A Doctor’s Dream Ch. 01

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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, urla escort bayan 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 drapes 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 fourteen. 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. escort urla 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,” urla escort 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 drapes 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.

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