'The Clinic' II

No clothing... ever... after all it’s just us girls.

Clothing it seems, emboldens. I am to be kept humble.

No unauthorized touching... myself or any of the other clients.

Silence. When spoken to, the matrons are ‘ma’am’... as in ‘yes ma’am’, ‘no ma’am’, ‘if it pleases you ma’am’, and so on.

Obedience at all times. Instant obedience.

Overall, me and the other girls... clients... are here to learn discipline.

‘The fact that you are here means you are lacking self control. That will change.’

Listening to stuff like that... rules... commands... directives... is probably why I am so rebellious. One has a tendency to refute such diatribe.

‘Learn obedience and you’ll earn privileges.’

In completing the lengthy list, most not worth repeating... to be summed up as ‘don’t do anything without permission’, Matron Two reaches to the cloth belt about her waist. I had not before noticed, my eyes instead inquisitively following her busy binding hands, that dangling about are dozens of small clamps.

She releases one, steps forth, draws my arms behind my back and in a very disconcerting instant clips together my elbow ties. Quick and amazingly simple, my arms and hands are rendered useless.

But I must admit... standing naked before this imposing woman, donning the many tethers, simple yet not to be resisted... there may be lack of self control... but not the control afforded others. Humbled indeed.

"Time for your physical examination. Do be a good girl for me."

The chief therapist... chief inquisitor?.. departs. Matron Two grasps my left arm and brusquely draws me out a separate door.

Walking about naked, room air wafting over intimate pink parts, both dismays and oddly thrills. Bare feet on linoleum, I note the interior temperature is kept comfortably high. And as I am paraded under the auspices of Matron Two, the need for warmth becomes evident. Like me, girls are pacing about naked, all bearing the many encircling cable ties, most with limbs clipped in some manner. Few, I assume to be very, very good girls, are unfettered but with cable ties in place remaining vulnerable to the instant attachment of a double ‘D clamp.

One girl has her feet attached together, energetically shuffling and moving as would a penguin. I note a matching one foot length of vinyl connects the ankle loops. As she struggles, her boobies flop about, most comically... for me. But I note the lustful look in the eyes of Matron Two, as one of hunger would ravenously gaze at a feast.

"She’s being disciplined. In a few months perhaps she’ll again be permitted to walk normally," comes the succinct explanation.

All young, teenagers, possibly older, all well shaped. I am heartened that there are no bruises, scars, bandages. Whatever discipline is meted, it does not appear to involve harm... physical harm.

Led to a medical facility, there are the obligatory white metal cabinets, white uniformed nurses, tables, chairs, devices. There Matron Two departs and I am once again amazed with the alacrity with which I can be restrained. Two young nurses guide me to a gynecological chair. My elbows are released but just as quickly ankles, thighs, waist and wrists are connected to clamps embedded in the chair.

I cannot move.

They depart. Do I detect giggling?

An older nurse enters. Apparently in charge. She begins a standard physical examination. Questions about diet... last time I defecated...last period. I am chagrined when a gloved finger enters my rectum, wriggles about and obtains a stool sample. Then a jar is held and I am encouraged to produce a urine sample.

"Any shyness will soon dissipate," the nurse explains as I cannot summon the urge. "in time you’ll be begging to urinate for us. It’s the only permitted manner of emptying your bladder."

The thought brings consternation. The nurse’s free hand presses my belly. She makes sibilant sounds as if encouraging a child. Finally I manage a brief spurt. She captures it in the jar and is satisfied.

She steps away. I hear again snaps of latex, soiled gloved removed. A new rubber glove invaginates the right hand. A second glove is slipped onto the left. Curiously, it is soft, covered in fur... delicate and flowing, as of that comprising an expensive stole.

"A little treat for you. Our way of welcoming a new girl to the clinic."

The nurse stands between my well parted knees, most proximate to my closely shaven mons.

"You may feel a little uncomfortable being publically masturbated... at first. But in time you’ll be imploring for more."

In public indeed, the giggling young nurses return to the examination room to observe. I am then introduced to the masturbation gloves... so wickedly pleasurably... so exquisite.

I am to find that such will become the food of Pavlov’s dogs. I will drool at their sound and sight... and not from my mouth.

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Embarrassing... outright humiliating, I lie well befuddled by the day’s events.

From the examination room, matron number three, another knock off in starched blue, led me to a small chamber... really a cell... and summarily secured me to a cot. Neck, waist, biceps, wrists, thighs, ankles... every encircling cable tie clipped to a waiting restraint, cords very short.

‘These people are bondage freaks,’ I think but dare not say.

Notwithstanding the bizarre events, I stare at the dark ceiling, reposed, the hormonal release of an intense climax bringing an ironically relaxing end to an otherwise stultifying evening.

The nurse proved to be an accomplished masturbatrix, seemingly sensing precisely what I could feel. Her actions where mechanical but effective. It began with a lotion smeared about my rectum. It first warmed then brought intense heat. Next the palm of the latex glove, the design leaving the middle and index fingers uncovered, pressed firmly to my clitoral hood. The applied pressure was perfect, not painful, but enough to suggest the woman was in control. The fur covered left hand slithered up my belly, spurring a rash of goose bumps, and ever so gently caressed my breasts, tickling to bring my nipples to pencil points.

This all began a flow of feminine essence of course, the nurse quick to point out to the young nurses the scent of my arousal. In so doing, the humiliation of hearing her words further intensified the stimulation which of course increased my wetness.

Vagina sopping, the uncovered digits glided facilely within my quim, the nurse snickering in sensing the ease of entry.

And then she began in earnest, the warm uncovered fingers finding the urethral sponge, there circling to knead, pressing, the nurse lecturing as the pleasure slowly heightened and I squirmed against my bonds.... rectum heated... love nest rapidly rising in temperature.

The young nurses were offered an anatomy lesson... at my expense?.. perhaps more aptly described as at my behest.

"Notice how complacent they become," more authoritative words as the fingers worked me. "In time she’ll be trained to more appropriately use the Kegel muscles... communicating her need for more... and she will always want more."

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Staring at the dark ceiling, neck restraint making it almost impossible to look elsewhere, thinking of the intensity of the resulting orgasm brings a wry smile. Yes, I was publically masturbated, forced to come to a riveting climax, Kegel muscles indeed clenching, most embarrassed to observe a spray of feminine essence erupt.

This brought a knowing smile to the nurse and to me a degree of bewilderment. My own furtive attempts at self pleasure had never brought such a reaction. The nurse drew more delight from my loins than I ever had.

"She’s a squirter, ladies. They can be quite entertaining."

The words offered as if I had become a trained circus animal, no purpose in life other than to amuse.

Such would become a more apropos notion than initially thought.

A tag was attached to the loop about my waist at the left hip. Later I was to find it indicated my release date and menstrual cycle, no embarrassment in having that known to all, it’s just us girls.

As slumber beckons I think of the turn of events that brought me to this clinic... the foolish shoplifting, the frightful judge, the threat of five years of incarceration, concurring to accept two years of ‘therapy’. And now lying naked and in extreme bondage. No prison would dare offer a regimen of such degradation.

Yet here I am.