Date: Wed, 1 Jan 1997 00:00:00 -0000 (PST)
From: Naughteboy <noughteboy@yahoo.com>
Subject: Undertaker's Boy (M/t Anal Spank Enema)

(Usual disclaimers apply. Comments welcome.
noughteboy@yahoo.com)

My father was a funeral director except back in the 1940s folks
called him 'the undertaker'. That's just how it was in those days.
Ours was a small town but with a large rural community which
made 'Robert McKenzie and Son' a highly profitable business. In
case you're wondering, Robert was my grandfather. I was just 13
years old when these events took place.

I guess people who grow up alongside death kind of take it for
granted. My earliest memories are of playing on a trolley in
the mortuary. My father smacked my bottom after he saw me
do that. Now the mortuary side of the business was run by Lars,
a good-natured, kind-hearted, Scandinavian gentleman in his early
20s. If he had a moment Lars would grab another trolley and we'd
have a race which he always let me win. He was that kind of a
man.

Have you ever noticed how some people have two sides to them?
When my father was dealing with bereaved folk he was very
respectful. People said he was a saint. Yet at home he was a harsh
disciplinarian and it was a rare week when I didn't get a hiding.

My mother was a sweet person who answered the telephone and
did the books as well as all the regular stuff mothers do. That's
really all I have to say about her.

One day I was walking home from school. I took my usual shortcut
through the fields. It was my first year at high school. I was small
for my age so got bullied a lot by bigger lads and teased all the
time about my father's occupation. There wasn't another soul
around except for Mr Ferguson who was working in his garden. I
crept up under cover of the trees and jumped out on the elderly
man yelling at the top of my still treble voice.

Mr Ferguson spun around but his eyes were blank. He clutched
his chest and slowly crumpled to the ground - just like Lars did
when we played Cowboys and Indians. Who'd have thought the old
widower had so much fun in him? Chuckling, I walked slowly
home.

That morning I'd been running late for school and had forgotten to
put the rubbish out for the council men to collect. Bin day was
Tuesday and that was one of my chores. When I finally got home
from school my father was waiting. Ours was a big rambling
house and he took me to a room out of earshot of my mother who
was in the kitchen. My pants came down and his belt whistled
through his pant loops as he withdrew it. Cowhide met boyhide
making tears stream down my face while my poor bottom felt
like it was about to burst with the savage pain my father was
inflicting on it. It went on and on, my howls sounded shrill and
desperate.

The hiding seemed to last forever. When he was done my father
stormed out of the room while I curled up on the bed and
lay there sobbing. After I'd recovered a bit I went out the backdoor
and walked over to the mortuary. Lars was busy sanding timber
for a coffin. He grinned at me but then stopped what he was doing.

"What's the matter little one? Why the tears?"

I told Lars about the hiding.

"That man has the devil inside him". Lars looked angry. "I put
those bins out myself this morning".

I ran to my tall, blonde friend and flung my arms around him. His
hand gently felt my flayed bottom through my uniform shorts.

"Little one. Why does he treat you so bad?"

Lars put a cloth on his workbench and gently placed me face down
on it. He pulled my shorts down and unpeeled my underpants. He
found a soothing liquid and rubbed it into the scorched flesh. It
felt so good! Then I felt a finger inside my crease touching my
secret place.

"Trust me" Lars murmered before penetrating the tight anal
sphincter. It took a moment to get used to the intruder but then
Lars found the love gland and waves of ecstacy overwhelmed me.
My bottom which my father had delighted in hurting was now the
source of exquisite carnal pleasure.

"Sometimes," Lars said in his deep voice, "a man's penis feels
good in there".

I wanted to feel Lars inside me. In a trembling voice I told him so.

"Come with me". The finger was withdrawn. I shucked off my
shorts and underpants. We walked into the preparation room. (Fear
not gentle reader, the only inhabitants were live ones. It had been
a slow week). Lars placed me on my side on a gurney. I watched
him fill a container with warm water. He brought the apparatus
over to the table and slowly inserted its hose up my bottom. I
started to protest.

"Shhh! little one" his voice was soothing, "Just making sure
you're nice and clean for Lars".

He unclipped the hose and warm water flooded my bowels. It was
a strange sensation but my friend gently rubbed my tummy.

"I gotta go to the toilet bad" my voice squeaked.

Lars pulled the hose out and lifted me onto a bucket. I broke wind
very loudly and then emptied my gut. The preparation room's all
pervasive odour of formaldehyde masked the smells I made. When
I was done Lars wiped my bottom clean and we went back to the
coffin room.

My father's assistant locked the door and then slowly took off his
clothes. His body was firm and muscular. When his pants came off
his huge penis appeared. I swallowed having never seen one that
big before. Swiftly, I shucked off my remaining clothes. Lars got me
to kneel on the table. His warm, wet tongue soothed the sore welts
on my bottom. Then he turned his attention to my bottom-hole.
His tongue pressing against my anal opening made me shudder
with anticipation.

"Be brave" Lars murmered, his huge penis now wedged between
my bottom cheeks. Slowly, he inserted his fleshy monster up my
virgin chute. It hurt but somehow felt right. When Lars was fully
inside me he paused until I got used to the feeling. Then
he started to move, slowly at first but then faster and faster. I was
joined to the man I loved with all my heart in the most intimate,
deliciously obscene, way possible. I squeezed my sphincter
around his love muscle. That was too much for Lars who groaned
and then pumped his seed high into my rectum.

Afterwards, my friend and I cuddled. Then he cleaned me up and we
got dressed again. I felt as though I had come home for the first
time in my life. I smiled at the big Scandinavian.

"That was the first time Lars make love to a living person' my
friend solemnly declared. It took a few moments for that to sink
in. When Lars saw the expression on my face he roared with
laughter.

"Just joking, little one".

One of Lars' great strengths was the respect he always gave the
deceased persons in his care. He did use humour a lot but only
as a way of coping with the overwhelming sadness of his work.
I gave him a hug and then went back to the house.

The next morning at breakfast the telephone rang. My mother
answered it and then handed the receiver over to my father. He
immediately adopted the unctious tone he used with officials
and the bereaved. I finished my breakfast, picked up my schoolbag
and headed off to school.

It was a perfect summer's day, already warm and not a cloud in
the sky. Outside Mr Freguson's place I heard men talking. I looked
through the trees and saw two policemen examining the elderly
widower who, strangely, was still in the same place as I had seen
him the day before. Suddenly, the younger officer got up and
stumbled towards my hiding place. He stopped in his tracks and
vomited. It was then I realised Mr Ferguson was dead. There was
also that distinctive smell I knew so well.

A vehicle pulled up. It was my father making a 'first call' as he
described it to the bereaved but known in the trade as a 'pick up'.
That must have been what the phone call at breakfast was about.
He removed the stretcher and kicked its legs down before trundling
it across the lawn towards the policemen.

"Have to wait for a certificate from the doctor" the older officer
told my father. He nodded and sat down on the edge of the
garden, just a couple of feet from the body. My father reached
over and helped himself to some fat, ripe strawberries which had
been Mr Ferguson's pride and joy. When he crammed them into
his mouth and began eating them with obvious enjoyment it was
too much for the younger officer who promptly lost what remained
of his breakfast.

The doctor bustled onto the scene. He took one look at Mr
Ferguson and said "Heart. Warned him for years to take it easy".
He filled out the certificate.

I turned and went on my way. My mind was churning. I had
killed Mr Ferguson! Fear gripped me. I knew I was too young to
hang but I'd go to borstal and later prison for the rest of my
life. Suddenly a hand pulled my ear. In my blind panic I had
made my way to school. The hand belonged to the principal and
meant only one thing, I was late. He marched me into his study
and told me to bend over a chair. He flicked my coat-tails up with
his cane.

"Your father is a fine man" the principal said, conversationally, and
then whacked me. The hard stroke rekindled the fire still
smouldering in my backside, courtesy of that 'fine man' my father.

"Didn't seen him at lodge last week. Pressure of work, I expect".
He whacked me again. Now I had a forest fire raging in my poor
bottom.

"Please give him my kind regards. He is to be our next Grand
Master". The cane sliced into my fiery buttocks for a third
and, thankfully, final time. I got up and made my way to the
classroom. I winced when I sat down which made the spinster
Geography teacher smirk.

Somehow I got through the rest of the school day. When I trudged
home all was quiet outside the Ferguson place. I made my way
into the mortuary. Dear Lars was working in the coffin room. I
flung my arms around him, sobbing. I told my friend how I'd
murdered Mr Ferguson. Lars wiped my tears and took me through
to the preparation room. The remains of my victim were covered
with a sheet. Lars folded it back.

"See how peaceful he is".

It was true. Mr Ferguson looked a lot younger but empty. Death
does that to a person.

"He was 79 years old. At that age he was very lucky to be taken
so quickly. He could have lingered on for years in the cottage
hospital. No family or friends to speak of. A good death. He'd have
been gone before his body touched the ground. Trust me I know
about these things".

Lars was right and I was immensely comforted by him.

We went through to the room where he slept when it was his
turn to be on night duty. There was a cot against one wall. We
both undressed.

"One thing about death. It makes you want to affirm living". he
said. He tutted when he saw the cane welts on my bottom and
the technicolor bruises from the buckle-end of my father's belt.

"Vandals! They have desecrated two magnificent portals'

I giggled at Lars' lofty description of my bum. He kissed me.
Then we coupled on that cot, tender loving which made me feel
complete.

A few years later, my father lost his business. An undertaker's
livelihood depends on presenting an understanding and helpful
manner at all times when dealing with the bereaved. One day he
let his mask slip long enough to offend every person in
earshot including the school principal. Word soon got around. After
that deaths in the district were handled by a city firm. Lars bought
my father's business for a song. The locals respected the tall
Scandinavian and he soon built the business back up again.
Another McKenzie became Lars assistant - me. The name of the
firm changed to 'Lars Johansen'. Most important of all, we have
shared the same bed for all these many years.. Life!