A Doctor's Dream Ch. 01

I allow the weight of the instrument itself to press upon her.

Her blue eyes close.

And she swallows.

The probe drops immediately down to the six-inch mark, its girth pinning her throat open in mid-swallow. Her eyes flash wide in surprise as the pool in her mouth drains in a sustained flow into her throat. I take up the weight of the scope again to prevent it dropping too fast on this slippery river.

"Excellent," I say and quickly glance up at the TV screen to make sure the video feed is working.

Returning my attention to her skewered mouth, I raise the probe up to the '4' mark and then I start to press it back down slowly, opposite the direction suggested by her gagging throat muscles.

At five inches, her eyes shimmer and weep in unison.

At six her gagging becomes audible as a rapid, wet clicking.

At seven her eyes shut tightly.

At the eight inches, she panics.

* * * * *

I have learned to expect a bit of panic in these young ladies over the years. Most are in their early twenties when I first see them. At that age there are only two categories of women who do not panic at this point in the exam: those born without any gag reflex and those who have taught themselves to control it for the purpose of fellating their boyfriends more deeply. Jessica clearly does not fit either category.

By rule, I never conduct this exam on women younger than twenty. Nor do I see too many over twenty-seven. The intervening years seem to be the sweet spot for referrals by the membership of our little community. Eighteen and nineteen year-olds, though legally adults, are not considered emotionally mature enough.

I know Jessica's parents loosely but had never met Jessica until a month ago. I was at a dinner party, and her parents asked me privately if I would agree to perform her initial screening now that she had reached the age of twenty.

Our society's New Member Recruitment Committee maintains a short list of screeners for this purpose. We are dispersed geographically around the world, but have in common the distinction of being MDs in private practice with the discretion and facilities necessary for these unorthodox screenings. Those who pass 'the medical,' as we call it, must then have their nominations seconded by another Member different from their original sponsor. Only then are they briefed on the general outlines of our society and invited to apply. Assuming they sign all the various paperwork, they are then allowed to matriculate into our orientation program.

Presently Jessica is not aware of any of these details. In fact, I am quite sure the only thing Jessica is aware of right now is her own urge to vomit. It would be fine if that was her only reflex; understandable even. But she also bites down, and that is not desirable.

* * * * *

With her bleached front teeth pinching the rubber shaft at the '8' mark, I don't want to risk shoving the probe any deeper into her throat. I pull upwards, withdrawing the stem smoothly from her mouth while keeping her head locked in its reclined position.

The optical tip emerges dragging a thick, stretchy column of phlegm behind it. Her first cough scatters this frothy rope into a dozen thinner strands. They splash down in wet lines across her face, neck and chest.

It is obvious that she is desperate to double-over and surrender to a thorough retching. I hold her back despite the clenching of what feels like every muscle in her torso. The veins in her neck bulge and her face contorts in a fit of coughs.

"Relax!" I command her. "You're fine. Just breathe. You can overcome this reaction. It will pass."

I continue holding her still, speaking to her in a calm voice until she regains some composure and resumes breathing. Once her stomach muscles start to relax, I release her ponytail and step back away from her.

"Sorry," she stammers, straightening up from her reclined position. "I just could not breathe for a second... even after you pulled that thing out. God, that was intense."

She wipes one hand across her mouth. It comes away dripping with spit. Looking down, she surveys the bubbly rivulets of drool now funneling downwards between her breasts. They collect and accelerate, becoming a single wet line that overruns her bellybutton and reaches beneath the fabric of her underwear.

"God, I'm such a mess!" she says, raising her hands away from her body, shoulder-high, as though afraid to touch herself.

"That's why you're supposed to be nude. Would you like a cloth?" I offer.

"Yes please, and a drink of water. That would be great."

We spend the next several minutes in silence while she dries herself and rinses her mouth. I offer to help with the toweling in an un-subtle attempt to play with her gorgeous tits, but she politely declines. So instead I wheel the padded stool out from under the exam table and sit in front of her to enjoy the show.

"Jessica," I interject once she has gotten herself generally clean, "do you have a boyfriend?"

"What?" she responds reflexively. She senses that I won't repeat the question, so she continues, "You mean, like, right now?"

"Yes."

"Well...yeah. But how is that important?"

"Are you two sexually active?"

"Of course... I mean, we are when he's here. But he transferred to U.V.A. last year so..."

"So not too often, currently."

"Yeah."

"How many partners have you had?"

This elicits a nervous laugh from her. "That is so not a question I want to answer."

"Be honest," is all I offer. I rest my elbows atop my knees and lean toward her, waiting.

She gathers the little towel absent-mindedly in front of her chest and folds her arms around it in loose hug.

"Two," she says finally, fixing her gaze into mine as though searching for any hint of prejudgment.

"Thank you," I say with a quick smile. I pause for a moment, trying to think of how best to continue, and notice that the monitor on the opposite wall is still recording. I forgot to switch off the scope in my haste. I reach behind me to the countertop where the instrument lays discarded and slide the power switch to 'OFF.' I see, with some satisfaction, that a wet puddle has accumulated beneath the stem.

"Actually one," she announces as I swivel back around to face her again.

"One?"

"I've only had sex with Ryan. I don't know why I said two."

"Hmm. Well, you need not be embarrassed. Many people would applaud you for that. I appreciate your honesty."

"You think I'm a prude."

"I wouldn't have any idea. My only reason for asking the question was because of your reaction to the scope."

"I... don't get it."

"Well, you bit down. I would have thought... that might have been something you had learned to avoid. For your boyfriend's sake, if you follow me."

One second passes before her eyes widen. She hides a sudden grin behind one hand: "I can't believe you just said that!"

"My reasoning is purely medical. I just thought you might be able to draw on that experience to better cope with the exam."

"Well!" she says, unable to stop smiling, "You clearly have no idea what Ryan looks like naked! I can assure you he is not capable of anywhere near what that camera-thing just did to me."

"Lucky for him, right?"

"No."

"Yes," I insist. "Because if he were, it wouldn't be long before you positively dismembered him, now would it?"

"Oh my God, I would not!" she gasps.

"Evidence to the contrary..." I say, pointing over my shoulder at the scope.

"You have got to be kidding me. That thing is like a weapon!"

"Actually no, it's quite thin in this context. Many women your age don't struggle with it at all. But perhaps they are more practiced."

She is rendered mute by this suggestion at first. I merely observe as a crimson hue rises to her cheeks. Finally, revealing her own fears, she bawls out, "So not only am I a prude, but even when I finally get a real boyfriend I'm going to lose him because I suck in bed? That's what you're saying?"

I hesitate for too long, enjoying her choice of words. When I finally say "No," she is unconvinced. The dam breaks.

"I know most of my friends have been with way more guys. I just don't like -- I mean I'm just not into those guys. At my school all the guys are total douchebags. All they do is drink kegs, talk sports and stare at my boobs."

"Really? Well, what's different about Ryan?" I ask, making a mental note to look at her eyes.

"Ugh. I don't know," she continues, sounding suddenly resigned. "He and I have been together since high school. We get along great, but it's just like, for convenience."

"Convenience?"

"Yeah. We're more like friends. We just kinda hang-out when we're together, you know? I think he likes having me as a girlfriend, but he's not that into me. It's like he's my best guy-friend. For me it's nice 'cause all my girlfriends think he's cute, and I take him to parties and holidays and stuff like that, so no one thinks I'm some loner-freak. And it's the same for him; I'm the girl he has sex with so that no one thinks he's gay, you know?"

"Is he gay?"

"Well... he doesn't know it, but I think so. Or at least bi-."

"Interesting," is all I can come up with. There is a long pause before I ask the next question: "Are you in any doubt about your own orientation?"

"Uh-uh," she replies, looking puzzled. Then, realizing my thought, she brightens and laughs: "Oh my God please don't tell me you think I'm a lesbian!"

"Heh... Not that there's anything wrong with that," I finish for her, trying to hide my relief with some humor.

"Ex-a-ctly!"

We both chuckle. She pulls her lush ponytail over one shoulder and her fingers begin to play with it. I am suddenly fearful that she will realize how incongruous it is that she, a gorgeous coed, is kneeling nearly naked in front of me, a man twice her age.

"So tell me, Jessica," I launch, "do you wish your sex life was more serious and, um, fulfilling?"

"Ha. You have no idea. I think about it daily. And besides, I'm so sick of having to make stuff up just to sound normal when I'm talking with my friends. I mean, I'm twenty. It's pathetic."

"So, what's stopping you?"

She flips her ponytail back behind her and rolls her eyes. "Guys that I'm attracted to don't visit college campuses. And my parents won't let me travel without Ryan. I can't even get an internship in the City this summer because they think I'm going to get molested in a bar or something. The only new people I meet are my parents' friends, and my God, they're all way too old. Trust me; I've thought this through. I'm totally lacking in opportunity."

This, I reflect, would be a perfect moment to segue into the benefits of our little society, but it is too soon. I cannot get too far ahead of myself. There are still important parts of her medical to complete, and she needs to demonstrate a willingness to learn.

"Well, for an attractive young woman like you," I offer, "I am confident opportunities will present themselves."

"Thanks," she answers, smiling. She buries both hands into the hollow of her lap, exaggerating her breasts again by squeezing them between her upper arms, perhaps unconsciously. The little towel lies discarded on the floor.

"And your parents are probably correct about the bar-scene in the City. I don't think you would last long in that environment. In the meantime, the one aspect you can work on, which you just alluded to, is to make sure you know what you're doing when the perfect guy does come along, right?"

A moment of silence passes between us.

"Right," she replies with sudden skepticism. "And I suppose you think I should have sex with you just for practice. Is that where this is going?"

Beautiful AND clever. Excellent!

I don't say that. Instead, I gather an exaggerated expression of shock into my face and announce: "That is outrageous, Jessica! I will not tolerate such an accusation from you. You're here only because I agreed to see you as a favor to your parents."

"I'm sorry!" she tries to interject, but I cut her off.

"No, I have a longstanding medical practice in this community and a reputation to protect. If you think for one instant that I would jeopardize my entire career for some silly groping-session with you then we're stopping this appointment right now. You can get dressed and go home. I'm sure your father and mother will be very pleased to hear your fantastic explanation."

I'm up on my feet now, glowering at her. She is trying to rise too, saying "No, no, no," but she wobbles unsteadily and grabs the corner of the exam table for support. "Shit, my legs are asleep. Ow."

I continue my act, yanking the rubber gloves off and throwing them into the trash. I make a move to step around her, toward the door, but she hops into my path and grabs me with both hands.

"Please don't go," she says, clutching my arms. "I didn't mean it and I'm sorry!"

"You just made a very serious accusation, young lady," I say, allowing myself to be stayed by her efforts. I can tell her legs are in pain.

"I know, I know. I'm just... I just have an active imagination. Please can we just pretend I never said it? My parents would kill me otherwise. They talk about you like some kind of celebrity. Seriously!"

I linger, harrumphing under my breath for effect while she wobbles in front of me, her near-nudity vastly increasing the effectiveness of her pleading.

"Ooh, pins and needles! Pins and needles!" she squeals suddenly, apparently unable to stand the awakening numbness in her legs any longer.

This makes me laugh out loud, genuinely.

"Not nice!" she pouts, hopping from one foot to the other.

"Oh, all right," I say. "Let me help you." With that, I place my hands on either side of her torso and lift her right up off her feet. She feels light, a hundred and five pounds maybe. I turn and set her bottom down on the edge of the exam table.

"Lie back and pull your knees up," I tell her. "Do some high bicycle kicks to aid the circulation. The tingling will go away sooner."

She rotates lengthwise on the padded table and I quickly lift my equipment bag out of her way. She lays back and raises her legs together into the air above her. As she begins to move them in a circular motion I walk to the foot of the bed.

"Keep them moving." I tell her, setting my bag on the floor.

"I think I was just kneeling for way too long," she says. "They're totally asleep."

Her back is flat on the mattress now, while her slender legs spin in the air above her. Her inner thighs are so toned that they never touch throughout her range of motion. From the end of the bed I watch closely as the triangle of thin fabric covering her pubic mound shifts with each gyration. The slender ribbon of her g-string tugs alternately left and right but, frustratingly, it never quite exposes what lies beneath.

Not wanting to be discovered staring, I playfully catch her wheeling feet in my hands. I give them a firm massage and ask whether her feeling has returned yet.

"Yes," she replies, trying to escape her feet from my hands. "That tickles!"

"Good."

A moment or two passes and I walk back to the counter while she rubs her legs. It is time to get this process back on track, so I ask her: "Are you ready to try the scope again -- if I coach you through it?"

"Seriously?" she asks, turning those big blue eyes on me again.

"I cannot give you a clean report unless we go a bit deeper. I need to see more."

She tries to talk her way out of it, asking various questions about the purpose for this exam, but with a little medical jargon I have no trouble backing her into a logical corner. She finally consents when I remind her of the sexual benefits of learning to cope with this exam. On that point she seems eager for confirmation.

"Do guys really like it that deep?" she asks.

"Entire movies have been made on the subject," I assure her. "Do a search online. You may be able to download some."

"Hmm. That's... but so, the other girls you see, the ones who don't gag, how do they do it?"

"Well, the first thing you need to know is that they still gag -- most do anyway. It's just they've learned to control it. They restrain the reflex, if you follow."

"Okay. So how do I learn that?"

"You practice. You work up to it slowly with something like this," I add, pointing to the scope on the counter.

"Jesus," she says, propping herself up onto one elbow to look at it again. "Don't you have anything thinner I could start with?"

"No. This is the camera scope we have, and it's a good one." I pause while enjoying the way her breasts hang askew now, creating crescent-shaped shadows on her skin. "Besides, if you're concerned with learning this for sexual purposes, I'd say it's quite a bit narrower than the average... man. Consider it a favor you won't have to learn this in the heat of passion."

"Ha!" she laughs. "You'd make a terrible romance novelist."

"Be that as it may, we need to get a move-on. I'm going to step out to the receptionist's desk for a minute and have her reschedule my next appointment. When I return I want you on the pillow and ready to go."

"Yessir, Doc!" she says in mock-seriousness, swinging her legs over the side of the table and sitting up straight. She finishes by giving me a ridiculous salute.

I roll my eyes and then head for the door, chuckling to myself. We'll see who salutes who alright. We'll see.

* * * * *

Ten minutes later I quietly open the door and see that she is indeed kneeling on the pillow, facing the cupboards as before. Looking at her from behind I fully appreciate the hourglass shape of her tiny waist between the athletic wedge of her perfectly-postured young back and the outward taper of her hips. Twin dimples show themselves as concave shadows either side of her tailbone. Below them, the taught elastic straps of her g-string create a V-shaped line separating the leanness of her back from the supple curves of her bottom. The two straps meet in a cute little bow nestled atop the cleavage of her butt cheeks. Adorning the bow is a tiny heart-shaped ornament that sparkles, apparently inlaid with faux rhinestones or something similar. Below that a single satiny ribbon, no wider than my shoelace, descends vertically, disappearing quickly into the cleft that divides her ass.

The door clicks shut behind me and her head spins in my direction.

"See? I can follow instructions," she says.

"Good," I answer, trying to decipher whether she is just being coy, or is actually that eager to please. I am carrying a box with me this time, and I walk past her to the countertop where I set it down for future use.

"I've been practicing," she offers, tugging at the hem of my lab coat. I turn around and watch as she inserts two fingers into her mouth, trying to poke at the back of her throat.

"And...?" I ask.

She wiggles her hand deeper into her mouth, until her third knuckle is against her front teeth. Then she withdraws it. "I can't seem to make myself gag."

"Let me see your hands."

She holds out her hands, palms down. Both are wet with spit.

"I can see you've been busy," I say appreciatively, "but I'm afraid your fingers are not long enough. We should get started with the scope."

"No, wait! Can I try on your hand?"

"For what possible purpose?"

"To work up to it slowly," she pouts. "That's what you said."

Feigning reluctance, I allow her to persuade me into this diversion. I reach for the box of latex gloves on the wall, but again she stops me.

"No, I'm sure those taste horrible. Just give me your hand," she pleads.

I take the least step of washing my hands in the sink. Then, approaching her, I present her with the index and middle fingers of my right hand, keeping my other two fingers folded in my palm. She takes hold of my wrist with both her hands and pulls me closer.