Gromet's PlazaLatex Stories

The Doll Factory 1: Examination

by AmyAmy

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© Copyright 2009 - AmyAmy - Used by permission

Storycodes: F/f; bond; medical; exam; gag; insert; enema; mast; cons/reluct; X

The Doll Factory 1: Examination AmyAmy F/f; bond; medical; exam; gag; insert; enema; mast; cons/reluct; X  

Part 1: Examination

The bleakest Christmas and New Year that I’ve ever had are behind me. I’m trying to form a plan to put my life back together. I’m out of ideas. I know I’m close to rock bottom when I catch myself searching the small-ads in the back of the free local paper. I know it’s an act of desperation, I mean, haven’t these people heard of the Internet? Unfortunately, my own Internet has been cut off due to unpaid bills, so my options are reduced.

I’m looking for a job, something quick and dirty that will earn me cash in hand – something I don’t have to declare in my bankruptcy proceedings. It took just one bad night on an online casino to get into this mess. OK, I admit it was more than just one night, more a string of nights, but not every single one of them was bad. There were times I thought I was going to win my way out of this hole, but every time, just as it was within my grasp, it slipped away and I lost it. I’m still cursing the lousy credit-card company for setting my limit so high when I hardly ever pay anything much off the card.

I’m desperate enough to apply for anything. I’d even try phoning the number on those cards stuck to lamp-posts advertising cash for ladies to do “nude modeling” if there were any about. It always says that you only work with other women, and that you don’t have to be a superstar model to do it. Maybe those things are true, and maybe they’re not, but the ways things are, I’d prepared to give it a try. I think I heard something about the people doing it getting shut down on some legal technicality. I’m surprised they let that stop them.

Of course, I’d be fine with an ordinary job, but taking my clothes off and getting photographed sounds like easy work to me; much better than long hours working on a market stall, cleaning or child-minding and taking abuse anyway. I’m surprised when something in the paper actually catches my eye. I stop thinking about the other ideas when I read it:

“Wanted, women aged 20 – 30 for medical drug testing. Respected/well known company. All tests completely safe/fully certified. Earn up to $1000 cash per week. Phone…”

I know sometimes something bad can happen with drug testing, but I’ve also heard that in almost every case the side effects are trivial, if any at all, and half the time you’re taking the placebo and there aren’t any drugs at all. I think I can handle a bit of a headache or whatever for some easy money. I just hope it’s the sort of set-up where I get paid in cash.

I need an excuse to get out of the house. January is hot this year and the place is like an oven. It’s a typical suburban brick-veneer with a colorbond steel roof that pings and cracks as it heats up hot enough to fry your breakfast on. There’s no insulation and the cathedral ceilings make it too expensive to heat in winter. There’s an old window-rattler AC unit in the living room but it died in last year’s heat. It wouldn’t have stood a chance this year anyway.

I head out across the square of sun-bleached dead grass that’s supposed to be some kind of park to the public phone with my meager supply of change. It’s hot outside and the sun is beating down, but at least out here the air is moving.

I hope this call comes to something and the program’s not already full up. I’m drinking nothing but tap-water and down to a diet of instant noodles that I bought cheap by the palette from a bloke I know who works at the supermarket. I am counting the days until they run out because I can’t afford more. The instant noodles weren’t too bad for the first week, but after that I started to feel sick just thinking of them and it’s been a tough three weeks since.

I’ve lost a few kilos over the last month, and when I look at my face in the mirror it looks pale and drawn.  The first time I noticed a wrinkle I spent the rest of the day crying. I’m ready to try anything I can to get out of this mess. I don’t mind reducing the size of my fat ass, but even I know that you can’t live on noodles forever without getting sick. All I know about nutrition is that they’re always saying you have to eat so many “serves” of vegetables a day, whatever the fuck a serve is. Today I had zero serves.

I’m really happy when the woman on the phone tells me that they still have openings. She sounds very professional, with a great phone voice that makes me envious. She gives me an address to go to. I ask if I can go today and she says yes. I just have to get there before five.

I dodge a fare on the train. At the turnstile I push up really close behind some old guy so he can feel me press against him. He doesn’t say anything when I slip through the gate with him – I knew he wouldn’t – and at this time of the day they don’t have an army of thugs watching for people tail-gating.

The offices are out on the edge of the business district, where the bars and the backpacker hotels start to bleed in. I’m worried it will be a seedy looking building, or something that looks like it can vanish overnight. I feel better when I see the address is an office block from the early nineties with little gold colored plaques naming all the businesses and what floor they’re on. There’s a pleasing cool wash of air-conditioned air.

I head up to floor fourteen, the top floor, and step out of the elevator into a small, mainly empty lobby that has that dry, burned dust smell of overstressed air-conditioning. Everything looks clean and new. There are some potted plants beside an intercom and a button at the side of a frosted glass door.

I press the button and a familiar voice answers. It’s the woman I spoke to on the phone. I remind her who I am and she buzzes me in right away. Everything seems perfectly normal.

Beyond the door is a reception area with expensive looking sofas in butter yellow leather that look like they could swallow me without a trace. There’s a woman behind a fancy-looking curved reception desk. Her black metal and leather office chair looks like it cost as much as a decent small car and has more adjustments, but it’s nothing compared to the receptionist herself. When I see her I know these people have money.

She is the most immaculately turned out lady I have ever seen. Her skin and make-up are pristine and flawless like an air-brushed magazine cover. Not a single glossy black hair of her elaborate coiffure is out of place, not a single split-end can be seen.

I know I’m a little vain myself. I don’t deny it. You can call me shallow but the way I see it, I’m not the shallow one, I’m just being realistic. People make snap judgments on appearance all the time. I’m just tilting the odds in my favor.  God knows, I need every edge I can get. I’ve had my teeth done, my gums done, my thighs suctioned, and more than a small amount of the money on my credit-card went on visits to the hair salon, so I know good work when I see it. One look at her perfectly finished square-cut nails with their lacquer so glossy and deep that you could swim in it puts me in my place. She’s in a league I can’t even dream of.

Remembering my own logic, I take a second look. What is this woman beneath the veneer? Her breasts are a bit too big, she sits very stiffly, and there’s a tired hollow look in her eyed, but you wouldn’t see it if you were distracted by everything else, which I am sure everybody usually is.

I walk over to the desk and start to introduce myself. She cuts me off and barely glances at me as she hands me a wad of forms.

“Please fill in this questionnaire and release form. I’ll call you when the nurse is ready for you. It might be a while, so please make yourself comfortable,” she says.

I turn my attention to the forms I have to fill. There are the usual questions about my medical history, but also questions about my family, my education and interests, and my reasons for entering the program. There are all sorts of confusing questions about how I would react in different situations. The form explains that they need a profile for my consumer and advertising group, but the questions seem a bit more involved than that to me.

I answer the questions however I think they want me to answer. I make sure that it seems like I am an honest person in good health with no special desperate need for the money. I say I am looking for money to fund a college course. It could be true. If I had enough money I might. I was waitressing and answering phones before I got in trouble. Now, and for the next few years, most of the money I earn on paper is going to go straight to my creditors, so I might as well just live off the state. I’m pleased that the forms offer me an option to be paid in cash.

I finish up filling in the forms as quickly as I can so that there won’t be any delay in getting me in. I place them on the receptionist’s glass-surfaced desk. She whisks the papers away without even looking at them, or so it seems. She pulls out another form.

“You need to sign this non-disclosure agreement. You may be involved in sensitive and confidential research and we can’t have you talking to our competitors, or anyone else about it.” She pauses and fixes me with her empty eyes. “This is a serious requirement, so you really must not agree unless you are sure can keep quiet about absolutely everything that happens here. Are you sure you can do that?”

I nod. “Just show me where to sign,” I say.

“You realize that you must not discuss what happens here, or as part of our test program with anyone, including your friends and family?” She says, double-checking. “Print and sign here.”

“I understand. Not a word,” I say, signing where she points.

“And here,” she says, flipping to the next sheet and pointing to another box. I sign away.

“And finally here,” she says, flipping through to the last leaf of the form. I sign mechanically. I’m numb to the paperwork.

“Thank-you,” she says giving me an empty receptionist smile. It’s absolutely perfect and absolutely hollow.

She disappears the papers beneath her desk as I momentarily consider that I didn’t read a single word of what was written on the non-disclosure agreement. I don’t worry about it much, if they want to screw you with a legal agreement the big company is always going to win. What am I going to do, hire a lawyer and litigate against them? Fat chance of that happening. They can always buy their way to victory.

I sit back down on one of the delicious sofas and flip through the magazine stack. They’re all quite recent, an assortment of glamour magazines, celebrity gossip and so on. There’s nothing for men to read. I decide that men do not wait here. I haven’t been able to afford expensive magazines or any other amusements for a while now, so I enjoy reading them at first.

The receptionist didn’t lie about taking a while. I wait for over an hour. It’s getting near to five o-clock. I’m worried they might not see me before they shut. I see a couple of other women come from behind a cream colored curtain at the side and leave. Nobody else arrives to wait. Even though it’s cool in the room, by the end of the hour I feel a bit dehydrated. I’d have thought a place like this would have a water cooler, but there isn’t one.

The receptionist answers the phone a few times, but mostly she taps away at her computer. I wonder what it is that she has to do on there. I’d have tried to get a look somehow, but the design of the desk and layout of the room makes it impossible. If I could see I’d probably be no wiser.

Just when I am feeling pretty defeated and sure they won’t see me the receptionist looks up and tells me the nurse is ready for me. She gestures to a door, not the curtain I saw the others emerge from, and tells me to wait in that room and the nurse will be with me right away.

The door is heavy and the mechanical clicking of the expensive polished handle makes me feel like I’m intruding just by turning it. Beyond the door is another waiting room, but more clinical than the reception area. There are some hard plastic chairs, another little table of magazines and a water cooler. The walls are painted a shade of gloss white that reminds me of doctor’s offices and hospital waiting rooms. The smell more than anything lets me know I’m in a medical area. There is a faint odor of disinfectant, but I can’t imagine where it comes from. Perhaps it’s from the door opposite the one I’m standing by.

I let the entry door click closed behind me. The sound feels ominous. Suddenly I don’t feel so good about all this. I remain standing. I try to calm myself. There’s nothing to panic about. I need this. I have to go through with it. I pour myself a cup of water and drink it down quickly. It tastes a little odd, like the machine isn’t used very often.

After a minute I begin to relax and sit down. I wait, expecting the nurse to appear imminently. She doesn’t appear. It seems like I’ve been waiting a long time. The dryness of the room and the antiseptic smell, along with my increasingly full bladder are all starting to get to me. I’m tempted to go back out into the reception and ask where the toilet is. I’m afraid to miss my chance though, so I wait.

I look through the magazines. Some of them seem a bit peculiar: as well as the usual women’s magazines there are some with people dressed in rubber. There’s no sex going on, just people wearing rubber clothes and other rubber stuff that I can’t really call clothes, like gas-masks. Some of them have tubes hanging out of odd places. I try not to appear as if I’m looking at these magazines, though they draw my eye magnetically because they are so strange. It all looks a bit “medical” themed, so I guess it has something to do with legitimate medical business – they wouldn’t really have some weird fetish magazines in their waiting room would they?

I find myself looking through all the magazines. I keep glancing past the odd ones. I don’t want to pick any of them up and give them a proper look in case the nurse comes in while I’m doing it. Instead, I kind of flip through them without lifting them off the table, as if just glancing. I can’t read any of the stories this way, and am becoming increasingly curious. I check my watch, it’s already half-past five!

I wait another half an hour. I’m hungry, and getting a little shivery despite the warmth of the room. I’ve had two more cups of water and I’m bursting for the toilet. I slip one of the strange magazines inside a copy of Cosmo and start to look at it properly. Now I can it see close up I start to suspect it’s something to do with porn, because there are women dressed as nurses that are like no nurse I’ve ever seen, and there are women in tight black suits with massive breasts that don’t even seem realistic. Just as I’m starting to think about this, suddenly the door opens.

To my relief the nurse I’m looking at isn’t dressed like one from the magazine, which I hastily close and push under the others. Well, she does have on a big heavy gray rubber apron, but it looks legitimate, not like some weird sex-wear. I’m worried, but there’s no way she could see what I was really reading with the magazine hidden inside the other, but when they’re closed it would be more obvious. I hide the edge just so before she can possibly notice.

I’m so busy fiddling with the magazine that I don’t really look at the nurse after the first glance, but when I do see her, she looks very neat and tidy, like the receptionist, but older. Normally, I can guess people’s ages really well, but when I look at her I can’t. I just feel that she’s mature and serious about her work. It’s only the slightly stiff “botoxed” feel to her face that makes me think that she isn’t a young woman in her early twenties.

“Good afternoon, Kelly,” she said, glancing down at a clipboard to see my name. “I apologize that we kept you waiting. I just had to be sure we had properly reviewed your paperwork before we moved forward. Obviously, we can’t afford to make mistakes. If we’d missed some condition or predisposition that might have been indicated by your answers we’d be responsible if you had a problem later. I’m sure you don’t want any problems, yes?”

Her voice is mature, serious, with a slight edge like she’d once been a smoker. I can tell by the smell and her perfectly clean fingers that if she did smoke she gave up a while ago. When I look at her face again there is something hard in her eyes that makes me feel like I do not want to get on her wrong side. I look away quickly. She is closed up like a military bunker and her eyes, her whole expression in fact, reveal nothing. I might as well be looking at a mask.

“No problem,” I lie. “So, it’s all ok then? What happens now?”

“We need to do some blood tests. I’ll do that first and then give you a thorough medical. The results from the tests should be ready by the time I’m done with that,” said the nurse, who I realized had not introduced herself.

“OK. Good,” I say, trying to sound enthusiastic.

“Follow me,” says the nurse, gesturing to the door she came through. She walks like a soldier. I half expect her to start shouting at me to drop and give her five.

I follow her into an examination room. There is a chair like the sort I have heard gynecologists sometimes have, though I have never had such an exam or seen such a chair before. The few examinations I’ve had were all done on ordinary hospital beds.

I’m supposed to have gone for smear tests and things, but I never did; never managed to find the time. I’ve kept away from doctors as much as I can, apart from plastic surgeons of course. I never had a problem that didn’t get better by itself, so what would I want a doctor for?

She closes the door and I notice that this room is all glossy white tiles and stainless-steel fittings I can’t begin to guess the purpose of. The smell of hospital grade disinfectant and other chemicals is overwhelming.

“Please remove your clothes and place them in here,” says the nurse, handing me a plastic laundry basket. I notice she doesn’t mention going anywhere to change, and when I look around, there is nowhere, not even a screen or a curtain.

I’m not happy with the situation, but after this long wait, I’m not going to mess things up now. I decide to do as she asks without complaint. I’m wearing a light cotton summer dress. It’s white with pink polka-dots and one of the last things I bought before I had to stop buying things. I undo the catch at the back of the neck and pull down the zipper.  The nurse looks away: at least she’s not starting straight at me. I pull the dress over my head and drop it in the basket.

I’m in just my underwear: matching white lacy stuff with an underwire bra and very brief panties. I’m loathe to remove them. Surely I can leave them on? I step out of my simple slip-on shoes though. The heels are low and I lose only an inch or so.

The nurse looks back at me and frowns.

“You need to remove all of your clothes as this is a full medical examination,” she says sternly. Nervous at having done the wrong thing, I don’t argue.

Quickly, I hook my thumbs into the sides of my panties and pull them down as if to show how willing I am. I step out of them and drop them into the basket. They look forlorn and a little grubby sitting there. I swear they were clean on this morning. I can feel the hot flush spreading across my face. The nurse can see my landing strip, it’s just a little patch of hair because I have to keep it tidy for swimsuit days. Now I can’t afford removal cream I have to use a razor, which isn’t very pleasant.

I unsnap the bra and then that’s in the basket too, and I’m completely naked. The nurse simply nods and gestures towards some scales.

She copies down my weight, which I notice is down significantly on the last measurement I remember then she checks my height against a rule on the wall. She uses a tape-measure to take a lot of other measurements that seem more like something a dress-maker would want than a nurse, but I suppose there is a perfectly logical reason for it. She certainly knows what she’s doing, as she does it all very quickly and efficiently. She snaps the tape tight hard and I know she means business.

My eyes are continually drawn to the elaborate chair. It sits in the middle of the room like some awful stainless steel spider, waiting for me. Perhaps it won’t be required for my exam. Why would she need it?

When the nurse gestures towards the chair it’s almost a relief – at least I know there’s no escaping the thing. When I call it a chair, that’s a euphemism, because it has no seat as such and there are stirrups for my feet. It’s all cold gleaming stainless-steel though there are foam padded areas covered in smooth black vinyl. I hesitantly position myself on the little area of padded metal that is designed to support my bottom. It’s cold, and despite the thin padding, hard enough to be distinctly uncomfortable.

“Fasten the seat-belt tightly please. It is for your safety,” says the nurse. I know better than to argue. The broad black nylon weave belt fastens around my waist. The nurse checks it when I am done and yanks it tighter, making me gasp. I’m ashamed I didn’t get it tight enough.

The nurse locates my feet in the stirrups for me and hits a pedal. Smoothly, the seat begins to rise and recline. My head tips back into a little rest. The sides of the headrest obscure my peripheral vision and with my head tilted back it’s hard to look at anything besides the ceiling. I feel very vulnerable. In a few moments I am almost on my back with my feet raised up.

The nurse pulls some more straps tightly closed over my ankles and thighs, offering no explanation. I guess it would be bad if I fell out of the chair. The blood flow in my legs feels slightly restricted, but it’s not bad enough to be worth complaining about.

She walks around behind me, vanishing out of sight. I feel extremely nervous up here on the chair. The belt is cutting into me, and I realize that if I released it, I would need to be very careful not to fall out of the chair and end up hanging by my feet. There is no way I can reach the straps on my ankles without unfastening the belt and I suddenly appreciate that I am completely at the mercy of the nurse, who I do not trust to treat me gently.

She steps around to my right side and applies an ordinary blood pressure cuff. She inflates it and methodically takes a measurement. She does it with the speed and detachment of somebody who has done it thousands of times. She nods to herself, totally ignoring me except as a subject. I’m sweating but my fingers feel cold, while my legs feel puffed up. I really hope this will be over quickly.

She removes the pressure cuff, but then wraps a large nylon sleeve that was hanging off the chair-arm around my entire right forearm; like the leg straps, it secures with a large strip of Velcro. It thoroughly secures my arm to the chair, leaving no possibility for movement. I try to move my arm, testing it – it doesn’t give. I could reach over with the other hand to undo it, but there’s no other way I can move my arm.

“That’s a blood pressure and heart-rate monitor, just to make sure you are not in distress during the rest of the tests,” she says as if it was a lot of bother for her to explain this.

She walks around to my left arm, and she has another strap that she tightens to make the veins stand out. I look away and close my eyes just to be sure because I know needles are coming next. Sure enough, I feel her stab my arm. I look back and there’s a needle in my arm with a plastic socket on one end. It’s the sort of needle they use in hospitals to give you a drip. I have never seen one used for blood tests before. She uses a strip of surgical tape to secure it in place and releases the strap.

She attaches a vial to the needle to collect blood. She changes the vials on the needle several times, collecting maybe six samples of different sizes. Now I’ve seen it done, it’s very efficient. Despite the fact that she hasn’t taken much blood it makes me feel a little light-headed. The needle hurts my arm and I can feel is “scratching” inside me. It reminds me of the drips that I had in when I went for surgery. I didn’t like those either. They gave me big bruises on my wrist.

Without a word, she takes the samples and vanishes through her door, leaving me in limbo. I expect her to return almost immediately, but she doesn’t. I suppose I should be used to the delays by now. She hasn’t removed the needle, and it’s uncomfortable to move my free arm. My other arm is strapped in place, as is the rest of me, and not in a comfortable way.

By the time the nurse returns I am feeling pretty stiff and cramped, I’m struggling not to shiver and I’ve lost all feeling in my legs. She hasn’t removed the needle that’s embedded in my arm and it hurts with a dull bruised ache. That she leaves the needle in place seems ominous and I don’t like it.

“There should be time to complete the other tests before the results come back from your bloods,” says the nurse. I know this, she’s already told me once. “I’ll begin with your vaginal, cervical and anal exam,” she adds assertively. I particularly notice when she mentions anal examination. I know the questionnaire had rather intrusively asked about whether I had ever taken part in anal intercourse – not that I would ever call it that. I’d chosen to answer no to that question.

Actually, I have had sex that way on a few occasions. I used to have a Catholic boyfriend who insisted on it and wouldn’t use contraception. I didn’t want to do it like that but in the end I let him have his way, it was better than getting pregnant. We soon split up, but that was just one of the reasons.

I could daydream for hours about my relationship failures but the nurse distracts me when she ratchets open the stirrups, spreading my legs. It feels like I’m being split open. Then she ratchets some more. Despite my best efforts I give a small grunt. I’m not some sort of contortionist used to this amount of stretching. My hands cling tightly to the hard, lightly-padded arms of the chair. My fingers are cold, but slippery with sweat. I feel completely opened to her, like she can look right into my soul. It is not a feeling I like. I prefer to keep things hidden.

It’s something I’ve noticed repeatedly since I was a child that people who want to look into you are usually doing it to see whether what’s in there should be replaced with something more to their liking. People of that sort always find something not to their liking that has to be changed. Honestly, what are the chances of you being a perfect copy of their imaginary ideal of themselves, eternally grateful to them, and without all their faults, which are usually pretty numerous?

The nurse is looking right between my legs, staring at my extremely exposed private parts while she snaps on a fresh pair of gloves.

“I am going to insert a speculum and dilate you, there may be some discomfort if you are not used to this, please bear with me,” she says.

She is not joking. First she wipes some horrible cold gel over me then presses something really cold and hard into my sex. I am extremely frightened that she will rip something or stab me, but she doesn’t. She works it into me gradually but there is nothing gentle or pleasant about it. It’s a very unsettling sensation. I realize I am whimpering like a child, which is embarrassing; I try to keep quiet, squeezing my lips tight closed. I have some measure of success through the rest of the insertion, though there are a few sharp breaths.

I think it’s over when she stops pushing it into me, but I’m mistaken. She begins to do something with the device. I can hear a clicking and I feel it widening and opening up inside me. I had thought I was exposed to her before, but I immediately realize how wrong I was about that too. I nervously consider I may be a long way from done in this respect.

The sensation goes from comfortably full, to painfully stretched. It feels as if something has got to give, but then she stops. She is literally looking right inside me with a little torch. She also has a big inspection lamp on an arm, like dentists have, but she doesn’t use that. She makes some notes on her clipboard, then she takes out measuring calipers and takes measurements inside me. I am astonished.

“What is that for?” I ask.

“It’s simply for statistical purposes, for our research, as are most of the measurements. You have signed a release for biometric data collection,” answers the nurse in a way that makes me want to shut up.

“Oh,” I say. Maybe I signed something like that. To be honest there was so much paperwork I had no idea what it was. Of course, I had imagined they might take measurements and things, I just didn’t think that would happen today.

“I’ve just remembered I need to do an oral inspection,” says the nurse. I am pretty sure she means this to indicate that she doesn’t really have to do it, but she doesn’t want to hear from me again. I am sure she is not the sort of person who ever forgets she needs to do things.

I’m upset that she is clearly punishing me for asking questions, but what can I do at this point? It would seem hysterical to try and refuse something now. I’d have gone through all the pain and indignity for nothing. Besides, maybe I signed away that choice somehow. I’m not really sure what their release included, it was full of tiny print I didn’t bother to read, knowing I didn’t have a choice even then.

She puts on protective glasses and a surgical mask, then takes some stainless steel contraption off a shelf to the side and pulls it out of the bag that indicates it is “sterile by autoclave” with a little red label.

“Open wide,” she says. She does not smile, or sound angry. Emotion of any kind just isn’t in her repertoire of expressions, but I still sense her annoyance. Reluctantly, I do as she asks.

She pushes the metal thing into my mouth. It’s like two big pairs of scissors joined together. There are handles that stick out so she can lever it open. It engages with my molars at the back and my teeth at the front. It feels well locked in there.

“Wider,” she says, and then flicks a little lever and ratchets it open with a lot of force. It feels like my jaw is being wrenched off. I relax as best I can and give a small grunt of pain. She tries to ratchet further, but apparently can’t or doesn’t want to overdo it and really hurt me, so she stops ratcheting.

She takes a wooden tongue depressor and inspects my mouth with her big overhead lamp. She’s poking about in my mouth and I’m trying not to gag. Then she takes out some more calipers and starts making measurements. My jaw is aching like hell. I really want to say that I’m sick of this, but of course I can’t.

The thing in my vagina is tearing me open, my legs are wide enough to crack my hips, the needle is hurting my arm, and now she has this thing in my mouth. Honestly, the mouth is the worst part of it. She has barely done with her measurements and my jaw is cramping up really badly. My eyes start to water but I blink away the tears, she mustn’t see them. I know without even thinking it through that I’m never going to ask her a question or speak out of turn again.

She stops pressing down on my tongue. Just having my tongue released from her grip is a mercy. I swallow back the spit that was making me want to gag. I can explore the hard metal in my mouth. I could reach up and take it out if I knew how, but I don’t try because of all those really good reasons.

She gives no sign that she will soon remove the thing from my mouth, even though I don’t know how much longer I can bear it. Instead she turns her attention back between my legs. I don’t dare complain, again for really good reasons.

To my partial relief, she slacks off the thing inside my sex, but she doesn’t remove it, she just makes it smaller. Then I feel her rubbing somewhere around my vagina with her rubber gloved finger. I feel the cold of her cleaning with alcohol. The next thing I know she is pushing a plastic tube inside me and it really burns. I struggle to stifle a yell, letting out an embarrassing grunt.

She attaches a plastic pouch to the tube, which she hooks onto the chair. I look on in horror when she opens a valve and I see my bladder emptying through the tube. I can feel the relief, which is kind of pleasant, but the whole experience is totally humiliating. I struggle to think of words to describe the feeling of seeing that, but only “violated” springs to mind. I can’t even ask her why she’s doing this, but I know if I could it would only piss her off.

She makes no move to remove the tube, instead securing it to my leg with surgical tape. Then as if to add insult to injury, she changes her gloves and then squirts out a handful of the lubricant gel. She rubs her vile goo over my bottom. I feel my whole body tensing. She inserts a finger inside me, pushing the slippery stuff inside. I clamp down painfully. I try to relax, but it’s impossible.

She pulls out her finger only to replace it with something worse. It’s not the metal speculum I expect, but some kind of rubber nozzle. She pushes it right inside me and holds it in place. My sphincter starts to accommodate it quickly and that’s not so bad, but it really hurts deep inside me, it feels like it’s bruising me.

I feel a strong urge to bear down and push it out but I try not to. Then I feel her start to pump it up. It’s swelling inside me, in a few pumps it’s way too big to push out. I could no more push it out than I could poop a tennis ball: it’s staying up there for sure. She keeps on pumping anyway. It feels like I desperately need to bear down, but I know I mustn’t. Then she pumps up something else and I feel a firm pressure on the outside too.

There are two tall metal stands sticking up from the chair that look like that are for drips, and she hooks a huge bag of clear liquid onto one of them. She attaches a tube to the liquid. I can guess what’s coming next, but I can’t imagine how it’s going to feel. She attaches the tube to the nozzle in my bum and the anticipation is killing me, that and the fact I’m stuffed front and back.

She turns a valve at the top and then I suppose she turns another at the bottom, though I can’t see that, and all I feel is her pressing around my bum-hole. Then suddenly, I feel the liquid running into me. It’s cold and it seems to suck every drop of warmth from my body.

I start to shiver uncontrollably and a moan escapes from my clamped-open mouth. This cuts no ice with the nurse who ignores me and checks that her tubing is ok. She looks over at a monitor.

“You appear to be becoming agitated. I can give you something to make you feel more relaxed. Do you want that?” She says. “Just raise your hand if you do.”

At this point I am ready to take whatever I can get. I raise my hand right away.

“I see that you have asked for medication,” she says, as if it’s for the record.

She takes out a drip and connects it up to the needle in my arm, hanging it from the other stand. Almost right away I start to feel warm and fuzzy. Everything is fine. Everything is absolutely fine. I can feel my bowels filling up with cold liquid, actually just room temperature, but it still feels cold and that’s absolutely fine too, peachy in fact.

“This is going to take a few minutes,” says the nurse and walks out, leaving me alone.

It takes some effort to sum up my situation: I’m strapped on my back in some chair, with my legs split open like a can-can dancer, there’s a speculum opening up my sex, there’s a needle in my arm, my other arm is strapped down, and my mouth is wedged open with the sort of thing you’d use for operating on a vicious dog’s mouth while it’s awake. There’s a rubber nozzle the size of a tennis ball up my bum and it’s pumping me full of cold liquid. To finish up, I’m as high as a kite and loving every second of it.

I have the distant impression that the liquid flowing into me is bloating me uncomfortably, but it’s just some distant concern that somebody else can worry about, it’s not my problem. Another thought crosses my mind: that they can do anything they like with me now, anything at all. I’m ok with that.

After about ten minutes the nurse returns and massages my belly a little. The belt is around my waist, much higher up. The lower part of my belly looks a little chubby. It seems vaguely amusing when the nurse hits a pedal on the chair, dropping it down. She brings up a large plastic bowl and deflates the nozzle in my bum, then pulls it out.

There’s a splurting, then a slow erratic flow of liquid out of my bottom, halting and then spraying suddenly. She massages my belly again and asks me to bear down. It feels like an attack of diarrhea that won’t stop. I think I’m done and then another spray comes. The smell of shit is quite strong. I’m glad I don’t care about it.

Then she re-inserts the nozzle and pumps it up again. The fluid bag is replaced with a new one that she just brought in. It’s warm, extremely warm in fact. As it begins to fill me, I’m no longer shivering, instead I’m sweating. She methodically massages my belly as it fills me up. Through the drug haze it all feels vaguely pleasant. I notice there is a stream of drool running out of the side of my mouth and dripping from the headrest of the chair onto the floor. Sometimes it drips into the plastic bowl because I can hear it splash. The nurse’s eyes over the top of her surgical mask are burning into mine.

After the second enema is released she raises the chair again and I drift away in fuzzy-wuzzy land while she inserts a device into my bum and expands it so she can do her exam. I hear her mutter to herself, “damage commensurate with repeated anal penetration.” She makes a note on her clipboard.

“That’s your main exam complete,” she says. Then she brings over a breathing apparatus with a black rubber mask and places it on my face. I don’t resist as I slip into unconsciousness; I barely even notice.

I awake, in small, bare room with nothing in it but a hospital bed. I’m naked and covered with a single thin sheet. I feel like I’ve been worked over with a baseball bat. Every muscle in my body aches. I rub my jaw, which is particularly sore. I doubt I can speak properly because it hurts so much to move my mouth.

I drag myself to a sitting position and look about. There’s really nothing else in the room apart from the basket with my clothes. I struggle out of bed and get dressed. My legs feel wobbly. My hips feel like they were taken apart and put back together again, badly. There’s no mirror so I can’t see what I look like.

I check my arm. There’s a small skin-colored bandaid covering where the needle went in, and all around is heavy purple bruising. It looks like a junkie’s arm, well not really, but if you don’t know what a real junkie’s arm looks like you might think so.

I feel really thirsty and I desperately need something to drink. There’s nothing here, not even a washbasin, so I try the door. Maybe I can find a bathroom. To my surprise, the door is locked. I bang on it noisily.

“Hey! I’m awake in here.”

There’s no answer. I sit down on the bed and wait. As I become accustomed to my aches and pains I begin to notice that there’s a sharp pain in the back of my shoulder. I run my hand over the spot, sure enough there is a dressing secured with surgical tape. What happened to me?

I wait, becoming bored. With nothing to do, something I don’t expect is that I’m starting to feel extremely horny. I haven’t felt like this since I started the noodle diet. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this. Even though my sex is sore, all I can think about is fingering it, or sticking something up there.

I slide my hand down and hitch up my dress. I push the crotch of my panties aside and begin to gently masturbate. Unexpectedly, my clit is already hard and eager for my touch. Good grief, I’m already wet. I was going to circle softly around until that happened. Instead I slide a finger inside myself, then another, then a third. I locate my clit with my thumb. This feels perfect.

I hear footsteps approaching outside. I pull my hand away quickly and tug down my dress, not bothering to reposition the crotch of my panties, which is now digging in annoyingly.

There’s a click and then the door opens. There’s a woman in a white coat I’ve never seen before. I hope she doesn’t notice my flushed state or the smell of sex, which is now so embarrassingly obvious.

“Good, you’re up and about. I’m afraid you fainted, fell, cut your shoulder on the chair. I stitched it up with a local,” explains the woman.

“Sorry, what about the nurse? I don’t think I fell over. I was lying down when she put me out,” I say.

The woman smiles faintly, as if I am a babbling lunatic. “Nurse? I did your entire exam today. I don’t remember a nurse being present. It only took a few minutes.”

I know this is false because my aching body is a record of everything that happened..

“I’m Doctor Banford,” she adds. “A knock to the head can cause loss of short-term memory. It seemed best to keep you here to be sure there was no concussion.” She whips out a little pen-light and checks my eyes before I can protest.

“You’re probably fine, but you should avoid driving or operating machinery. Just give us a call if you feel dizzy, or hot, or cold, lose sensation, or faint, anything out of the ordinary really.”

I nod.

“Just go out and to the left. Susan will sort you out in reception,” she says. Her work apparently done. She turns to leave. There is to be no further discussion of what has happened.

I follow her directions, there’s a door and then another corridor. I emerge through a curtain into reception. This is where I saw those other women come out. I walk over to Susan the perfect receptionist, who doesn’t look at me immediately. At least now I have a name to put to her.

After a few seconds of standing in front of her, she looks up.

“Oh, of course. Kelly. Here,” she says, pulling out more paperwork. “Just sign here.” Of course I sign without bothering to read anything.

She opens a box behind her desk and pulls out six fifty dollar bills and puts them down in front of me.

“Here you go. Apart from the little mishap the results of your exam were very encouraging and we are looking at putting you into our advanced research program. It could require a more commitment than a normal test regime, but you can earn a lot more money. Does that sound like something you’d be interested in?” Asks the poker-faced Susan.

“Yes. Yes it does,” I say truthfully, staring at the three hundred dollars on the desk. If there’s more than that, I am definitely in. I’m sure there are questions I should be asking, but all I can think about are my panties wedged up in my crack. They are literally teasing me and I feel kind of slooshly down there, almost weak at the knees.

“Come back in a week’s time and we’ll see about getting you started,” she says.

“OK. Thanks,” I say, picking up the cash. I don’t have a bag. What do I have to carry about? No phone, no cash, no train tickets, no make-up. I push the cash down inside my bra, which makes me feel cheap and sleazy. On that thought I wish I could check myself before I leave.

“Is there a toilet I can use?” I add before I go.

“Just there on the left,” she says.

Inside the toilet I forget about looking in the mirror and make a dash for one of the stalls. In a flash I have the door locked, my panties off and my dress hitched up. It only takes a few minutes to bring myself off. The orgasm hits me like a truck and I sag exhausted on the toilet seat.

I finish off by taking a pee, it burns like hell. It’s like somebody stuck a hot wire up there. The crotch of my panties is soggy but I pull them on anyway. I can afford to buy a train ticket home.

Outside it’s daylight, mid-morning. My watch confirms that I spent the night there. The whole night. What happened to the time?

I know I should be thinking about what happened, but on the train home, all I can think about is getting home, throwing myself on the bed and getting my hand back inside my panties.



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