Tem 23

The Nurse Will Feel You Now

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Special thanks to GreenGolden, a generous volunteer in Literotica.com’s Volunteer Editors program, for editing this piece, and for suggesting its title. All remaining errors and questionable stylistic choices are the sole responsibility of the author.

* * * * * *

It’s just before eight o’clock, and I’m busying myself with some paperwork at my special, private clinic off-campus. Pay no attention to the fact that it bears a strong resemblance to a university student’s apartment. Everything’s been prepared for my favorite patient. She’s such a good girl; she’s always right on time for our appointments. I pride myself on punctuality too. Sometimes I wonder if there are special patients out there who get a thrill from being made to wait forty-five minutes before actually seeing their special doctor or nurse — you know, just to make it feel more real. There must be. I’ve only taken three psych courses so far, but I’m pretty much sold on the idea that basically any wire in the human brain can get crossed with any other.

Clarissa knocks before entering. It’s very cute. I let her walk into the empty waiting room and take a seat. I only make her wait for a minute — just long enough to get a little antsy. I open the door to the exam room and step out. Clarissa looks up, and her brown eyes widen behind horn-rimmed glasses.

My white coat doesn’t do much to hide my lacy purple panties, or my matching demi bra. I’m proud of my body, and I find it works wonders when I’m lecturing my special patients on the benefits of diet, exercise, skin care, and even hair removal. Real-world examples are so useful, and very persuasive.

Clarissa’s a polite girl. She does her best not to stare at my toned legs, my flat tummy, or my more obvious assets. She meets my gaze, and I stare confidently back at her through my own pair of spectacles. She sees the specimen cup in my hand. Her cheeks redden.

“Clarissa?” I call out. We’re looking right at each other, and there’s no one else in my waiting room. It’s ridiculous, but it’s how doctor’s offices are run.

She stands up and walks over. Her body language radiates shyness and submission. She’s wearing jeans and a black babydoll T-shirt. Her mousy brown hair is up in a ponytail. I smile at her, as though I just realized she existed.

“How are we feeling today?” I ask.

“Fine,” she says, entirely unconvincingly. I raise an eyebrow. She looks away, ashamed. I let the silence linger for a moment.

“We need a specimen today,” I say. “Do you think you can produce one right now?”

She blushes again, and nods. I offer her the cup. She takes it, trying her best to hide it inside her closed hand.

“The bathroom’s just through here, on the right,” I tell her. “Make sure to follow the instructions, and then leave the cup in the repository.”

“Yes, Nurse Kimberly,” she says, and then she scurries past me and towards the bathroom.

I close the door to the exam room and do a quick review of my tools. The stethoscope, otoscope, blood pressure cuff, and tongue depressor are all ready for action. The oversized thermometer is the crown jewel. A box of nitrile gloves sits beside it. Clarissa is a very special patient. She benefits from a personal, intimate touch. I’ll probably only use one glove tonight, and perform the rest of the examination with my bare hands.

Meanwhile, I’m not sure I could walk a foot in any direction without finding a tube or can of lubricant. There’s one next to the thermometer already, and the special drawer next to the bed — sorry, exam table – isn’t very far away.

I hear the toilet flush and the sink run. Clarissa emerges from the bathroom as embarrassed as when she entered. I look up from my equipment and give her a bright, expectant smile.

“Everything go okay in there, Clarissa?” I ask.

She blushes again, and nods quickly. She has a real issue using her words when she’s flustered. For now, it’s adorable.

“Wonderful,” I say. “Now, please disrobe fully for me, Clarissa. I’d offer you a hospital gown, but your chronic condition means I’m going to need full access.”

Her flush deepens, and she walks towards the table. She braces herself and removes her sneakers, then starts to work on her jeans. I don’t move to assist, or rush her in anyway. I pretend to check my equipment. I enjoy the show.

Clarissa isn’t a bombshell or a knockout. Her lips are a little thin; her chin is a little weak. Her small breasts aren’t the stuff of stroke stories; they’re not perfectly round, conical, or dewdrop-shaped. One nipple is a bit lazy, veering off to her right side. Her skin isn’t ghostly pale, or perfectly tanned. She has several beauty marks all over her body, and they don’t form any intriguing constellations. Her ass has been getting higher and tighter every week, though, and her legs are doing well too. Her body is completely smooth, so that she hides nothing during her exams. She follows her nurse’s orders, whether that be for diet, exercise, or grooming. There’s a reason güvenilir bahis she’s my only — er, favorite — patient.

If I had only a word, I’d call her cute. If I had another few, I’d add petite, vulnerable — maybe even frail. She isn’t; I know from experience. She just looks that way. I love it.

Once she’s completely naked, I don’t stare for very much longer. I am a professional, after all. It’s none of my business that she wasn’t wearing a bra, or that her black, ultra-low-cut bikini panties are much more risque than what she’s been wearing to our appointments for the past few weeks.

“Sit on the edge of the exam table for now,” I tell her. “We’ll get the cold stethoscope over and done with first.”

The room is reasonably warm, but Clarissa shivers in anticipation. She places one hand over her bare vulva, and the other over her bum. I raise an eyebrow at that. Usually, her other arm and hand go to her breasts on instinct, but I don’t press the issue. Clarissa loops around the stirrups and takes her seat. She only moves her hand away from her bottom at the last minute.

“Hands by your sides, please,” I say. She purses her lips and looks down, but she obeys. Now that her bum is on the exam table, she seems just a bit less shy.

She seems squirmier, though — squirmier than usual.

I rub the business end of the tool for a few seconds, hoping to warm it up at least a degree or two. Then I get to it. Clarissa shivers again the first time the stethoscope makes contact with her naked body. I listen to her heart for a bit, then guide her through half a dozen deep breaths as I move the tool around her back. I make sure that my other hand is making gentle contact in perfectly innocent places at all times. Beyond my simple commands, we don’t speak to each other. There’ll be time once I’ve finished the preliminaries.

I give Clarissa a reassuring smile. “Everything sounds good in there,” I say, removing the stethoscope. “No more cold metal for awhile, promise.”

She returns the smile, though wanly. I place my hand on her shoulders while I check her ears and mouth, then rub her back through the blood pressure check. She’s getting used to me again; that’s good. That will make the more intense parts of the exam easier.

“Okay, Clarissa,” I say, “It’s time for your breast exam. Let me get my hands a little warmer for you.”

Clarissa blushes. She squirms a little on the bed, though she does her best to hide it. “Thank you, Nurse Kimberly,” she says.

I rub my hands together vigorously; my breasts shake a little in my bra. I catch Clarissa staring, but I don’t say anything. I move in, and her breath catches.

“Shhhh,” I say, “it’s okay. No need to be scared. You know I care deeply about my patients’ comfort.”

She gives me the puppy-dog eyes through her glasses, then nods her assent. I move in, and begin fondling — er, examining — her breasts.

“So, how’s everything at home?” I ask casually. “Are you still with your girlfriend? It’s been over two months since you first met, right? Is that a good sign? Is everything going well?”

Clarissa doesn’t answer right away. Her breathing’s changed. I find her brown eyes and tilt my head expectantly. Sometimes I have to be firm with her.

“Sorry, Nurse Kimberly,” she says. “It’s just…”

“Are you uncomfortable?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “My girlfriend… she’s been… you know…”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” I say. “There’s really no need to be embarrassed, Clarissa. We need to be able to talk about your personal life; it’s intimately intertwined with your condition.”

“She plays with them,” she says.

“Plays with what?” I ask.

“…my breasts,” she finally answers.

She certainly does.

“Well, that sounds perfectly normal to me,” I reply. “Do you not like it? Are you having trouble speaking up for yourself?”

Clarissa shakes her head again. My extremely-thorough exam is having an effect — and, after what I just heard, I’m certainly not going to cut it short. If Clarissa’s girlfriend is playing with her breasts, I need to make extra-sure they’re in perfect condition.

“It felt strange at first,” she says, “but now I really like it.”

I give her nipples extra attention. She squirms again. Amidst the antiseptic and air freshener, I detect a faint scent of feminine arousal; my panties are still blocking my own growing heat and wetness for the moment, so clearly it must be my patient’s. I steal a glance down at Clarissa’s smooth pelvis, but I can’t see her pussy — excuse me, her vulva. She’s sitting down in that guarded, self-concealing way that shy girls seem to know by instinct.

“Well,” I say, “speaking as a professional who’s familiar with your condition, that sounds like a positive development. Wouldn’t you agree?”

After a moment’s hesitation — and some more of my examination techniques — Clarissa nods her head.

“Is there anything that feels especially good?” I ask. “And have you talked with her about it? Like I güvenilir bahis siteleri always say, communication is key.”

Clarissa bites her lip, and decides to be brave for her special nurse. “I like that she’s gentle at first,” she says, “but gets more intense later. I like it when she licks them, and sucks on them.”

“And?” I press.

She nods. “I’ve told her. She was really happy. Now she does it all the time, and I like it a lot. You were right. I need to be less shy.”

I smile warmly. “I’m so glad you’re trying to take all of my advice,” I say. “Now, I normally don’t ask my patients this, Clarissa, but your condition requires that I do. On a scale of one to ten, how sexually aroused would you say you are right now?”

Most special patients would lie, in one direction or the other. Clarissa very much wants to, and her natural shyness would deflate her report. She’s a good girl, though, and I’ve already reestablished my authority over her. Trust builds over time, but there are ebbs and flows. I feel it flowing now. I think Clarissa does too.

“Five,” she says.

“And if your girlfriend were here,” I ask, “and she were to stimulate your breasts exactly how you like it, do you think that number would be different?”

Clarissa nods.

“What number do you think it would be then?” I ask.

“Seven,” she says. I pay special attention to both of her nipples at the same time. “Eight,” she amends.

“Mmmm,” I say, feigning concern. “That is a high number for exclusive mammary stimulation. Are you able to achieve climax that way?”

Clarissa’s eyes are glazing over. Her smell is stronger. I sense the tension in her legs. She’s squeezing them together. She’s squeezing more than that, I suspect.

“Not yet,” she breathes out, “but I think, maybe…”

I abruptly remove my hands from her breasts. She whines. I smile wickedly.

“Well, something to look forward to, maybe, when you see your girlfriend again,” I say. “If it does happen, be sure to let me know. We need to monitor whether those climaxes help with your condition, or only exacerbate it. Everything feels fine, by the way: no irregularities, no unusual pain response.”

Clarissa nods again, this time more vigorously. I can tell she’s trying to exorcise the sexual tension from her body. That’s going to be a losing battle.

“Okay, Clarissa,” I say. “Onto the table fully, feet on the stirrups. I’ll do the abdominal, then we need a core temp, then a full rectal exam.”

She goes beet red. She doesn’t move.

“Clarissa,” I say firmly, “did you not hear me?”

She shakes her head, but I know it doesn’t mean ‘no.’ Now, she’s trying to exorcise her embarrassment — or maybe just deny the reality of what’s happening to her.

“She makes me wear it,” Clarissa whispers.

I move in closer. “I didn’t hear that, Clarissa,” I say gently. “Something about wearing something?”

She looks up at me, and it’s priceless. She’s silently begging me to drop the whole thing — the question, the exam, all of it. She can’t handle it. She gives me the most desperate puppy-dog eyes I’ve ever seen.

I lean in even closer. I place both hands — bare, and gloved — on her naked arms.

“Is it something I’m going to discover once you’re in the stirrups?” I ask. “Is it something in your… pelvic region?”

“It’s a plug,” she whispers.

I hear her just fine, but it’s the principle.

“I need you to speak up, Clarissa,” I say. “I need to know what’s going on down there.”

“She makes me wear an anal plug!” Clarissa whines. “I’m sorry, I should have taken it out.”

I rub her arms and shush her. “No, no,” I say, “you absolutely did the right thing wearing it to our appointment. Once I’ve done the abdominal, I’ll check it for you, and make sure everything’s okay.”

She sniffles, but nods her head. I lean back up and release her. She scoots herself across the exam table to the stirrups; I can tell she’s feeling the plug every time her bum lifts a little bit off the surface and then connects again. I find a pillow or two and make sure her upper body is comfortable. I also find a third, for myself, for later. Clarissa’s feet are against the stirrups, but for the moment, she’s mostly flat, head to toe. I lean over her vulnerable body and place my hands on her abdomen. I tap, apply pressure, and check for any turgid or distended areas.

“Hmmm,” I say, “any pain?”

“No, Nurse Kimberly,” she replies.

“I wouldn’t think so,” I say. “I don’t feel any signs of blockage anywhere. That means you’ve been sticking to your diet — though I’m sure the enemas are helping too.”

Clarissa blushes again. She finds my gaze, and I give her a stern, expectant look. She knows I need confirmation. “They are,” she agrees. “I feel much… lighter, since we started them. I have more energy. Exercising is easier.”

I smile. “That’s wonderful to hear,” I say. “Regularity is a blessing, and not everyone gets it. People are surprised by how much better they iddaa siteleri feel when they listen to their nurses, and let them help move things along.”

Clarissa and I share a meaningful stare. For a moment, her embarrassment gives way to something else: trust, and submission. It’s a beautiful sight, and a very good feeling — and this one, unlike the many others I feel during these appointments, radiates outward from my chest rather than from my pussy. So many patients are stubborn and ungrateful. Clarissa’s just a little shy. She’s a good girl. She listens.

I nod, then turn away. I retrieve a nitrile glove and snap it onto my hand. I grab the third pillow and the tube of lubricant, and then I head to Clarissa’s feet. I drop the pillow and lube, and adjust the stirrups so that Clarissa’s smooth legs are elevated and spread wide. I see her glistening vulva. I see the round, purple base of the plug below it. At a glance, it’s either rubber or silicone.

“Clarissa,” I ask, “do you know what material your anal plug is made out of?”

“Rubber, Nurse Kimberly,” comes the response. Trust and submission are ebbing back to humiliation. That balance will likely shift a few more times before we’re done.

“Okay, then, I’ll be able to use the silicone lubricant,” I reply. “I know that’s what you prefer.”

I think I hear a small murmur — maybe of gratitude.

I get on my knees and find the tube again. I open it, squeeze some lube out, and begin rubbing it between the plug base and Clarissa’s slightly-stretched anal ring. She squirms and twitches, but for the most part she’s a good girl for me.

“Well, it has a flared base,” I begin, “so that’s good. I can’t tell you how many foreign objects I’ve had to help a doctor remove from naughty boys’ rectal cavities — and it’s almost always boys.”

I drop the tube on the pillow. Then I grab the base of the plug, apply some pressure, and slowly ease it out of Clarissa’s rear passage. Her head is too far away for me to make out all the noises. She’s trying to grin and bear it. I note the spasms and twitches down below — not just of her anus, but her glutes and quads too.

“Hmmm,” I say, examining the purple plug, “fairly conservative shape. No ridges. Decent proportions. Very small. That’s good.”

I stand up, walk over to my tray, and place the plug down on a cloth. I retrieve the oversized thermometer, but take a moment to address Clarissa. Her face is turned away, and her arm is halfheartedly covering it. She’s taken off her glasses. They’re resting beside her, end pieces closed, lenses up. She’s fastidious, even when she’s embarrassed.

“It’s a very good starter plug,” I tell her. “Your girlfriend chose well. Obviously, we still need to talk about the consent issues you brought up. Would you like to do that during your core temp and rectal, or afterwards?”

Clarissa doesn’t remove her arm, or turn her head to face me, but she does whine, “After,” loudly enough for me to hear it.

I huff, and head back to my pillow. I decide to engage with Clarissa anyway — if not about the elephant in the room, then about her condition more generally.

“So, are you and your girlfriend still consuming pornography together regularly?” I ask. I start lubing my gloved fingers.

“Yes, Nurse Kimberly,” she answers.

“And do you find it’s helpful?” I ask. “Are the two of you still particularly interested in male-on-male content?”

“Yes,” she responds. Her voice is strained. She knows where the questions are headed.

“Mmm,” I say, “and let me guess: your girlfriend wants to act out some of those scenes with you. She wants the two of you to role play as homosexual men — or maybe just her, while you role play as an ostensibly-heterosexual one.”

Clarissa doesn’t respond. I begin gently stroking her anus. She exhales forcefully through her nose. Her breathing gets heavy.

“And she wants to engage in anal intercourse with you — as the penetrator, based on our prior conversations,” I continue. “You’d be the passive, receptive partner. She’s training your anus and rectum. She’s preparing you for that new sexual experience.”

Clarissa still won’t speak. I sigh, add more lube, then put my finger directly against her hole. It twitches, though just barely. It’s growing accustomed to intrusions.

“Clarissa,” I ask, loudly enough so that I know she’ll hear, “are you experiencing any pain consequent to your new sexual activities?”

That finally forces her to speak up. She’s a dear, for both me and her girlfriend. She doesn’t want me thinking that her girlfriend is hurting her. “No, Nurse Kimberly,” she replies, still mortified, but suddenly protective of her lover.

I push in. She grunts a bit, but that’s it. I give her rear channel a fresh coat; it hardly needs it, but more lube never hurts. I withdraw my finger, then coat the thermometer. I bring its bulbous tip to her rear entrance.

“Okay, hold very still,” I caution her. “We want this to go in smoothly, and in a straight line.”

I sense her nod. I push the thermometer in; it’s a very easy trip today. I don’t hear the usual groan of embarrassment from my patient. Instead, I hear a sigh.

“Hrm,” I say, “talk to me, Clarissa. Is everything okay down here?”

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