Girl on the Net

I think ‘inspection’ (of any kind, be it kinky inspection, medical inspection, or something between those two) is one of the kinks that I have started to love more myself since commissioning other people’s writing. I don’t think that you can necessarily ‘teach’ anyone to be into your kinks, but I do think that my own sexuality is broad enough that if you describe something with lust and precision, I’ll probably get horny for yours even if it’s never occurred to me to wank about it before. Today’s guest blog is one of those – it grabbed me by the wrist and led me into the hotness of a clinical, detached, yet also deeply erotic examination. Huge thanks to Sasha for sharing it – this is his first ever piece for the site and I’d love to encourage him to publish more of his writing, because this is a stunningly hot story. Note that the post contains medical themes, and although the examination is consensual, the way it happens hints at questionable consent for individual acts.

The doctor performs your examination

The sign on the door, a panelled dark wooded monolith, reads “Doctor.” You knock and wait. After a pause long enough to make you worry about having to knock again, a voice says, “Come.”

The room isn’t what you expected. It has the accoutrements, of course: desk, chair examining bed, modesty curtains, and sinks. The ceiling is high though, with more wooden paneling, curving into the central space like a nave and the floor has wide black and white marble tiles. It is opulent and understated and intimating.

“Sit.” he says. The doctor. The man in the chair. Older but not old. His voice is firm. Fine. You sit. He makes you wait again, making some notes on loose paper that he then slides back into a brown medical folder before presumably retrieving your folder. You.

“Ms Xavier, C. Here for a full examination. Did they inform you it would be invasive?” he asks, looking at you for the first time. No response to you, no reaction. He has no malice, no sympathy, no attraction to you. You usually get at least one.

“They were vague, but yes they said it might be uncomfortable,” you reply. Trying but failing to hold a sternness in your tone.

“Good. Well, I’ll endeavour to reduce your discomfort. Let us start with some simple tests. Follow my pen with your eyes.” He moves the pen he’d been using – a designer’s pen, not what you think of as a doctor’s pen – back and forth. You watch it. Easy.

“Fine.”

One hand shoots out, and he pinches your ear lobe hard. The shock makes you emit an ‘ouch‘, very much against your will.

“Fine. Good response.”

“Was that necessary?” you ask, still flabbergasted.

“Do you presume to question my competence Ms. Xavier? No? Good. And yes, it was. I established your reaction times and blood circulatory flow were adequate. Now, no more interruptions.”

He stands and moves around his desk. “Were you instructed to wear a skirt or dress?”

“I was not, actually.”

“Hmm, well you better get those trousers off. You may use the modesty curtains if you wish.” He sits back down and makes some notes.

In defiance, you stand, slip out of your heels, undo your belt and trousers and pull them down. You fold them neatly. The doctor points silently at a cupboard top and you walk over and place the trousers there. He beckons you back to the chair.

“Relax, please.” Nothing in his tone is relaxing, but nonetheless, you calm your mind. He’s an arsehole, but you can rise above that.

He retrieves a small rubberised hammer and gently taps your knee. It bounces out comically. See, you can be relaxed. He proceeds to test other relaxes, each with a successful bounce.

“Now, please remove your shirt, Ms Richardson.” Again, you place your clothes by the side but this time he moves over to near the bed. You follow.

“Stand quite still.” He proceeds to measure you: forehead, neck, chest, belly, waist, bum, outside leg, inside leg, outside arms and inside arms. Each time, he records your measurements in his notebook. He is unsympathetic to the cold metal tag of his measuring tape. He’s in no rush.

“Now, height and weight.” He gestures to a set of weights next to a wood-height beam, before measuring you further. “Good, so far, at least. Now, please step over to the bed and remove your bra.”

Ah, good, the uncomfortable bit. You were told you had to have the full examination, though. So be it.

You remove your bra. You suspected it might come to this, so it’s a nice one. It’s not too sexy, but it’s well-fitted and with just a hint of something. He steps behind you and, with both hands, firmly cups your breasts.

“Breath in. And out. Breath in again.” As he says “out” he gently lowers his hands, letting your breasts fall back into their natural position. The he is in front of you, his right hand pressing against them again, squeezing them and rotating his palm into them. The physical touch and the cool air in the room have made your nipples slightly pert, and he squeezes them.

He steps back and looks at your chest.

“Fine.” He stays. “Now, put both hands on the bed and push out with your bottom, please.” The instructions compel you to bend over. He moves away and returns with a white plastic object, which appears to be a tapered ruler.

Be squats down behind you. “Legs together now.” He slowly pushes the narrow end of the ruler between your thighs, cupping the lips of your pussy until both sides of the ruler touch your inner leg. “Hmmm.”

He stands. “This may sting somewhat,” he says. And proceeds to strike your naked bottom with the broader end of the ruler, counting to three aloud on each of your cheeks. The pain is nothing but frustrating, not firm enough to bring on the deep sensation you love so much but still stinging. He places the top side of his hand against your bottom where he’d struck you. You watch him over your shoulder.

There, just for an instant, he looked at you.

“I need to check your arousal response.” His tone utterly masks any emotion again. “I will raise the head of the bed, and then please lie down. I will take a before and after sample.” He shifts the bed into a semi-upright position, and you lie down. Are you aroused already, you wonder? Yes and no. Maybe. He has returned with some small sheets of paper. He asks you to remove your knickers. You think he forgot; maybe he isn’t Doctor Perfect. You slide them off by drawing them down your legs, provocatively. You sit with your legs wide open. You assume this is how he wants you.

“Good.”

He puts his hand on your crotch, resting his fingers on your vagina. Then he separates them, pulling apart your lips. His hands are cool but not cold and definitely not clammy. Then he gently wipes your pussy with one of the smooth sheets.

Without removing his hand, he says, “I’m going to ask you to think of the most enjoyable erotic encounter you’ve had. If it helps you focus, you may speak it out loud.”

You blink. What?

“Is there a problem?” he asks.

“No, I just didn’t think.” you say, stumbling.

“You know why you are here, don’t you? You asked for this.” It’s a statement, not a question. “Very well.” You regain your composure. You see him retrieve an old-fashioned stopwatch from his pocket as you shut your eyes. “Start,” he commands.

You cast your mind around. It’s not as if you have an empty shelf when it comes to previous hot fucking. Several events come to mind that you’ve wanked hard to before, but his hand is distracting. You decide you are going to pretend it’s the longed-for touch of someone else, but you keep coming back to this annoying man and his curt voice. You want him to slip his fingers into you, to be unprofessional, to show some humanity, to admit that he wants you and it’s all an act. Let his fingers figure out if you had an ‘arousal response’ because you would if he pressed them into you firmly, deeply, longingly.

Click. Wipe.

“All done.”

Bastard.

He turns from you and compares the two sheets of paper. One has a purple smear across it.

“Good,” he says as if examining beetles in a jar.

“Now, I’ll shall begin a brief internal examination.” He goes to the sink and thoroughly washes his hands, then applies some lube to his naked fingers. As if reading your mind, he states, “bare fingers are far more accurate than those covered by a glove.”

Gently, firmly, he pushes two fingers into your vagina. What you wanted a moment ago is utterly replaced by a lack of control. Or rather, you are in his control. His fingers explore you, pressing down on your rectum beneath, pushing your walls aside, and brushing the entrance to your womb. Clinical, professional. Erotic.

He pulls out slowly and carefully. He sniffs his fingers and goes over to wash his hands again. Fucking fuck, you think.

Then he pulls on a single black medical glove and lubes his forefinger.

“Now, for the anal inspection, let’s get you bent over, please.” He lowers the bed’s headrest, and you turn, kneeling, with your head against the black leather padded surface. Exposed.

A hand pulls at your buttock, and then you feel a finger enter your anus. He wiggles it a little to push through, and then it’s free and deep into your arse. The tight pleasure of all those nerves firing in your rectum is quite delicious. You grunt ever so slightly. And you don’t care.

The examination involves pushing his finger in and out of your bum apparently. Each time, his knuckle sends a fresh wave of sensation. Now you’re fighting wanting more, wanting to demand more.

He stops, pulls off the glove, and disposes of it. Once again, he washes his hand. He picks up your sheets and makes some notes, his back to you.

“Nearly done, let’s just check your gag reflex.”

Oh.

“Lie down on your back, and rest your neck over the end of the bed.”

Oh.

He’s there now. Stood in front of you. And he undoes his trousers and pulls out his penis. It’s fat and very hard, pointing up to the ceiling. From somewhere, he pulls out a condom and rolls it along his cock. It looks tight, squeezing into his skin at the root. You hate the taste of condoms.

“It’s OK, take it off,” you say.

“No,” he replies.

He comes close and pulls his cock down, it looks like it doesn’t want to bend, but he pushes it into your mouth. It presses up against your tongue in confirmation of how hard he is. He grasps your head, locking it in place and slams himself into you. His penis swallows up all the space it can and then down into your throat. You can’t do anything but gag. The surprising rush of him into you gives you no chance. Spittle and panic. He pulls out somewhat and goes in again. More gagging. More fucking. His rhythm settles, and you contain your gagging despite the tears that run down your face. He slows the pace but not the force. You have no way of knowing what expression he wears, but you want him to come in your mouth. Is he coming? Is he going to explode into you?

But he doesn’t. He just stops and removes his cock, still desperately hard, from your mouth.

“Excellent. You may get dressed.”

Stunned, you watch him remove the condom, wipe himself clean of your spit and return to his seat.

He writes for a while, and you eventually join him. Sitting back into the chair opposite him.

“You’ll get the results after I’ve discussed with my colleagues, but expect a letter in the post in a week. “

“Is that it?”

“Yes,” he replies, checking his notes to remind himself of my name, “you may go, Ms Xavier.”