Entries Tagged 'Gyno' ↓

Dr. Ben strode into the room, smiling.

“And how are you now, Amy??” He asked.

I choked out: “O-okay.”

“All right, young lady, time for the rest of your exam. Lie down on your back, legs together.” He helped me up on the table, and then stood at my head. “Put your arms over your head, Amy,” he said.

As I did so he began to feel the glands under my arms and down the sides of my breasts, palpating to see if there was any swelling. “All right, put your arms at your sides, Amy,” he said, and as I did so, he lowered the gown so that he could see my breasts.

I watched him peering at me (”I wouldn’t even let Sammy Boyle look at me like that!” I thought, randomly); he felt my left breast all around the outside; then the gland on the inside; then the nipple. Next he did the right breast. I was unaccountably getting wet. I hoped he would start his pelvic exam with plenty of lubricant - I was certainly producing enough!

“All right, Amy, I see that Nurse didn’t take your temperature,” Dr. Ben said, stepping over to the counter beside the exam table and removing a thermometer. Then he bent down and picked up a jar of…VASELINE! I thought, “OH. MY. GOD. This Doctor is going to take my temperature in my bottom.” I was mortified.

“Bottoms up, Amy,” the Doctor intoned, helping me turn over on my belly and lifting at my hips to show me what he wanted. I have to tell you, I was too embarrassed to even speak - besides, it was all happening so fast I didn’t have time to protest. I stuck my bottom in the air (and saw Dr. Ben’s satisfied smile). I watched in horror as he twirled the thermometer in the Vaseline, put it against my poor bottom hole, and pushed. It went in. Easily. “AAAaagghh!” I gasped, unable to stop myself.

The thermometer kept going in. It was cold. I could feel it poking into the “stuff” inside me - the fecal matter, which Dr. Ben would certainly see when he removed the thermometer. He held the thermometer in me with one hand, which he rested on my vaginal opening, touching me casually (but not so casually, actually), occasionally twirling the thermometer in me. I laid there choking with embarrassment and lust, exposed to this man who now had laid all my secrets bare (or so I thought), bottom skyward, nearly dripping wet with excitement. He left the thermometer in a long time.

I was embarrassed. Stimulated. Wet. Scared (what could be next?). “All right, Amy, that’s enough time with that thermometer in you - Oh oh! What’s this on the thermometer? He held the thermometer down to my face (remember, I was still in the “bottoms up” position). It was covered with fecal matter.

“We’ll have to do something about this, Amy. I can’t let you go home like this. We would be responsible if we sent you home constipated like this.” I almost started to cry with the humiliation.

“But let’s finish the exam before we treat you for the constipation. Turn over on your back, and put your feet in the stirrups.” I complied. By this time, I was so utterly humiliated and cowed that I could do nothing else. I felt Dr. Ben’s hands on my pubic area, moving up my belly, palpating the organs inside. “All right, Amy, scoot down to the foot of the table. Set your bottom juusst at the end of the exam table. That’s right (I scooted down). Now let’s adjust these stirrups” (farther apart, further in, so that my thighs were held wide, and my knees almost on my chest. I was totally exposed - even more than just a moment ago - at least then, my knees had been relatively close together. Now my legs were spread, my knees were on my chest.).

“Ok, Amy, that’s fine now.” I felt him down there - could see him between my thighs. “Look up, Amy!” There was a mirror above me, and a mirror behind me, angled so that when I looked up, I could see Dr. Ben sitting on that stool of his, between my naked legs, staring at my sex organs. I knew that if I kept looking, I could watch the whole examination. I wanted to stop looking. But I couldn’t. I saw him take something from a drawer, and then put it on a shelf. He removed something else, a tube. Then a pair of gloves. He put the gloves on. Then he squeezed some clear jelly-stuff from the tube on to his fingers. I watched in fascinated horror as his fingers first separated my lower lips, then began slowly to enter my most secret place.

It looked new, but the bag had recently been used. The bag was wet (apparently had been washed), and little water drops had formed on the bottom, as if it had been dried in haste. I couldn’t help but remember the enemas Mom gave me - the little white nozzle sliding into my butt (how would that great big hose feel?? how far would it go in?), the pressure of the water, my moans (and sometimes sobs)as my belly filled, the cramping, and how it hurt at the end, and how the bag never seemed like it would empty (God, that bag on the door was big!), Mom telling me that I had to take it all: everything came back to me in a rush, even though it had been at least four years since she had given me an enema.

All this took less than thirty seconds to think and experience - and the old feelings of stimulation, strangeness, and desire took over. However, I had to get out to the exam room to finish up. I shuddered. I was already frightened, stimulated, almost weak in the knees. And, I noticed, as I wiped myself, I was also “wet.” The last time Mom had used the enema bag on me, I had gotten that way - my “organs” had gotten all slick and gooey during and after the enema, and for days after, whenever I thought about it. I didn’t think Mom had noticed, and she had never said anything, but I certainly noticed. It felt sort of good, but it was embarrassing - like I was in my period, but the fluid was clear. I wiped it off when it happened, and that felt good, too, but I was NOT about to masturbate (good Catholic girls don’t), even though I wanted to.

I re-entered the room, and found the doctor standing there. He was an older man, large. He wore a smile like it was part of him, and reached out for my hand as I entered the room. Not the most propitious time for a meeting. My right hand held the “pee cup,” and I realized I hadn’t washed. I immediately blushed, and he smiled even more, and said, “That’s all right, Amy. A urine fetish is one thing I DON’T have.”

The first stop was the scale (I hate that!) - 140 # (height, 5′ 6″) - then the exam room. It was like all the doctor’s offices I had been in as a child - except for the exam table, which had an ominous-looking pair of posts rising from one end, to which were attached a couple of footrests. I had heard the other girls talk about “pelvic exams,” and “putting your feet in the stirrups.” Now I understood - or thought I did. The receptionist handed me off to the Nurse, Mrs. Adlequist, who was a chubby redhead about 35 - very professional, all business, but with a nice manner.

“Now, Amy,” she said, Doctor wants me to explain the details of what you’re here for while I take your vital signs and blood pressure.” She continued, “the point of this exam is to determine two things: first, that you’re healthy enough to handle the difficulties of college, and then to see if there’s anything major that we need to know about while you’re here. Doctor will examine all of your major systems - lungs, cardiovascular, muscular, glands, digestive, and reproductive (I shuddered at the word “reproductive” - I knew what THAT meant), and so forth. We’ll take a blood sample, a urine specimen, and then that’s it.”

I could tell there was something she wasn’t saying - she was looking at me very strangely, as if to gauge my reactions. But I passed it off as the fears of an overworked teenage girl’s mind. She was done with the blood pressure, and gave me the cup and asked me to go pee. I took the cup from her, and went to the bathroom. I closed the door. I dropped my panties, sat down, and reached under myself with the cup and began to pee.

Only then did I look up. Hanging on a hook on the door was the biggest enema bag I had ever seen. I almost choked, nearly dropped the cup, and peed all over my hand. I had received an enema or two from Mom. The feelings were unpleasant, strange, and stimulating. I knew such things were “medical,” but that was the LAST thing I expected to see in the bathroom! I couldn’t help but look at it. It was red, open at the top, smelled of rubber, and had a long black rubber hose with a clamp near the end. Attached to the black rubber hose was a shorter hose, about 3 feet long, that was as thick as my thumb, and had a hole in the end and on the side near the end.

This was a long time ago, but the most popular thing that year was flared skirts and button blouses - with stockings and garterbelts. I often wondered why the boys liked to look at us the way they did - I knew WHY, of course - they were boys, we were girls, and they wanted us; but I could never see that much attractive about a girl. I saw them all the time in gym, naked, running through the gym - and I knew that the boys would have done nearly anything to see us that way; but I couldn’t understand what they saw that was so interesting. I was soon to learn what boys liked in a way that I never thought possible.

As the day approached, I got more and more apprehensive, but I “buried” it, just choosing to think about something else. The exam was to take place on the college campus (it was about 75 miles away), so I bought a bus ticket for the commuter bus that went between our town and the college’s.

I had been briefed over the phone by the school nurse, a Miss Adlequist - she told me, “Amy, you’ll really like the doctor, he’s very nice; and since you’re coming so far, we’ll arrange for you to stay here overnight, and you can be on your way in the morning. It was my first time away. It was also pretty traumatic, thinking about that doctor poking around all over me, but I really wanted to go to that school… “Besides,” I thought, “it’ll probably be fun. I get to play college girl for a day (my bus didn’t leave until the following afternoon), watch the boys, and so on.”

The day finally arrived. I got up, made my bed (Mom made us do that), brushed my teeth, brushed my hair (noting with pleasure that it was getting longer - that was my ambition when I was a youngster - long blonde hair, in a ponytail. The boys always watched “those” girls, and I thought I would get their attention by imitating them).

I still remember it like it was yesterday. I had applied to go to college, and one item marked on the college’s response was “required physical exam.” I didn’t really know what that meant (I was soo naive!), so I asked my Mom about it.”Why Amy,” she said, “it means you will have to go to the doctor and have him check you over.”

On further inspection, I saw that a specific doctor’s name was listed on the exam - the college’s physician. I called the office and set up the appointment. My girl friends all told me “He’ll examine between your legs!” Every time they said that, I turned bright pink. I was terrifically embarrassed at the idea, and I certainly did not want ANY strange man looking at me down there.

I voiced my concerns to my Mom, who reassured me, saying, “Don’t worry, Amy. The doctor is a professional, and he won’t do any more than he has to see that you’re in good health.”

“Mom is an optimist,” I thought to myself. I knew how the boys at school talked. They were always whispering about the girls they thought were pretty, and they talked a lot about “snatch,” and “pussy,” leaving no doubt about what they meant. I noticed the boys looking at the girls as the girls bent over - some of the girls wore REALLY short skirts so that the boys could see their rears when they leaned over, and those girls liked to know that the boys watched them that way. I always wore “nice” clothes. I liked to have boys look at me (what girl doesn’t), but I was always embarrassed when I caught one of them looking up my dress.