The Doctor is In

[brunoone]

Announcing the opening of a clinic, specializing in the treatment of anally frigid females. Women with a fear of anal sex are often referred to me for several visits. During therapy sessions, we typically discuss the philsophy of anal sex and work patiently to awaken in these women new avenues of physical pleasure.

I'm Dr. Bruno Mitchell, a 36-year-old therapist: 6'2", 185lbs, Nordic features. My blond goatee is immaculately trimmed. My wardrobe is crisp and professional without seeming cool or distant. You'll find me personable, but authoritative as our sessions progress.

My office is comfortably appointed in masculine Georgian furnishings: a dark cherry desk, some oxblood leather chairs, a couch, floor-to-ceiling bookcases. A door in one wall opens into a smaller room. The centerpiece of this welcoming chamber is a padded examination table. It is surrounded by cabinets, drawers and counter space.

Ladies requesting treatment may leave a brief history of their dysfunction -- as well as their goals for therapy -- with the receptionist.

[Edited by brunoone on 02-26-2001 at 01:53 PM]

 

[Earthgoddess]

I nervously approach the receptionist with my medical records in hand, I lay them on the desk and take the seat closest to the door. My chestnut hair was extracting itself from it's chignon, and the rain had also wilted my crisply starched blouse. At a tad over five feet tall my curves have a tendency to reduce my most carefully planned outfits. I resisted my own Rubenesque form and had successfully hidden all of my wants and desires for years. At 33 I was firmly resigned to being an old maid-but lately I had fallen into the wanton habit of cybering-and now I had a gentleman quite interested in meeting me. My fantasies had kept expanding and I knew there was no way I could met him with this shameful problem. I kept reassuring myself that a great many women had this issue-there is no shame in being an virgin. My standing within the community required that I deal with this delicate problem quietly and effectively. Too many townspeople know Eliza Wisely, and I could not risk seeing a guest from the Bed and Breakfast. This specialist was referred to me by a therapist who specialized in sexual repression. We had covered a great deal of ground, but the strict Victorian upbringing that my uncle had insisted upon had caused a severe fear of all things sexual. But my own research into Victoriana had fed a number of desires and now I had to deal with them.

 

[brunoone]

The receptionist closes the door behind her and I sit alone in my office for a few minutes, leafing through the file I've been handed. Pursing my lips as I read the carefully transcribed notes of her referring therapist, I stand and -- still reading -- cross the spacious office to a bookcase. The words "repressed" and "Victorian" appear like punctuation throughout the sheaf of memoranda. I look up momentarily, long enough to drag a volume on Pre-Raphaelite painting from a shelf. I re-cross the chamber, lowering the coffee table book to... well... the coffee table, around which an overstuffed settee and chair are grouped. Flipping through the reproductions, I stop, leaving the book open to a turn-of-the-century work set in a Roman bath.

I take an unsullied stenographer's pad from the bottom drawer of my desk, write my newest client's name on its cover, then usher Miss Eliza Wisely into the office for her first session. "Miss Wisely," I say, smiling at the door, "won't you come in?"

She crosses in front of me on her way into the office and an internal alarm goes off. It must seem to many men I have an ideal job. But toeing the line of ethics is a battle I wage daily. Since hanging out my shingle, I've developed a number of strategies to help me exorcise normal male desire from professional behavior. I can see, instantly, however, Miss Wisely will test my ability to maintain polite emotional distance.

Her petite stature and demure deportment would immediately distinguish her from a room full of alluring women. She's more than a foot shorter than I am. I'm thrown off by how that size difference enchants me. I mustn't be caught leering, of course, but I do look long enough to appreciate the pleasant contrast of womanly curves and girlish height. My mind can't help imagining how her size might translate into the snug, perhaps even difficult, accommodation of lovers.

I don't quite have to shake my head to return to the formalities of welcoming a new patient, but her passing aroma and a second view of her classical facial features aren't helping me concentrate.

I wave my hand toward the settee, shutting us off from the rest of the world with a slow closing of the room's solid door. "Please, feel free to call me Bruno... Dr. Mitchell... whatever makes you comfortable." As you lower your attractive form onto the sofa, I settle into the nearby chair and flip the small notebook open on my knee.

I lean forward in a genuine show of interest and smile with kind blue eyes.

"Now... unless you think I'll benefit from additional background that's not in your file, perhaps we should start by setting some realistic goals for your therapy with me. Considering my area of specialty, what, exactly, would you like our sessions to accomplish that hasn't been addressed by your previous therapist?"

[Edited by brunoone on 02-26-2001 at 01:46 PM]

 

[Earthgoddess]

I can't help but notice the ripe, fleshy women in the arty coffee table book-convienently placed on the coffee table.
I am having a great deal of difficulty-this man was supposed to be the best, but I expected him to be older and less attractive. I clear my throat and am humilated that my voice wavers as I speak.
" I am here to clearly define the appropriate boundaries and reactions to stimulation- I am afraid that my reactions are based on my fear of intimacy and are therefore greatly exaggerated." my voice choked up and I stopped and caught myself before I revealed too much. I felt a tear slid it's way across my cheek and I hunted for a handkerchief. What if he couldn't help me-he looked so earnest and sincere. But what if he did not have the skills to handle my problem. I found myself lost in his soft eyes,and I began to seriously doubt myself. What if I became aroused during the exam-how shameful and wrong it would be to take pleasure in a strictly mediacl process.
I hung my head and attempted to collect myself for any other questions he may ask-my heart fluttered against my ribs.

 

[brunoone]

This way to the exam room...

"Appropriate boundaries, Exaggerated Reactions, Fear," I print neatly on three separate lines in the notebook labeled "Wisely" in my lap. When I look up from writing, I notice my patient's in need of a tissue. As she plucks a Kleenex from the box I offer, her eyes meet mine with a look that reveals emotional tenderness. I wonder for a second if she's responding to me, personally. Something shifts quietly in the left leg of my trousers.

"Try to relax," I smile, trying to move the session forward, refocusing on your problem as a professional task. "I know you may be reluctant to speak in concrete terms about your intimate goals, but I can assure you, after a decade in private practice, I think of very few things as outside what you call 'appropriate boundaries.'

"Perhaps it will put you more at ease," I continue, scooting to the edge of the chair's cushion, "if I lay out a road map for our first session. This will be an extended meeting, so we'll have plenty of uninterrupted time for a physical exam and a lengthy conversation... maybe then we'll try to talk more candidly about arousal and anal sex in specific."

I watch your eyes widen at my first, frank, mention of the concern that brings us together.

"Depending on my findings during the physical, I may suggest some exercises for you to perform between now and our meeting next week."

I rise from the chair and my charcoal pinstripe suit falls neatly into sharp creases. "Let me show you to the examination room where you can disrobe." I extend a hand to assist you to your feet. The first brush of our flesh is more electric than I'm prepared for. I wonder if my cheeks flush visibly. "There's a gown on the exam table. Please remove all your clothing and slip into it. When you're ready for me, just flip the switch by the sink." Beneath my beard, the corners of my mouth curve warmly upward. "Then, we'll start with your giving me a name I can call you and work our way onward from there."

The door closes behind you and you're alone in a smaller room, temperature-adjusted for extended periods of comfortable nakedness. Where there's wallspace between cabinets, authoritative diplomas and accolades tell the story of my education and successes. These are, no doubt, the credentials and testimonials that impressed your own therapist and led to your referral.

Like all hospital gowns, the one on the padded table is woefully inadequate for covering any form with modesty. Through the door, you hear me instruct the receptionist to reschedule today's appointment for later in the week...

 

[brunoone]

This way to the exam room...

"Appropriate boundaries, Exaggerated Reactions, Fear," I print neatly on three separate lines in the notebook labeled "Wisely" in my lap. When I look up from writing, I notice my patient's in need of a tissue. As she plucks a Kleenex from the box I offer, her eyes meet mine with a look that reveals emotional tenderness. I wonder for a second if she's responding to me, personally. Something shifts quietly in the left leg of my trousers.

"Try to relax," I smile, trying to move the session forward, refocusing on your problem as a professional task. "I know you may be reluctant to speak in concrete terms about your intimate goals, but I can assure you, after a decade in private practice, I think of very few things as outside what you call 'appropriate boundaries.'

"Perhaps it will put you more at ease," I continue, scooting to the edge of the chair's cushion, "if I lay out a road map for our first session. This will be an extended meeting, so we'll have plenty of uninterrupted time for a physical exam and a lengthy conversation... maybe then we'll try to talk more candidly about arousal and anal sex in specific."

I watch your eyes widen at my first, frank, mention of the concern that brings us together.

"Depending on my findings during the physical, I may suggest some exercises for you to perform between now and our meeting next week."

I rise from the chair and my charcoal pinstripe suit falls neatly into sharp creases. "Let me show you to the examination room where you can disrobe." I extend a hand to assist you to your feet. The first brush of our flesh is more electric than I'm prepared for. I wonder if my cheeks flush visibly. "There's a gown on the exam table. Please remove all your clothing and slip into it. When you're ready for me, just flip the switch by the sink." Beneath my beard, the corners of my mouth curve warmly upward. "Then, we'll start with your giving me a name I can call you and work our way onward from there."

The door closes behind you and you're alone in a smaller room, temperature-adjusted for extended periods of comfortable nakedness. Where there's wallspace between cabinets, authoritative diplomas and accolades tell the story of my education and successes. These are, no doubt, the credentials and testimonials that impressed your own therapist and led to your referral.

Like all hospital gowns, the one on the padded table is woefully inadequate for covering any form with modesty. Through the door, you hear me instruct the receptionist to reschedule today's appointment for later in the week...

 

[Earthgoddess]

Your voice resonants softly through the exam room, and I amcurious to know why you are cancelling all the other appointments. Perhaps I am a far worse case than even I thought. I remove my attire and carefully hang each piece. I am all too concious that nothing I do can extend the meager fabric of the gown. I decide finally to cover more of the front of my body. That way there is no way for you to see how hard my nipples have become,especially if I keep my arms crossed.
I wonder if I will have the same humiliating reaction to the physical exam that I had during the last therapy sesion. I am so ashamed that this arouses me,and I am terrified that it means something is terribly wrong with me. My on-line lover was so wonderfully courtly-our affair had been comprised of gentle coaxing and muffled cries. All done undeer the guise of an historical roleplay. My exacting knowledge of Victoriana had made it quite mentally stimulating and when slowly the talk had turned to dewy petals of love and copious spending, I felt as though I was living a delicious fairy tale. I had run out and bought every Victorian romance and lucked into a very worn copy of the Pearl. My upbringing and education had never prepared me for my reactions.
My last therapist had insisted that I read erotica to my comfort level-I was too afraid to admit I was constantly reading it. He had also suggested that I touch myself-we had spent weeks on my touch issues. I still was only able to work my fingers into myself in the bath-that way I accepted the intrusion as a necessary part of cleaning myself. Hygiene is intensly important to me,so I have found new ways to combine the thill of touching myself with hygiene.I followed a strict cleansing ritual-both external and internal-I found myself refreshed and relaxed by the nightly routine. I began shaving myself, as the soft skin seemed to come alive under my fingers and I felt sure that eventually I would be able to release all this pent up frustration and move into real life with my cyber partner.
My thoughts must have distracted me because I flicked the switch and continued to taunt myself with the thoughts of a release. Suddenly the doctor was in the doorway.
I clutched the robe more tightly and smiled wanly,"Please call me Eliza. I prefer it to Miss Wisely."

 

[brunoone]

As the door closes behind my receptionist, I look through your file again for cues that might help me prepare for the impending exam. I scratch a few things about ritual cleanliness ("OCD?" I ask myself in the margin) in your notebook, then re-read a paragraph about a previous therapy session. Evidently, you'd become embarrassed by your own arousal during an exam. Hmmm.

A light comes on above the exam room door. I drop the file on my desk, hang my suit coat on a bentwood rack, and drag a white lab coat over my vest. Glancing at a watch on a fob across my chest, I make a mental note of the exam's start time. I cram the antique back into its pocket and enter the exam room.

You look as though you've mistaken the sound of the door latch for a gunshot. I close the door behind us and smile soothingly. "Please sit on the edge of the table, won't you?"

I turn to the sink and wash my hands, deliberately standing to one side so you can see my thorough scrubbing of every large knuckle, the skin under every smooth nail.

Facing you again, it's all I can do not to slowly appreciate your newly-exposed legs. Not much length to them, of course... but, then, it's not about length, is it? Female attractiveness isn't well-expressed by measurements, but by proportion. The artists featured in my coffee table book were well aware of that.

The table's padded leather surface is heated. No doubt its warmth touches you where the gown's fabric doesn't. I take a step to within a foot of your knees and smile, wondering if the cross of your arms is defensive -- keeping me distant -- or restraining -- trapping you inside your own skin.

"Eliza," I begin, enjoying the sound of your delightfully anachronistic name, "Please. I know you're nervous." I reach for your nearest wrist. "And I know something about the kind of fears women have at this point in their therapy." I pull your forearm gently to your side. "If you feel, at any point, truly, personally, threatened by anything that happens here, you can request that my receptionist be present. You can even leave." There's a tiny surrender in your other arm as it lowers, haltingly, of its own accord to a corresponding place on the other side of you. "I will warn you, however, that either interruption will significantly compromise your progress."

For a few moments, I make a cursory check of vitals, skin, hair, muscle tone in the extremities. I am -- no surprise -- impressed by your attention to grooming. I put a stethoscope to your back, listen to good breath sounds, noting your finishing-school posture. My palm glances across a breach in the gown's flimsy fabric, momentarily brushing your ramrod straight spine. With my face behind your back, it's easy for me to steal long glances toward your ass without fear of discovery. My smile brightens.

Moving in front of you again, I place the stethoscope's disc over your heart. There's no mistaking the hardened nipples beneath your garment at this close range. I silently observe the room's warmth, then bury my scope in a pocket of the labcoat.

"Let me warn you, Eliza, your body doesn't always do what you want it to do... it doesn't always stay in the boxes you build for it. As we continue the exam, it's not at all unusual for your body to react with the signs of arousal. Perhaps you'll produce some spontaneous vaginal lubrication, perhaps your nipples will stiffen, you might even find your clitoris becoming more sensitive." I take a pair of latex gloves from a drawer and pull them on. "I assure you, these are perfectly natural, physiological responses to human touch." From another drawer, I take a tube of K-Y jelly and set it on the counter. "In fact, under my care, there's even a long-term therapeutic value to the enjoyment of these sensations."

One gloved hand reaches behind you and tugs at the ties that hold the gown's two halves together. The other lands tentatively, but comfortingly on your right knee. "Lie back and we'll use this as a drape as I examine your vagina. Then, we'll spend some more concentrated time on your anus and rectum..."

 

[Earthgoddess]

I recline aware that the arousal signs,
the signs you mentioned are manifesting themselves and the exam has yet to begin. Forcing myself to breath deeply I can hear the blood singing in my veins as your hands encased in the taut gloves touch me. "Doctor is there a high recidivism rate for frigid women? Do I need to be concerned that this work will erase itself once I leave here?" my voice squeaking far more than necessary.
The warmth of the table was contrasting with the cool air, and the sight of your body between my legs was so enticing I could barely control my desires.

 

[brunoone]

Into the stirrups...

"It's not that you'll necessarily 'lose' what you learn in my care." My hand slides up from your knee to the middle of your thigh. "But I think it's reasonable to expect you'll be tempted, throughout adulthood, back to your current comfort zone." My thumb and forefinger pinch the hem of your gown. "Don't count on conquering frigidity once and for all, but on it becoming gradually more manageable over time."

I lift the edge of the gown to just beneath your breasts. The fabric folds, exposing you from the waist down.

"Hmmmm...hairless mons pubis," I observe, aiming an exam light above me at your crotch. "And labia majora." My words are clinical, but my thoughts are base. "What a gash!" I think to myself. Though insulated by a thin latex skin, my first touch of your gender's delicate flower is electric for us both. I smooth your outer lips to one side, inspecting the crease of thigh and torso, repeating the action on the other side. Looking up, my baritone is warm and reassuring. "I don't usually see this level of attention to grooming. You seem to have avoided even the faintest traces of skin irritation normally associated with denuding this part of your anatomy. That's a good sign for us; it denotes a fairly high level of body-awareness."

A sheen of moisture glints in the light from the feminine furrow between your legs. I suppose it could be discharge of some sort, but there's nothing in the notes to indicate it. Maybe it's wish-fulfillment on my part to imagine it's evidence of your excitement... which seems a little more advanced than I would have expected from someone with your history of repression.

"Let me make this next part a little easier." Taking a step back, I pull a pair of stirrups into place from beneath the table's surface. You lift dainty heels into the bright steel cradles made for them. The view improves instantly. "No," I assure myself, "no other way to read that. Something's turning her on."

I decide K-Y will be superfluous for the internal exam, and position myself authoritatively between your thighs. I put a reassuring hand on your belly beneath your navel. Fleetingly, I think of the days when a maiden's fertility was valued, guessed at, and bargained for. I press my right index finger into the weeping fold of your flesh. It demands only shallow purchase, no deeper than the quick of my nail.

"I believe your chart said you were a virgin. Is that information still accurate?"

 

[Earthgoddess]

" I am a virgin, but I hope to someday change that," the pressure of your fingers is entrancing and I am relaxing a tad.
"Do you have expereince with "older" virgins? Will my advanced virginal age make my treatment more strenuous?"
My eyes feel heavy and my limbs grow languid as you gently probe me. I am hardly able to look at your face as we proceed, my arousal is so evident and your face soon melds with the words of my unseen lover. An old cyber session soons teases me, the sweet remembrances send a roll of pleasure up my spine. Then the brain starts to send the messages-always hissed in my aged uncle's sneering tones.
" Bad, dirty girl. Pleasures of the flesh are for harlots and trollops-never touch yourself unless your washing."
I began to have a panic attack and the probing of my maidenhead makes my anxiety suddenly well forth. I begin to cry and the pleasure begins to ebb.
Your look of concern says everything,I am terrified that this look of incredulous horror at my inability to receive pleasure will haunt me and doom me to a life without the sacred pleasures of a normal relationship. Yet your fingers simply withdraw-and you speak to me in a soft murmur that has no words just comfort. But you make no effort to end the seesion and instead let me cry on your shoulder as I cling like a frightened child.

 

[brunoone]

"Will my advanced virginal age make my treatment more strenuous?" Your voice seems to have lost its earlier quaver. I add a second finger to the examination and probe a little deeper, searching for the hymen before I answer.

"Mmmm. It's unusual at your age, but I believe your membrane's still intact, Eliza. It won't necessarily make treatment more strenuous, but it does make you a more likely candidate for initial incidents of dyspareunia." I bend a little closer to your torso and my fingers rotate slowly and easily within you, tracing the edge of your hymen. "Just a fancy way of saying coitus may be painful the first few times. Perhaps in your case, you might choose to have the membrane ruptured manually or surgically. I don't think creating a connection between intimacy and pain would do anything but intensify your frigidity."

Your eyes are distant. I wonder if you've heard anything I've said. Suddenly, you're crying. I extract my fingers, first suspecting pain. That's not it, I conclude, and try to make sense of it. "This is no time for analysis," I tell myself, offering you now more comfort than understanding. You cling to me, shaking. The untied gown falls from your chest, and your firm, ample bosom presses against me. I can sense the heat of your nipples even through the layers of my clothes.

The sudden display of vulnerability doesn't suprise me so much as it arouses me. Here I am, standing between the legs of a voluptuous beauty, her modesty and bantam stature exaggerated by the contrast of her nakedness with my own clothed form.

My biceps and forearm flex against your shoulders as I curl a reassuring arm around you. I lightly stroke your head with my free hand, unintentionally liberating most of your fragrant hair from its prim knot. I hum tunelessly, wordlessly against your skull, a near-mothering murmur that requires no response on your part. I rock you gently until the sobs are less seismic, until the silence of the room can again compete with your weeping.

I retract just far enough from your body to focus comfortably on your tear-streaked face. "Now, Eliza... let's not lose ground to old demons." There's tender determination in my voice. Other therapists might call it a day after an emotional scene like this one. Maybe it's my days on the college soccer field, but I feel I'm competing with sexual dysfunction. And I don't like to lose. I plow ahead, mentally thankful my afternoon schedule's clear. "This is pleasure-avoidance response, isn't it? You want to tell me what's brought it on before we continue?"

 

[Earthgoddess]

The warmth of your body reassures me and sniffling beneath my tousled mane I mumble into your broad chest.
"I was falling into the sensations and suddenly I had to make it stop-I was told for almost 30 years that pleasure was wrong." I have a strong desire to curl into the comfort of your arms. This is the most contact I have ever had with a man, and I want more.
"Your touch felt so safe, I was really able to relax-then I realized that your fingers were moving into my body and that's when..." I look away. The realization of what I've said shocks me-you were doing more than examining me. Am I making this gross assumption due to my inexpereince or were you looking for more than a diagnosis? Your tone is so neutral, yet your body language is so...it must be my imagination. A doctor would never be aroused by a patient, especially one as unwilling as I.
My breathing becomes heavier and I find myself wondering if this is all part of the physical.
"Your soothing touches and holding me as I cry-do you do this for other patients?" my tone sounds almost like another person. Immediately after asking this blatant, and over bold query, I aplogize.
"I am so sorry, this is all so new and my emotions are so raw." My words rockslide from my mouth," I have never been on a date or touched for pleasure before in my life, so I have no idea what to expect or how to cope."
My gown is open and the space between our bodies feels electric, my skin is warmed by you and cooled at the same time by the air conditioning.
I look up and somehow through the tangle of hair I catch my reflection in your eyes. My cheeks pale, my lips puffy from biting them as I cried and my eyes look enormous. I look like some wanton waif, not a repressed woman, somehow I look softer frm the pleasure I had so abruptly stopped. I lick my lips and continue to stare, making no effort to hide my body or my curiousity.

 

[brunoone]

Suddenly, using the word "virgin" to describe you seems a gross understatement.

"Don't be at all ashamed of asking questions, Eliza. While I can't detail my treatment of other patients, I can tell you, my actions are therapeutic and calculated responses to patient need. Clearly, you needed a comforting hug." My hands gently touch your upper arms, though there's something slightly possessive about their weight upon you.

"You have other evident needs." I lift a hand toward your left cheek. It stops in midair. Latex gloves seem an impediment, so I yank them off with a snap. I brush back a fallen tress of your hair. "Your eyes..." my voice fades with quiet awe. I clear my throat and begin: "Your eyes indicate a need for acceptance, for affirmation." I brush your left cheekbone with the knuckle of my forefinger. It is the first real contact of our flesh. You wince perceptibly, but I drag the digit to just beneath your left earlobe. "You need to have affirmed as appropriate your involuntary response to touch."

My fingers follow the faint blue path of your jugular downward along your neck. "This touch..." The pressure of my hand is just a fraction too heavy to tickle. "Not only is it appropriate that you receive pleasure from this touch, a physiological response of arousal to it may be unavoidable."

I hadn't realized our faces were growing closer. Yet, here I am, a half foot from you. "Imagine, Eliza... imagine the physiological response if I... if I kissed you. If I lowered my head six inches, covered your mouth with mine, reverently tasted you...if you returned the kiss, seeking as much as being sought. You might hear some internal voice of disapproval... you could hear your own uncle's voice... but I doubt either of those could stop the flow of nature's honey to that hive of your femininity."

My hand follows your clavicle to the center of your chest, where I flatten a palm over your heart. You can feel a warm sheen of perspiration between us. "And if I were to cover your breast with my hand... if I flexed its sinews in a massage of your bosom... do you think some mental discipline or social mores could keep the rosy nub of your nipple from hardening into erection? No... the kindling of Beltane's fires is immutable, irresistable... and welcome. In your case, it's actually progress."

I feel a familiar lengthening in the left leg of my trousers. "We need to continue your therapy with the understanding that you will, indeed, be soothed, pleased, and aroused... by touch, by imagination... for all I know, you may even be aroused by me. Do you think we can proceed with your exam?"

 

[Earthgoddess]

OCC you have mail!
The thought of the possibilities,your lips somehow have left an indelible print on my own. I reach up and touch my lips, wondering about your taste, and the feeling as your tongue makes it's way into my mouth. Too old to play ingenue, I nevertheless blush a pale rose. Your finger's path is mentally tattoed on my skin-I will replay this moment for hours I am sure. The frank way you've spoken has left me breathless, and wanting so much more. The idea of you taunting my nipples, and using your mouth upon me has utterly fogged my brain.
"Please I want to learn more, don't stop-" I gaze openly hungrily at you. My skin is flushed and hot and still those eyes-staring directly at me. I can't look away and every vibration of the air between us heightens my keen hunger. My legs are still spread and my skin is glistening with arousal-I spread them further and allow the air to caress my throbbing lips. Your predictions of my reaction and the fear behind it were correct. But this time I fought the fear,and pushed myself to my limit and tried to simply listen and allow the pleasure to spread.
My nipples feel as if weights are attached to them-they ache and feel so heavy. All of the ridiculous fantasies I had a paling in comparision to this experience.
I lift my arms again and circle them about your neck,biting my lower lip,and I begin to beg you,
"Please touch me, please help me to enjoy all of this."
As a solitary child I had read much of pagan rituals and recently had begun practicing monthly sabbats with a group of Celtic pagans-I treated it more or less as an intellectual pursuit. But Belatane and the rites of pleasure that surrounded the welcoming of May had interested me-it seems to be such a hedonistic holiday and since I needed and craved the release of my soul to passion what better analogy could be found?

[Edited by Earthgoddess on 03-02-2001 at 05:50 PM]

 

[Earthgoddess]

OCC Have I been deserted? Has an evil HMO interferred with my internal exam coverage? Oh woe is me, is this doctor not a preferred provider?

 

[brunoone]

Your cheek tingles, painted with the trimmed hairs of my goatee. My face slides to the pendant of your left earlobe. Words condense into moisture as I breathe across the shell of your ear. "Relax, Eliza... and be taught pleasure's language."

My thumb strums your left nipple at a pace of aching leisure. Occasionally, forefinger joins the task of softly groping the areola. The digits move in concert, half-stroking, half-pinching the roseate disc of flesh, as if I might milk moans from its near-invisible ducts.

A klaxon of ethical warning shakes my brain against my skull. But the voice of intellectual caution dies as the body's humors redistribute themselves. My heart betrays my oaths and ideals, forcing blood south to inflame manhood's central structure.

By now, it's possible you even feel the hardness of desire pressed against your inner thigh through the thin wool blend of my pants. It's a brief touch, however. I straighten, momentarily denying us mutual contact. My eyebrows are gathered with a frustration that disappears when I lower the confining stirrups.

I extend my hand toward you and invite you to the floor. "Stand, Eliza." Again, I'm attracted by your diminutive stature. Touching your shoulder, I steer you in a sluggish pirouette that leaves you facing the table. You can hear the rustle of fabric behind you as I speak.

"Touch... it can't be merely about fingers and hands. I won't have done my job, Eliza, until you think of your whole body as a tactile organ..." As it hangs on you now, the gown you wear is neither modest nor protective. I tug it free of your body. "...until your back and shoulder blades are as alive with sensuous potential as the antennae of your netherlips." As if to illustrate, I press the bare flesh of my corrugated abdomen against your spine. It is nearly hairless, save for the light trail that escapes my navel and disappears beneath the waistband of my pants.

My arms touch your shoulders, hands slide downward to cover your breasts. Palms flatten against you, cinching your body even more snugly against mine. Your lungs swell and deflate in anxious rhythm. "Slowly," I coach. "Breathe slowly.

"Your brain may be waging a mental war of fear, Eliza." My belt buckle's cool metal anounces the current boundary of my nakedness. The press of my erection against the left flank of your derriere is unmistakable. Your lack of experience gives you no comparison of reference, yet you're still intimidated by this first hint of its size.

"Try, instead, to concentrate on the function of your nervous system. Think of your back as a artist's palette." I squat briefly and the heat of my nipples is scalding against your scapulae. The thatch of dusky golden fur that covers my sternum is a satin scrub for your vertebrae. "Imagine the colors mixed upon it... and the painting they'll produce."

The splayed fingers of my right hand drift in wide, lazy circles across your belly, enthralled by its inviting, balanced curve. Finally, my ring finger glides to a stop over your clitoris.

Your initial shudder subsides and I speak kindly to you. "So many more things to touch. So many more senses to awaken, Eliza. I'll also see that you delight in sound, fragrance and flavor." The pressure of my finger increases and I wiggle your clit. Once. "And then, we'll make some decisions about that membrane rupture we discussed... not to mention the completion of your anal exam. How're we doing, Eliza?"

 

[Earthgoddess]

I can barely breath, the panic is mixing with more acute arousal than I ever thought possible. Again I had the sense of force emanating from you. Your questions drove me to answer in little moans.
I was on the edge of bolting, screaming running from you and this new torture. My mind raced as my heart drummed it's way out of my chest. Your skin was velvet and thorns at the same time-luxurious skin and hair so fine that if it wasn't for my heightened state I would not have noticed. I am so totally aware it is terrifying in its minutae-my wetness flows and leaks onto my thighs. My lips heavy and blood ripe-and the shock of your finger on my clit-a piercing would be no more effective. I pant and try to stay still-fight or flight moves in and I taste the coppery fear in my throat. My body begging me to allow and my mind punishing me for every thought, whim and wish.
The new penny is in my mouth, my tongue pressed flat with the metal of my own terror. You're saying my name-and I can't answer because I can't remeber how to speak, I am lost in this wonderous nightmare of pleasure hovering on the edge of sanity. My skin flushes with animalian hunger, my mind is melting into itself.
I feel the fabric of your pants and the shadow of your manhood presses its way into my skin. A tattoo of what I crave is now firmly held against my bare flesh.
My terror mounts and I tremble in thew cocoon of your arms, then as it mounts so does a weightlessness- a release of self imposed bonds. I become,I submit, I succumb, I lose myself in the wanting of you. The clarity of the decision is marked by the gathering of my pleasure-perching like an eagle, my orgasm awaits your command to soar free of my fear. Fear causes pain, leading to pleasure rolling through the fear until the anticipation of the pleasure is a sweet fear of it's own.
"I am yours" spoken with confidence and supplication-sanctify me with your lessons. Cleanse me with your passions and paint the portrait of a gently surrendered soul upon my flesh with your honeyed tongue.

 

[brunoone]

No matter the claims of poets, those three little words -- "I am yours" -- are those most desired by the ears of men. Thus the smile your surrender brings to my lips is deep, genuine, and liberating. The tangled noose of professional ethics slips from me as you declare what no law can construe as anything other than adult consent.

Though your words and body are certainly those of a knowing woman, they seem a thin shroud for a girl's wide-eyed nescience. Your breasts, at once lush and fragile send me scrambled messages. The fingers of one hand knead the hot flesh of your chest, keenly aware of your heart's frightened flutter just beneath it.

My other hand, still poised with a trigger finger on your clit, slides to cover the tropical flower of your entire vulva. "That's a gift I'll accept with relish...but not one I'll take lightly, Eliza.

"You need opening. And not by any cold, sterile instrument." I'm not sure if my middle finger sinks into your slick furrow as if into quicksand, or if the digit's swallowed by the pronounced engorgement of your lips. It's a completely different experience without the glove. Your labia are as glutted with blood as any I've examined. The manicured hairlessness of your pubic berm seems suddenly more pronounced against the heel of my hand.

My left hand eases away from your breast to rub your shoulder and neck, a calming massage, a complement to kindly instructive words. "It's one thing to say you're mine. It's another thing entirely to demonstrate hunger for the key of your unlocking." The finger in your greasy quim stirs slowly, almost idly. "My cock, Eliza." You gasp faintly... ignited by the finger within you? shocked by my use of harsh, street-wise, consonants? or stunned to hear your thoughts named aloud? "Free it, Eliza." I kiss your throat, near the hairline at the nape of your neck. "Open my pants, lower them to the floor..."

 

[Earthgoddess]

The gyrations of your finger, the master of this now submissive puppet, all I can do to keep my wits.The thoughts eddy around me as I look down at my body.
Your voice cuts through this and the word,
"cock" echoes and brands my brain.
I fall to my knees and with a questioning look I move my hands, clumsy and shaking to your pants. For a moment I savour the sharp crease and the fabric,then trembling fingers move to your zipper. I notice the supple leather of your belt and move to detach the thin metal buckle,as automatically as if I was wearing them. I think of nothing but you, my former self is slipping away,my fear still lurks like a dark shadow on a cold wall. I can almost smell the heat emanating from you, the musk of my own skin mixing with your male essence.
I no longer exist except for this moment.The thick outline of you,unfolding before my eyes as I remove the layers blocking me from this priapus, the godhead of all of my inner most desires.
I find my mouth watering, to taste your skin-I drink in your scent, nuzzling you as I wait to fel your skin bare to my touch. You spoke of penetration, you feel huge, engorged beneath my novice hands.
"How shall I?" bewildered I find skin and amaze myself by lowering my lips to kiss it.
The taste reminds me of my first decadent experience, caviar and champagne. Briny yet sweet,texture as well as taste, your skin is far better. I kiss again,allowing my tongue to brush your flesh.
"May I?"mumuring as my tongue grazes you I look up, eyes staring through the curls as my mouth moves to kiss your hard flesh again.

 

[brunoone]

The gibes of a middle school lockerroom briefly resurface in self-consciousness when you expose my prick for its initial viewing. The single eye of its bulbous head peeks at you from an undocked, Gentile, sleeve of flesh. Yet your lips, touching me with untutored veneration, immediately dispel any lingering reserve.

I quietly step from shoes, socks and the collapsed hobble of my pants. Now naked before you, I push a rake of splayed fingers through your hair. The hushed seconds are rooms furnished with ecstasy's potential. "It's not that you may, Eliza, but that you must."

Is it innocence, kneeling, or your proxemity to my crotch's swelling pillar that reduces you to a nymph's stature? My eyes brighten, crinkling gently at their edges. Small. So small.

Recalling the myth that connects a man's shoe size to his endowment, I remind myself your outer dimensions won't necessarily have counterparts in the shallowness and narrrowness of pharyngeal, vaginal or rectal cavities. Instead, I must rely on your virginity to draw you tautly around nine and three-quarter inches of Y chromosome.

A thick, blue vein on my shaft pulses with lust. It looks as if it might be the supply line for the glistening puddle of precum that's collected in the crater of my uncut foreskin.

Though imagination rapaciously leaps ahead to inevitable events, I breathe slowly, resolving to pace us, to redeem my lapse of professionalism with curative value; to teach, improve, and emancipate you from the decades-long prison of repressed desires.

"Smell." I had meant the single word to be spoken as invitation. Uttered, it sounds more like an order. I mitigate the force of the command with a benevolent lock of our eyes. "Memorize the aroma of blond pubic hair, of low-hanging testicles, of the shaft. Then -- when you think you can distinguish my scent from three others -- taste me. Slowly. Not eat. Not suck. Not swallow. Savor. Deliberately."

My hand hasn't left your head. The fingers are large but tender in the long, free-falling locks. You swallow. "Press your lips, your teeth, your tastebuds, your saliva against as many surfaces of my dick as you can find. Hear the stories each parcel tells you: stories of texture, of temperature, of dimension, of flavor..." My voice gets abruptly quieter, "...of passion and need."

 

[Earthgoddess]

Faced with the reality of your cock I am stunned-it looks so enormous I am not sure that it will ever fit anywhere. Much less the places I yearn to feel it. But I am sure that by applying myself strenuously I will prevail upon it.
I am allowed free reign to please you, and I take it. My face buried in your groin, smelling you like a bouquet of rare flowers-my nostrils dilate with the new scents. My hair tangles around you, as I nuzzle not yet daring to use my mouth.
Finally when I have indundated myself with your pheremones and despite your warning to smell until I could distinguish you from three others, I dare to lick you.
I am entranced at the taste of your pre cum, my tongue tips you like a bee retrieving nectar. The experience stirs the dreaded voice, but in a way it reinforces the slight taboo nature of the act. I lave my tongue on your skin. Slowly at first, tenderly licking all of you.
My fingers stretch around your sac,I move to taste you there. The stones within weighed carefully in my small hand. I explored their heft, then attempted to suckle upon them. Feasting on their musky, salty taste. The skin soft and fragile, yet resilient enough to withstand my tender nibbles. I lick behind them also-tasting you everywhere-my shameless behavior a product of my lack of knowledge. Guileless I explored in a far freer manner than I would ever explore again. My lack of finesse made me self concious but not so that I resisted the urges. I stare openly at the wonder of your cock emerging. The silken skin slides down exposing you by inches. I lick you so softly,allowing my tongue to wash your flesh,unaware of the effect,loving the briny taste. I look up as my mouth moves to engulf the meaty tip. Your eyes and slightly open mouth tell me that I am a passing pupil. Aroused even further by the raw look on your face, I slide the tip into my mouth and roll my tongue over you.
"Do I please you?" my mouth moves again to cover the tip as i listen for your response.

 

[brunoone]

"Yesss..." I smile through closed eyes. My free hand flexes and relaxes around a fistful of air as you tongue the ball of my dickhead. "Yes, indeed, you do please me..." The other hand still touches your head, though it's unclear if it closes a circuit of direction or mere affirmation.

"Open yourself," I gently encourage. "Take more. Taste more." My pelvis eases forward only a couple of inches, pressing the sphere of manmeat onto the middle of your tongue. There's no urgency or anger in the movement. Instead, the deeper presence of my prick telegraphs assurance and purpose.

Your eyes widen, and I wonder why. Perhaps you fear I'll suddenly sink the whole of my staff in you. Perhaps you fear a once-threatened social recrimination. Perhaps you're surprised by your own evident pleasure response. In any case, I'm confident time on your knees before me is exciting us both and satisfying your need for treatment.

I enjoy sex -- fully. I'm regularly, thoroughly, transported by its raptures. But -- even in the sweatiest moments of orgasm's muscular twitching -- I don't lose control. My eyes remain focused. My voice remains calm. My grip remains sure. It's not that I deny myself or repress anything. My gift to my lovers is constancy. So -- despite the heaven of having your lips around my tool -- it's not out of character for me to calmly coach you: "Good, Eliza. Just relax. Don't be greedy. Be observant."

I touch the base of my cock, adjusting its angle only slightly in your mouth. The lusty fire of blood would have it jut out from my body at a ninety-degree angle, but I sense a more downward slope might help you avoid an amateur cocksucker's occasional toothy nick.

As your eyes relax into near-drowsiness, you seem so eager, not so much sucking dick as drinking the new sense of gender connection. There's something almost worshipful about the purse of your lips, the swell of your cheek, the flutter of your eyelids. Is it any wonder my erection is harder and longer than any I can recall?

"So hard, so hot. You're readying me for other things, other places, Eliza." My thumbprint brushes your eyelash. "Don't hurry... but soon, the hardness you give me will fit me for the task of deflowering my newest patient..."

 

[Earthgoddess]

Free now I roam with my tongue, up and down your slick cock. I lick and suckle then tilt my head to accomadate more of your flesh. I find that I can slide you deeper when I breath only thru my nose,that gives your cock purchase deeper in my throat. I want to devour you, my greed to taste more overtakes my fear at failing.
Pulling myself back slightly I feel your hips thrust forward a touch only, but I sense that this is the right way to please you. Eargerly I slid myself back and forth, capturing more of you each time. My hands boldly roam the base and the tightening sac. Your scent intoxicates me, I suckle gently then delight at taking the head into my mouth and drinking from it, exploring the opening with my tongue. Unable to resist I push forward, thrilling at the feeling as my mouth and throat struggle to take you.
My hands stroke the muscles in your thighs and I press against your legs, like a animal in heat. My lips are sore and bruised, but I love thelook I see in your eyes-the Doctor is fading and the man is replacing him. Your reserve still present but when I glance up and watch you as my mouth feasts I see primitive urges flash throught those clear eyes. I feel the tide starting to rise within me, and with it the fears bob gently to the surface. I strive to surpress them, but again and again they eerily rise like jelly fish-translucent reminders of the taboos so acid etched in my soul.
I begin to pull my mouth from you and gasp as my need reaches incredible highs. Then I redouble my efforts and linger over the succulent flesh you offer me.
I pull back savouring your turgid member as I ease you from my mouth.
My voice velvety,my lips bruised and swollen-no longer a rose bud but a dewy rose opened by your heat.
" I want to much to release,I feel insane from wanting so much-wanting you so very much, Sir.I can barely look at myself-naked, here in front of you.
Eyes downcast, on my knees, tender lips now stretched in serving you-what a picture am I? Does this appeal to you, do you feel lost in this as I do?"
I look up hopeful that your want matches my own-my lips returning to their pleasant task-my mouth hungrily taking every inch possible and baptizing it with my desire.

 

[brunoone]

I gather your hair back in a pony tail... or, perhaps, in a leash. Now I can better see the pleasure with which you've taken to your mouth's new task of dicksucking. "Perfect," I affirm, marvelling at your ability, re-assessing your claim of virginity.

"But lost, Eliza? No, I'm not lossss..." You end the sentence with an ambitious lunge toward my pubic hair. I don't think you quite engage your gag reflex, but something encourages a retreat to shallower territory. You bob, attentive to the outermost third of my shaft, and I regain enough composure to continue.

"I'm not lost. I know exactly where we are; exactly what we're doing; exactly where we're headed." A pause as blue eyes mold themselves to your form. "I'm clearly aware of the beautiful supplicant kneeling at my feet. Of her hairless pussy throbbing with need. Of her worshipful mouth, bound to me by full and imploring cock-kisses."

I release your hair, touch your shoulder and so remove myself from you, urging you to your feet. I lift you onto the exam table's edge, and lean forward so our eyes are nearly even. "I'm aware of an unsure woman's unnecessary self-denigration." I touch your chin to keep you from looking away. "I'm aware of the trust and surrender implicit in the word 'Sir.'"

My hand falls to your thigh. My thumb finds your clit and presses against it. Your head floats back, perfectly positioning you for the press of my lips against yours. I can taste the warmth, even the distant saltiness, of your recent activities. This kiss intensifies, and so does the gently rolling pressure of my thumb.

The kiss ends and I'm speaking not to your face, but to your soul: "I can feel the readiness and want pent up in a woman's last moments as virgin." I push you slowly back onto the table, scanning you for signs of panic.

There's an edge of clinical warning in my voice. "At the very least, this may sting a bit. Or, the pain could be significantly more intense." Holding the base of my prick, I wipe its purpling helmet against the weeping slit of your cunt. "Shall we continue, Eliza?"