently rub the Vaseline
around my anus, being sure to also lubricate the soft skin held tautly
apart my her firm hand. My anus would always contract, a reflex I later
learned, but not knowing at the time I would always try with all my
might to keep my bottom hole from shrinking and pulling away from Mom’s
finger. I would even arch my back a bit, pushing my bottom up at Mom,
thinking this would compensate for my tiny opening made even smaller. It
never seemed to help, though, but was still rather fun to stick my bare
bottom up in the air. Something deliciously naughty and forbidden…
After a while, I noticed that although my anus would clench at her
initial touch, once Mom began to rub the area between my cheeks more
thoroughly, I slipped into a blissful state of total and utter
relaxation where Mom rubbed the Vaseline lovingly. And even though my
breathing was rapid and my pulse racing, my bottom and anus had
surrendered to her touch. My anus lay exposed and open to my mother’s

It was often at this time that Mom would attempt to push some of the
Vaseline into my now relaxed orifice. Using only her little finger, she
would stiffen the digit and softly, so very softly, begin to tuck the
grease into the folds at the very center of my opening. Each swipe
seeming more wicked, each stab driven by more and more gentle force, my
mind acutely aware of my mother’s intentions despite no words having
been spoken, the entire universe for me reduced to the resilient
pressure now being applied to my tender anus. I would always whimper
into the pillow, though from pleasure I am not sure. Whimpers turned to
a gasp, though, as my mother’s persistence was always rewarded with the
ring of my muscle surrendering to her Vaseline-laden probe of a finger.

For a while, I would lie impaled up to her second knuckle, suspended in
a whirlwind of vague humiliation and overwhelming physical sensation.
Then, softly, wordlessly, Mom would begin to slide her finger in and out
of my bottom with a regular rhythm that left me breathless with both joy
and tactile pleasures. Mom never inserted her finger into me further
than the second knuckle, although there were countless times where I
would have loved her to, but rather kept up a slow steady pace of
in-out, in-out, in-out. I remember my legs used to twitch on their own
from these sensations, and Mom always seemed amused by this. Finally,
after an eternity of internal lubrication, Mom would withdraw her
finger. She always continued to hold my bottom open and I wondered if
she like to watch my anus spasm, twitch, and close after her lubricating

The thermometer was removed from the grease, sticky and shining like an
icicle in the bedside light. My heart lurching in my chest as I saw Mom
grab it carefully as to not to drop it. Still holding the cheeks of my
bottom wide open, Mom would shake the thermometer down over my bared and
highly stimulated wrinkled opening. I always expected some of the
Vaseline to fly off and hit my bottom, but it never did. Mom would
whisper a preview, and then I would feel it.

The sensation of having the silver side of the thermometer applied to
your previously stimulated anus is perhaps beyond words. If there is a
singular word to describe the overwhelming rush of pleasure, I have yet
to encounter it. I felt my breath catch in my throat and my heart stop,
and for some reason always became acutely aware of my toes curling in
response to the metal knob of the thermometer resting at the exact
center of my most private orifice. The thin glass probe was thrust
slowly into my being, my mother seeming to take forever and sliding in
further than I ever felt ready for. My eyes would literally tear at the
sensations, for as I said, this to me could only be described as love.
Nobody else I knew in my childhood cared enough about me to do this.
Nobody else ever seemed concerned that I might be getting ill, may be
coming down with a cold, may have a fever brewing. Only my Mom. For that
I loved her. And for that I loved her thermometer.

Only after the thermometer had been inserted about three inches did Mom
finally release her grip on my bottom cheeks, thus allowing them to
spring back into their original position, narrowing my crack and putting
light pressure on the glass rod extending up from deep between them. Her
hand would lightly cup my bottom, two fingers holding the thermometer in
place. I lay in almost sensual abandonment, of course mildly embarrassed
by the intimacy of the act, but all perceptions of humiliation were
always overpowered by feelings of blissful security as Mom lay her hand
on my bare bottom. I would shiver in the warmth and glow of this act.

Five minutes of sheer pleasure goes by quickly when you are eight years
old. Always too soon, I would feel Mom’s hand leave my bottom and grasp
the end of the thermometer to remove it. My buttocks were never parted
for this portion of the procedure, because I think Mom knew it felt
better to have the slippery probe rubbed against the insides of my bare
bottom cheeks. Not every time, but occasionally, she would twist the
thermometer ever so slightly as it was withdrawn, the exquisite
sensation giving me goosebumps on my bottom and thighs.

The void… Emptiness… The feelings of utter chagrin as the
thermometer is removed and held to the light for a reading. My rectum
had been transformed into a willing receptacle for another temperature
taking, but I was to be deprived. My temperature was usually
normal…hardly ever a reason for rechecks.

It was all right, though. Tomorrow would be another day. After my bath
Mom would want to check me again. Her devotion to my health was really,
truly exceptional.

Would you not be forced to agree?

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