'The Clinic' (Female dominant/female submissive)

I will post a couple of segments of this book length story. Please keep in mind the book will be published so the 'meat' of the story will appear for sale on Lulu or the Erotic Book Network

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The Clinic

Copyright 2011

by Chris Bellows

The room is austere, the lighting bright, the matron firm... crisply commanding.

“Always look directly at the camera... stare at the lens.”

As the directive comes there quickly follows another flash and a click.

“Feet further apart, arms at your sides, palms toward me.”

Flash. Click.

Somehow I maintain my composure, stifling tears. The intensity of the humiliation is daunting. I am naked.

“Cup for your breasts for me. Present them. No smile. No frown.”

Flash. Click.

“Good girl. Now turn and face to the right, feet always parted. Arch your back for me. Very nice. You’re going to do just fine here.”

Flash. Click.

Words of support as the matron senses my deteriorating resolve. As I instantly respond, all sense of resistance dissolved, my mind finds the need to wander...

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“Shoplifting. You know young lady, I used to give lenient sentences to first time offenders. But then I noticed so many faced me again. Too many reunions... and too soon.”

The judge is senescent... talking endlessly as I await her decision. Her words offer little hope for compassion.

“Now, under the law I can mandate five years...”

My heart sinks.

“You could appeal of course, but that would require a large bond while awaiting a decision and the engagement of very expensive lawyers.”

The woman takes off her glasses to glare at me from the bench. Hair gray, cut short, combed straight, Hollywood would have her cast as a boarding school headmistress... an authoritative and exacting headmistress.

“And then the state and the taxpayers would be equally burdened. Lots of money expended keeping naughty girls behind bars.”

‘Get on with it’, I am tempted to blurt.

“So, I am willing, with your concurrence, to recommend a new program... rather experimental... of rehabilitation. Shorter than five years... and in being sponsored by a psychiatric clinic, less costly to the state.”

A heart sinking begins to ascend.

“Should you concur, your sentence will be commuted to two years of therapy. If you change your mind, resist treatment, the sentence will be re-instituted to five years of incarceration.”

I repress a smile.

“If I fully understand the program, I think a girl like you will respond well to the therapy.”

A pause... a long pause... finally she inquires.

“Do you concur?”

I nod enthusiastically.

“The court stenographer will need a verbal reply.”

With my one word... my concurrence... here I am.

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“Now turn and face to the left for another profile. Arch your back. There will be need to assess the buttocks.”

The thought is so salacious... yet the setting so clinical. I have not a stitch of covering. And the matron was pleased to note that I am shaven... down there. ‘Saves us time,’ she noted in positioning me for the first snapshot.

“Back towards me... mind the feet.”

I turn and by rote part my feet. Flash. Click.

“And now bend. Be a good girl.”

I obey. Having already been repeatedly photographed, I respond like a robot. I am surprised by my quickly attained level of compliance.

Flash. Click.

“Further.”

I lean and feel my boobs dangle. I am proudly well endowed there.

Flash. Click.

“Now feet as wide apart as possible.”

Flash. Click.

“Now hold just like that and reach back to part your cheeks.”

Salacious transcends to obscene. Why am I so meekly complying?

Flash. Click.

“Yes, very nice. Lot’s of pink for us. You’ll do just fine here. Feet just a little further apart.”

Flash. Click.

“Now stand and turn. Hands on head.”

For the first time the woman approaches. Quite the figure of authority. Middle aged, starched blue uniform. I am shocked when she reaches forth and diddles my nipples, chagrined to see my aureolas crinkle to pebbles. More chagrined that I neither move nor verbally protest as my breasts rise and firm, seemingly even more obedient and compliant than me.

She steps back.

Flash. Click.

“Yes, you will fit into our program very nicely.”

She returns. Hands remaining on head, for some reason I no longer move unless commanded. Her right hand lowers, palm upwards. She cups my mons!

I freeze in shock. The palm presses against my clitoral hood. Then two fingers brazenly part my labia and glide into my quim.

I am moist... no... I am wet... and for the first time the woman smiles.

Withdrawing, she raises her hand and I blush, her sopping digits glistening in the bright lights.

“Yes, you will fit quite nicely indeed.”

The intense humiliation has aroused... and she knew this... and I did not!

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I inquire about clothing. Matron number two not so much giggles as she cackles.

“Not really necessary. It’s just us girls,” her response pleasant but nonchalant.

“Your restraints will suffice. In time you will acclimate.”

As I remain in wonderment about the need to take dozens of naked photos, there comes more to incite curiosity. I stand in complete deshabille in a small room, Matron number two, appearing to be stamped from the same mold as the first, steps forth holding some dozen lengths of thin plastic.

“Cable ties. Cheap. Easy to secure. Not to be removed ... other than by cutting. And should you somehow locate a sharp instrument... you’ll not cut,” she forewarns.

Spoken as wrists, arms above the elbows, ankles, thighs above the knees are encircled, the end of each tie pressed through a receptive eye and pulled taut to form a loop. I note the women tightens with one finger inside the circle which she subsequently slips out, offering precisely uniform rings of plastic about my limbs... not tight, circulation not impeded... but certainly not loose.

Then a longer somewhat thicker cable tie is looped about my neck. Lastly a more formidable length circles my waist.

The woman steps back and momentarily assesses. Then she returns with clippers and carefully snips away the ends, leaving absolutely no excess length of plastic beyond the receiving eye.

“You’ll tug at these for a few days. All the girls do. But I assure you the restraints are not to be snapped open or broken.”

She steps away and I quiver in fear as she lights a propane torch.

“Be careful not to move. This assures the locking clasp is secure and not to be further tightened. And all the sharp cut ends will be smoothed.”

It is apparent that I am not the first girl the matron has placed in such unique, fast and cheap fetters. For one by one, a protective pad is slipped under the connecting clasp and the blue flame is momentarily applied, melting the plastic to accomplish just as she suggested, smoothing the cut ends and distorting the receiving clasps to assure such neither further tighten nor somehow yield and allow the loops to slip open.

Task completed, the flame is extinguished. Fingers return to rub each connecting point. The matron expresses satisfaction.

“Well tethered... with $1.50 worth of vinyl,” laughing with the irony of inexpensive thoroughness.

With that the door opens. Another aging woman enters, civilian in dress. Judging from Matron number two’s instant obeisance, the woman is in charge.

“I am the chief therapist...”

I am then read the rules...