Family Doctor Blackmail

My first incest story! I never knew much about this genre before, but it is the most popular Literotica category so I wanted to see what all the excitement is about. This one goes a little dark; I have a collection of lighter, "hot doctor" stories which I hope you'll find if you like medical themes.

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Mary sat perched on the edge of the exam table, anxiously biting her lip and wishing she were somewhere else at the moment. Anywhere else would do. Her friend Denise always said, "I'd take a big spin of that wheel of fortune over this, girl!" whenever she found herself in a tough situation like a geography test that she hadn't studied for or when her own mom got up and danced in the middle of all her friends at Denise's sweet sixteen party. That's how Mary felt in this doctor's office; an overpowering feeling of just get me the hell out of here. Any random spin of the wheel would be better than this.

She'd locked her elbows with her hands straight down at her sides in a half-hearted attempt to take some weight off the way her ass deformed that crinkly, crisp paper the nurse had pulled from the big roll at the wall--her mom always referred to it as "butcher paper" when they came here together over the years but she had never known if that meant this was really the same stuff they wrapped meat in at Kroger or if it just looked like it. She shifted her weight further onto her hands as she waited, conscious of how she pressed into the paper and not wanting to leave a huge print betraying the outline of her butt.

She sighed and took a look at the dingy walls with all the corny "Welcome to Your Body!" posters tacked here and there, showing muscles and organs with the skin artfully peeled back, and fuck, that was the entire female repro system hanging right there at the head of the bed. She stared at the expanded view of a woman's splayed vagina and uterus and ovaries, and shook her head, steeling herself to gut through this.

Old Doc Bandler was still faced away from her, washing his hands at the sink, and had barely grunted a hello since he walked in a few moments ago. That seemed par for the course from what she remembered. This was the first time Mary had seen the doc alone--and this will be the last time, too, she thought to herself. Now that I can control my own destiny.

She never liked the guy much and had always been uncomfortable when he pressed his large hands against her throat, or around her shoulders, or on her stomach while her Mom watched patiently from that chair over there. Same old red plastic chair for all these years, too, as far as she could tell. It had always been an exercise in just making it through the exam to get the antibiotics or hand splint or acne medication or whatever particular need had made her mother drag her in each time.

She missed having her mother as a chaperone. It was an uncomfortable place to be sitting alone and vulnerable, especially when forced to be basically naked in the humiliating little paper gown that barely managed to cover her curvy frame. The nurse wasn't very nice, either; curt and businesslike, you could say, which was awkward if you and your body were the business.

She shifted again on the table trying not to make a noise with the paper cover. The suspense was driving her mad. She knew that at some point the doc would spin around and yank open her gown and put his big paws on her body, probably right on her naked tits, pinching and pulling her flesh, so part of her just wanted it to begin so she could get it over with and get out of there and try to put the whole thing behind her. Her hand went to her breast, protectively, feeling its curve through the gown; she didn't like the idea of giving up access to her body to anybody, especially not this guy.

"Kramer?" He said it bluntly, and loud, catching her off guard. The use of her last name without any more polite framing jarred her out of her thoughts. The doc had spun around like she feared, facing her all of the sudden, and the part of her that just a moment ago had wanted it all to begin to get it over with was beat out by a larger part of her that said, oh shit, I don't want this to start but here we go.

"Yes?" she answered in a much quieter voice, blinking as she looked up at the large man in the white doctor frock. He loomed in front of her. The "r" in Kramer rolled lightly from an accent buried years ago. His look was exactly as she remembered, although she wouldn't have been able to describe him beforehand; a serious man, humorless, with a mostly round face, glasses, strong shoulders, large hands, middle-aged and showing a beginning gut but with a moderate amount of sandy hair covering the just emerging bare spots.

"Tell Irene that she is overdue to see me."

Mary had to think for a moment. The comment took her by surprise, her mother's name and then the conjunction of her own mother having something to do with this doctor other than her role to sit in the plastic chair over there in the corner watching while she--the obedient daughter--tried to get through one of these awkward visits with the least amount of embarrassment.

But quickly she realized that of course Bandler was their family doctor; so her mother--and her father, too, and brother, for that matter--would see him regularly. She just never thought about it, in that way that children grow up not thinking of their parents or Sunday school teachers or other adults being normal people with normal duties. It's not that a child denies it, it's just that it never occurs to them.

Still, there was something disturbing about the thought of her mother's cute and what Mary thought of--somewhat naively, as a daughter will do--innocent figure being examined by this man with the large and rough hands. She and her mother were quite close, and often when Mary walked into parents' bedroom when her mother was in the shower she would admire her mother's mini-hourglass waist and sloping hips. It was the manner of her own narrow waist, too, for which she was glad, and as a further accent Mary must have gotten her larger bust from her father's side. All in all they were a pretty hot looking mother and daughter, she thought with some pride.

But she didn't have time to gather these thoughts and respond before he spoke again. He had plunked himself down to his swivel chair and was reading from a clipboard he held in his grubby hands.

"Hmm... More than four years," he concluded, then rolled over and looked up, appraising her intensely. It was intimidating, this imposing man staring directly at her face from only a foot away and she averted her eyes to the wall instead of meeting him pupil-to-pupil. She held still in that pose, wishing that he would just look away for a second. His gaze felt like one of those infrared heat guns in the red light sauna, and she was afraid she would start to blush.

"Well, the acne seems to have cleared up well," he said, satisfied, continuing to stare at her from different angles.

Again she was caught flat footed. Why did this guy always make her feel like she was playing defense?

So much had happened in her life over the four years since she'd had that flare up in middle school that she didn't remember the doxycycline Bandler prescribed her back then. Wasn't there some discussion with her mother who was concerned about the side effects of a teenager taking an antibiotic? It hazily drifted back; yeah, but I guess old Bandler's shit did work, she concluded. Her skin had gone back to normal and then even to silky smooth as she entered high school. That was another feature of her mother she was glad to inherit.

He spoke again. "Irene couldn't come with you today?"

Mary shook her head.

"And you're a big girl now, aren't you?"

This took her aback. The volume and patronizing tone of his voice brought the memory of years of seeing him as a child into focus, and left her with a murky, uncertain feeling. Was he expecting an answer to this question, a confirmation that yes, indeed she was still a girl, only now a big one? Instead, she cleared her throat and tried to regain her composure; it was hard to do while sitting in the doctor's own dragon lair and wearing only this ridiculous, flimsy little paper gown over nothing but her cotton panties.

"I'm going to college now," she attempted.

"Mmm." It came only as a distracted murmur, his attention was firmly back on the clipboard. She was annoyed that he didn't listen. That's something that she also remembered about this guy. What did they call the quality for doctors, "bed-side manner"? His was pretty much shit, she concluded. But since she'd never seen anyone else, she didn't know if all doctors were like this or if there were better ones out there.

It wasn't exactly true, of course, what she had said about going to college. Not that it mattered, because it didn't seem that he heard her, anyway. It was true in the sense that she was going to be going to college, in the fall; she had just turned eighteen and graduated from high school a month ago. And she felt like a college girl already, looking forward to the independence, doing more important things with her life than making it through study hall without falling asleep, or enduring the life skills class about how to take the pill or roll a condom onto your boyfriend's penis.

As she waited for the doc to finish whatever he was reading about her in his notes, she frowned at herself about the college comment; she was always fronting. It was a bad habit she wanted to rid herself of, but somehow things often slipped out in response to a perceived attack. She talked about this openly with her mother, who was understanding, and said it was natural and related to the normal insecurities of a young woman who was learning to be confident of who she was.

Still, she wanted to teach herself not to do it. She would respect herself better if she told the truth more often, she thought. Her mother was so awesome at talking about stuff like this and she was glad of their relationship, so unlike most of her friends' struggles with their own parents. She loved her family, even her older brother, that good-looking rascal who brought home a different girl every month.

"Now I'll take a look at you," the doctor said, again interrupting her thoughts, tossing the clipboard on the counter and swinging back to face her. His big hands reached towards her face. The thought raced through her mind: shit, here it comes.

"Good, good," he said, nodding in encouragement--as if she were a child--when she stuck her face out towards him and held still, surrendering to his will. He touched down on her skin and then wormed his fingers up the line of her lower cheeks, walking up until he was just about tickling the bottom of her earlobes. She was glad she had taken out all her jewelry before the appointment. He kept the pressure on, pinching her, so at the apex of his handsy wanderings it felt like he had a complete hold of her head in his large palms; then he wiggled her entire jaw around, the skin of his fingers digging into the soft flesh under her chin and neck.

She grimaced. Yep, this was the same shit she remembered. The skin on his hands was tough and scratchy and it abraded on her; his thumbs and fingers were enlarged and strong. It didn't bring pain but it was awkward the way he held her so firmly. He didn't give her any room to move, and even taking normal breaths became awkward.

Then suddenly his hands were on her neck, feeling, pulling, pushing, tugging on her flesh as he made his way around the circumference and down towards her collar bone. She coughed when he pressed in too hard in the front by her voice box. It was strange, the power he had over her in this position and how vulnerable she felt. His hands felt like steel presses and her neck like a gentle flower.

"Good--" he said again, patronizingly as he finished, pulling away and swiveling around to make a note on his clipboard. She swallowed, still feeling the pressure of his hands on her throat--resisting putting her own hand up there to soothe--and hoped that she had passed whatever test that was. Probably lymph nodes, from what she knew. There shouldn't be anything going on, she thought hopefully; she had felt fine for months, having come down with nothing since some bad colds at the start of the calendar year, during the winter.

When he swung back, he wielded the dreaded tongue depressor. He nodded, and said, pointing to her mouth, "Open," mimicking the motion himself in an overdone gesture.

She sighed to herself and obeyed, then stuck out her tongue when he did the "Say Ah" thing. He pushed on it roughly, moving from one part to another too quickly, almost gagging her, and she had to stifle a choke when he pressed down too far towards the back of her throat. He pulled out after that. No apologies or anything, though.

"It's dirty," he said simply.

She paused, trying to understand. "Sorry?"

"Your tongue. Do you brush it?"

"Do I brush my tongue?" She was confused. She was still trying to process what he meant when he said she was dirty. Was this a disease or something? Or did she have bad hygiene of some kind?

"Mary. You're a big girl now." He said this condescendingly. There was even a hint of scold. "There are things you must do, to take care of your body."

"Okay--" she ventured cautiously. She didn't know what he meant, but she was willing to learn. She didn't want a dirty tongue. Or dirty anything, for that matter.

"I'll show you in the mirror." He did a 180 in his swivel chair to the counter and shoved a handheld mirror at her face. "Say Ah," he demanded again, wanting her to hold the mirror.

She took a look and was alarmed. It was true, her tongue was coated in white gunk. Fuck; he was right. What was all that shit on there and had she looked this way all the time during her senior year, just never noticing? How did her tongue get so dirty? She tried to think about what she had eaten that morning.

"See? Watch in the mirror." He said this as he pulled a dental instrument up to her open mouth. Her eyes went wide as she realized that he was going to start scraping her tongue with that thing. It was like a little bonsai garden rake, but for the skin of her taste buds instead of those tiny buckets of white sand with the miniature trees.

"Say Ah," he said a third time, annoyed, when she had started to close up. She didn't want him fucking around with her tongue and her body instinctively worked against it without her consciously trying. He scraped a couple of times but then her teeth collided with the little metal shaft as her mouth narrowed.

He was obviously frustrated. "Wait, somewhere..." he muttered to himself, spinning around yet again to dig in the counter drawers. He loved his swivel chair and used it with flourish. She just sat there watching, waiting, unsure where this was going to go. How about I just try to find out how to fix this on my own, she thought. I can Google this shit, "how to get rid of white tongue."

But then his attention was back on her and before she knew what was happening he had stuffed these two black rubber wedges into her mouth. They fit tightly, prying her wide open and leaving her unable to close, or unable to move her jaw at all, actually.

"Now you can rest your bite," he said, as if it was muscle laziness causing her to not open far enough before. Fuck.

She half-choked on those things and tried to vocalize something in protest, but only a groan came out. "Uhhh... uhhh." She sounded like a zombie who didn't remember how to talk. The doc has stuffed them so far in there on her back teeth and they were fucking big, at least they felt big, that there was no wiggle room at all, not even to open any further. Her jaw already ached from being stretched so far open.

"Say Ah--" he commanded yet again, wanting her tongue out. She hesitated for a second, but she seemed to be stuck. Fuck; there was nothing to do other than what he wanted. So she put her tongue out like a good girl. Again she wished she were anywhere in the world but sitting here doing this, and squirmed uncomfortably.

Now the doctor began scraping away happily, pleased with his unfettered access to her tongue. She held up the mirror and watched in horrified fascination as the white gunky matter gathered on each down stroke and he collected it to wipe on a paper tower. It was so gross and she vowed right there never to eat anything again that wasn't like a fucking apple or lettuce or something absolutely clean and healthy. It must be the processed carbs that do this, she thought, remembering the croissant she had for breakfast.

He'd been scraping for a hot minute when the door cracked open and there came a soft knock. Bandler stood up to attend to it, leaving Mary sitting with her mouth jammed open with the rubber blocks wedged in between her teeth. It was starting to really hurt her jaw, the way she was pried open like that. She felt like a lab animal or something. At least she could pull her tongue back in to give it a rest even if she couldn't relax the rest of her face.

The nurse was talking softly with the doc at the door. Mary thought she caught the doc saying, "You can send him in when he arrives," which if she had heard right wasn't great news. Who can come in, she thought. I don't want anybody fucking else in here for this exam which was already embarrassing enough.

When Bandler returned he sat in front of her again and swiped one of his big fingers down her nose affectionately. "I see you've kept your mouth open," he said, trying to make a joke; but it was at her expense and she wasn't amused. The devices kept her from speaking or showing an expression anyway, which might have been a good thing.

He worked a bit more with the tongue rake, then in a surprise he pulled out a video camera. It wasn't his phone, it was one of those small standalone cameras from a decade ago.

"Uhhh?" she managed, wondering what this was about.

"It's how I do dictation," he said curtly. "Also, your family has Northeast Medical. They need proof of every procedure for billing."

She grunted again, confused. What did he mean? Was this for real?

"You don't want your father to pay extra, do you?"

"Uhhh," she responded, shaking her head slightly. No, she didn't, but still it seemed weird that he was going to film her. She'd never heard of that before.

"Eighteen year old female, leukoplakia," he droned in a medical monotone as he zoomed the camera up to her face. With his other hand he manipulated her chin to angle her head from side to side. "Tongue out, honey," he added.

Really? What is this shit, she thought. I have to perform for this guy?

"Tongue out," he said more firmly, annoyed at her hesitation. She was trapped in the situation and didn't know what else to do and the camera was rolling. It was fucking awkward. So she obeyed, again.

Then he grabbed the tip of her tongue and yanked it out further. That hurt. "Uhhh," she said, louder this time, but he ignored her. The camera panned across her face, catching a shot of her blinking, watery eyes, then back to her open mouth.

"The surface was treated, hygiene was advised. Good," he added to her, snapping the camera shut and flipping back to his notes on the counter, pleased with himself. But she was still fucking stuck there with her mouth jammed open, looking and feeling like a fool. And the whole scene had been captured. She wasn't a happy camper and resented her mother for making her come here for this; she wasn't even convinced any of this shit was required for college in the fall. Meanwhile, he took a bloody long time on his notes before swinging back to her.

When he finally pulled the infernal gadgets out and freed her jaw, the saliva that had pooled in her mouth dripped in long strings and arced down to the front of her paper gown--he wiped it with his gloved hands on the front of her chest just above her breasts, which was embarrassing. But then he turned his attention away, washing the devices clean at the sink, so she closed her eyes and rubbed herself, soothing the aching muscles. She'd lost any interest in getting an explanation from the doc or learning from him how she could prevent that white stuff in the future. She just wanted to get out of there as soon as possible with minimal interaction with this guy; reading about it later would be good enough.