Doctor's Dream Part 1 free porn video

Jessica steps out from behind the privacy curtain of my exam room, revealing her nudity to me for the first time.

I am awestruck -- a rapturous witness.

Foremost upon her petite figure, her breasts appear scandalously large. So fulsome and buoyant are they that her nipples sit six inches forward from her torso. Her overlapped hands cover her pubic mound while her upper arms squash her breasts together, exaggerating their cleavage above her flat stomach. More arresting still, each of her areolas is starkly highlighted within a narrow triangle of un-tanned skin -- indicating a preference for bikini tops two sizes too small. I feign indifference but it is difficult not to stare. Her nipples jut proudly outward as if returning my gaze.

Of course, she is staring at me now too; slightly embarrassed and nervous judging by the size of her blue eyes. After the passing of several seconds her need for reassurance begins to show. Despite her suntan, I see a pink blush bloom from her neck up into her broad cheekbones. She shifts her weight, crosses her legs at the ankle and lowers her gaze to a midpoint on the shiny floor between us.

"Perfect," I say, trying to recover my composure. "You look very fit. No need to be so nervous."

This elicits a smile. She spins left, shrugging her shoulders up and forward in a feint of modesty that seems to beg for further compliment.

"Thanks," she answers softly. "It just feels kinda' weird being naked in front of you."

She holds this new profile pose like a pin-up model: resting her weight on one leg, pointing her other foot at the floor, exaggerating her cleavage with that forward shrug... all while throwing me a pouty-lipped stare over one shoulder. From where I stand this view reveals the shocking thinness of her waist, so incongruous between her large breasts and the rearward swell of her round buttocks. Her legs taper beautifully down from there, all toned and tanned. In fact, every ounce of her five-foot three-inch frame is taut and athletic, making her breasts and bottom look cartoonishly voluptuous by comparison -- like soap-bubbles clinging to a wispy reed. Too urgently I sense the beckoning of her little butt in particular. Its smooth round shape seems designed explicitly to entice a spanking.

I notice at last that she is not completely naked. Her hands have obscured the front triangle of some g-string panties but now their narrow side-strap is revealed, tracing a high arc across her hip.

Ignoring this minor disobedience for the moment, I reach for the pillow on the exam table and toss it to the floor in front of me.

"Come here please," I say with a brief and tight-lipped smile. "Kneel down on this pillow so we may get started."

I turn aside and open my equipment bag, not wanting my face to betray any doubt that she would follow such an instruction. While digging for a sterile tongue-depressor, I observe her movements peripherally. She closes the distance between us with a few steps, halting with her bare feet almost touching the pillow. After a hesitant pause she descends until kneeling with her shins flat against the pillow. She then sits back, lowering her bottom into the saddle formed between the soles of her feet. Both hands remain in her lap as if still trying to conceal her miniscule panties.

I turn to face her and make a show of unwrapping the tongue depressor from its crinkly plastic enclosure. After discarding the wrapper in the foot-pedal-operated waste bin, I pull a penlight from the pocket of my white lab coat and take a step toward her.

Diminutive even when standing, she appears truly tiny now -- kneeling with only the thin pillow between her butt and the floor of the exam room. Looking down I see that the top of her head is below the height of my belt and her eyes are staring directly at the base of my zipper. I imagine her glossy-lipped mouth must be level with my balls.

She tilts her face upwards, forced to look almost vertically to meet my gaze. Her arms continue to crowd her breasts, creating a dark crease of cleavage that points like an arrow toward her mouth.

With the tongue depressor in my right hand like an oversized popsicle-stick and the penlight in my left, I ask: "Do you have a strong gag reflex?"

Her eyes widen and flit from the depressor to the flashlight and back again in quick succession.

"I don't know," she manages.

"That's alright. I'll be gentle and we'll find out soon enough, okay?"

"Okay. I mean... I hope not," she replies, clearly unsure which part had been a question. She leans back fractionally and moves her hands from her lap to her heels, un-crowding her breasts at last. They spring apart with youthful elasticity.

"Now," I say, trying to retain my focus, "I like the way you are sitting -- nice and low like that and bracing yourself with your hands behind you. That's good because it will hold you steady. I want you to look up, straight up at the ceiling and open your mouth as wide as you can, okay?"

She arches her back, transferring more weight onto her hands, and reclines her pretty face until her neck is almost fully extended. Her loose curls swing free, dangling to the floor from the pony-tail behind her head. Her natural breasts now stare up at me, spread apart and slightly flattened by gravity's pull. I catch myself wishing for a reason to grab and squeeze them back together.

"Good. Now open wide and cover your bottom teeth with your tongue please." I instruct from above. "This will just be a preliminary exam, verifying what you already know -- that you don't have strep or tonsillitis or anything like that."

I switch on the little flashlight and bend down over her, bringing my face within a foot of hers. My necktie d****s forward and its point lands softly between her breasts. My hand shakes slightly as I ease the wooden depressor past her parted lips and touch it to her tongue.

"You will feel me move this depressor a little farther back in your mouth," I continue. Her eyes flutter closed and she winces slightly at the unfamiliar touch of something so far back on her tongue. "...and now I'm going to press your tongue down and I want you to say 'Ah,' and hold that sound as long as you can."

She performs flawlessly. With the penlight aimed at the back of her throat I can see her epiglottis lift, exposing her airway. The back of her mouth is pink and clean and soon becomes prodigiously coated with saliva.

I click off the penlight, withdraw the stick from her mouth and take a step back. She recovers herself to a less reclined position and closes her mouth to swallow the supply of spit triggered by my prodding.

"I didn't gag!" she then says, apparently pleased.

"Well, I wouldn't have expected you to," I reply while sifting through my equipment bag again. "We've barely started. It is the next part of this exam which may make you gag."

I punctuate this statement by unsheathing the two-foot-long camera scope from within my bag.

"Oh my God. What is that?" she asks.

I casually connect the device to a pair of wire leads hanging from the wall beside the exam table.

"It's basically a small video camera, mounted right in here," I offer, pointing at the tip of the probe. "It has a little light built in, and it relays an image back to the monitor there on the wall behind you. This allows me to make a high-resolution recording of your esophagus for later review."

"Of my what?"

"Your esophagus. Which connects your mouth to your stomach."

Her eyes widen. "You mean my throat? Like, I have to swallow that thing?!"

"Precisely."

"But...my....But what if -- I mean... Will it make me puke?"

"Well, you may, if your gag reflex is too strong. But hopefully that's not the case."

She quiets, unable to break her gaze away from the long stem of the scope. I raise it so she can have a better look. Holding the handle with my right hand, I pull the tip of the probe from side to side with my left.

"See?" I say. "It's quite thin. It's made of flexible rubber on the outside, with all the wires safely hidden inside. The entire outer surface is quite soft. I don't think you'll find it as uncomfortable as you think."

I hold it out for her. She reaches out and touches the tip with one finger and her thumb, giving it a gentle squeeze.

This particular scope is an old East German design. The insertion stem is two centimeters in diameter and thirty-five centimeters long, which provides excellent penetration potential. The optical tip is clear, but the rest of the stem is coated in semi opaque, laboratory-grade rubber. It originally came with centimeter markings, but I have since had it recovered with new rubber marked in inches: from one to f******n. A protective collar separates the stem from a pistol-grip handle with various buttons for my thumb and index finger. The video and power cables dangle from the stub end of the grip, now connected to the room's power and video systems; ready to go.

"Does it taste bad?" she asks.

This question takes me by surprise. I can't recall anyone asking it before.

"It's been sterilized," I reply. "It shouldn't taste of anything.... Except maybe rubber I suppose."

"Can I try it first? I mean... I'm not ready -- don't, you know, push it in -- I just... Can I just taste it first for a second?"

"Of course," I allow, squaring off with her and holding the scope at my waist.

I aim the stem slightly downward at a point between her eyes. She only needs to sit up a little straighter and tilt her head back to bring the tip within an inch of her mouth. I watch her lips open. The point of her tongue appears and then she eases her mouth onto the probe. Her pink lips, shiny with some kind of high-gloss balm that I suspect is fruit-flavored, surround the tip and close around the first inch of the instrument's shaft. I see her cheeks dent inward as she reflexively gives it a suck. She catches herself and quickly pulls back, breaking contact. Her eyes dart up to mine to see if I noticed and she looks away, clearly embarrassed. I linger, holding the probe steady. My eyes are fixed on a strand of saliva, almost invisibly thin, which now hangs like a thread of spider's silk between the optical lens and her bottom lip. As I slowly raise the scope, it stretches and stretches. She notices only when it breaks and droplets fall onto her exposed chest and upper thigh. She wipes her chin and stares down at the floor near her knees.

"How was that?" I ask.

"What?" she says, lifting her gaze.

"The taste. Was it okay?"

"Oh. Yeah it hardly tastes like anything, like you said."

"Good. Then let's get started. We have long way to go and my next appointment starts in an hour."

"Sorry."

"Oh, don't be. That's not what I meant."

I set the scope down on the paper sheet covering the padded exam table and turn away from her to face the cabinets against the room's back wall. Opening the top cupboard, I retrieve a tub of jelly lubricant. I place it on the countertop next to the sink and remove the lid. From the drawer below I pull out a large plastic injector. It looks like a turkey-baster except instead of a rubber bulb it has an internal piston plunger, like an oversized syringe. The other end tapers to a three-millimeter opening. I compress the plunger fully down, expelling the air from inside and then submerge the aperture-end in the clear jelly. Pulling back on the plunger I draw four fluid ounces into the tube according to the markings on the side.

I place the loaded injector next to the big German scope on the bed and then yank two latex gloves from the box mounted on the wall. Turning to face her again, I see she has not moved. Still sitting on the pillow with her hands behind her, she is naked except for the two taut elastic strings holding up the tiny triangle of her underwear. I pull the gloves onto my hands one at a time, making sure to snap the rubbery material loudly against my wrists as I do. With each snap her body flinches, making her breasts wobble just a little.

"Is this part mandatory?" she whispers.

"Yes."

I scoop up the loaded injector with a gloved hand and approach her once more.

"This," I continue before she has a chance to ask, "...contains a clear, digestible jelly. It will melt once warmed to body temperature, becoming slightly effervescent and oily. Its lubricating properties will help ease the probe's penetration."

I point the injector at her and place my thumb through the loop on the back of the plunger. She stares at its tip, now six inches from her mouth. It glistens, thickly coated with jelly from its immersion in the tub. Lifting her eyes to meet mine, she wordlessly opens her mouth. I take half a step forward until the tip is almost touching her lips. I hold it steady there, waiting for her.

"Take it into your mouth," I say with a smile. "It's okay to suck on this one."

Her cheeks bloom in a sudden blush, but before too long her head comes forward and the tapered end disappears into her mouth. Her lips squeeze into the jelly coating and form a puckered seal around the main tube. She lifts her eyes to mine and crinkles her forehead, asking for approval.

"Yes, that's fine," I offer.

I depress the plunger about a quarter of the way, squirting an ounce of jelly into her mouth. She blinks.

"Now swallow," I instruct.

Surprisingly, she complies with this without pulling back off the injector. Her lips remain a tight ring around the plastic tube. I watch her cheeks cave-in and I feel, through my hand, the movement of her tongue gathering the jelly toward the back of her mouth. The feint subcutaneous ridges visible beneath her neck flutter once, pumping the slippery load down into her throat.

In a smooth motion I withdraw the injector from her lips' embrace, causing an audible pop when the suction breaks.

"That tingles!" she smiles, oblivious to the frosting of lubricant that coats her lips. "It's like a Jell-O-shot, kinda. My roommate at college... she makes them sometimes. You know, like, with vodka?"

I cannot help but cock an eyebrow at this.

"Oh my God, now I it's all fizzy!" she continues with a wide smile. "That tickles all the way down my throat!"

"Now once more," I say. "But this time don't swallow, alright?"

"Okay."

She leans forward, eagerly moving her hands to the tops of her thighs.

I reach out with the plastic injector and she quickly takes the first inch back into her mouth. I depress the plunger fully this time, squirting all three remaining ounces into her waiting mouth. I then withdraw the device and ask her to show me that she has not swallowed the load.

She tilts her head back and opens her jaw widely for me. I can see that her pink tongue is submerged under a layer of the clear jelly.

"Good," I say. "Now keep it there."

I turn aside and place the empty injector onto the countertop. Out of the corner of my eye I watch as she gradually appreciates her somewhat immobilized condition. With a mouthful of slippery jelly that she is not permitted to swallow, she is mute and unable to breathe except through her nose. I know the jelly will quickly warm in her mouth and effervesce as it melts. The longer her tongue stays drowned in it, the more her salivary glands will also react. They will start to squirt, adding their own juices to the mix. I see her trying to stifle a giggle while staring at the ceiling with her mouth agape around this fizzing load.

Smiling to myself, I lift the scope off the padded exam table. She must have forgotten what was coming next because when I turn and face her again, this time holding the big German scope, all traces of her mirth evaporate.

"Unh-uh," is all she can manage.

Ignoring this, I take two steps forward and reclaim my earlier stance in front of her little pillow. She quickly leans back, catching herself by shifting her hands to her heels behind her, like before.

I'm standing at my full height now and positively towering over her. The hem of my open lab coat d****s forward, brushing against her breasts and throwing a shadow across the lower half of her body.

I step even closer, until my wingtip-clad feet are actually astride the little pillow. Other than her reclined head and shoulders she is now entirely under me, between my legs.

I switch on the probe's light and camera with my right hand. With my left hand I reach down past her upturned face and take control of her head by the base of her ponytail.

Her hair feels like satin.

I narrow my stance, bringing my legs inward until her little ribcage is pinned between my knees, trapping her arms behind her. Through the trousers of my suit I feel her swell with every breath. Her oversized tits are compressed between my thighs, creating a marvelous display of cleavage beneath me.

I raise the pistol grip up to the height of my ear and point the length of the probe straight down at her upturned face.

All she emits from the back of her throat is a bubbly gurgle. If her mouth wasn't so crowded with lubricant and saliva, she might have screamed. She writhes weakly under me, trying to escape my legs and instinctually reaching for the hand locking her head into this position by the ponytail. But she never takes her eyes off the long rubber shaft hovering above her, and she doesn't spit out or swallow the slimy contents of her mouth either. These are good signs.

I wait almost half a minute, holding her in exactly this position, until her distress subsides. Her neck muscles slacken, relenting in their battle for control of her head. Her hands stop their useless flailing and settle back onto her heels once more. Her rapid nasal breathing slows. Her blue eyes are wide and wet.

"I'm holding you like this only because it's the safest way," I explain in the calmest voice I can manage. "I'm not going to force this into your throat, so you don't need to worry about that. You'll be in charge of taking it in. I'm just going to help you, okay?"

Apparently she cannot respond. She is transfixed by the length of the rod I'm dangling above her lubricated mouth.

"I'm going to lower it in now," I continue, "but once I feel it touch the back of your mouth I am going to stop."

I key the 'Record' button with my thumb. A single tear slips down across her temple and disappears into her hair.

"Remember, I'm not going to push," I add, attempting to soothe her. "You're the one who's going to pull it in by swallowing. It won't go into your throat until you decide, okay?"

She starts to close her jaw, but the gelatinous pool in her mouth has become so enlarged by her own saliva that it starts to overflow from the corners of her mouth.

"Hey! No spilling," I cajole her.

Her eyes flick upwards to meet mine briefly before returning to the point of the probe. She slackens her jaw, allowing the pool of lubricant to ebb. From the corners of her mouth, two slimy trails trace across her jaw and down her neck to the hollows above her collarbones.

She can't take this much longer, so I lower the scope into her open mouth. She goes almost cross-eyed trying to follow its descent. When it touches the base of her tongue, she blinks two or three times. I pull down on her ponytail a bit more with my left hand to prepare the straightest possible path into her throat. I feel her wiggle within my grip.

"Take two deep breaths now, please." I request. I watch as her small nostrils flare momentarily with each intake of air. I also make a mental note that the line on the rubber shaft marked '3' is level with her lips. When I feel her ribcage exhale the second breath, I issue what I hope will be the final instruction of this exercise:

"Now take one deep breath and hold it. Then swallow."

A tremor runs through her and I worry for a moment that she will not inhale. But she does.

With the copious lubricant in her mouth, plus the previous ounce already coating her throat, it won't take any pressure at all from my hand for the probe to penetrate.

I allow the weight of the instrument itself to press upon her.

Her blue eyes close.

And she swallows.

The probe drops immediately down to the six-inch mark, its girth pinning her throat open in mid-swallow. Her eyes flash wide in surprise as the pool in her mouth drains in a sustained flow into her throat. I take up the weight of the scope again to prevent it dropping too fast on this slippery river.

"Excellent," I say and quickly glance up at the TV screen to make sure the video feed is working.

Returning my attention to her skewered mouth, I raise the probe up to the '4' mark and then I start to press it back down slowly, opposite the direction suggested by her gagging throat muscles.

At five inches, her eyes shimmer and weep in unison.

At six her gagging becomes audible as a rapid, wet clicking.

At seven her eyes shut tightly.

At the eight inches, she panics.

* * * * *

I have learned to expect a bit of panic in these young ladies over the years. Most are in their early twenties when I first see them. At that age there are only two categories of women who do not panic at this point in the exam: those born without any gag reflex and those who have taught themselves to control it for the purpose of fellating their boyfriends more deeply. Jessica clearly does not fit either category.

By rule, I never conduct this exam on women younger than twenty. Nor do I see too many over twenty-seven. The intervening years seem to be the sweet spot for referrals by the membership of our little community. Eighteen and nineteen year-olds, though legally adults, are not considered emotionally mature enough.

I know Jessica's parents loosely but had never met Jessica until a month ago. I was at a dinner party, and her parents asked me privately if I would agree to perform her initial screening now that she had reached the age of twenty.

Our society's New Member Recruitment Committee maintains a short list of screeners for this purpose. We are dispersed geographically around the world, but have in common the distinction of being MDs in private practice with the discretion and facilities necessary for these unorthodox screenings. Those who pass 'the medical,' as we call it, must then have their nominations seconded by another Member different from their original sponsor. Only then are they briefed on the general outlines of our society and invited to apply. Assuming they sign all the various paperwork, they are then allowed to matriculate into our orientation program.

Presently Jessica is not aware of any of these details. In fact, I am quite sure the only thing Jessica is aware of right now is her own urge to vomit. It would be fine if that was her only reflex; understandable even. But she also bites down, and that is not desirable.

* * * * *

With her bleached front teeth pinching the rubber shaft at the '8' mark, I don't want to risk shoving the probe any deeper into her throat. I pull upwards, withdrawing the stem smoothly from her mouth while keeping her head locked in its reclined position.

The optical tip emerges dragging a thick, stretchy column of phlegm behind it. Her first cough s**tters this frothy rope into a dozen thinner strands. They splash down in wet lines across her face, neck and chest.

It is obvious that she is desperate to double-over and surrender to a thorough retching. I hold her back despite the clenching of what feels like every muscle in her torso. The veins in her neck bulge and her face contorts in a fit of coughs.

"Relax!" I command her. "You're fine. Just breathe. You can overcome this reaction. It will pass."

I continue holding her still, speaking to her in a calm voice until she regains some composure and resumes breathing. Once her stomach muscles start to relax, I release her ponytail and step back away from her.

"Sorry," she stammers, straightening up from her reclined position. "I just could not breathe for a second... even after you pulled that thing out. God, that was intense."

She wipes one hand across her mouth. It comes away dripping with spit. Looking down, she surveys the bubbly rivulets of drool now funneling downwards between her breasts. They collect and accelerate, becoming a single wet line that overruns her bellybutton and reaches beneath the fabric of her underwear.

"God, I'm such a mess!" she says, raising her hands away from her body, shoulder-high, as though afraid to touch herself.

"That's why you're supposed to be nude. Would you like a cloth?" I offer.

"Yes please, and a drink of water. That would be great."

We spend the next several minutes in silence while she dries herself and rinses her mouth. I offer to help with the toweling in an un-subtle attempt to play with her gorgeous tits, but she politely declines. So instead I wheel the padded stool out from under the exam table and sit in front of her to enjoy the show.

"Jessica," I interject once she has gotten herself generally clean, "do you have a boyfriend?"

"What?" she responds reflexively. She senses that I won't repeat the question, so she continues, "You mean, like, right now?"

"Yes."

"Well...yeah. But how is that important?"

"Are you two sexually active?"

"Of course... I mean, we are when he's here. But he transferred to U.V.A. last year so..."

"So not too often, currently."

"Yeah."

"How many partners have you had?"

This elicits a nervous laugh from her. "That is so not a question I want to answer."

"Be honest," is all I offer. I rest my elbows atop my knees and lean toward her, waiting.

She gathers the little towel absent-mindedly in front of her chest and folds her arms around it in loose hug.

"Two," she says finally, fixing her gaze into mine as though searching for any hint of prejudgment.

"Thank you," I say with a quick smile. I pause for a moment, trying to think of how best to continue, and notice that the monitor on the opposite wall is still recording. I forgot to switch off the scope in my haste. I reach behind me to the countertop where the instrument lays discarded and slide the power switch to 'OFF.' I see, with some satisfaction, that a wet puddle has accumulated beneath the stem.

"Actually one," she announces as I swivel back around to face her again.

"One?"

"I've only had sex with Ryan. I don't know why I said two."

"Hmm. Well, you need not be embarrassed. Many people would applaud you for that. I appreciate your honesty."

"You think I'm a prude."

"I wouldn't have any idea. My only reason for asking the question was because of your reaction to the scope."

"I... don't get it."

"Well, you bit down. I would have thought... that might have been something you had learned to avoid. For your boyfriend's sake, if you follow me."

One second passes before her eyes widen. She hides a sudden grin behind one hand: "I can't believe you just said that!"

"My reasoning is purely medical. I just thought you might be able to draw on that experience to better cope with the exam."

"Well!" she says, unable to stop smiling, "You clearly have no idea what Ryan looks like naked! I can assure you he is not capable of anywhere near what that camera-thing just did to me."

"Lucky for him, right?"

"No."

"Yes," I insist. "Because if he were, it wouldn't be long before you positively dismembered him, now would it?"

"Oh my God, I would not!" she gasps.

"Evidence to the contrary..." I say, pointing over my shoulder at the scope.

"You have got to be k**ding me. That thing is like a weapon!"

"Actually no, it's quite thin in this context. Many women your age don't struggle with it at all. But perhaps they are more practiced."

She is rendered mute by this suggestion at first. I merely observe as a crimson hue rises to her cheeks. Finally, revealing her own fears, she bawls out, "So not only am I a prude, but even when I finally get a real boyfriend I'm going to lose him because I suck in bed? That's what you're saying?"

I hesitate for too long, enjoying her choice of words. When I finally say "No," she is unconvinced. The dam breaks.

"I know most of my friends have been with way more guys. I just don't like -- I mean I'm just not into those guys. At my school all the guys are total douchebags. All they do is drink kegs, talk sports and stare at my boobs."

"Really? Well, what's different about Ryan?" I ask, making a mental note to look at her eyes.

"Ugh. I don't know," she continues, sounding suddenly resigned. "He and I have been together since high school. We get along great, but it's just like, for convenience."

"Convenience?"

"Yeah. We're more like friends. We just kinda hang-out when we're together, you know? I think he likes having me as a girlfriend, but he's not that into me. It's like he's my best guy-friend. For me it's nice 'cause all my girlfriends think he's cute, and I take him to parties and holidays and stuff like that, so no one thinks I'm some loner-freak. And it's the same for him; I'm the girl he has sex with so that no one thinks he's gay, you know?"

"Is he gay?"

"Well... he doesn't know it, but I think so. Or at least bi-."

"Interesting," is all I can come up with. There is a long pause before I ask the next question: "Are you in any doubt about your own orientation?"

"Uh-uh," she replies, looking puzzled. Then, realizing my thought, she brightens and laughs: "Oh my God please don't tell me you think I'm a lesbian!"

"Heh... Not that there's anything wrong with that," I finish for her, trying to hide my relief with some humor.

"Ex-a-ctly!"

We both chuckle. She pulls her lush ponytail over one shoulder and her fingers begin to play with it. I am suddenly fearful that she will realize how incongruous it is that she, a gorgeous coed, is kneeling nearly naked in front of me, a man twice her age.

"So tell me, Jessica," I launch, "do you wish your sex life was more serious and, um, fulfilling?"

"Ha. You have no idea. I think about it daily. And besides, I'm so sick of having to make stuff up just to sound normal when I'm talking with my friends. I mean, I'm twenty. It's pathetic."

"So, what's stopping you?"

She flips her ponytail back behind her and rolls her eyes. "Guys that I'm attracted to don't visit college campuses. And my parents won't let me travel without Ryan. I can't even get an internship in the City this summer because they think I'm going to get m*****ed in a bar or something. The only new people I meet are my parents' friends, and my God, they're all way too old. Trust me; I've thought this through. I'm totally lacking in opportunity."

This, I reflect, would be a perfect moment to segue into the benefits of our little society, but it is too soon. I cannot get too far ahead of myself. There are still important parts of her medical to complete, and she needs to demonstrate a willingness to learn.

"Well, for an attractive young woman like you," I offer, "I am confident opportunities will present themselves."

"Thanks," she answers, smiling. She buries both hands into the hollow of her lap, exaggerating her breasts again by squeezing them between her upper arms, perhaps u*********sly. The little towel lies discarded on the floor.

"And your parents are probably correct about the bar-scene in the City. I don't think you would last long in that environment. In the meantime, the one aspect you can work on, which you just alluded to, is to make sure you know what you're doing when the perfect guy does come along, right?"

A moment of silence passes between us.

"Right," she replies with sudden skepticism. "And I suppose you think I should have sex with you just for practice. Is that where this is going?"

Beautiful AND clever. Excellent!

I don't say that. Instead, I gather an exaggerated expression of shock into my face and announce: "That is outrageous, Jessica! I will not tolerate such an accusation from you. You're here only because I agreed to see you as a favor to your parents."

"I'm sorry!" she tries to interject, but I cut her off.

"No, I have a longstanding medical practice in this community and a reputation to protect. If you think for one instant that I would jeopardize my entire career for some silly groping-session with you then we're stopping this appointment right now. You can get dressed and go home. I'm sure your father and mother will be very pleased to hear your fantastic explanation."

I'm up on my feet now, glowering at her. She is trying to rise too, saying "No, no, no," but she wobbles unsteadily and grabs the corner of the exam table for support. "Shit, my legs are asleep. Ow."

I continue my act, yanking the rubber gloves off and throwing them into the trash. I make a move to step around her, toward the door, but she hops into my path and grabs me with both hands.

"Please don't go," she says, clutching my arms. "I didn't mean it and I'm sorry!"

"You just made a very serious accusation, young lady," I say, allowing myself to be stayed by her efforts. I can tell her legs are in pain.

"I know, I know. I'm just... I just have an active imagination. Please can we just pretend I never said it? My parents would kill me otherwise. They talk about you like some kind of celebrity. Seriously!"

I linger, harrumphing under my breath for effect while she wobbles in front of me, her near-nudity vastly increasing the effectiveness of her pleading.

"Ooh, pins and needles! Pins and needles!" she squeals suddenly, apparently unable to stand the awakening numbness in her legs any longer.

This makes me laugh out loud, genuinely.

"Not nice!" she pouts, hopping from one foot to the other.

"Oh, all right," I say. "Let me help you." With that, I place my hands on either side of her torso and lift her right up off her feet. She feels light, a hundred and five pounds maybe. I turn and set her bottom down on the edge of the exam table.

"Lie back and pull your knees up," I tell her. "Do some high bicycle kicks to aid the circulation. The tingling will go away sooner."

She rotates lengthwise on the padded table and I quickly lift my equipment bag out of her way. She lays back and raises her legs together into the air above her. As she begins to move them in a circular motion I walk to the foot of the bed.

"Keep them moving." I tell her, setting my bag on the floor.

"I think I was just kneeling for way too long," she says. "They're totally asleep."

Her back is flat on the mattress now, while her slender legs spin in the air above her. Her inner thighs are so toned that they never touch throughout her range of motion. From the end of the bed I watch closely as the triangle of thin fabric covering her pubic mound shifts with each gyration. The slender ribbon of her g-string tugs alternately left and right but, frustratingly, it never quite exposes what lies beneath.

Not wanting to be discovered staring, I playfully catch her wheeling feet in my hands. I give them a firm massage and ask whether her feeling has returned yet.

"Yes," she replies, trying to escape her feet from my hands. "That tickles!"

"Good."

A moment or two passes and I walk back to the counter while she rubs her legs. It is time to get this process back on track, so I ask her: "Are you ready to try the scope again -- if I coach you through it?"

"Seriously?" she asks, turning those big blue eyes on me again.

"I cannot give you a clean report unless we go a bit deeper. I need to see more."

She tries to talk her way out of it, asking various questions about the purpose for this exam, but with a little medical jargon I have no trouble backing her into a logical corner. She finally consents when I remind her of the sexual benefits of learning to cope with this exam. On that point she seems eager for confirmation.

"Do guys really like it that deep?" she asks.

"Entire movies have been made on the subject," I assure her. "Do a search online. You may be able to download some."

"Hmm. That's... but so, the other girls you see, the ones who don't gag, how do they do it?"

"Well, the first thing you need to know is that they still gag -- most do anyway. It's just they've learned to control it. They restrain the reflex, if you follow."

"Okay. So how do I learn that?"

"You practice. You work up to it slowly with something like this," I add, pointing to the scope on the counter.

"Jesus," she says, propping herself up onto one elbow to look at it again. "Don't you have anything thinner I could start with?"

"No. This is the camera scope we have, and it's a good one." I pause while enjoying the way her breasts hang askew now, creating crescent-shaped shadows on her skin. "Besides, if you're concerned with learning this for sexual purposes, I'd say it's quite a bit narrower than the average... man. Consider it a favor you won't have to learn this in the heat of passion."

"Ha!" she laughs. "You'd make a terrible romance novelist."

"Be that as it may, we need to get a move-on. I'm going to step out to the receptionist's desk for a minute and have her reschedule my next appointment. When I return I want you on the pillow and ready to go."

"Yessir, Doc!" she says in mock-seriousness, swinging her legs over the side of the table and sitting up straight. She finishes by giving me a ridiculous salute.

I roll my eyes and then head for the door, chuckling to myself. We'll see who salutes who alright. We'll see.

* * * * *

Ten minutes later I quietly open the door and see that she is indeed kneeling on the pillow, facing the cupboards as before. Looking at her from behind I fully appreciate the hourglass shape of her tiny waist between the athletic wedge of her perfectly-postured young back and the outward taper of her hips. Twin dimples show themselves as concave shadows either side of her tailbone. Below them, the taught elastic straps of her g-string create a V-shaped line separating the leanness of her back from the supple curves of her bottom. The two straps meet in a cute little bow nestled atop the cleavage of her butt cheeks. Adorning the bow is a tiny heart-shaped ornament that sparkles, apparently inlaid with faux rhinestones or something similar. Below that a single satiny ribbon, no wider than my shoelace, descends vertically, disappearing quickly into the cleft that divides her ass.

The door clicks shut behind me and her head spins in my direction.

"See? I can follow instructions," she says.

"Good," I answer, trying to decipher whether she is just being coy, or is actually that eager to please. I am carrying a box with me this time, and I walk past her to the countertop where I set it down for future use.

"I've been practicing," she offers, tugging at the hem of my lab coat. I turn around and watch as she inserts two fingers into her mouth, trying to poke at the back of her throat.

"And...?" I ask.

She wiggles her hand deeper into her mouth, until her third knuckle is against her front teeth. Then she withdraws it. "I can't seem to make myself gag."

"Let me see your hands."

She holds out her hands, palms down. Both are wet with spit.

"I can see you've been busy," I say appreciatively, "but I'm afraid your fingers are not long enough. We should get started with the scope."

"No, wait! Can I try on your hand?"

"For what possible purpose?"

"To work up to it slowly," she pouts. "That's what you said."

Feigning reluctance, I allow her to persuade me into this diversion. I reach for the box of latex gloves on the wall, but again she stops me.

"No, I'm sure those taste horrible. Just give me your hand," she pleads.

I take the least step of washing my hands in the sink. Then, approaching her, I present her with the index and middle fingers of my right hand, keeping my other two fingers folded in my palm. She takes hold of my wrist with both her hands and pulls me closer.

Up until this point, the highlight of my day has been the sight of her gorgeous tits covered with drool, but I have a feeling that is about to change.

She pulls my hand toward her face, taking my two extended fingers into her mouth more deeply than I expect. It is delightfully humid and soft inside. Her tongue feels like a warm sponge moving under my fingers. Her lips softly encircle my second knuckles and then re-open as she pulls my fingers deeper.

"Don't forget to cover your bottom teeth with your tongue, and no biting," I admonish her.

She pulls my fingers all the way out and shoots me a smile. She reopens her mouth and makes a point of showing me her tongue as it spreads out to cover the white arc of her lower teeth. Then she pulls my hand again, taking my fingers into her mouth. This time she tries a little harder. I can feel my fingertips graze the back of her throat while her protruding tongue moistens my palm near the base of my fingers.

I allow this to continue for a minute, and she begins to gain some confidence. At the deepest point I can feel the entrance to her throat being prodded by my fingertips, but she stops short of actually opening it for me. It is time for me to take some initiative, so I move one foot forward next to her pillow and place my left hand behind her neck. The next time she pulls my fingers into her mouth, I press my hands together, forcing my two fingers deeper. She gags, but only a little. I hold my hand there, maintaining slight pressure. A drop of drool leaks out from her bottom lip. I release her and withdraw my fingers. They are soaking wet.

"Don't swallow your spit," I advise her. "Keep it all in your mouth."

"Okay," she says between breaths.

I straighten out my other two fingers and gather all four together into a single thick shank.

"Again," I say.

She drops one hand from my wrist and lets the other go limp, barely holding on. I ease my four clustered fingertips into her mouth. She glances up at me nervously. With my other hand on the back of her neck I press her head forward onto my fingers. All four are deep inside now; leaving only my largest knuckles visible outside her lips. Her jaw is stretched wide and her lips are tight against my skin all the way around except beneath, where her tongue dutifully protrudes. I press my fingertips against her throat and wait.

Her saliva starts flowing again. Even her eyes are moistening.

"Open," I whisper.

I push a little harder and suddenly her throat opens. My hand slips forward, knuckles disappearing past her lips. Inside it feels absolutely wonderful -- her throat is a tight, rhythmically squeezing little orifice massaging my two longest fingers in its gagging grip. Her hands immediately grab my wrist, pushing me away. I resist, holding steady and savoring three or four more delightful constrictions around my fingertips. Then I ease my hand out of her mouth. She coughs once. Drool drips off her chin, decorating her body again.

"Oh my God," she says hoarsely, before wiping her mouth.

"That was nice," I say, being honest; aware that my cock has suddenly gotten fat beneath my trousers.

"Really? But I gagged."

"I know, but it felt great. Like I told you, you may always gag. The trick is to learn to manage it... so you can open your throat like that whenever you want."

"I don't know if I can. It feels really crazy, like I'm choking."

"Trust me. If what I just felt is any indication, whoever your future man is, he's going to love that."

Her eyes light up: "Really?"

I smile, adding: "As long as you don't bite him."

She smiles too, and then cautiously tugs my hand back in.

Several more times I pop my longest fingers through that delightful orifice and let her gag against them. When I eventually get all four fingertips wedged into her throat my self control evaporates. I become more aggressive, pumping up and down, going deeper and staying there longer, building the intensity until eventually I am pistoning her open mouth with my hand, leaving only my thumb outside and barely giving her a chance to breathe. I revel in depravity of it.

Her mouth feels like it was built for this: the way her gag reflex softens under abuse to a gentle rhythmic squeezing, the way the base of her tongue pulses against the meat of my fingers, the way her soft lips stretch around my hand, the way her entire palate floods with so much saliva that it seeps from both corners of her mouth in continuous threads. It is almost unreal. My groin throbs. It is no great leap to imagine how amazing it would feel to have my cock in there, relentlessly penetrating her throat over and over again. I desperately wish I could drop my pants and give her the first serious throat-fucking of her life... she so richly deserves it.

But I relent. All that must wait.

I yank my dripping hand out of her mouth and back away, stumbling up against the exam table for support. She is too overwhelmed, I hope, to notice that I, too, am panting for breath. Her face is a mess of drool mixed with tears from her watering eyes. Even her nose sounds congested. Her tits, which had been bouncing beautifully to the rhythm of my hand a moment ago, are slathered in wetness. A waterfall of drool hangs from her chin, adding to the stream descending toward her panties. I concentrate on making a permanent mental record of the way she looks right now.

She looks at me through watery eyes and asks: "Was I doing it right?"

It is all I can do not to faint. "Yes," I stammer, worried my enthusiasm will be obvious if I say any more. Reluctantly I fetch another towel from the cupboard so she can mop up her face.

She hesitates after accepting it though, saying: "I tried really hard not to bite. Is your hand okay?"

I had completely forgotten. "Yes, yes, you did fine. I didn't feel any teeth at all." I look at my right hand, and it is true that I can't remember feeling her teeth at all. There are no marks or sc****s, not even on the back of my hand which had been rubbing against her top front teeth. Unbelievable.

While Jessica cleans herself up she cannot stop talking about her newfound talent. She tells me how she is going to practice at home with the handle of her toothbrush, and maybe a carrot too. Etcetera, etcetera. I turn away to face the cabinets, trying to think about something else so that my erection will subside.

I occupy myself with getting the camera scope ready. Taking a shortcut, I simply dip the tip of the scope directly into the tub of jelly lubricant. I know her mouth is so wet there is no need for more. She is still talking excitedly when I turn back around to face her, this time with the scope aimed at the ceiling like a very long pistol.

"It's time," is all I say.

She shuts up. Her newfound enthusiasm appears to waver.

Actually though, the scoping of her throat proceeds with very little drama. The stem of the probe is so much narrower than my clustered fingers that she takes it with comparative ease. I still need to hold her in position, like before, but I am able to get several deep penetrations completed down to the 12-inch mark, giving me more than enough video footage to analyze later. From what I can see on the screen, her throat is healthy and clean as a whistle.

When I announce that we are done, she does a little celebratory dance from her kneeling position -- rocking her hips side to side, swinging her ponytail, hands in the air with a wide grin across her face. Her tits bounce around as though she were dancing on a balcony at Mardi-Gras.

This girl is a trip, I think to myself.

* * * * *

We still have two more stages of Jessica's medical to complete, and I am looking forward to both.

I help her up from her kneeling position, and retrieve the pillow from the floor. I toss it to the head of the padded exam table.

"Before you get too excited," I begin, "why don't you hop up here and I'll talk you through what's next."

She seems eager now; her earlier nervousness has vanished completely. She positions her butt against the edge of the table, flattens her palms on the padded surface behind her and hops backwards into a sitting position. Her feet dangle above the floor.

"The next thing we're going to do," I begin, "is a typical vaginal exam."

"Oh, I know. My Mom told me you'd be doing that. She reminded me like ten times to get a wax yesterday."

"Really?"

"Yeah. She's always been a neat-freak about that."

"Did she tell you anything else?"

"Not really. Just that I should be, you know, like, cooperative or whatever. Not waste your time. Stuff like that."

"Okay. Well, after we do that, then last part of the exam is going to use the camera scope again."

"Why?"

"Because we'll be using it in your rectum."

He eyes bulge. "Excuse me?"

"It's quite important. Infections, lesions and various cancers of the lower colon are deadly serious. Early detection is vital."

"Oh... my God! That thing," she says, pointing at the wet scope, "is going up my butt?"

"Yes." I cannot resist a smile.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Well, no, not really," I lie. "I just know that it won't be as difficult as you imagine. Compared to the esophageal exam anyway, I think you'll find it easier. There is less for you to do."

"Besides die of humiliation and pain, you mean? You're going to make a movie inside my butt! How do I know it won't end up on YouTube or something?"

"That," I assure her, "will never happen. All records of this exam are subject to patient confidentiality. Besides, I can tell you from experience that the footage is incredibly boring to the untrained eye. And, while it can be a bit uncomfortable, I'll make sure it doesn't hurt."

This back-and-forth goes on a bit longer, until she concedes that she is willing continue.

I move the pillow to the middle of the little bed and ask her to scoot her bottom to the very foot of the mattress so that her head lands comfortably on the pillow. Instead of scooting across the wrinkly paper sheet, she hops down and walks to the foot of the bed where she then hops back up. I enjoy watching her little round butt saunter away from me and then pop up over the lip of the exam table again. The little jewel on the back of her g-string twinkles at me before she reclines. Once on her back, her proud breasts melt into wide circular cushions, concealing much of their girth to either side of her ribcage.

"You can see we don't have any stirrups here for your feet, I'm afraid," I say. "So you'll have to do me a favor and hold your legs back with your hands, okay?"

"Sure," she says. She pulls her legs straight back, keeping them close together. Then she loops both forearms around the backs of her knees in a loose hug. Her skinny thighs are stretched flat and taut. Between them the sheer fabric of her panties is thrown into high relief beneath the bright overhead lights. Her bare feet rub idly together in the air above her as I walk around and take up a position at the foot of the exam bed. I glimpse her face through the gap between her calves and notice that she is watching me. I clasp her waist between my hands and then drag her suddenly toward me. The tissue sheet slides with her, making this easy, but I hear a sharp intake of breath from her as I do this. Her round buttocks now protrude a couple of inches beyond the edge of the table.

Looking straight down, I study the triangle of her panties. The fabric appears quite wet, probably with saliva from her earlier endeavors, and shows definite transparency. I can just discern her little folds of pink skin hiding beneath. I delight for a moment in the minimalism of her last remaining garment, especially where it narrows to a single seam and runs deep between her ass cheeks. So little coverage.

"As lovely as these are," I say softly, "I'm going to need to remove them."

She pulls tighter on the backs of her knees, lifting her butt slightly off the pad. I loop my fingers under the elastic side straps and slowly peel her panties out from under her and push them up and away until they are bunched up around her knees. She helpfully captures the twisted material with her fingers.

Beneath my gaze, revealed at last, is her petite and immaculate pussy. It sits pink and bare, waxed completely hairless from the clitoris down. What little hair does remain is fine almost the point of translucence and confined to a small patch above her clit no more than half an inch wide. Even these few strands are trimmed ruthlessly short. The rest of her skin is utterly smooth, devoid of even a freckle. A subtle sheen coats the visible parts of her labia.

I calmly place my hands on the backs of her thighs, to either side of her sex. Her skin is diaphanous here, and paler where it would normally be shaded by the bubble of her round butt. I press my open hands into her skin, relishing its supple flexibility. Just to tempt myself I exert a slight spreading pressure. The crease between each thigh and her outermost labia widens, but her inner labia do not move. Nice and tight.

"Let's get started," I say, removing my hands. I walk to the back wall and retrieve two new gloves and the tub of jelly lubricant. I kick the rolling stool toward the foot of the bed on my return trip, and place the tub of lubricant on its cushion to be near to hand. I pull on the latex gloves and dip the first two fingers of my right hand into the tub. Wanting to allow a few moments for the lubricant to warm to the temperature of my fingers, I pause and ask her what she is studying in college.

As she answers, I lay my other hand casually on her pubic bone, blanketing that small patch of downy hair and making sure that the edge of my thumb rests atop the hairless hood of her clit. Looking down, I then bring the two extended fingers of my right hand to within an inch of her bare pussy.

Unable to resist the urge, I interrupt her, asking: "When was the last time you had intercourse, exactly?"

She stammers, caught off guard. "Um, maybe four months ago."

I touch my jelly-laden fingers to her labia, very lightly. She inhales.

"Too cold?" I ask.

"No, um...it's okay," she answers.

I smear the lubricant up and down her labia, carefully working it into the petite folds of her vaginal opening and all the way up to her clitoris. As I do this, I push away softly with the flat palm of my left hand, stretching her skin and thereby un-hooding her pink clit. With every subsequent move of my smearing fingers and left thumb I take the opportunity to brush across, with seemingly-accidental swipes, this newly exposed pencil-eraser-sized bud.

"I'm sure you know," I interject, "that the vaginal canal is very flexible, and will tend to shrink with prolonged disuse."

"Uh-huh."

"So you may feel some pressure, more than usual, when I put my fingers inside."

"Uh-huh."

With that, I ease two fingertips into her. She inhales a breath, but quietly. I glance up and see that she is denting her lower lip with her front teeth and staring at the ceiling. I press my fingers further inward and slide my left thumb once more across her protruding clit. Her toes curl and her naked feet flit in the air above us. I gradually finish burying my two fingers inside her up to the last knuckle. She is a very snug fit.

"Let me know if I'm hurting you," I offer.

"No... just feels really deep," she answers softly, holding her breath.

I lean forward, centering my shoulder directly above her sex so that my fingers are pressed straight down, deep into her. I wiggle them alternately back and forth, exploring the contours of her canal. At my farthest reach, I circle one fingertip around the dome of her cervix.

She emits a noise, a brief high-pitch hum, but I cannot be sure if it is due to my fingers' probing or the hockey-game my thumb is now playing with her clit. I rotate my right hand within her until it is palm-upwards and then curl my two fingers, pressing them against the back of her pubic bone. I start to rock back and forth across the little lump that hides there. I hear the paper sheet crinkle under her as she twists her head sideways. Her breathing is audible now. I invert my left hand on her clit and use those fingers to spread her outer labia far apart, exposing a valley of the brightest pink within. I then slide my other thumb up the valley until it crashes into her clit. I gently press that thumb down like a lobster-claw toward the two fingertips I have inside her. The loose embrace she had on the backs of her knees becomes a tight squeeze. I start to slowly move these three pressure points in unison, rocking my entire right hand from side to side and then back and forth. She starts whimpering. I squeeze the little lump inside tighter and move my fingers faster, this time in circles.

"Fuck!" she cries suddenly.

I freeze: "Does that hurt?"

"No," she breathes, lifting her head off the pillow to glance down at me. "But I can't take that. Whatever you're doing... I can't take it."

"Almost done," I say and lessen the pressure between my fingers. After a few more gentle circles I roll my fingers over inside her, sliding my right thumb off her clit in the process. I lift my left hand off her, allowing her outer labia to close, and then return it palm-down onto her pubic mound, crushing her newly swollen clit and its hood beneath the meaty muscle at the base of my thumb. Maintaining pressure there, I begin a subtle orbital motion. I withdraw the fingers of my right hand completely. Then, with these extracted fingers aimed at the floor, I insert my right thumb in their place. Her head tosses to the side again at this new penetration. I notice a thin sheen of perspiration has appeared on the backs of her thighs. I nestle my thumb farther in until my two slippery fingers are buried in the valley between her butt cheeks and pressing firmly edgewise against her little anus. Then I curl my buried thumb down toward them, as if trying to gently pinch her tailbone. I hold her like this for a long moment, while continuing to orbit my left palm on her clit.

Her right arm slips from her knees. I glance up and see she has hooked three fingers over her bottom teeth. Her eyes are closed and her mouth is open. Near her temple I can see her jaw muscles flexing softly beneath the skin, tugging against her fingers.

Without releasing pressure, I gradually pull my right thumb outwards. This drags my fingers edgewise across the outside of her anus, and I feel it reflexively pucker. A long moan escapes Jessica's lips. I reverse direction, pushing my thumb all the way into her and sliding my fingers back over that tiny ring of raised muscles. I feel new warmth within her. My left palm continues to grind in circles against the entire area around her clit. I allow myself three more strokes like this, each agonizingly slow on the way out and then quick on the way back in. At each strokes' end, when my thumb is at its deepest, she emits a little "ah" sound and the muscles of her thighs flex in unison. Inside she is flexing too; I feel her tightening in pulses around my thumb. Even through the latex glove I can tell there is a new, sopping wetness within her.

My cock uncoils, filling its chambers again.

I withdraw my thumb and smoothly reinsert my two longest fingers. Once they are fully buried I curl them upwards toward the underside of her pubic bone like before. I find that hidden spot again and begin circling it gingerly. She is breathing loudly now through her mouth. Glancing up I see that between each breath her lips close around her fingers. I press my orbiting left palm a little harder against her clit. She withdraws her hand and buries her fingers into her hair, exhaling in a new moan.

Despite my desire to continue pleasuring her, I realize my attentions have already so exceeded any possible medical reasoning that I have to stop. After four more circles I allow my fingers to slide out of her. With a final flourish I drag my left hand rapidly down across her clit one last time. A quiver shakes her exposed bottom.

"All's well," I whisper.

She stays frozen for a moment, apparently hoping my hands will return. "Huh?" she says finally, in a voice like she just woke from a nap.

"I said you're fine."

She releases her arm's hold on both legs and, forgetting there is nowhere for her feet to land, goes limp. Her falling legs land in my arms, panties still twisted around them at the knees. She doesn't seem to care. Her left arm lands across her chest, covering her nipples. Her right hand extracts itself from her hair and reaches down, cupping her sex. "Exams never feel like that with my normal doctor. She just makes it seem so... medical."

"See? I'm nice after all," I say.

"Uh-huh."

Leaving her legs d****d across my right forearm, I slide by left arm under her waist and lift her off the exam table, marveling once more at her lightness. I shuffle sideways and deposit her onto the middle of the exam table so that her legs no longer hang off the end. She lays back in a relaxed posture, again absent-mindedly laying her right hand over her pubic mound. Her other hand pulls the band out of her pony tail. She tugs her long hair loose with her fingers and lays her head to one side as if in a daydream.

I survey her outstretched body. Her nipples have grown; they now stand upright from her areolas, swollen and hard like dark red candies. They are each ringed by circle of goose-bumps. Her breasts are spread in wide domes, hiding her upper ribs beneath an inch or two of bouncy flesh. Her sternum sits between them like a hard and shallow valley. The lower half of her ribcage shows through her skin as a set of slender ridgelines to either side of the concave spoon of her abdomen. Thread-like tan lines cut across her prominent pelvic bones, angling down toward that tiny patch of hair hiding beneath her hand.

I pull the pillow out from under her legs and fold it in half in my hands. Then I ask:

"Would I be wrong to assume that you haven't had anal intercourse recently?"

That wakes her up. "Um, no, never. But..." she answers carefully.

"But what?"

"Nothing, it's embarrassing."

"What is?"

Her blush renews itself and she comes back to full consciousness, removing her hand from her crotch. "Well, okay, sometimes I... um... touch myself there with my fingers. Not inside you know, just around the outside."

"You mean when you're masturbating?"

"Um...Yeah," she answers softly, looking at me again as if expecting disapproval.

"That's perfectly normal, although very different from what we're about to do. But you don't need to worry. Like I said, I'll make sure it won't hurt, okay?"

"Will you promise you'll do it slowly?"

"Yes. Now, the first thing is, I'll need you to get onto your stomach."

She hesitates for a moment but then rolls over and flattens herself against the mat with her hands near her head and her legs straight together. Her panties remain tangled around her knees. Glancing back over her shoulder with a smirk, she sa