The Tale of Sara Radovich

I went through the items, asking for the information. It is easier than trying to get the client to fill out the form herself. I included the questions about her masturbation habits, for medical reasons -- in my judgment, clients who do not masturbate frequently and vigorously lack appropriate pelvic-floor toning. Most clients are not honest about this. They are either very modest or they exaggerate, and it is usually obvious which. Ms Radovich clearly was in the former category. Even so she was so apologetic about her answers that I felt it necessary to reassure her.

"Believe me, if your response is to be believed your self-pleasuring is remarkably moderate, on the verge of abstinence. I suspect that your work is your main preoccupation."

By now I knew the reason for her visit was the uncomfortable and embarrassing section of stool held tight by her sphincter, unable to emerge or retract. It certainly needed urgent attention. I decided to make a very quick and superficial inspection here just to check, and directed her to stand up. Such was her condition that just a few light touches on her lower abdomen were enough to confirm my suspicions; the whole of her large intestine was packed solid.

The other preliminaries -- check of her temperature, heart rate, blood pressure -- could be left to Julie; I was absolutely sure there would be nothing abnormal. To be honest I preferred to defer any further physical contact until later, and I knew Julie would be more than happy to perform these tasks. In any case I would need a bit of time to change into my operating attire. Which meant Ms. Radovich would then be on her own in the room for a few minutes. By then I was sure she would definitely be aroused. If she could not resist the urge to masturbate then so be it.

---end of part 2----

Part 3 (Sara Radovich speaks)

Within minutes of Julie's appearance, my anxiety receded. It was as if her warm and lightly flirtatious manner washed away all the embarrassment and terror of my journey. I even grew somewhat more comfortable with my exposed condition. I knew that my body was fragrant with the odor of shit and vaginal secretions, but somehow I felt myself beginning to revel in my debased condition. Needless to say, I planned to keep these feelings a strict secret from Dr. Phillips and her kind and bosomy assistant.

With smiles and gentle touches on my knee, Julie gathered the most basic information about me: my name, my insurance details, and the fact that my complaint today was rectal in nature. Then she ushered me into a small consultation room, informally furnished, into which Dr. Phillips came without delay and greeted me kindly, introducing herself in a cordial way that further increased my sense of ease and comfort. She had the translucent skin and flaxen hair of an Englishwoman; her accent suggested education and culture, and I found it devilishly enchanting.

Something about the setting, or these two women's appealing manner, was certainly affecting my reactions. I made a point of seating myself so that Dr. Phillips could see my moist crotch, and, when she inquired as to the nature of my complaint, I turned and displayed my odorous buttocks to her brazenly. After I resumed my seat, she then began a series of questions that, as it progressed, caused me to grind myself into her consultation chair ever more urgently. The chair was upholstered with a roughly textured polyester fabric, and I found the friction it offered my anus satisfying in the extreme.

"Ms. Radovich, how would you describe your dietary habits?"

"Poor, I confess. Because of my travels, I eat many fatty foods, and my consumption of fiber is intermittent at best."

"Does this diet lead to upset stomach, heartburn, constipation, diarrhea, or flatulence?"

"Fortunately my stomach never complains about anything I put into it. And right now I would consider explosive diarrhea a paradise! But my bowel movements are frequently hard and painful, and require severe straining to extrude. And I am also often flatulent, especially when I exercise or take part in social situations."

"Are your farts predominantly noisy or smelly?"

"Doctor, they are both." I was surprised by her use of the nonclinical word "fart". For some reason, hearing this apparently well-bred Englishwoman utter such a base term made my heart skip a beat.

"And this causes embarrassment?"

"In some cases, yes. But I wouldn't say this is my chief complaint. In fact, my smellier farts bring back a happy association. When I was a girl and suffered from intestinal gas, my mommy would bend me over her knee and massage my bare buttocks to help the gas escape. It was a very special time between the two of us, and the memories are a source of pleasure." My own words shocked me; I had never disclosed this to anyone!

Perhaps Dr. Phillips noticed my sudden discomfiture. "Ms. Radovich, let us return to the bowel topic shortly. I have a few other questions related to your lower abdomen. How would you describe your menses?"

"They are regular, on a 27-day cycle, with a heavy but short flow."

"What forms of exercise do you perform for the internal musculature of your abdomen?"

"Exercise for the internal musculature? I don't take your meaning."

"I mean to ask how frequently you perform Kegel exercises, masturbate to orgasm, insert dildos and buttplugs into your vagina and rectum, and do any other activity that tones your gluteal and peritoneal region."

I blushed deeply and stammered a little, suddenly finding it difficult to form words. I was suddenly aware once again of the pressure in my bladder. And a small, rapid-fire sequence of small farts chose that moment to work its way around my shit-plug, breaking the silence like the rattling of a toy drum.

Dr. Phillips took my flustered response to mean that I did not masturbate much, and I was too tongue-tied to give her a fuller explanation. She smiled and continued: "My dear Ms. Radovich, I have only one further question, and then we can move to my main examination and treatment room--which, by the way, you will find quite relaxing and which we call the White Room. When was the last time you successfully moved your bowels?"

Once again I found myself brought up short by an innocent question. I couldn't remember! World travel can be so disorienting! Last week I had been in Budapest, but I didn't recall having defecated while there. The previous week I had been in Tokyo, and I distinctly remembered using the Asian-style squat toilets while there. But had I shat or not? I decided not, because I would have remembered how blatant a large turd would be in the shallow pan of a squatting lavatory, and how powerful its odor.

At last I met Dr. Phillips's gaze. Suddenly I became conscious that her nipples were protruding through her blouse, which made speaking coherently even a little more difficult. "Maybe, uh, a month ago?"

"Oh, Ms. Radovich," she replied earnestly, "I am so relieved that you have come to see me. You probably have many kilograms of accumulated feces in your bowels, and continued retention of this thick mass places your health at risk. I am fairly certain that the turd inside you is at least a meter and a half long, extending from your anus through all three sections of your colon, and it is beginning to fill your small intestine. We must urgently address this, and I have a variety of techniques at my disposal. I will return in just a moment and escort you into my White Room for urgent treatment. Would you please remove your lower garment now and give it to me for sampling and analysis?"

At this point I was so aroused that I would have probably complied with any request. I stood up and slowly peeled the soiled and odoriferous shorts from my body. First I slowly lowered them in front so that Dr. Phillips would see my shaved pudendum and sodden labia, and then I turned away, squatting so that my protruding turd would be shamelessly revealed to her. Once I had removed the shorts, I handed them to her inside out, so that the enormous brown stain I had made inside them was obvious. What had come over me?

She seemed genuinely pleased to receive this gift. She said, "Please continue to wait in this room for just a moment longer. Do resume your seat, and please do not worry about contaminating this chair with feces, urine, or any other secretion your body cares to emit. It is cleaned regularly by my staff. When I return, I will bring you a pair of disposable briefs for your modesty." With that, she exited the room, and my fingertips flew instantly to my swollen and abused clitoris.

---end of part 3----

Part 4 (Dr. Susan Phillips speaks)

I call my main examination room the White Room because everything, the walls, ceiling and floor are completely white, even the cupboards, and there is a tiled alcove where a large shower and toilet are installed. At one end there is also a large deep tub with several jets which I use for cases needing underwater and hydrotherapy treatment. But the centrepiece is the treatment table, with multiple padded sections which can be arranged in any number of ways to facilitate the treatment.

Into this room I escorted the almost-naked and very flushed Sara Radovich. I had reentered the consultation room noiselessly, and so had been able to watch her frenzied masturbation for a few moments. She lasciviously ground her arse on the seat and, unless I am mistaken, she even deliberately dribbled urine onto my furniture and floor while she wanked, a positive sign. I noted that the chair's coarse fabric had sheared off a thick stain of shit from Sara's log, and I also noted a similar stain on Sara's left middle finger. Whether deliberate or not, she had clearly crossed a line about her body's more intimate functions, as was clear from her lewd displays when displaying her shit-soiled athletic shorts and exhibiting her shaven pudendum, glistening with her own vaginal secretions. I was glad I decided to give her the protective garment, a thin, plain white pair of plastic briefs that would just about preserve her "modesty" and prevent any loose pieces of excrement dropping on the floor of either consulting room or white room.

I had arranged for Julie to wait a few minutes and then enter the White Room as well, and to leave all doors wide open behind her. At my suggestion she changed out of the attractively embroidered white low-cut blouse and navy skirt and into a pale blue cotton nurse's frock, with short sleeves folded back and buttoned with the traditional starched white bib apron. The only departure from classical and rather shapeless styling was that it was quite closely fitting and shorter at the hem which barely reached mid-thigh. For reasons of comfort and convenience, Julie elected to wear it without underwear. It was immaculate, and any soiling would be particularly apparent. One would imagine it quite impractical for assisting in the treatment to ensue.

While Ms. Radovich had been left to her own devices, I changed into one of my items of operating attire. Like most of my professional garments, I specially designed it. It comprises a short-sleeved halterneck frock of light blue and flexible PVC, close-fitting but not tightly so, with a cut-away panel to leave the entire back bare down to the reinforced and belted waist. Below the waist it transitions to a skirt which terminates just below mid-thigh. The skirt is just long enough to maintain visual covering of my buttocks, at least in most positions I might assume. There are four popper studs in front to which I can attach a bib-apron, usually white, and either the same PVC some other material, such as cotton. Today PVC might be more practical. Above the waist it is cut a little like a bodice so as to closely mould and display the swell of my medium-size breasts. When thus attired for operation I usually (at least at first) keep on my white cotton panties whose gusset was by now quite thoroughly impregnated my my vaginal secretions. Their compliant stretchiness thus allows easy to my genitals or anus. If I so wish I may make them available to my assistant, myself, and any other needful individuals, in particular my client.

All in all, my frock not only projects an outwardly professional appearance but is also cool, comfortable and practical to wear -- important during a long and arduous operation, especially as the room is kept warm for the benefit of the usually naked client, and above all very easy to clean after even the messiest of operations.

I was about to perform the final preparations when I remembered something and called to Julie.

"There is something I nearly forgot, Ms Radovich. Could you just remain seated there and excuse me a minute? Julie, you'd better check me."

"Yes of course doctor, shall we go to the other room?"

I positioned myself in the middle of the consultation room, choosing the spot carefully so that Ms. Radovich would not quite be certain of what she was glimpsing through the open door. With my back to Julie I hiked up my skirt, bent forward, pushed down my panties and pulled my buttocks apart as wide as I could. Julie put her face close. "I don't see anything unclean, but I'd better probe." She then and ran a finger along my anal cleft several times, each time a little deeper, then inserted the tip enough to push past my sphincter and penetrate my rectum. She quickly withdrew and sniffed. "Immaculate, doctor."

We switched places and I performed the same intimate check on Julie. Although her cleft was completely clean, it was obvious when I pushed inside that there was some fecal waste still remaining after her last bowel movement. Unlike me, she had not taken pains to cleanse herself inside with a double enema, soap followed by clear rinse.

Before washing my hand I proferred my stinky middle finger for Julie's inspection.

"Oh dear, am I too dirty? Will it matter?"

"Clean enough I think, a bit of shit inside doesn't matter."

As we returned I was sure my client was wondering what we'd been doing that was so important.

"Sorry, Ms Radovich, a little detail I should have checked earlier."

For the next minutes I busied myself with the final preparations -- all the necessary equipment and liquids were arranged conveniently to hand and ready for use. During those minutes Julie carried out Ms Radovich's routine measurements - height, weight and vital signs. As usual she maintained very close physical proximity as she made the measurements, almost continuous hand contact and much of the time body contact. Before leading Ms Radovich to the treatment table she spoke.

"Good, you're just about ready. But perhaps you should take off your bra, it's better if you're totally nude." I had thought Julie would immediately go to remove it for her, but to my surprise Ms Radovich stepped back and turned to face Julie directly. From across the room I saw her nipples pressing through the sweat-damped material of the tight fitting garment, standing out like large blackberries. Sara and Julie stood less than a meter apart. Maintaining continuous eye contact with my assistant, Sara brought up her hands and pulled her bra up by the sides in a slow, fluid and quite erotic movement, exposing her firm, well-shaped breasts and the erect nipples. Once removed she casually tossed it to the side. Ms Radovich presented a captivating sight, clad only in those white plastic panties. Julie walked her side-by-side, hips touching, to where I stood at the treatment table.

The panties are designed to rip straight off and Julie reached to do just that. Instead Ms. Radovich stepped aside, turned her back to us and bent over in an exaggerated stoop. Pushing down the panties at the waste she brazenly exhibited her finely muscled buttocks and the dark cleft between them, occupied by the now misshapen brown log protruding from her anus. Traces of her shit had become detached at the edge and clung obscenely to the smooth and creamy skin of her cheeks. She carefully stepped out of the panties and turned them to display to us their brown covering. There was a film of liquid as well, not quite colourless and evidence of urination and the drippings of her masturbation. Julie and I looked at each other and smiled. As Sara handed the disposable garment to Julie she made a point of staring into them and commenting, "Good thing I was wearing these, look how filthy they are."

Julie and I each took one of her hands as we helped her mount the rather complicated table, and positioned her so she was comfortably rested on her back supported by the softly padded, plastic covered central section. We placed her legs along the two adjoining panels; articulated so they could swivel horizontally and tilt independently. Her mature breasts flopped to the sides as she settled in, and her dark and crinkled nipples seemed to become even more rigid with exposure.

I said in a casual tone of voice: "I hope you do not mind being secured. There is a real risk of slipping off and hurting yourself."

Ms Radovich accepted this without protest and allowed us to attach the broad strap around her middle, just below her rib-cage, and then two at each leg, just above the knee and just above the ankle. It was possible also to secure her arms, but in this case I felt there was no necessity. It might well have caused some anxiety. Besides, I preferred Ms Radovich to have free hands, at least for now.

With practised skill I arranged the table so as to achieve the most convenient access to Ms Radovich's rear. It meant parting her legs and tilting them up. Her buttocks were only supported just below her tail bone, and her anus and the shitrod emerging from it were directly above a sink with a gentle slope down to a shallow trench at the end away from under her legs. For most of my operation I would be in the V between her legs. Ms Radovich's moist labia seemed to quiver under my gaze, as did her obscenely protruding turd-log. The turd had obviously been bent to and fro during our client's masturbatory stay in my consultation room; what had formerly been a well-formed barrel of feces was now a misshapen lump, and a ring of shit-smears circled Sara's anus.

When our client was fully positioned, I noticed how reminiscent her situation was to that of a woman about to give birth. Of course, she was preparing to deliver, not a baby, but rather an enormous bowel movement. Now that at last we were ready to begin, I called her attention to two important topics.

"Ms Radovich, you are not bound, but it would be most unsuitable to interrupt the operation once it starts. I expect your bladder is not empty now, and it will carry on slowly filling. I will supply you with various liquids, both to avert dehydration and to assist with the clearing of your bowels; I will need you to drink them rapidly and without hesitation. The treatment will take a long time and you will not be able to get up and use the toilet, so if at any time you have to urinate, I beg that you simply let it go. I know it must be embarrassing, perhaps even humiliating to urinate in front of me, but you must not be inhibited.

"The other thing is that the treatment will be extremely intimate, invasive even, as well as messy. We will do our best to make sure it is not too uncomfortable. However, a fair amount of physical contact is unavoidable. Your body will be moved about within these confines and you might need to put a hand on me to steady yourself, or for reassurance. Please do not be shy about contact with any part of my person. I won't be offended if you touch me. And the same goes for my assistant. Isn't that right, Julie?"

Julie, who had taken up a position to Ms Radovich's side, smiled at her warmly and placed a hand tenderly on her inner thigh. "Yes indeed. Your comfort is my primary concern, and I will always be striving to soothe you in any way you require."