tagGroup SexThe Physicians' Tale

The Physicians' Tale


"It's still coming down! April is too late in the year for this nonsense," Dr. Crist whined, watching as a thick, white snow coated the ground. "Maybe if we hadn't been listening to podcasts all the way up, we'd have heard some weather warnings."

"Global warming," sighed Dr. Beltz. "The seasons are all fucked up because of that..."

Dr. Crist rolled his eyes.

"Global warming. Global warming is causing SNOW. That makes no sense! You libtards will look for any reason to inject politics into things..."

"Oh my, god, It's not politics it's science! You are a doctor, you're supposed to know goddamn science!" Dr. Beltz groaned.

Dr Crist blanched "Please, don't take the Lord's name in vain,"

Beltz grinded her teeth and took off her glasses to pinch the bridge of her nose, as if she had a migraine.

"Hey, hey," Jefferson interjected, "Let's not argue. We're all frustrated, we're all stuck. Let's just be cool, ok? Beltz, stop baiting Crist, and Crist, no more portmanteaus for you."

Dr. Beltz flopped sideways into an armchair, letting her long legs dangle over the edge.

"Fine. But what are we going to do? We're stuck here!"

Jefferson exhaled with exasperation, blowing a strand of his shaggy blonde hair off his glasses.

"Serves us right, us being so early,"

The three doctors had been a few hours early to convention, a few hours too early to get the email that it had been cancelled due to snow. Though they'd worked in the same small clinic for six months or so (Beltz and Jefferson had predated Crist at the clinic, but not by much) they had not any real time spent time together outside the office. Jefferson had suggested renting the small, freezing 3-bedroom cabin they were stuck in, since they were so much cheaper than the local hotels. Cheaper, they soon found, since the little set of cabins were so far away from town, with no modern heating devices, only a fireplace where a fire was quickly dying.

"You know," Beltz said, looking up from a half-finished messy plait in her dark hair, "We could pass the time with stories,"

Jefferson and Crist grunted.

"That's what we used to do when we were snowed in as kids."

Jefferson nodded. "Fine, but, no fairy tales or story hour bullshit. Let's talk about some real, juicy stories."

Beltz smiled, "Weirdest thing you've ever experienced as a doctor?"

"Ah, man, there's so many weird ones," Crist laughed, pulling a heavy green sweater over his broad shoulders.

"There's no way you can top mine," Jefferson said.

"Until you hear mine," Beltz teased.

"Well, lets see, then," Jefferson smirked. "Me first. It's a story I like to call...."


I was just an intern when it happened. Barely out of med school, working weird hours at this inner-city free clinic. Pretty run of the mill stuff--STD screenings, pregnancy tests, pre-natal vitamins, AZT upkeep. My supervisor was kind of a drunk, a real bad case of compassion fatigue, you know. He was a decent, guy, but pretty checked-out most of the time.

Late one night, right before closing, this woman walks in. She's amazing--this long, dark hair in waves, smooth, coffee-and-cream skin, long, muscled legs. She's wearing a short blue dress with a plunging neckline that shows the inside curves of her perfect, round breasts. Her breasts were amazing, too, D cups, high and perky even without a bra...

"God, we get it!" Beltz shouted. "She had nice tits! Moving on."

Jefferson sighed, "They were better than nice. They were transcendent. But I'll move on."

Anyway, beautiful woman. Near closing. Now, here's the thing: you can't tell 'poor people' by how they look all the time. Usually, of course, there are these small tells: paleness from too much indoor work, duller hair from cheap food, that kind of thing. But this woman looks more than healthy, she looks wealthy. Her hair is obviously looked after professionally, she's wearing high-heels--see, I don't know designers or anything, because I'm a guy, but they look expensive, unscuffed. It's chilly out, and that dress is so short. She'd have to be crazy to walk far or wait on a bus in it. She doesn't look like a pro, either. Something about her makeup, or hair.

So she just sits there, there, through the whole evening, until she's the last person in the clinic.

My drunk supervisor already sent the nurses home, so it's just me, him, and her.

And he's all : "Jefferson, take care of this broad , will you? I got a killer headache."

"Um, sure, yeah," I said, and called the woman's name.

She gets up and walks over to the door I'm holding open. I have to hold my clipboard over my crotch, because I'm young and the mini-dress she's wearing is they type like to call 'amateur gynecology chic' because they're so short, you can basically see vagina straightaway. At a free clinic, I mean, at any clinic, you see pretty much everything that can go wrong with that area, but that didn't stop me from having a more than professional interest in hers.

So she sits up on the table, and I start to ask her all the usual questions:




"Naturopath," she says. So I say

"Gender identity?"

She smiles--I don't ask that one to everybody, just the ones who are like, ambiguous or that I think would like it if I did.

"Cis-gender female, but thank you for asking," she says.

"Marital status?"

"I don't like labels," she says, fluttering these lashes at me like she's flirting, looking down at her own perfect tits, so I follow her gaze and can't stop staring. Seriously, I felt like a high schooler, I afraid I'm going to come my pants.

"When was the last time you were sexually active?"

She laughed. "In what capacity? I guess, a week ago?"

In what capacity? I'm thinking--is she for real? What does that even mean? But even back then, I had some professionalism, and didn't ask her any more about it.

"So what brings you here today?"

And then she looks up at me, smiles really slow:

"I've been having...problems. I'm normally such a happy person, but lately, I've just been feeling depressed," she says.

I jot it down on my clipboard.

"Ok, how long have you felt this way?" Depression? At a free-clinic gyencologist? I'm thinking maybe she is a pro, maybe she's trying to get drugs or something. But she looks too healthy for that.

"About 2 months?" she guesses, counting off on her long fingernails.

"Miss, I'm not trying to get your out of here or anything, but I must ask: why come to a gynecologist for this? Would'nt a GP or psychologist be more helpful?"

"Well, see, it's that I have. But they all want to pump me full of unnatural chemicals or talk about problems I don't have. When I know what to do, I just need help," she presses her lips together and looks away from me, like she's shy all of a sudden.

"Which is?"

"Womb augmentation. It's fallen out of favor, but it's really an excellent cure for melancholia," She drops this line with a little half-smile I can't read, I can't tell if it's flirty or self-effacing or what, but I feel like I'm going to faint.

"Womb augmentation? Like the victorians?"

She nods. "Yes, it's unusual these days, but very effective," she leans forward, all innocent like, and I can see down her dress, to like, her whole entire breasts.

So my cock is rock-hard at this point, and I want to do whatever she wants me to do, god I do, but I'm afraid of losing my license. I want so badly to do the right thing, but part of my wants even more badly for the right thing to be her.

"I'm afraid, I uh, never learned that technique in school...let me check with my supervisor," and I slip out of the room. My supervising doctor, Dr. Calhoun, is asleep on a chair outside the door.

"Uh, doc, I got a weird thing going on in here..." I say.

"How weird? It better be really fucking weird for you to wake me up like this," he answers, "we're already 45 minutes past closing."

"Um, this lady wants a womb augmentation?"

He laughs. "Criminy, what year is it? Fucking hippies. Really nothing to it, though, it's not dissimilar to turning a baby, just stay away from the cervix," he says, making a fist, motioning upward in the air and wiggling his fingers in an apparent demonstration.

"So...I should do it? What do we even bill it as for insurance?"

"Pelvic exam? Go on and do it. Respect women's health choices," he grumbles a few more things I can't hear, but then he falls back asleep.

When I get back in the room, the woman's clothes are piled in a chair, and she's wearing one of the examination paper dresses. Which I had not asked her to do, or laid out for her--she must've poked around in the cabinets to find it. Oh, somehow it's even hotter that she's wearing that damn thing, like there was still more of her to uncover. I can see her hard nipples poking through the paper, hard and dark and round...

"So? What did he say?"

"Uh, right, my supervisor said go ahead. It's unusual, but approved," I answer.

"Good," she lays back on the table, sits her feet in the stirrups. The way she's laying, the paper dress is falling open, fluttering with her breath. If she sneezes, I'll see all of her.

"I'm not entirely sure how to do this," I tell her "so I'll try to be careful..."

She smiles at me. "Oh, it's ok, I know how to. It's not difficult, It's just hard to do it to yourself,"

There's an image I had to keep out of my head, if I wanted to keep those scrubs.

So I snap on my surgical gloves and squirt a little lube in them.

"Oh, I'm allergic to latex," she says, "drug and disease free, remember? You'll be fine without them,"

"ok," I mutter, and lube up my hands.

I walk in front of her, where her legs are spread. And oh, her pussy is perfect--purplish, big, thick labia, dense hair black hair on the mons, but nowhere else, an introitus you could snap a dime off--just how I like my pussies.

"Spread a little wider, and scoot down," I say, like she was any other patient.

She obeys, and her cunt just...blooms in front of me. The caveman part of my brain can hardly contain itself. It's just screaming that my DNA needs to be with hers, or at least near hers, maybe in her mouth or on her chest.

I slide one finger inside her. She gasps.

"Does that hurt?"

"A little," she says " The lubricant is a bit cold. It helps if you manipulate the clitoris at the same time. Here, I can help you with that. She starts rubbing her clit, and it swells, beautiful, delicious, right in front of me. I watch her clitoral hood retract, watch her skim her pinky on her clitoris but dart off when it becomes too intense. I can smell her arousal, feel her getting wetter and looser. I slide in another finger.

"See, much easier," she says, and winces.

I try to push in a third finger, but she won't budge. She's as tight as she looked from the outside.

"Its much easier if I'm a little aroused," she says. "I know this is weird, but maybe, if I can just see your cock? I won't sue or anything, I've noticed it's been hard since I got on the table,"

I don't know what I'm thinking, but I pull myself out, and she looks at it while she keeps stroking herself.

"Nice, that's a big one. Love that purple glans color, right? Does it taste as good as it looks?" and the fourth finger goes in. She moans, and arches her back, "Oh, god, it's working,"

I almost laugh, "one more big push," I tell her, and with a great shove, pop my thumb into her as well. I'm in her now, those perfect pussy lips eating me all the way up to the wrist. I rock my hand back and forth inside her, and she moans, loud.

What shred of professionalism I have left in me, exposed cock and all says, "please miss, keep it down," thinking if my supervisor came in right now and saw me with my cock out, fist inside of a patient, that would be the end of it for me, and more's the point, I'm stuck in a finger-trap tight vagina--escape would not be swift.

"Mmm-hmm," she agrees, and writhes against my fist. She's still working her clit with one hand, the other has traveled up to her breasts, where she tweaks her nipple with her self-moistened fingertips. There is nothing remotely medical about this and I know it. But damn, I want to see this through. I tickle her inside until I find her the spongey mass of her g-spot. She contracts, her lips around my wrist. I know what's coming, and I don't let up--I keep pushing the tiny spot I've found.

And then.

The door flies open. It's my supervisor.

"Dr. Calhoun, I can explain!" I shout, though I very much doubt how I could go about explaining the imminently orgasmic woman on the table and my exposed dick, which I've been unconsciously stroking this whole time.

But Calhoun doesn't yell, he pulls his pants open, his hard cock springs out, and the woman on the table moans again.

"Oh, baby, what took you so long?" she opens her mouth wide, and Calhoun shoves his cock in. She starts sucking him, deep, gagging, while still fucking up and down on my fist.

"I'm ready," she whispers, and Calhoun pulls out, comes all over her face, into her mouth.

"I want his, too, " she nods down at me, "his looks delicious."

And Dr. Calhoun says "Well?" , pointing at my dick.

I jerk my cock hard with my free hand , continuing to massage her g-spot and come thick, heavy spurts on her chest and stomach.

Finally, I feel her spasm around my wrist. She bucks forward, ejaculating into my face--I've never seen a woman ejaculate so much in real life. I pull out of her, and she just lay there, panting, smiling, glowing with happiness, every muscle of her body relaxed.

She leans over and kisses Calhoun on the mouth, still covered in come, his and mine, and she's using her left hand to rub the mess all over herself, sticking it to the paper dress til it's just see-through film plastered against her body.

"Intern, I think you can go home, now." My supervisor says, smiling and more awake than I'd ever seen him, with a look like hunger on his face.

So I left, Calhoun mounting his weirdo wife in that cum-soaked paper dress.


"Wait, so they set you up? It was just Calhoun's wife the whole time?" Beltz asked.

"Yep. She had this weirdly specific fisting fetish, and he had erectile dysfunction. Could only get off if he saw her getting off super hard first, usually with another guy...I dunno, man. It was a big mess. I still see her from time to time, at the practice where I work now. And she smiles, and I know she's found someone else to do the same for her."

"That's pretty weird," Crist agreed. his blue eyes round with surprise.

"How about you, Crist?" Beltz asked.

"Oh, I totally got them. This one couple, they were trying to get pregnant, and they just couldn't. So I asked them how they were doing it, and it turned out, they were virgins..."

"...And you tried to show them how to have sex with rubber dolls?" said Jefferson, raising an eyebrow.

"That's Catch 22! We all took Lit Junior Year!" Beltz groaned,"Boo, tell us a real one,"

"I have a real one. I just, don't know if you can handle it," said Crist, crossing his muscled arms defensively.

"Oh, shut it, Crist, you worked at one of those fake crisis pregnancy centers before you worked with us, you don't have any wild stories," Beltz chided.

"First, I did not work at a "fake crisis pregnancy center", we just partnered with some faith-based organizations, and second, yes, yes I do have a wild story. Possibly wilder than yours," he groused. "Well, you must have a really good one, if you're acting so high-and-mighty about it,"

"I've got TONS," Beltz laughed. "But I'll tell my favorite. It's not quite a story about weird stuff from the job, but it's close enough. Let's call it..."

The Milk Made

The average debt load for medical students is $170,000. That's an important detail to remember--I don't know what yours was, but mine was definitely the higher end of that average. I wasn't able to keep a regular job in during my undergraduate years. I did a lot of freelance stuff, you know, editing an article here, questionably ethical essay writing there, modeling--don't laugh, there was boom in the Iranian population in the city back then, REI was trying to make the Burkini happen but the local franchise owner didn't know any actual Muslim women. My favorite freelance jobs, though, were product and medical testings. Product tests were great because I got a lot of free stuff, medical tests were better because the research team usually hooked me up with more jobs when they found out I was a med student.

Everyone thinks you need to be sick somehow to participate in those things, but they need a control group, usually, too, which requires healthy people. Like me.

There was this ad posted on a bulletin outside the cafeteria on campus:

Women between the ages of 18 and 35 required for non-hormonal birth control study. $150 plus travel expenses, subject may keep prototype.

That last bit intrigued me--and birth control had always disagreed with me, anyhow. So I took the train out past the suburbs.

Meditech, or Technihealth, or VisionLife or something, the company was called--one of those stupid drug company portmanteaus that don't actually mean anything. They were on the sixth floor of one of those giant non-descript brick buildings you see off the highway but never know what they're for, which was strangely empty.

"Hi," I said through the glass at the receptionists' desk. "I'm here about the study?"

Turning in her chair to face me, the nurse revealed the largest natural breasts I have ever seen. Fake breasts are higher, you know? You can tell, especially in our line of work. These were real, round, with that tiny bit of sag that means if you were to take 'em out of the bra, they'd fall a little into your hands and they'd be heavy and perfect...

Jefferson cleared his throat.

"Ok, that's fair," Beltz answered. "But they were seriously, like, top-shelf tits. I'm saying that personally, too, as someone with good tits myself, but like, if mine were Smirnoff, hers would be..."


"ok, sorry, sorry," she said, raising her hands. Anyway,"

The receptionist held out a clipboard.

"Ah, yes, the birth control study," she said and smiled. She wore bright red lipstick that off-set her pale skin. She wore her dark hair in a loose french braid that laid over her shoulder. Her sweater buttoned up the middle, the top button ending right in the middle of her breasts. She looked soft, warm, like someone who would be fun to hug. "Fill this out, and then come see me, ok?"

When using birth control, have you experienced:

1 inability to orgasm (anorgasmia)

2 decreased libido

3 increased libido

4 mood swings

I checked off 1, 3 and 4, underlining #3 for emphasis. I liked nurses then, I like them now--not necessarily always in a sexual way, but I just wanted to make her laugh, you know? I wanted her to like me, and would've even if she didn't have the sweetest cans this side of Wisconsin.

I handed back her clipboard, and she rose, motioned for me to follow her to a back room as she leafed through my answers. She sat on a stool and nodded toward a chair for me.

"Hmm. Well the low part is pretty normal, the higher one is unusual...do you remember the name of the pills you were on?"

I listed what I could remember, as she nodded and checked boxes.

"So, how did you cope with the increased libido?" she asked, not looking up.

I was still pre-med, so I was adjusting to how blunt nurses are, and wanted to match her.

"Um, different ways. Dating. Self-manipulation."

I failed.

"Can you be more specific?" she asked.

I sighed.

"Well, when it got really bad, I was having sex about three times a day," I said.

"It says here that you aren't in a relationship, and haven't been in a long-term relationship since...5 years ago?"

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