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“Uh…there must be some mistake,” I croaked uncertainly as the door opened and the doctor stepped into the room with my records under his arm.
I had been expecting my regular GP, a no-nonsense 50-something woman I’d been seeing for the last five years. The man who closed the door behind him was much closer to my age, perhaps even a bit younger. Dark hair, dark eyes, with handsome clean-cut features and an easy smile, which he turned warmly on me now, extending his hand.
“I’m Dr. Walsh. Your regular physician is assisting with a delivery this afternoon, and I’m taking her appointments.” He narrowed his eyes good-naturedly, holding my hand at arm’s length to look at me, and continued, “I think I may have seen you once before.”
I remembered now, as he dropped my hand and sat down to open my file. I’d come to the clinic one evening last winter with a painful bladder infection, and Dr. Walsh had been the doctor on duty. I remember being marginally aware of the humiliation of being so vulnerable and dependent on the assistance of a cute guy so close to my own age, and I had moaned as I let him touch me. But the urgent pain was so intense that I could not focus on anything, except making it stop.
I remembered his kind smile, and his gentle hands. I never thought I’d have to see him again.
He took a pair of glasses from his pocket and leafed through my records, and I was glad that for the moment, he paid no attention to me. I might have blushed under his gaze if he’d looked up. “So…” he mused, putting the papers back in order and looking again at the first sheet, “We’re here for a quick exam after your first three months on the Depo Provera injection – aaaand, if everything looks good, we’ll give you the next dose today. Sound good?” He closed the folder with a light slap, to show his enthusiasm.
I swallowed and avoided his eyes. “Um…” I was being silly, of course. If I cancelled now, who knew when I’d get another appointment, and it would throw off the timing of the birth control. I looked up at him — he was still smiling. I attempted a small, brave smirk in return, and nodded. “Sure.”
He clapped his hands and stood up, whisking a curtain across to divide the room, and gestured for me to step behind it. I set my purse on a chair and glanced at the high exam table, crisply papered and stirruped and waiting. The doctor’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “If you’d like to get undressed, please, and get up on the table — just give me a shout when you’re ready.”
I nodded, though he couldn’t see it through the curtain, and began unbuttoning my blouse. I was thinking suddenly about the state of my pubic area — I had only done a peripheral trim in the shower that morning, and was mildly concerned about making a bad impression. I scolded myself silently for my immaturity as I slipped my skirt down and draped it over the back of the chair. I paused as I looked down at my bra. “All the way?” I asked hesitantly through the curtain.
There was a pause, and some humor in his voice as he replied, “Yes, please.” I wrinkled my nose as I unhooked my bra and let my breasts fall loose. The sooner this was over with, the better.
I tiptoed in bare feet over to the table and climbed up carefully, the crackle of the paper betraying me before I called out, “Okay — ready.” I tucked my elbows in and clasped my hands over my stomach, resisting the urge to cover my sex. But I dug my heels into the edge of the table and kept my knees pressed together. I couldn’t deal with the stirrups yet.
He brushed the curtain aside nonchalantly and smiled at me, keeping his gaze locked on my face, as if that made me any less conscious of my nakedness. “How’re we doing?” He had pulled a tray of instruments to the foot of the table, just out of my range of sight. It was more difficult to smile again, his handsome face was a shock all over again, and my body shivered slightly in anticipation.
He stepped over to the table to look down at me, and explained matter-of-factly that he was going to examine my breasts for lumps, first, and then follow directly with a pelvic exam and Pap smear. I squeaked an acknowledgement, trying to slow my increasingly panicked breathing as he took one wrist in his hand and moved it behind my head. I could feel my cheeks growing hot as he palpated my breast with fingers from both hands, pressing firmly into the plump fresh around the nipple.
“Any history of breast cancer in your family?” he asked, his face neutral and slightly averted, his focus on my body, not my face. I replied that there was not. My voice sounded all right to me, and I breathed cautiously in relief.
His fingers closed gently on the nipple, plucking at it delicately. “Have you noticed any increased tenderness, since your last shot?” He squeezed gently, and I gasped as my nipple tingled.
“Uh — no,” I replied uneasily.
He adjusted my arms and moved to examine the other breast in the same manner. I found myself chewing my lower lip, and made myself stop. I held my breath bahis firmaları as he took the nipple between his fingers and applied slow pressure. “Any discharge from the nipples?”
“All right, thank you,” he said lightly, walking a few steps to the instrument tray near my ankles. I heard the clink of metal on the tray as he pulled a pair of latex gloves from a box and stretched them over his fingers. My stomach clenched in trepidation, and I looked away, catching sight of my nipples, still stiffly erect and pointing at the ceiling. I curled an arm over my chest and shifted uneasily as Dr. Walsh moved to the foot of the table.
I swallowed hard as he touched an ankle and instructed me to put my feet in the stirrups, guiding one of my legs himself. He did not have the relative luxury of little quilted pads on the stirrups, and I was suddenly aware, and perturbed by the small discomfort of the cold steel biting into my insteps.
I tried to keep my knees together, but with a reproachful smile he pushed them apart and I let them fall to the sides, my thighs trembling slightly. He shook his head slightly and chided me, “I have back-to-back appointments for the next six hours. We can’t waste time.”
As I watched between my spread thighs, the doctor reached behind him to snap on and adjust a lamp awkwardly, so that it shined first in my eyes and then fully illuminated my perineum. He slid a low stool between his legs and leaned in. His gloved hand rested on my thigh and he murmured, “Wider, please.” My legs twitched under his touch — it would be intimate, inappropriate, if it weren’t for the gloves. When I had widened the angle of my legs to his satisfaction, he removed his hand and returned his attention to my exposed sex.
He paused, frowning at my crotch, and then reached again for something on his tray. I flinched as I felt the cold wet strokes of a sanitary towelette, and my cheeks burned. He was cleaning me before he examined me. If he noticed my complete mortification, he didn’t comment on it.
“You’re going to feel my fingers,” he informed me evenly, and a moment later his cool fingertips were tugging at my labia, pinching down one side, then the other, checking for abnormalities. His fingers moved slickly along my lips, as if lubricated, and I realized in horror that I must have been moist for some time.
He pushed my inner labia apart, and I felt his breath for a moment as he worked his way upwards, exposing my urethra and prodding it with his finger. “Any problems, infections, since the last time you saw me?” He remembered. Maybe he was better recalling vaginas than he was at faces. I shook my head, not sure that he would see it, but unable to speak as he continued up, pushing back the hood of thin flesh covering my clitoris. He hesitated here a few moments, but he was strictly careful not to touch my clit. I was keenly aware of his deliberate avoidance.
He cleared his throat and murmured, “And now you’re going to feel my finger entering you for just a moment. Take a deep breath for me.”
I inhaled shakily, feeling one thick finger slide into my tight sheath in one smooth movement. “Aaand, one more…” as he eased a second long finger into me. My breathing grew shallow as I felt him touching me inside, and I found myself surprised, as I was every time, at how much this felt like a violation. He reached forward to palpate my abdomen with the fingers of his other hand, and I winced as he probed my ovaries. He smiled up at me reassuringly, and withdrew his hand, but before he had removed his fingers completely, I felt my hips lift of their own accord, and my muscles clenched reflexively to grip his retreating fingers.
I gasped, feeling it, and looked quickly at him, but he was tactfully removing his gloves and donning a fresh pair. He struggled to keep a note of amusement out of his tone, and very nearly succeeded. “One more time, deep breath –” and I inhaled sharply as he pushed a finger into my sex and one into my anus. Holding my breath as I felt him twisting his fingers slightly, screwing them into me. “Just a quick bimanual exam, relax, I’ll be finished in just a minute.” My face pinched with discomfort as I felt him plug both my holes, reaching deep, pinching the tissue between them.
I moaned softly, lifting my hips again and then abruptly bucking twice, violently, like a practiced whore, clinging to his hand inside me. “Relax,” he told me again, more forcefully, as he tried to ease his fingers out of me and I shuddered at the erotic sensation.
I rolled my eyes up and looked at the ceiling, feeling the sting of humiliating tears I would not let myself shed. I listened as the doctor pulled his gloves off with a snap and threw them in the garbage. I heard him move to a small sink in the room and run the water, and was glad for something — anything — to fill the uncomfortable silence. When I ventured a fleeting glance at him, he seemed not amused now, but almost flustered.
“Are you sexually active now, Ms. Roberts?” he kaçak iddaa asked suddenly, not looking at me.
It was a perfectly legitimate question, but I wondered anxiously about the timing of it. There was an edge to his tone now that sounded almost like impatience.
“Um, no — I-I just got out of a relationship,” I stammered, watching him and trying to read his body language.
He looked up suddenly and his eyes burned into mine. “Do you masturbate?”
I felt my mouth fall open slightly, but I could not tear my gaze away, and I nodded, feeling the colour rise in my cheeks again.
Dr. Walsh was relentless. “And how often do you masturbate?”
I couldn’t bear it, I squeezed my eyes shut, my mouth working soundlessly as I tried to form the words. I could hear him moving between my legs again, and feel the brush of his sleeve as he reached across to his tray of instruments. Finally I blurted, “I — maybe a few times a week?”
“And did you masturbate before you came here today?” he asked evenly.
My eyes flew open and I gasped in shock, sitting up part-way. “What? No!”
He was nonplussed. “All right, just — relax,” I felt his hand on my thigh, and I eased back down onto the table, the paper sticking to my bum. “This is the speculum, it’s going to feel a bit cold.”
I felt the tips of a steel speculum nudging between my labia, and his fingertips spreading me open to guide it into me. It was cold and wet, like an icicle sliding into my warm sheath, and I shuddered as I felt the length of it fill me until his gloved knuckles touched my sex. I struggled to keep my legs wide and still as he turned the instrument 90 degrees.
“Okay, we’re going to open up now, you’ll feel some pressure.” He directed his comments at my crotch as he squeezed the handles slowly.
I caught my breath — my heart was pounding wildly. This was the part I’d been waiting for, dreading, and I was so afraid that I would react inappropriately. I tried not to remember his last question — did he think I was enjoying this? A small moan escaped me as I felt the steel bills separate inside me, prying me open. I tried not to imagine what he was seeing, but couldn’t help picturing my tight, neat little sex spreading before his eyes, my plump pink lips yawning open to expose my secret insides.
I began to tremble. I could feel my muscles clenching suddenly around the instrument inside me, and prayed he wouldn’t see it. I willed myself to relax, but I could feel my entire sex pulsing and quivering, trying to take some twisted pleasure in this — my anxiety only making the sensations more pronounced.
Dr. Walsh eased the speculum open a bit wider, and glancing down, I could see his brow crease with concentration. His voice was grave as he instructed me again to relax — breathe — and I struggled desperately to obey.
The speculum was opened to its widest capacity, and as the doctor began working to lock it open, I felt a jolt of violent pleasure, like the first swallow of very rich hot chocolate. In spite of myself, my hips lifted again with a rattle of paper as my buttocks clenched and I let out a keening groan, loud in his little office.
I felt his hand on me, pushing me back down on the table as he growled, “Just let me do my job!” But his anger was the end of me — I could feel my hips thrusting as my wet lips squelched around the steel bills of the speculum. He lost his grip and the instrument clattered shut inside me, the smothered sound of the metal against itself, lost inside my hungry, twitching sex.
I covered my burning face with my hands as I felt the shudders subside, though my arousal still glowered under the surface, like burning embers that could burst into flames at any time.
He pulled the speculum out of me rudely, without finesse, and let out a world-weary sigh as he stepped back to regain his composure. I heard his steps on the tiled floor as he approached, and felt the heat from the nearness of his body as he stood over me before he demanded, “Look at me.”
For a moment I didn’t think I could comply. If I could just remain like this, maybe we wouldn’t have to talk about what had just happened. But I felt his fingers close on my wrists and take my hands away from my eyes. I looked up at him, but his expression was hard and set.
“All right.” He held my wrists in a firm grip. “It’s obvious that you’re having — a little trouble, here.”
I moaned and turned my face away, but he continued inexorably.
“So here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to leave the room to return some phone calls, and while I’m gone you’re going to take care of your little problem.”
He let go of my wrists, and I turned back to look at him, miserable.
He pulled the curtain across again, offering me the semblance of privacy, even in an empty room. “When I get back, we will finish this without any more hold-ups. Understand?”
I nodded, but he was already stepping around the curtain. “Good.” His tone was all business now, no humor or kaçak bahis friendly chit-chat. “I’ll be about 10 minutes.”
I heard his footsteps cross the room and the door opening and closing with a determined click. Immediately my hands flew to my face again, pressing against my closed eyes as I breathed slowly through parted lips and tried to pretend this was all just a bad nightmare. But he was coming back. As if I suddenly felt his gaze on me, I jerked one hand away from my eyes and reached between my legs, still set wide in the stirrups.
My clit was aching and swollen, anticipating my touch, and my sex was as ripe and juicy as split fruit. I let my fingers tentatively trace the edges of my labia, and then, with a shaky inhale, I pulled the hood of my clitoris up to expose it, as he had done. I could feel the tiny organ throbbing with need, and my cheeks burned as I reached with my middle finger and pressed hard against my pelvic bone, trying to quell the craving. I leaned back and closed my eyes as I made small circles with my finger, stirring my pleasure as it simmered.
I tried to imagine myself any place but here — at home in my bed — if I could believe that, I might be able to drift into an orgasm. But I could not ignore my surroundings: the bite of the stirrups under my curled insteps, the paper stuck to me with my own sweat, the smells of latex and rubbing alcohol. Yet somehow the undeniable fact that I was lying on an exam table sent a thrill of excitement through me, and my pleasure teetered on the brink of culmination.
His face swam before my closed eyes, his impatient, almost irritated expression as he directed me to bring myself to orgasm before he returned — and my soaring lust dipped like a kite on a loose string. I pressed my lips together and exhaled in a slow breath. I changed tactics and began strumming my fingers rapidly across my clitoris, gasping at the new sensations that rose and rose but would not converge in the climax I so urgently needed. With the other hand, I cupped one of my breasts and squeezed the handful of flesh, working it roughly, like an eager lover. Taking my clit between two fingers, I pinched it as hard as I dared, crying out at the pleasure-pain, and tugged on it, trying to coax along the blissful paroxysms I knew were possible — all to no avail. The maddening throb in my loins seemed to mock my best efforts.
I lay back, sweating lightly, and took my hands away from my body and put them over my eyes again. I couldn’t do it.
The door opened without warning, and Dr. Walsh strode in purposefully, pulling the curtain aside, but stopped when he saw me taking my hands away.
He turned away abruptly, but not before I saw his jaw stiffen. “Did you do anything at all?” he demanded quietly, closing his office door.
My voice caught in my throat. “I — I did, I tried…I couldn’t finish.”
He leaned on both hands against the desk, his head lowered between his shoulders. His sigh was loud, exasperated. When he spoke his voice was slightly muffled. “I have four patients out there waiting for me, and you are wasting my time.”
I winced, but did not know how to respond.
Dr. Walsh straightened up and turned back to face me, on the table. Without a word, he took a new pair of gloves and pulled them on methodically. His expression was stormy as he looked up at me — he looked almost ashamed of what he had to say next.
“Here’s what’s going to happen.” His voice was thick with emotion, suddenly he looked like a dangerous man. “I am going to bring you to climax, as you are unable to do the job yourself. We’re going to get through the Pap, give you the shot, and then you’re going to get the hell out of my office.”
I could hardly look at him, but I managed to nod, swallowing the immediate surge of lust I felt, knowing that he would touch me, and make me come.
He must have seen something in my eyes, because he continued bluntly, “This is not to be interpreted as in any way sexual. Believe me when I say that I have better things to do.”
My jaw tightened and I squeezed my eyes shut, nodding again. His words stung, but did not lessen my frantic arousal. I curled my toes in the stirrups, in anticipation, as he moved between my legs.
His brow was dark, his shoulders slumped as he took his seat, adjusting the lamp again so that he could see what he was working with. I gasped sharply as I felt his fingers close around my clitoris, rubbing it between them and then digging up under the hood, where it was most sensitive.
I grunted, my tongue lolling out of my mouth at the intensity of this new sensation, and he rubbed with dogged persistence as I squirmed on the table, inching my hips down to meet him. He exhaled a harsh breath and tried a different move, mashing my clit into my pelvic bone, tweaking it back and forth under his thumb. I gasped at the rush of rosy bliss, and cried “Oh…”
“Quiet,” he snarled, and I pressed my lips together to keep from making another sound as my thighs twitched in excitement. I covered my hot face with my hands as I struggled to maintain control, even while I tried frantically to let go, and let myself come. I panted in frustration, the pleasure seeming almost a painful torment.
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