“Just relax, Amy! You’ll feel a little pressure down here, and then I’ll be done.” His fingers felt like they were a foot long. They went in and in and in and in. Then he put his other hand on my belly and poked up inside of me as he pushed down on my belly. It felt good. I didn’t dare react. His hand withdrew, and he picked up the instrument he had removed from the drawer. It also slid into me. It was much larger than his fingers, and when it was in, he squeezed it and it opened inside me. I felt myself stretch.
“OOOooohhh!” I whined.
He patted my thigh. “Just a minute more, Amy.” He looked at me inside. Then, with the instrument still in place, he separated my lips and began to touch me just above my vaginal opening. I shuddered and moaned. It felt wonderful. But I was too embarrassed to like it. “That’s your clitoris, Amy. Can you feel that?”
I managed to choke out a “Yes.” he rubbed it for a moment or two more (don’t stop!), then closed the instrument and withdrew it. It felt like he had shoved a grapefruit up inside me. I was really stretched out down there. Suddenly I felt another invasion – two fingers, at my bottomhole, invading me down there, sliding in (soo big, soo slick!).
“OOaaahhhHHHSSSSsss!!” I gasped, involuntarily lifting my hips up to try to move away from his probing fingers. It didn’t work. The fingers continued to enter me back there.
“Amy, you’re constipated worse than I thought!! (his fingers began to move in and out, stroking my bottomhole). You need an enema!!”
“Oh, Doctor, NO! I can take care of that myself!”
“No, Amy, I have to treat you! I can’t send you home like this. As full as you are, it may take several enemas to get you cleaned out!” Two tears oozed out of my eyes. I was humiliated, scared, full of fear and longing.
I remembered the cries I had heard through the ventilator. “Please, Doctor, I really don’t want one!”
“One what, Amy?” Dr. Ben asked, pretending innocence.
“An enema, Doctor, I don’t want an enema!!”
“Well, Amy, there are going to be times you get what you want in life, and times you get what you don’t want. This is one of the times you will get what you don’t want, because I’m the Doctor, and you need an enema.”
I sobbed. “O Please, No!”
“Sorry, Amy. You have to have an enema, and I’m going to give you an enema.” He kept saying that word. I hated to hear it, but wanted to hear it. I wanted this, and feared it. I hated the thought, and longed to have this strong man give me the enema he had promised. I was full of confusion. I was sweating. Weeping. Wet.
“Nurse Adlequist!” Doctor called, through the intercom.
“Yes, Doctor?” came the reply.
“Prepare 240 cc’s of olive oil in a plunger syringe and bring it here.”
“Yes, Doctor!” In a few moments the nurse appeared, holding an obscenely large hypodermic syringe that ended, not with a needle, but with a short rubber tube about a foot long and an inch in diameter.
“Over my knee, Amy! Doctor said, placing a towel on his slacks, and motioning to me.
I blushed again, furiously. “OH, Doctor! Please, just this once, you don’t have to treat me!! I won’t tell anybody.”