The Doctor is In

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The nurse closed the door behind her as she left, having instructed me to change into the paper “hospital” gown folded neatly on the paper lined and elevated bed that was the examination table. As was the case with any medical facility, it seemed, the doctor’s office was cool and a slight breeze from the ceiling vent ruffled the pamphlets clipped to a board hanging on the wall; a trickle of goose bumps rose on my skin. This was my first appointment with the “new” doctor as, at eighteen, I had passed the age where my pediatrician – a white haired elderly man who had cared for me since infancy – was able to include me in his patient caseload.

My aunt had recommended Dr. D. to me as he went to her church and came with high accolades from many of her choir buddies. Like my aunt, the choir buddies were verging on early middle age with little to no prospects for “catching” a man at this “past the best buy date” stage of their lives and, like me, my aunt was no pin up girl with her bright auburn hair and sprinkling of freckles across her nose. Truth be told, neither of us were actually plain looking and we each had the curves of a womanly body but, quite frankly, neither of us were enamored with the virtual domestic servitude implied by the marriage contract of our church denomination and were rather spirited in our defense of our own burgeoning rights as influenced by the secular women’s movement of the early 1960’s. Perhaps, like my aunt and me, the choir buddies were not so much the rejects the status of spinsterhood implied, but more resisters in the passive manner not necessarily condoned by our church, but not condemned by it either. And perhaps the freedom, sexual and otherwise, that was sweeping across Western culture in the 1960’s crept its own subtle way into the mindset of each of us despite our religious convictions. Whatever the case was, it wasn’t until many months after the incident that the true nature of their accolades for Dr. D. came to light.

I was nervous, to a certain extent, as meeting someone new, in any circumstances, created a social anxiety in me and, of course, the “intimacy” of my first adult all over physical exam exacerbated my nervousness. Nevertheless, I methodically began to remove my clothing as I had been instructed: my mind was suspended in a sort of daze as if the rote thinking would calm me. First, I slipped off my new high heeled summer shoes and placed them side by side, just slightly under the office style arm chair that was positioned at a right angle to the doctor’s wheeled stool. Then I sat in that chair, pulled the full skirt of my dress up to my thighs, unclipped my garters and carefully rolled my nude colored stockings, one at a time, down the full length of my leg. These, I tucked neatly into the toe of each shoe.

I stood again, and reached around back and unzipped my dress. The tight bodice fell away from my body as the cap sleeves slid off my shoulders and part way down my arms. I shrugged myself the rest of the way out of the dress and the bright blue soft cotton fabric floated out on the floor as I stepped my way free of it. There was a hanger on the door hook; I carefully placed my dress there, zipping it up once again so the wide round neckline would sit without slipping off.

Next, I reached up under my slip and undid the hooks and eyes at the back of my bra, slid the straps off my arms and then pulled it off my breasts. They bounced slightly with the slight snap of removing the bra and the silky lace on the bodice of my translucent white slip tickled my nipples which were already erect with apprehension and the taunting of the cool ventilation breeze. That bodily response added to the nervousness of being naked in front of a stranger and my nerves tingled as I did the same with the garter belt and then folded both undergarments neatly on the chair. Now I was standing in just my slip and panties and I felt a little foolish at my reluctant stripping. I was the only one in the room, the only one who could see my undressing, and yet somehow the route of removing my slip last seemed the most comfortable.

I understood I was being modest to the extreme, nevertheless, I ruched my slip up to my hips and reached a finger, one on each side, into the elastic waistband of my sensible panties and then rolled them down to my knees, crooking my right leg to bring one side down to my ankle, and then stepping out of them as well. Like the garter belt and bra, I folded the panties neatly and placed them on the seat of the chair. Then I hesitated a moment and took a quick glance around the room. Stainless steel medical instruments were laid out on the counter by the sink and one was a contraption bahis siteleri the likes of which I’d never seen before. This instrument, in particular, looked vaguely uncomfortable and although the ends of the duck-bill like shape were gently rounded, the handle seemed to have some sort of screw-like device which sent a small frisson of unease through me.

I shook myself into activity with the faint sound of voices in the hallway. The doctor would come in before I was ready if I didn’t speed things up and so, crossing my arms one over the other, I reached down to the lace trim of my slip and pulled the fabric up and over my head. Now I was standing in that cool medical examination room completely naked, my nipples erect and gooseflesh raising the hair on my arms and pubic area. I grabbed the paper gown that was on the examination table, shook it out, slid my arms into the awkwardly large holes that served as sleeves, and reached around the back to tie the one thin string provided as a sort of belt. The gaping back of the gown and the thinness of the material did little to ameliorate the coolness of the air, although I did feel slightly less self-conscious with the awkwardly billowing “hospital green” covering.

Following the nurse’s earlier instructions, I boosted myself into a sitting position on the elevated bench. The gown, of course, gaped open with my movement and the paper lining on the examination table crinkled as I shifted my bare bottom in a futile attempt to close the gap in the back.

It wasn’t long before there was a brisk knock at the door, and the white-coated doctor stepped into the room, clipboard in hand. “Hello, I’m Dr. D., ” he smiled warmly, his middle-aged face creased with crow’s feet that did not detract from his daytime soap opera like charm. We exchanged brief pleasantries and he outlined to me the nuances of an overall physical exam with a g.p. versus a pediatrician, which included, now that I was an adult, a gynecological aspect. He attempted to assure me that he would do everything possible to make sure I felt no discomfort, physical or otherwise although the very fact he sought to assure me seemed to elevate my anxiety even more.

He may have sensed my increasing tension, for he placed a warm hand on each of my shoulders and squeezed reassuringly and then, with his right hand, tilted my head up by the chin so we met eye to eye. “I will,” his eyes were a twinkling brown, “do everything,” and his gaze seemed to draw me in, “to make sure,” and hold me like a warm embrace, “you are as comfortable as possible during this exam, young lady,” and he finished with a smile, his eyes holding mine until at last I nodded, assuring him that I understood and was placing myself in his care.

“Now,” he slowly slid his hands down my arms, taking the green paper gown with them, “first we begin with your upper body.” He gently removed the paper robe off my hands and then tucked it snuggly against my legs so that I was sitting there level with his hips, naked from the waist up, my erect nipples seemingly a beacon he could not take his eyes off.

“MMM, beautiful,” he continued, “you understand I must touch you to examine for lumps or deformities,” he did not stop for an affirmation from me that I understood or consented, but placed his strong hands such that each of my breasts were cupped by him and began the slightest trace of his thumbs across my nipples. Embarrassed, I could feel them hardening all the more and with a quick glance down, noticed they had darkened and were protruding further than I thought normal. He began to squeeze my nipples between his thumb and index finger, rolling them slightly as he did so and a slight tremor of pleasure shook my body.

“MMM,” he murmured again but this time there was a slight groan behind his tone. “So beautiful,” he assured me and began to slide his hands back and forth under my breasts, lifting them ever so slightly on the back stroke, as it were. “How does that feel?” his eyes were still glued to my breasts as he “examined” them, so he could not see the expression on my face that must have reflected the confusion I felt at both the fear and excitement coursing through my body. “Now I’ll start to press a little harder: I’m looking for any deformities or odd lumps that shouldn’t be there,” he informed me as his hands began to knead me so that the flesh of my ample breasts squeezed out between his fingers. His stroke was somewhere in between a caress and a strong grip and I again felt a frisson of mixed fear and pleasure course down my body.

With his left hand still kneading and manipulating one breast, he reached down and swept radissonbet upward the paper gown that had been covering the lower half of my body so that I was now sitting almost completely naked on the examining table before him. “MMM, we want to make sure this entire procedure is as comfortable for you as possible,” his tone was still reassuring but his gaze had now left my breasts and was fixed firmly on the curling auburn hair between my pale legs. “Part your legs for me, please,” and his hand pressed on the inside of my left knee as if to prod me into complying with his instruction. I parted my legs a little but his mild reprimand was “No, no, wider please, I must examine all of you.”

So, reluctantly, and with some embarrassment as my religious upbringing had taught me that my genitalia was shameful and should be hidden, I spread my legs wider and then with the tap of his hand once again indicating it wasn’t quite enough, as wide as I could possibly get them without toppling over backward on the table. I was somewhat surprised, when I took a quick glance down, to see that with the spreading of my legs, my labia had parted and the small dark red bump that was my clitoris was visibly glistening with my natural lubricant and swollen into its tiny erection even more than normal. Now, religious upbringing or not and virginity still intact though it was, I had long since discovered the pleasure that little button could bring whether through solo manipulation or by the hands of another but I could not remember a time when it was as engorged and aroused as it was now.

While still stroking and caressing one breast, Dr. D placed the thumb of his right hand on my swollen clitoris and slowly began to rotate it in a clockwise motion. I gasped a little as a current of excitement arced like a sun spot flaring out across my body. He nodded and a sly grin stole across his face. “Yes, yes, your reflexes . . . we must test them further, but all seems to be in order so far.”

“Please lie back,” he instructed, “and place your feet in these stirrups.” He indicated the stainless steel footrests with a sweep of his hand.

I complied so that I was lying bare-breasted and legs spread wide with the paper examination gown ruched around the top of my hips and belly button. Dr. D. turned his back to me and I heard the clink of various instruments as he prepared for whatever the next part of the medical exam was. I continued to feel a strange mix of emotions: fear at the peculiar situation, anxiety at my conflicting social and religious values, and a slow burn of eroticism with the exposure and manipulation of my body by his hands.

Turning to face me once again, Dr. D rearranged the paper gown so that it formed a sort of tent over my knees obstructing my lower half from my view. “This part can be tricky,” he informed me, “especially with a virgin,” and he looked me in the eye, his tone of voice confirming he was asking a question. I nodded, yes, I was a virgin, and his eyes glinted somewhat as if my response was no surprise. “Well, I will continue to help you relax so we can fit the instrument in with a minimal amount of discomfort,” Dr. D’s tone of voice was of the comforting caregiver but I am sure that I picked up a hint of the sexual excitement that must have been flowing through him. He snapped on a pair of latex examination gloves and squeezed some lubricant onto the middle finger of his right hand. As before, he slowly started to caress back and forth between my clitoris and vaginal opening. I could not help myself: I let out a gasp that clearly revealed my own pleasure-filled response. Again, an expression of lust flitted across his face and I could swear he emitted a low groan. Back and forth, back and forth his lubricated and gloved finger stroked until I could feel my own juices leaking out of my vagina, down my bottom, and onto the paper covering the examination table.

“Yes, yes,” Dr. D commented, “I think this will do,” and he placed the rounded tip of the duck-billed instrument – a speculum, I later realized – against my vaginal opening, and pressed slightly as he tried to insert it.

“No,” I cried out in pain, “No, stop! It hurts!” and I clutched at the table in some degree of agony and clenched my legs together.

“There, there,” Dr. D. murmured, “perhaps you are not quite ready. My apologies. I will try to ‘prep’ you further, but, I must insist that we do a complete and thorough examination.”

He went back to stroking my clitoris until I once again relaxed my legs and then, ever so gently, he began to insert his finger into my vagina on the downstroke. I whimpered, but betsalvador this time more with pleasure than pain and he increased the pace of his rubbing and the force of his insertion. I could hear the sloppy wet sound of my juices and the lubrication squelching each time he forced his finger inside me. “That’s a good girl,” he encouraged me, “just relax into it. The more you relax, the less it will hurt.” His left hand, which had been resting on my leg, slid down so that it was cupping my bottom, and, dipping his fingers into the juices flowing out of me, he began to gently circle around and around my anus. I could feel my body responding pleasurably to his fingering insertion of my vagina and the circular rubbing of my anus and it wasn’t long before he penetrated my ass with his left hand as I pulsed open with desire. This time there was no mistake, both of us were softly groaning with the physical pleasure of his touch.

“Now,” he commented after we both had enjoyed several minutes of his stroking and finger penetration, “shall we try again?” I nodded but with some trepidation. His warm flexible finger was one thing, but the cold steel of the speculum was another. He positioned it against the opening to my vagina and gave a firm but gentle nudge. It was no use; the pain was too great and I cried out, “No!”

“Shush,” he once again comforted me and withdrew the cold steel implement from between my legs. “It’s ok, dear,” his tone continued to reassure me, “I have something else I will use that I think you will find much more comfortable for your first time,” and I could hear the metal clink as he returned the speculum to its place in the row of instruments on the countertop. At the time I wasn’t sure what he was doing as he stood with his back to me for a minute before returning to stand close to my paper gown covered legs, but now I know that he was unzipping his pants and pulling out his hard, hard cock.

Of course it still hurt as he took my virginity but a cock is much more forgiving than a surgical steel instrument and the warmth of his flesh filling my tight canal and then exploding with a juggernaut of hot cum left me tingling and wanting more. He complied with my unspoken desire and remained hard inside me while stroking my swollen clitoris through to my orgasm that pulsed tightly over and over, convulsing around an engorged, thrusting, and repeatedly cumming, cock.

“Ah, much better,” he affirmed as he withdrew from my no longer virginal canal. “You will find, I think, next time you come in, that we are able to proceed to the thorough examination much more easily. And it is important to keep up with your physical exams, dear, please make a repeat appointment with my receptionist as you leave.” With that Dr. D. appeared once more the consummate and remote professional, having tucked himself back in, zipped up his pants, thoroughly washed and sanitized his hands, and straightened his white coat and tie as he stepped toward and then out the examination room door.

The story came out, much much later in my life, repeated by one of the less liberal choir buddies that Dr. D.’s license to practice medicine had first been suspended, and then removed entirely as, apparently, while the majority of the church women enjoyed his skilled “examination” of their “lady parts”, someone had lodged a complaint with the chief medical regulations board and Dr. D’s gig was up. Rumors about who and why floated around: some said he had gotten one or more of his “virgin” patients pregnant although he had used a spermicidal lubricant in his preparations of the oh so tight vaginas; another suggested at least one of his patients wasn’t so pure and holy as she made out and Dr. D himself had contracted a venereal disease from her which he inadvertantly spread to some of the others; others began to whisper that the “good” doctor wasn’t adverse to a similar treatment of patients experiencing their first prostate exams and that therein lay the complainant.

As for me, while some of you might object to my lack of indignation, my refusal to get up in arms over his “unprofessional” actions, my downright enjoyment of the non-consensual sexual pleasure that came from his fingers and the fucking, but I will tell you that it is and was my body. This was the 60’s after all, and there awoke in me an appetite my conservative religious upbringing failed to repress. An enjoyment of, a desire for, and an upfront pursuit of hedonistic sexual pleasure became my mantra, along with the hundreds, if not thousands of other hippy “flower children” who have grown up, like me, into the late middle aged / early senior adults of the 21st century. Whether Dr. D’s unprofessional actions planted the seed in me or just caused me to blossom into the sexual being that I am, I’m not really sure, nor do I, quite frankly, care. I have always enjoyed, and will continue to enjoy, until my dying day, the so-called sinful “pleasures of the flesh”.

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