Boot Camp Blues

Now, I figured that's what the photo's were for, and probably why Baldie waited until after the photo's to give me the spanking. I also figured it was like my school exam for cheerleading. Only this time in the nude.

I really didn't have time to think about it, because a nurse called me over to take my blood pressure. I was surprised to go first, this time. She sat me down on this chair that was like built for a third grader. I was not at all surprised that my BP was a little high. She gave me a manila folder (that I guessed had my records inside) and told me to go over to the next nurse. I noticed that Baldie was talking to the two doctors, next to the table, having a good ol' time.

The next nurse took my envelope and told me to step on this bathroom scale. I could have told her I was 115 pounds. Then I had to stand against this part of the wall that was marked off. Yep 5'4" tall. She wrote down her amazing findings and pointed me to the doctors. Even though it was only a couple of feet away, it seemed like the longest walk ever. Nurses were one thing but....

Baldie stepped back, and one of the doctors took my folder. He was a gray haired, near-sighted, pocket-protector-wearing, stethoscope-around his-neck, living, breathing stereotype. He took my folder and told me to lean against the desk. I could see the other girls following behind.

"Ah, blood pressures a little high," he said, before he followed with, "probably nerves." I tell yah sis, this guy wasn't just a doctor -- he was also a rocket scientist!

"Ok, any tattoos?" He asked, looking up from the folder. I told him no, but I don't think it was a question. He told me to drop my arms. ( I had been trying shield my nudity.) I took a deep breath and did it. It was so weird. I mean, I know he's a doctor, but I just met him a minute ago and now his eyes were roaming over my naked body. The redhead was soon by my side and the other doctor (who was a fatty) was doing the same. I had to turn around, too. The whole tattoo search was pretty embarrassing.

He tapped me on the shoulder and told me to take a seat. I hopped onto the wooden teacher's table. It was a little strange. But the whole day was falling into that category. I was now facing the blonde who seemed in line to follow me. Baldie was standing by her side whispering into her ears, and, whatever he was saying, she didn't like it. The doctor used his stethoscope on me. It felt like my heart was racing, but he didn't say anything. He told me to lie down on my back. I did so dumbly. He must have read my face.

"I'm going to test your joints," he said, before he lifted my left knee up and the right followed in turn. He returned to the left only this time he raised my whole leg, straight up into the air. A cool rush of air let me know just how this exposed me. The right leg followed. He told me to flip over and did some more lifting of my legs. It was so embarrassing to do these "tests" naked.

My arms were next. Still face down he had me do these swimming motions. Then he told me to flip over. I had to do more arm exercises, This was much worse, 'cause I knew what they were doing to my breasts. Finally he had me sit up on the edge of the table. I let out a gasp, when I saw the fat doctor feeling the redheads breast next to me. I didn't have much time to think about it, though, as I felt the doctor lifting my arm behind my head. When his hand started pressing my flesh, I knew that this wasn't going to be like my school exam as I'd hoped. He used his fingers and pressed this way and that way, but at least he stayed away from my nipples.

He had me lie back and fold my hands under my head. I thought the breast exam was over, but his hand came down on my breast again. This time he pressed harder and finished by pulling on my nipple. I winced. He asked me why.

I wanted to kick him in the balls and then ask him why it hurt!

He did the same thing to the other breast. He seemed to pull on my nipple extra hard this time, but I couldn't say anything, because Baldie was staring over his shoulder, idly snapping that whip.

The doctor worked his way down my stomach, poking and prodding, but stopping at my pubic mound. He told me to bring my feet up and put my heels together. I didn't understand, until I saw the redhead. I wanted to jump up and run, right there. But the doctor moved me into position. Heels together, knees spread apart and pressed down to the table. God, I wouldn't even let a lover put me into this position.

He was standing by my side with his back towards me, when he cleared his throat and said he was going to do a manual exam. I didn't know what that meant, but basically he spread my pussy open with his fingers, and then he slid his finger inside of me and pressed on my stomach. Baldie moved to my side and got a good look for himself at the doctor's fingering. When he said he was done (I know I made it sound like it was quick and easy, but it was far from it), I sighed.

That was a little premature.

I had to flip over onto my hands and knees. I found out why when I felt cool lotion on my asshole. I noticed a tear drop splash on the table, just as the doctor slid his finger into me, as hard as I tried not to. (I think I even cried when mom's doctor did it, only her finger wasn't as fat or neither did it plunge as deep.)

I felt something larger than a finger being pushed into me next, and I let out a squeal. The doctor laughed and told me it was only a thermometer. It was like a final insult. The redhead and I had to remain in this sexual position for four minutes with a thermometer sticking out of our butts and with everyone behind us watching. It was the longest four minutes of my life.

The doctor used a damp wipe to clean me off and then told me to hop off the table and stand with my hands by my side and wait quietly. He finished his statement by slapping my ass. When he did, it dawned on me that he never said a word about the condition of my ass. I mean it had to still be a little red.

When I got off the table and turned around, I noticed something kind of strange was going on between the two doctors. Then it hit me -- they were fighting over who was going to get the honor of examining the blonde. I'm not lying sis. They even threw fingers, and my guy won. The fat guy was pissed, 'cause he had to settle for the prostitute. I laughed inwardly. It was so pathetic and unprofessional. And, speaking of unprofessional, the two nurses were sitting on their asses, chatting away with the female guard. The trio weren't even watching the doctors.

The blonde took her place on the table, of course Baldie was by her side. I was standing by her head when it was her turn to lay back. Her wet long blonde hair tickled my skin, as it brushed by. Since she had watched me, she seemed to know what was coming and the exam moved along swiftly, that was, until the doctor got to her pussy. Her exam seemed much longer than mine was, so long that the other doctor already had the thermometer in the prostitute's bum. He joined the other doctor when the blonde turned over on her hands and knees. I knew she was embarrassed with all the attention and I was also embarrassed because I was standing by her head. Her face on a couple feet from my p.... I wondered if she could, you know, smell my scent, 'cause I know I could.

When it was time for her thermometer, Baldie made a few crude jokes about it. I started to wonder if these were even real doctors or not, because I'm not sure they should have been laughing at them. They also had lust in their eyes.

A slap of the ass sent her jumping off the table and she quickly ducked behind me. I could hear her sniffling behind me when Wendy sat on the table. Even though I was mad at her, I still felt for her when it was time for her breast exam, because it seemed to take forever, and of course Baldie had some more crude jokes.

A sudden ear-piercing shriek shook my bones. It came from the girl, on the table, next to Wendy. She was pointing towards the window. It took me a couple of seconds to spot it, but there was a face pressed up against the window. The room filled with chaotic action. The female guard raced over to the phone again. The nurses rushed to the windows. Both girls jumped off the table. All the girls on my right side seemed to pile in behind me, while I was ducking behind the table.

Baldie just shook his head. "It's only Homeless Freddie," he said, with a chuckle.

I saw the face disappear from my view, and then I saw him racing away on a bicycle, a guard chasing behind. For an older man he was winning the chase. I also figured he must have been standing on the bike's seat to look in, but what I didn't know was how long he had been there. I shivered, as I wondered if he saw my exam.

Just when I didn't think it could get any worse...I mean, being seen nude by medical and prison personnel was one thing, but by an old homeless guy!

It took a couple of minutes for order to be restored. Wendy and the other girl were ordered to climb on the table, again. Then Wendy caught a huge break when her doctor seemed to forget where he left off and ordered her to her hands and knees. (Probably because that's where the other doctor had left off. But, because this one had spent so much time on her breasts, he was behind, again.)

I wanted to tell him that he missed a step, a very embarrassing step. I also would have loved to seen her face when he fingered her pussy, but, even so, the look on her face when he slid his finger up her ass was priceless.

Wendy's luck turned sour, however, when the doctor took her rectal temperature. He seemed to have trouble sliding it in, and keeping it in. It was also pretty gross, when he pulled it out. It also hit me, why this was so wrong that we all got to watch each other's exams. I think you can guess what was wrong, sis. The doctor called over a nurse and told her to prepare an enema. Wendy crashed down on the table, sobbing.

And that's where we left her.

While Baldie stayed behind with Wendy, the female led us down the hall into a small room that she teasingly said was our new home for the next two weeks. It was really nothing more than six cots, two on each side and two on the far wall, each one separated by tall skinny wooden lockers. I was glad that at least the windows were boarded up. When I found my cote with my name tapped to the foot-rail, I sat down. The room was eerily quiet. The female said something about someone being in shortly with our clothes and she'd collect our shoes. I didn't really believe the "shortly" part. But, honestly at this point, what the hell was the difference? I'd--we'd been naked for so long, anyways. The blonde quietly sat down on the cote next to me. When she looked up, I noticed her face was a mess, and I wondered if mine was too.

One thing I had no question about...I had just gone though the most humiliating experience of my life!

And I still had two weeks to go!

xxx

There was one more piece of paper, but it only described the camp's daily activities. And it broke off in mid-sentence.

The papers sat in my desk for days. I was burning for more. I must have read them four or five times, daily. It was time to do some further research before I went loony.

The first thing I wanted to know was the guards' names. Specifically, I wanted to know if I knew any of them personally. Unfortunately, they all turned out to be strangers. And they'd also all retired or moved away.

It was now time to try to find out who wrote this account; I had heard her voice through her writing, and now I needed to give that voice a face. I also wanted to know what happened. Why didn't -- or couldn't -- she finish it?

I was a man on a mission. There were some obvious clues in the writing that you didn't need to be Perry Mason to see. The first of which was the name of the high school whose mascot they stole. I also knew that one of them was named Wendy. So I went to the library. (Didn't the female guard say it was in the newspaper?) It wasn't that hard to find in the microfilmed newspaper files. (We may not have "The New York Times," but we do have a 153-year run of "The Davenport Advocate.") Since all four kids were over 18 at the time, I got their names -- including a "Wendy" and (ta-daa!) a "Heather."

Now that I had her name, it was time to find her. I enlisted the help from a person who, well, finds people for a living. (The old-timers called them "skip tracers.") He was quick in his search. He told me that she was in her late thirties and a single mother of three. He even gave me her current address -- in Connecticut.

I had a Saturday off, so I went for a drive. Hell, maybe I could even do some gambling at Foxwoods when I was down there. Sitting in front of Heather's small house, I really didn't know what I was going to do. I mean, some may call me a jerk, or worse, but embarrassing a single mother with three kids....

Eventually, I made up my mind (sort of) and walked up to the front door with what I hoped seemed like confidence. (Ok, let the name calling begin.) I wasn't really sure exactly what I was going to say, but, when she opened the door, my badge and some police blather got me inside. We spoke briefly (about some missing person I made up on the spot),and then I left, never showing her the papers. I wondered which of us was more confused at that point. I tried to put the pieces together on my long trip home. Something just didn't compute.

Back in Vermont, it was time to locate Wendy. She was a lot easier to find, since she lived in-state and (as I was surprised to find out) married to a career politician, who was even now planning to run for governor of our great state. I crashed a fundraiser in order to meet her. (I didn't pay.) And I did meet her briefly. She was attractive, but really overbearing. It turns out she was an outspoken (some said "rabid") supporter of the "nWo" -- the National Women's Organization. (It's funny how those initials can also stand for "New World Order." Coincidence?)

When I got back to my office I did a little more research on our computer. Things began falling into place.

I came to this conclusion: the papers hadn't been written by Heather, but by Wendy herself.

At first I was thrown off by the simple fact that Heather had a sister and Wendy didn't. But there were some telling clues.

Wendy went on to major in journalism in college. Heather majored in getting knocked up. Wendy wrote for her school's newspaper. Heather made the school's paper. (It was one of her professors who knocked her up.)

I'd also met both Heather and Wendy, and although they seemed about the same height and weight, Heather had by far the bigger boobs of the two. (I tend to notice that.)

Then there was the blackboard incident recounted in the journal. Heather has a simple last name, while Wendy's was a tongue twister.

The final clue hit me when I got my hands on a copy of their high school yearbook. Early in the story, the writer mentions that she can't believe Wendy is still going with Billy. Well, according to their yearbook, Wendy didn't go out with Billy -- Heather did.

The only explanation was that Wendy wrote the journal, hoping to expose the boot camp. She changed the names, in case the journal was found. (Real nice friend, eh?) She also used the simple fact that Heather had a sister and she didn't, to disguise the journal as a series of letters.

Armed with this knowledge, I began to wonder about the journal's accuracy. Now when I read it, I wondered how much of it was the writer's embellishment.

It was time for another trip to Connecticut. I called Heather on the phone this time. She was hesitant to meet me, but I used a little of the old Duffy charm to get her to meet. (Honesty compels me to admit that I had to pay for her babysitter and take her out to a nice restaurant, too.)

I made the long trip and checked into a motel. I knew I'd be drinking, and I hoped she would be, too. (Ok, not for the reason you're thinking.) I was simply hoping that alcohol would free up her lips. (Ah, that didn't sound any better.)

When she showed up at the restaurant I was a little taken back. She was wearing a cleavage-spilling red dress. Scanning upwards from there, I saw her face and hair were done up perfectly. (This was gonna be harder than I thought.)

After a couple of cocktails, a nice meal, and a bottle of wine, I let her know why I was really there...sort of.

I showed her an old picture of the bald guard and told her I was doing an investigation on him -- a white lie, more or less. She was more than a little upset, and I had to grab her wrist to stop her from leaving. I guess she thought she was on a date, and, I must say, up to that point things were going well, too. I probably should have used that motel room and forgot all about the journal, but I was consumed.

It took some sweet talk and the offer of another bottle of wine to get her to stay. After a few minutes, I slipped my hand into my pocket and pressed the record button on my little tape recorder. From my other pocket I pulled out a copy of the journal and handed it to her. She glanced at it and quickly confirmed my suspicions by denying she'd written it. Then she read it over a couple of times. She laughed, at first, at the switching of the names.

But, later on, she crumpled up the papers and spat, "that little bitch!" (And that's why I brought along a copy this time.)

"I even donated to her husband's election fund."

At first she didn't want to talk, period. She said it was in her past, and it was behind her, but I pressed on and showed her a picture of the guard again, and, honestly, I think the alcohol was working its magic, as well.

"Ok, I'll talk, but only if it helps put this asshole away," she sneered.

"It can't hurt," I said, double-checking my recorder. "So this is the first time that you've seen the journal?"

"Yeah."

"And she didn't tell you...."

"No, she didn't," she interrupted. "And it looks like she was trying to pin it on me."

"Yeah, it looked that way to me, too."

"Yeah, she always blamed me for...you know."

"Stealing that mascot."

"Yeah, it was a harmless prank."

"And then it died," I said, with an uncontrolled laugh. And then she flashed me a lethal look. "Anyway, moving on, did the story really unfold like that?"

"Like what?"

"I mean, was the journal accurate, except for the names thing?"

"I guess," she said, flipping through the crumpled papers. "Look, do we really need to go over all this?"

"It's important," I assured her. "Now did they really search you like that?"

She checked the account again. "Yeah, in the gym, like that...all of us...it was as embarrassing as she said it was."

"And then the showers?"

"Uh huh."

"And then the physicals?"

"Right..., if that's what you want to call them."

"Did they happen like that?"

She flipped through the pages until she got to what I assumed was the appropriate part. "Yeah, I almost forgot about that homeless guy. She also seemed to remember what people said, word for word."

"But everything that the journal says happened to Wendy actually happened to you?"

"Yeah," she said with a nod. "Seems that way."

"So you actually got the enema?" I said, without thinking. I had to grab her wrist again to stop her getaway. It took some apologizing to get her back in her seat, and I quickly switched gears.

"Do you know why the journal stopped so abruptly?"

She shook her head several times, but it looked insincere. So I pressed on and asked her again.

"Look buddy...you come down here, wine and dine me, and then bring up all this shit that I've struggled to forget."

"But do you know why?" I asked several times. It was so close I could taste it. Although, I felt a little bad for the small tear that rolled down her cheek.