The Imprint Ch. 02

Withdrawing the speculum, doctor, lubed gloved fingers. "I'm probing your insides one hand palpating your pubes (lower belly) to check the uterus and ovaries while I twirl my fingers inside your vagina."

"Very good," doctor announced, "now, the money shot. With a freshly gloved fingers, I'll probe the rectum for tenderness and growths."

Nodding to the nurse assisting him, doctor spoke to a person outside my range of vision, "While first time egg retrieval may seem scary, the procedure is routine with minimal side effects. In this experiment we compare the quality of natural ova over the multiple ovam, yielded by fertility-boosting medication."

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the nurse assisting approach with a syringe. As doctor droned on, "during ovulation, ovaries release one mature egg into the fallopian tube, where it might be fertilized, but in egg retrieval, doctors remove the mature egg ...," I was stabbed in my fleshy butt. Doc continued talking. I heard the words but couldn't understand them.

I felt the stirrups pull my legs as far apart as my body would allow. "Quite a bush," Doc walking away ordered, "Full prep."

"A haircut and a shave, sweetie," said the nurse. A hot towel followed by warm soapy water lathered my pubes and my labium. Then a straight razor swept away soap and hair. A towel wiped the soapy residue.

Hovering on the edge of consciousness, I felt my hand held firmly. The smiling face of Dr Regina Windham, the Hospital President lingered at my side. Her hair uncharacteristically drooped over bare shoulders. Considering her age -- 50 ish -- her bare breasts were firm. She shushed me.

Was I trying to talk? I was floating in a twilight, a dreamy state of consciousness, not quite surgical anesthesia. I could appreciate (understand) verbal and visual stimuli but was unable to react to it.

I felt the pressure of a needle in my vagina. Doctor explained, "the needle penetrates the vaginal wall to enter ovarian follicles and suction off fluid and egg." Was this for Dr Windham, still clutching my hand?

"Unlike multiple ovam (eggs) retrievals," doctor lectured, "a single ova donor is not injected with fertility hormones. We don't expect hormonal fluctuation induced side effects. However, the subject may experience vaginal pain. Recovery is usually brief and rarely requires more than a good night's sleep."

"Now," Dr Regina Windham added, "this patient has certainly earned the right to catch upon her sleep." At that I felt another jab in my butt.

Doctor replied, "At the low point in patient's cycle, there is no need ..." I faded into a deep slumber.

Roused by a sudden chill from an altered state, I awoke disoriented, naked under a thin blanket. Had it been a dream? I felt my pubes, smooth and slick. Eyes opened, I was alone in a small darkened room.

A shriek—was that me—rang throughout a large open room. A light went on near a desk. A nurse in a spacesuit grabbed me. "You can't yell. It's 4 AM, people are asleep. Do I need to give you a sedative?"

"4 AM?" I protested, "I need to get out of here to meet someone at 6."

"You donated an egg," the nurse reminded me, "Dr Windham, the hospital president personally held your hand during the procedure and gave the order to allow you rest. A full day, if you want."

I shook my head. I was unsure. I still wasn't convinced that I was lost in a vivid nightmare.

"You need rest. However, if you calm yourself, I can release you in an hour," the nurse promised, "when the out -- processing nursing staff come on duty." The nurse shepherded me back to the small room. "While waiting release, meet your brother? Isn't that the reason you came down here in the first place?"

Once returned to the room, I instinctively reached to cover myself with the sheet, but the nurse, without comment, grabbed it first. When my brother, his genitalia restrained in an athletic cup, knocked on the wall, I instinctively crossed my arms over my breasts. Staring at my bare pubes, Josh went into one of those he -- hawing laughs that reminded me of a donkey braying. "Are you moving in with me?"

"Just visiting," I replied.

Josh grabbed me in a bone crushing hug. Trapping my hands, his embrace pressed them against my chest. Released after Josh ran his hands down my back to tickle my butt, I allowed my breasts to dangle dazzlingly before his eyes. With his genitalia restrained, teasing was safe.

"I still know your tickle bug -- spots even though I haven't seen this much of you in quite a while," said lanky Josh with that he -- hawing honking noise that was his trademarked he -- hawing laugh "Not since the days we used to play doctor. Can I claim credit for starting you off on a successful career?"

"You're fit, working out?" I asked.

"I see you continue to study anatomy," Josh chided me. "Do you remember bringing an anatomy book back from the convent school Father sent you to?"

"You usually unbuttoned your shirt; occasionally you might have taken off your shirt," I replied, "and I listened to your heart with a toy stethoscope. Normal childhood play."

"Yes, but as time went on," Josh recalled, "the game, on your weekends home, became more eh—focused. Ordered to strip for inspection of my `urinary tract,' I went erect before you came close."

I sighed. "You were such a eh—precious thing. I believe I told you, `Try to think of something else complex mathematical problems while I examine you...'"

"You grabbed my nutsack and pretended to estimate the weight of my balls by cradling them in the palm of your hand," Josh recalled. "Do you remember what you said?'

"Actually," I changed the topic, "I ran into your friend from school, Sam Pauling. Remember him?"

"Did you check to see if his cock grows or just crows?" Josh asked. When I didn't respond, Josh leaned back on the bed. "Sam is smart, loves an argument, will fight for his point to the bitter end."

"On that very point," I interrupted Josh, "Sam told me that all the fancy words in court papers can be summed up as `fuck you, prove it!"

"Oh," Josh emitted that annoying honking laugh, "that's Sam! He went to a big firm in Capital land." Josh shook his head, "Not for a guy who needs to be on his own." With a sigh, Josh asked, "Anything else?"

Beckoned, I assured Josh, "I just came for a visit." Since I had my answer, elaboration might expose my problem unnecessarily. "It become more involved that I expected. How are you getting along?"

"During the two weeks of isolation, when they're not tapping the spigot," Josh recounted, "they march us into a gym for exercise, drag us in the pool... They have the latest equipment, beta -- max videos. They allow us time to watch videotapes of lectures, documentaries or even simple TV program."

Ah yes Beta max and Atari, relics of the pre-digital age. I asked, "And the experiment?"

"The guy's guns get un-holstered every other day to shoot some bullets into a machine," Josh explained, "Guys who've done it before say the machine replicates the conditions of real sex."

"Sounds like fun." I observed.

"I've joined a select crew, Dr Rebecca," Josh, eyes widened enthusiastically, elaborated, "Many movers and shakers here in Capital land, judges, legislators, lawyers, even doctors, did time in this program. There's probably information about it in the data base the hospital is building in its computer system."

"How interesting!" I declared. This information may be useful. The aging previous director, befuddled by the computer, had entrusted me with mastering the hospital computer system. At that, the space - suited nurse advised me that the scrub nurse opened the shower.

After a hug and a kiss, I found myself in the shower, thanking God that Josh's male organs were under lock and key. Washing as per procedure in three stages like a car in the car wash, I touched my pubes, now silky smooth from my umbilicus (belly button) to my labia (vaginal lips) and clit (clitoris). I found myself exploring my slick mons pubis (mound) bare for the first time since the time I was a giddy teenager ensconced by Father in a convent school here in Capital land.

In -- processing into the convent school ended with the school nurse's order to shower. Gripped in terror, I, hesitantly, opened a rickety, rusty shower cross handle. Cold water splashed. Ordered to clean myself good, I took a harsh soap from a soap dish. I feared what might happen next.

Men so easily mislead themselves, I reflected. In the daily steamy showers of the convent school, the older girls flaunted their pussy (pubic) hair and budding boobs (thelarche) and graphically boasted of sex -- capades with girls and guys. "With boys, your tits bring them to your door," I was told. Father believed I needed proper finishing and a good education. He never expected a major in sex education.

In the mist, I was about to spread my lips to introduce my long fingers into my vagina when I was recalled brought to the present by a shapely barefoot scrub nurse overseeing the showers in her bikini.

"Don't be surprised. Every woman," the young girl spoke, "who's been given the clean shave fingers her crotch. Some come to like the smooth feel and keep it that way."

"Oh," I asked.

Exuding admiration, she told me that my visit had become the talk of the hospital. "Oh, Dr Barton, you're quite a celebrity. Dr Regina Windham, our Hospital President, personally held your hand during your procedure to inspire others she hopes, to contribute some of themselves to the fertility study."

"There are no secrets in a hospital it seems," I replied.

"One of the girls, Queen Bee," the shower girl continued, "accepts no special treatment; everybody calls her `Gina; just another patient, she strips, bends over, takes the turkey timer up the butt, ..."

"Stands for naked photos too," I asked. Receiving a nod, I declared, "Truly a remarkable leader!"

In the ante -- chamber, I docilely stood for the exit photos. The sound of the whack which landed on my wet fleshy butt, when she had me bent over to insert the "temperature gauge," seemed to ring off the cinder-block walls. Chuckling about the playful slap, the nurse fetched my clothing. When she dropped the clear bag at my feet, the odor hit me. I protested, "I can't put on this stinking, wrinkled mess."

"You're supposed to," the nurse refusing to issue scrubs, "bring a change of clothes. Under the procedure, that's your responsibility. We of course launder the clothes of our girls returning from work or school, but your things won't be ready until ..."

I turned back her protest, by calmly asking the nurse if she'd like to have "Regina, you know, our Hospital President rule on the issue. Did you know Regina came down to the program to hold my hand during the egg retrieval procedure? Also fetch me a pair of those spacemen boots. I rather fancy them."

I surprised myself not so much by name -- dropping, but by my presence. Though I stood there naked, I maintained my poise as if in my white lab coat with name tag attached. Maintaining eye contact, I invoked my voice of command.

"Anything else, Doctor?" The nurse asked as she handed me the scrubs and had the scrub nurse in the shower fetch me the haz -- mat boots.

"I'll be sure to mention when I meet Regina, our hospital director," I replied, "how your eh—overly familiar manner puts patients at ease." I paused. "Have my clothes laundered." I tossed the bag of reeking clothes toward her, "My secretary will pick them up, later. Now leave the room. I want to dress." When she didn't move quickly enough, I reminded her, "It's proper procedure."

Under the shower in the ritualized reception into the convent school, I was afraid to turn around. What might the school nurse want next? Mustering the courage, I found myself alone. A uniform jumper, white blouse and plain shoes sat on the vacated chair. A note read, "Dress. Report to the headmistress."

I laughed. I had been afraid of nothing.

I managed to reach Mr Sam Pauling to arrange to be picked up at the barrier to the doctor's parking lot. Retrieving my purse from my desk and wrapping myself in my ermine collared coat, I waited in the cold at the barrier with the wintry winds whipping up the loose pant legs of the scrubs. When Mr Pauling pulled up to the barrier, I hopped inside, declaring "I'm freezing my butt off. Without underwear, gusts of Arctic air are shooting a biting sub -- zero chill at my freshly shaved cunt. I hope your heater works."

Shock was etched on Mr Pauling's face. I snickered to myself, it's as easy to shock men as to mislead or deceive them. The car was in motion climbing the hill to my apartment, when Mr Pauling dared to ask what happened to my clothes? My response was simply, "Procedure, Mr Pauling, procedure."