Hair Trigger Clit

Both he and his nurse were pensive.

"I wonder - is there a non-surgical alternative?" I inquired.

His eyes lit up a little.

"Let me think about it. Come back in two weeks. Tell my scheduler that she is to make room for you in 12-16 days from now whenever it is convenient," he responded.

I thanked Dr. Barnes and Nurse Randolph then took the paper he handed to me to the scheduler/cashier. "No charge for today," she said with a sly smile. "Very unusual; even more unusual is the fact that the doctor wants me to schedule a follow-up appointment whereby you skip places in the queue. He's only done that once before in the four years I've worked here."

I was flabbergasted. "What was that situation?"

"Where he was doing a research project that he ultimately wrote a medical paper on that was published in the New England Journal of Medicine," she nonchalantly replied. "How about Wednesday the 17th at 3 p.m., thirteen days from now?" she asked peering over her glasses.

"Perfect," I replied.

I marked the new appointment on my calendar and tried to put the visit out of my mind. "So you're a freak," I said to myself. "Many women would like to be as freaky as you; just be careful."

My plan had been to avoid any sexual stimulation except masturbation my entire freshman year. Of course given my memories of the incredible experience sex with a partner had been that turned out to be unrealistic. I was able to avoid going out with any guys that were part of a group, like a fraternity or a team, so as to maximize the probability of avoiding another gang bang experience. I did find a guy by the name of Tim who was homesick for his High School honey who was also friendly, discrete, and not bad looking. Once he fucked me he was anxious for a repeat whenever I wanted it, including twice before I went back to see Dr. Barnes.

Given what Dr. Barnes' scheduler had told me after my first visit I expected what happened on my second.

"Cheryl, I've come up with several devices that I think may help your problem without requiring an operation. Two are pad-like structures, and the third is a mild anesthetizing chemical that can be used alone or with either of the structures. I'd like to explain," he said.

With Nurse Randolph looking on he explained both devices, which he called A and B, and the chemical. After the explanation he had a requirement if I wanted to use the devices.

"I'm happy to provide you with all three free of charge. What I require in return is for you to keep a diary about how well they work, what problems there are, and any other comments you might have. Here is what Nurse Randolph and I have prepared," he continued, handing me a three ring binder with scads of pre-printed sheets in it. I looked them over - they were self-explanatory.

After I finished looking the binder over he said "Please note not to use the anesthetizing chemical within six hours of when you might have sex."

I looked the papers over a few seconds more. "Sounds good to me; this is like a scientific experiment, and I like lab work," I replied with a smile.

"One more thing; I'd like to write a journal article about it. It would include photos of your clitoris, however of course you would not be identified. Only Nurse Randolph and I would ever know who the study subject was," he continued.

"WOW. My situation is that unique, huh?" I rhetorically asked.

"Yes it is," he replied as both he and Nurse Randolph smiled at me.

"Come see me every three weeks to see how things are going and suggest any changes. You don't have to make appointments, just call the day before and tell me what time you'd like to come in and we can work it out," he continued with a smile.

I was diligent in following the protocols that Dr. Barnes had established and went to see him every three weeks, just like he asked. I found the anesthetizing chemical was a little too effective, and he made two changes to it before it really worked for me. By the time my freshman year was over I had a system that worked wonderfully. I gave up on pad A. I used pad B by itself most of the time except when I thought I might have problems, like on a bicycle trip, when I used pad B plus the chemical. Going to parties I used just the chemical.

Things with Tim worked out a little too well from my perspective. I considered him a fuck buddy, and I thought that he was happy with that arrangement, with three or four fuck sessions a week, typically with two fucks and some nice mutual oral each session. Toward the end of the school year, however, he started getting serious, wanting me not to go to parties or on dates without him, and wanting to establish a real relationship. I knew he was not the guy for me, so I had to break it off.

There was one guy, Mark, that I had dated a couple of times - using the desensitizing chemical - who was a graduating senior. I could tell that he was anxious to get in my pants, and that he was surprised when I shut him down after the second date. After breaking it off with Tim and once Finals were over I arranged to meet with Mark in a hotel room. I didn't have any pretense about what would happen.

Mark had me in a constant state of orgasm for about six hours. He loved my big bifurcated clit even more than Roy and Tim had. He was so enamored with "The best sex of my life," as he put it, that he was willing to modify his post-graduation plans to accommodate a relationship. Despite the fact that he was a hunk, I declined. I wanted to finish school where I was and had plans of my own after graduation in five years with a combined bachelor and Masters degree.

During the summer I got an express envelope from Dr. Barnes. It contained a draft of his journal article. He wanted me to review it in case there were some objections that I might have before he submitted it for publication. I was impressed with the way that he displayed and analyzed the data - most of which I had collected - and appalled by how humongous my clit looked in the photographs.

The article also had a link to a short video clip that only subscribers to the medical journal could access showing me going from placid to an intense orgasm within seventy six seconds when Nurse Randolph - with a latex glove on and showing only her hand and my crotch - stimulated my clitoris during my last visit to the doctor's office before the summer. Since the link would not be active until the article was published the envelope also contained a DVD with the short clip on it, total run time counting Dr. Barnes voice explaining the scenario before, during, and after the clitoral stimulation, three minutes and twenty seconds.

I knew that the video clip would cause a stir - even I was impressed by it, and I was the one experiencing the sensation. There is no doubt that any straight guy who saw it would want to fuck me. I was glad that Dr. Barnes had etched into the DVD "Viewing this DVD without the written permission of Dr. William Barnes and the unidentified patient is a criminal violation of the Copyright and Privacy laws of the United States subject to fine, imprisonment, or both."

I called Dr. Barnes up, thanked him for doing such a marvelous job with the Article, suggested only one minor change which he adopted, and he submitted it for publication. Two weeks after the start of my sophomore year, I got a call from Nurse Randolph to come and pick up a copy of the published article in the New England Journal of Medicine, and to get some more desensitizing chemical and a new pad. Dr. Barnes had promised to free of charge (except for shipping costs after I left college) supply me with both chemical and pads as long as he was in business, and to give the formula for the chemical and the procedure for making the pad to his successor once he was no longer in business.

The article had been published, both in paper form and online, for about ten days by the time that I picked it up. The receptionist insisted that I wait until Dr. Barnes saw the patient he was with before leaving because he wanted to talk with me. He came out about five minutes later, and ushered me into his office with a big smile on his face.

"I had to give this to you myself to tell you about the reaction to the article. There have been more than 500 on-line comments about it in ten days, and I've gotten at least 100 emails about it. I didn't even know that that many people subscribed to the Journal," he chuckled. "You're famous - or at least your clitoris is," he beamed.

I left chuckling too. "Well, I guess it's good to be famous for something," I said to myself, "even if you don't want the world to know it's you who is famous!"

My pad and chemical worked extremely well all through college. I was almost completely successful in dating - or at least fucking - guys that I knew would be discrete and by the time that I graduated had had well more than my share of awesome sexual experiences. I graduated after five years with my combined Bachelor's degree and Masters in Biomedical Sciences.

I was working as a medical researcher - inspired by my experience with Dr. Barnes - using my Masters' degree in Biomedical Sciences, and had learned to make my own chemical and pads so that I did not have to impose on Dr. Barnes' generosity, when I met Darren McNealy. He was a medical equipment salesman. Darren was tall, good looking, charming (perhaps "glib" is a better description) and interested. By the second time that he got me in the sack he had broken up with his girlfriend of eighteen months (I didn't know that until much later), and by the time we had been going out for six months we moved in together.

Of course hindsight is always 20-20. There were signs that I should have caught that would alert me to the fact that Darren was a social climber. They even included statements he made to me and others about how his main goal in life was to rise well above his middle class roots and never have to worry about money. However, I was in love - or at least thought that I was - and love is blind.

Darren and I got married after we had lived together six months. He wanted a pre-nup. I told him that I would agree if it had an infidelity clause that significantly punished a cheater. I was pleased when he readily agreed to that.

Darren and I had a nice medium-sized wedding. Some of the people that Darren had invited seemed to be very snobbish to me and he seemed to be kissing their asses, but I saw no need to associate with them in the future so I grinned and bore it. Darren's parents and sister were nice - I was a little surprised that he didn't treat them better than he did, but thought maybe I didn't have the complete picture.

While I never told Darren everything about my "condition," he did know about the pad and desensitizing chemical. He asked lots of questions about them even before we were married. I answered most, figuring that since he was my husband-or-be or husband that there was no reason to hold much back.

Although Darren had seen the Journal article he didn't have access to the video clip linked to the article. The video clip had been taken down even for subscribers after it had been up for only two months as a result of some complaints by the Journal's more sexually conservative patrons who thought that it was too prurient and not scholarly.

I never told Darren about the DVD - at least I didn't think that I had. However, for only the third time in my life I got rip roaring drunk during a friends' thirtieth birthday party and had a vague recollection the next morning of discussing it with Darren. He had remained sober, and he convincingly denied any discussion about a DVD but started asking questions about it when I brought up the subject. I shut him down on the subject, and told him to never bring it up again.

The first two and a half years of my marriage to Darren I was reasonably happy. I certainly enjoyed my work as a medical researcher; even though I would never get to the top of my field because I only had a Masters' degree and not a PhD or MD, I was well respected and gained more responsibility (and got more money) every year. Darren seemed happy in his work too (although he would have loved not to work at all), and our sex life was good. He loved my hair trigger clit and seeing me repeatedly orgasm, and I know that I did a great job of fucking him - with my pulsating pussy and spontaneous wriggling - so that he had a smile after every session.

The only reason I say that I was only "reasonably" happy was because Darren appeared to be more shallow than I had come to believe before our nuptials. He was - perhaps the most delicate way for me to say it is "pre-occupied" - with money and social standing. I went to many events with him "just to be seen," and the people who he hob-knobbed with at those events were some of the snooty types who came to our wedding. They were still snooty. What got me through most of the events was that I loved to dance and there were many guys there who also did, even if Darren was too busy socializing.

Also, our finances weren't the best considering the amount of money we collectively brought in. It got so bad that a financial advisor told me that I had to separate my finances from his. Darren wasn't happy when I established separate accounts and wrote checks for ½ of all housing and car expenses every month and required him to pay the other half. We also filed separate tax returns since some of the deductions he was making unsettled me. I did buy all of the food for when we ate at home.

For about six months after I separated our finances and we had filed separate tax returns for the first time things were a little weird. He had some "business trips" or meetings that came up suddenly, and although he still loved sex with me he was significantly less affectionate than he had been our first two and one half years of marriage. I thought that he might just be pouting about the separate financial situation but after three months I confronted him and he denied pouting or being less affectionate or that his trips or meetings were anything less than legitimate. He reformed for about a month, but then relapsed.

My situation was preying on my mind as we got ready to go to a big party at one of his normally snooty friend's house - actually mansion - with the pretentious name of Chauncey Van Hoist. While snooty, Chauncey had come on to me at several events, but I shut him down. At one event about six months in the past he had said something about "The New England Journal of Medicine" with a weird look on his face; he had no medical background, or interest, as far as I knew but was merely a trust fund rich brat, which made me suspicious. I questioned Darren about it that night and he said that he didn't have any idea what would cause Chauncey to comment about that publication, and he convinced me that he had never mentioned my "condition" to Chauncey or anyone else.

As I was getting ready for the soiree at Chauncey's mansion as was my normal procedure I applied my desensitizing chemical to my clit and eschewed my pad. With the benefit of 20-20 hindsight the chemical seemed a little different, but I chalked my perception up to my pre-occupation with Darren's behavior.

As we were pulling out of the driveway, Darren said "Oh, shit; I forgot my wallet. I'll be right back." He ran into the house and returned a few minutes later, and off we went.

When we got to the soiree as was often the case Darren left me shortly after our arrival to do his social-climbing thing. I found some interesting people to talk to, and was surprised that Chauncey - who hadn't taken my spurned advances well in the past - was being a completely charming host to me, introducing me to people and bringing me my favorite drink - Pina Colada - something most hosts don't serve, especially at big events.

At one point a guy who looked to be a couple of years younger than I am came up to me as I had just broken away from a less than stellar conversation. "I'm disappointed that your drink doesn't have an umbrella in it," he said with a smile.

"Why?" I asked smiling back.

"Because then I could make fun of you thinking that you were on a Caribbean beach and then tell you about my year as a beach bum after I graduated college. By the way, my name Nick Greer," he said, extending his hand, now with an even bigger smile.

"Nice to meet you - I guess - Nick," I giggled. I didn't like the fact that his touch sent an electric charge to my pussy. "Thank God for the desensitizing chemical." I thought to myself, although I noticed a tingle that shouldn't have been there.

Nick was THE best looking guy that I had ever seen in my life. However, even if I wasn't married I probably wouldn't have gone after him thinking that he was out of my league. Even though I had gotten more nice comments about my looks, not less, as I aged from eighteen to my present twenty seven, I wasn't any Kate Upton.

Nick was as gregarious and humorous as he was good looking. It was a little hard to draw him out about what he did after his year as a beach bum - which he seemed happy to talk about - but he finally admitted that he was managing a Hedge Fund.

"Aren't you a little young to be a Hedge Fund manager?" I honestly asked.

He turned a little red. "Well, yeah - but some people think that I have talent..." he replied before being interrupted by loud music starting.

Chauncey's house had a ballroom where a band had been setting up. "Say, enough chitchat," Nick said grabbing my hand. "Put your Pina Colada down and let's dance!"

Since I do love dancing and liked Nick's company in addition to his looks I said "Sure!" and placed my half-finished drink on a table. "It's for the best," ran through my mind about my abandoned drink since it was my fourth one, more than I usually drink and though I was by no means drunk I was feeling no pain."

Nick and I danced three fast dances, including a Latin one requiring some body contact. In addition to his other talents he was also an excellent dancer, and since dancing had become one of my main athletic activities after I gave up soccer, I was keeping up nicely. Then a slow song began. I started to move off the floor but Nick grabbed me and pulled me close.

I immediately noticed that something was wrong. My clit was acting strangely. "I...I... need to find my husband," I unconvincingly stammered.

"Oh I saw him on the porch when he pointed you out to me. He asked me to dance with you because he hates it and he knows you love it," he replied, more with a whisper than a shout despite the music in the background.

"You know Darren?" I asked, surprised.

"A little," he said, then immediately continued with "You know you're the best dancer here; I'm honored to be dancing with you."

My mind was trying to process his comments, especially that he knew Darren "a little," as well as my clit not acting like it should when he surreptitiously moved his leg between mine as we twirled around the dance floor. That is it would have been surreptitious for the average woman. For me it was way too real since my clit immediately went wild.

At first I groaned into his shoulder. Then I tried to push away. Then I tried to say "We...ah...ugh...have...ah...to...stop." He just pressed his thigh more firmly into my crotch. I orgasmed right there on the dance floor, and not just a mild one either. It was at least half as intense as one of my normal ones from penile sex.

He seemed a little surprised by my response, but not nearly as surprised as I would have thought that someone in his situation should be. I was now being almost entirely supported by him as he seemed to be maneuvering me to one part of the dance floor. Before I had come down from my climax he replaced his thigh with his fingers and started massaging my clit through the thin fabrics of my dress - I wasn't wearing panties.