Fertility Clinic Pt. 06: Presentation

PT 6 The Fertility Clinic Presentation: Selective Breeding

"Presentation is everything," Dr Velour taught the Nursing Assistants in a small theatre down the corridor from her office. "The White Lab Coat and the plastic name tag, the hushed tones all suggest a presence, a presence of authority, instill confidence and hopefully guarantee cooperation. What if I entered the room straight out of the pool barefoot, naked, dripping wet, I'd be the same person, with the same intellectual capabilities, but would you listen or just laugh?"

My repartee, "Shouldn't I throw you a towel?" sent the three or four prospective Nursing Assistants scattered through the three aisles of this subterranean theatre into hysterics.

"Pitching an idea is no different than puffing up a product," Dr Velour taught, "Even Selective Breeding is simply a matter of packaging."

Freshly out of the Clinic's communal shower, at the Clinic, I, in line huddled with three other naked women and a guy for warmth, to await issuance of a towel and my packaging, the prescribed clothing for the day. As I stood waiting on the line shivering with arms crossed over my breasts, a sensation of being watched alerted me to a pair of dark eyes searing my bare butt.

I looked over my shoulder to notice the facility director Dr Velour under a shower head with a tall dark haired, butterball shaped woman whose eyes caught mine as she studied the rise and fall of my chest. "Showering is required of employees entering the sterile area, Alison," Dr Velour addressed her companion, "Generally, employees become used to a unisex communal showering. Modesty would be misplaced in a facility whose harvest is people."

Even if I was not such a beauty that sent every guy's blood boiling and every gal green with envy, both men and women flirt with me. This was different. The dark - haired woman, fat of rump, slight of chest, was evaluating me. Who was she, a candidate for employment, perhaps? The large hands, muscular arms and shoulders suggested a prospective security guard. Why else would Dr Velour have her in the employee's shower?

"Undifferentiated facilities," the dark - haired woman commented favorably, "like the locker room in my gym."

Hmm, I thought, inflated speech like a public employee, police? Definitely, I surmised, an applicant for a security position.

When my turn came to receive my clothing, I wanted only to be far away from this dark - haired woman as possible. My heart sank when the clerk informed me, "Assigned to the male donor section you're Shower Siren today."

I gulped. "Today was not a day I needed to be put on display," I grumbled as I looked over my shoulder to steal a glance at the dark-haired woman studying every curve and fold in the skin of my body. Wouldn't she like to see me play `The Shower Siren?'

A Fertility Clinic employee, usually female acted as a towel girl in the shower. Working topless or in a black two - piece, the Shower Siren toweled the bulls, emerging from the shower. Males donating their sperm needed to be aroused after a shower to make the donation process efficient.

I could see from reading her expression, Dr Velour's dark - haired pear - shaped companion, scrutinizing my body, wouldn't mind being toweled down by me.

"Some sirens prefer the top; Others go topless," Giggling the clerk chided, "The bull may need help from a soft touch to go hard." The Clerk asked, "Do you need the top?"

When I with a grimace complained that my boobs felt extraordinarily heavy today and later, in the day, I had exams in my remaining courses at the University, the clerk in a cheery voice, asked in a hush, "on your period?"

When I nodded that I felt it coming on, the clerk offered to reassign me to play the Judas Goat escorting and supervising inspection of donors by perspective purchasers of their output. "The girl assigned called in sick. All you have to do as Judas Goat is inspect the bulls in the barn," rolling her eyes with a smile, "y'know, the donor's locker, send those who need a little touch - up to grooming, escort them to the gym to wait, to lead the bulls into Dr Velour's little theatre for viewing and to stand by while the purchasers examine them."

Glancing toward the dark - haired woman still scrutinizing me, I expressed interest, "Escorting the bulls, I won't be on display. The guys are. Sounds interesting."

"You are familiar with the drill," the clerk asked, "you bring the bulls through to put them on display on stage in Dr Velour's theatre downstairs, aren't you?"

On display, hmm, Dr Velour, in her monitoring of my internship in the Western Avenue Fertility Clinic, told me that the essence of business is presentation. In business, the premises, the personnel and the product are constantly on display for the interested public. "Think of it in this vein," Dr Velour enunciation of the clinic's purpose brought grins to the faces of all those within earshot, "our product ultimately is people - selectively bred people."

Dressed in scrubs, I, waiting unnoticed in the entrance to the men's locker, listened to the bulls selected to be put on display. Naked, but for the inverted triangular dome girding their genitalia, the men were chattering among themselves.

Responding to our 'cattle call,' these men were teasing a new listing in our stud book. "Nothing to it," one assured the newcomer, "a little pampering, grooming and body sculpting, on display in the gym working out, stand around naked for inspection and collect some dough."

Another quipped, "inspection? Watch out for the tall, tear - dropped shaped dykes, they like to check what they've been missing."

A third exclaimed, "Some will test your elas - tic - Ity to see if they can - eh - drag you to come along."

The next in line suggested, "pulling the plunger; lugging the lever; nuzzling the love nuts."

The third countered, "prodding the prostate."

Another disagreed, "Naw, the lezzies draw the thrill of arousal not from physical contact, but from the control through the exercise of physical power."

Entering swinging my hips, I announced, "So, here's my refrain: is the sow who has the power to unblock the cock, release the manpower, and inflict pleasure and pain in total control?"

Waiting for the laughter to die down, I explained the agenda. "Good morning, gentlemen. Thank you for coming in this morning. Today, you will be displayed to prospective purchasers of your seminal fluids."

Pausing deliberately to depress the button to release the cock - blockers, I continued, "After you deposit the cock blocker in the bin, stand on the line hands on your head, stand on the line hands on your head, and wait. Come forward for my inspection when I call your name."

"Allen, first name George," I rang out the first name as I donned my surgical gloves. "Blond hair neatly cut; darker facial hair sculpted along jawbone strikingly attractive."

Most of the men stood stoically looking ahead. The newbie, peering out from the row of naked men, cried out, "Examined like a piece of meat."

"No, think of it this way: we're on display like a prized stallion in the corral," a man in line exclaimed.

"Like a bucking bronco in the rodeo, we're the product the public comes to see," a neighbor patted the newbie on the back.

"Or," exclaimed another, "wants to see cum. Whatever it takes to make the sale!"

"Making the sale," in her monitoring of my paper on my internship, Dr Velour instructed, "there is no difference between dealing with the male sperm donors, the female surrogates and the ultimate purchasers of the finished product. All are sales. To make a sale, there must be a perceived need, interest, and money. When those coincide, there will be a sale."

When the chuckling died down, I explained, "Today's inspection is more thorough than the cursory once - over, we give you when you come to shower, use the gym, or donate. Today before subjecting you to display for a serious buyer's consideration, we must scrutinize every hair, every fold in the skin and every pore very carefully to remedy any possible blemish. Shall I proceed with my examination?"

Feeling Allen's underarms, for evidence of hair follicles, I asked, "depilatory cream?" Receiving a nod, I continued, "Chest clean except for small patch of curly hair over sternum." I commented, "Some customers like that."

"We aim to please." Allen responded confidently.

After a grimace from me quelled the round of laughter echoing off the tiles of locker, my exploration of Allen's lower abdomen, pelvic crease, inner thighs, and scrotum revealed, "smooth pubes, sleek legs. Every woman would be jealous. Turn around."

"Here comes the money shot," muttered Allen as he exaggerated his compliance.

I shook my head at the ribald comments Allen's remarks drew. I chided the men, "I can dress you guys up, but I can't take you out."

When the laughter subsided, I attended to Allen. Now with Allen's back to me, I ran the palm of my hand along his muscular shoulders across his back and hips to the base of his spine. I announced, "back hairless." ordered, "bend over, spread your legs." With the subject in position, I superficially probed his crack with my gloved index finger, I declared Allen's anal cavity to be "satisfactorily silky and sheer."

Allen was about ready to move toward the showers when I signalled him to stand by. I called up the newbie. Looking down at my electronic notepad, I asked, "Your name sir."

"Tim Bogen," said he as he extended his hand.

"Hands on head, Mr Bogen," I reminded Mr Bogen in a pleasant voice with a smile. Giving him a quick look - over and feeling stubble in his underarms, I remarked, "You shave, but when it grows in, it can be uncomfortable prickly." Turning to Mr Allen, I asked, "could you escort Mr Bogen to grooming?"

"No problem," Allen firmly promised. To Bogen, Allen asked, "coming?" Answering Bogen's protests about being on public display walking naked in the common area, Allen declared, "We're on display. We're what people pay for. Come!"

I held my hand up to signal the rest to keep quiet until I heard the door hinges squeak and the door swished shut. Once Mr Bogen was out of earshot, the room exploded in laughter.

Once the catcalls dissipated, I observed, "I would have escorted Mr Bogen myself, but then rules would have required me to undress and shower before leading you downstairs. If our customers caught me naked, they might have thought I was on display. Naturally, due to my beauty and brains, our customers would insist your output be injected inside me."

"Wouldn't your husband be jealous?" came the catcalls.

"On the other hand," I rose to the challenge, "We do need a new car. Like most men, Jerry wouldn't mind sacrificing my svelte figure as a necessary trade - off for acquiring new wheels."

Collecting the men after their shower, I led the men down the long ramp that led to the subsurface gym. Peering over the railing, I noticed Dr Velour in the pool naked swimming laps.

Rejoining the gaggle after escorting Tim Bogen to grooming, Allen, spying on Dr Velour easily gliding through the water, rendered an appraisal, "Doc, is one who practices what she preaches. She puts her frame on display. A pretty good one at that, what is she 35, 40, maybe, with an hourglass figure of a 17-year-old cheerleader? Firm DD boobs, thin waist, muscular arms and legs, firm butt. Yet they say, she herself produced three children to support herself while she was in med school."

"I wonder why," Bogen asked.

"Money, my friend!" thundered Allen. In a gentler tone, Allen added, "Same reason we're get up early in the morning to cum hitched up to a post. Bright girl! I wonder how much money it would take to get her to grow another child?"

In her oversight of my internship research paper, Dr Velour reflected on motivations, "with the bulls, the male sperm donors, for the most part, what draws in the bulls is the money. Beyond that, the donors never think of their role in selective breeding. What happens when I sew their wild seed concerns them not. Not one has asked about the female who might have been impregnated or even wondered that I might use their sperm to inseminate their wife, their sister, or even their mother."

"And the money keeps them coming?" I asked.

A wicked smile appeared on Dr Velour's thin lips as I covered by mouth with my hands when I realized what I had said. In the silence that followed, a distant contemplative glaze masked her face as she paused to ponder. After a silent interlude, Dr Velour spoke, "The bulls can eh—`come,'" She halted at that word, "so long as I can market their 'cum.'"

When we finished laughing, Dr Velour rephrased my question, "You meant to ask: what keeps completely domesticated men, balls locked down in the cock blocker, returning faithfully to my gate standing in line like livestock for inspection before release of ejaculate into a hitching post?"

Waiting for the bulls donning simple cotton triangles over their jocks to begin a workout, I noticed fleeting, furtive movement in the darkened alcove overlooking the pool and gym. From that balcony, the flickering shadows enjoyed a commanding view of the activity of men in cotton athletic supporters on in the hallowed out underground cavern that housed the gym and pool.

At that Dr Velour toweling her naked body down joined me. Looking up to the gallery, Velour tossing the towel aside, "You've noticed our premier prospective purchasers up in the gallery. People will tell me they search for qualities of intelligence, sensitivity and compassion in a man, but it's the flexed muscles of our well - hung livestock on display during the exhibition in the gym which generates the interest that leads to sales."

With a smile, Dr Velour told me to bring the livestock to the operating theatre. "I'll," Dr Velour promised, "fetch the purchasers." Hands on her bare flanks pushing her chest out dangling her breasts enticingly in my face, Dr Velour, groaning with a distinctive tone of disappointment inflecting her voice, smirked, "I suppose I will have to dress."

"The livestock on stage will be appropriately herded on stage, dressed for their part in the selection," I said with a grin.

"Have you given thought to the assignment I have given you for your paper: the motivations of the male donor?" Dr Velour asked. "I deem the donor's sacrifice, enforced chastity outside the clinic between donations, is relatively mild by comparison to the demands placed upon the bodies of our female surrogates. Yet, I have no problem keeping my stud book full." After a pause, Velour added, "You're here to study motivations. Explain the magic?"

When I blew my whistle, Mr Allen yelled out, "Showtime!" Patting Tim Bogen on the back, Allen rendered an assurance which sent Bogen's eyebrows twitching,

"What's a few seconds," Allen teased Bogen, "of jerking your jock strap off, bobbling your balls, coddling your cock, and bending you over to poke your prostate." A look of discomfort appeared on Bogen's face, but he filed into the theatre with the other bulls.

As we entered the theatre bright lights on the stage automatically flicked on. During the procession down the left-hand aisle, less intensive overhead fixtures suddenly illuminated the three rows of seats.

Arranging the men on stage, I reminded them: "For those of you appearing for the first time: first name only, look straight ahead, no comment on statistics. I will demonstrate. Mr George Allen, you seem to know the process. Naturally, you enjoy explaining the procedure of examining the bulls on display today. Step forward, hands on head, state your name."

When Mr Allen announced his first name, I retrieved medical gloves from my back pocket and donned them with an exaggerated snap. I snickered when I saw Allen's eyes widen and body betray a twitch. Dr Velour had taught that technique as a measure of control. "The sturdiest of stallions will turn squeamish and shudder when they hear that squeaky, squealy sound."

"Hands on head; look straight ahead," I reminded Allen. "First, I'm going to slip your cotton jock down, a mite." Turning to the herd, I explained, "If a purchaser elects to examine you, your jock strap might be lowered to your ankles. Don't trip on your dick. Simply, kick it off."

On display, Allen presented an impassive face. Maintaining eye contact with Allen, I commented favorably on his imperviousness as I cradled the scrotal sac in the palm of my hand as if weighing it. My nimble digits ran over the sac to gently fondle each testicle.

"Not a good idea," I advised, "to mouth off while a preferred customer has the power pack in her hand. Remain completely detached when Dr Velour announces the average number of milliliters of ejaculate you emit, sperm concentration in the emission, and sperm mobility."

Commenting on the smooth pubis, I noted that removal of pubic hair gives the erotic zone of the bull a clear, clean appearance. "Now turning our attention to the delivery mechanism," I directed the attention of my audience to the structure of the penis. "We start at the tip, the glans penis, conically shaped; the taper facilitates introduction of the penis for ejaculation. The glans is also called the head of the penis." With a pause, I added, "now, you understand the expression, 'thinking with the wrong head.'"

"You'll notice that the bull's delivery apparatus is so sensitive that non - erotic tactile contact can bring on swelling. We shouldn't unnecessarily lose a load earmarked for deposit," I quipped as I released the penis, "That would be unfair to Mr Allen, wouldn't it?" I smiled keeping eye to eye with Allen.

Breathlessly, Mr Allen agreed.

"Turn around, will you?" I spoke softly. I held my hand up to silence a bull who exclaimed here it comes. "Bend over," I instructed Allen, "relax, pull those cheeks apart."

Slowly and deliberately stripping off the surgical gloves, I smirked when I heard the report of squeaking as annoying as new chalk fresh out of the box on a blackboard. Pausing to replacing the gloves with that tell-tale snap, I moved up-close to penetrate Allen's rectum.

"A preferred customer who accepts Dr Velour to stimulate prostate to cause the emission of some precum without causing an erection." I paused, "The stimulus to the examiner might be greater than to the patient. Male proctologists are advised to wear a condom before conducting an exam."

Withdrawing my fingers and shucking the glove, I noted, "The anal cavity, sphincter and the rectum are loaded with nerve endings. I'm not going to massage the prostate and risk inducing an emission."

Coming close to Allen to whisper audibly in his ear, I, patting him on the butt, praised Allen for his poise and instructed him to raise his jock strap and cover up. "Chances are there is little in an inspection by the purchaser to worry about; purchasers probably will probably hesitate even to touch you."

At that, I observed Dr Velour standing outside the double doors of the theatre in the corridor. When Dr Velour entered with two women, a queasiness overtook my insides as soon as the clients whom Velour escorted came into view.

Accompanying Dr Velour was Alison, the dark-haired woman who checked me out in the employees' shower.

Clinging to Alison was a petite, slender, freckle faced auburn haired woman. Both Alison and her companion wore terry cloth bath robes. Alison's friend was so tiny that the robe was knotted twice around slender hips covering a rectangular shape between narrow shoulders and her ankles. Proceeding into the theatre, the short girl projected uncertainty when she looked up to Alison, her dark-haired companion, for reassurance.

I tried to conceal unease when dark-haired Alison shot me an inviting smile.

Escorting customers Alison and her associate up on stage, Dr Velour introduced the purchasers to the herd, "Welcome to the science of selective breeding. These are the livestock you selected for inspection. Each of these bulls meet your criterion for appearance, intelligence, and physical strength."