Saturday, January 14, 2012

'The Clinic' III

I awaken to commotion. A high barred window is faintly aglow, suggesting daylight. The firm voice of a matron can be heard in the hallway. Keys rattle in the door of my room... my cell.

"Wake up, new girl."

Matron four, starched blue uniform of course, enters, releasing the many clips with noted alacrity.

"I will verbally guide you through morning protocol once, thereafter you will follow the snaps of my fingers."

I look into the face of a dour middle aged woman, the tending personnel seemingly to have all gestated in the same womb.

"To the floor, all fours," barked with a single snap of her fingers.

I obey as she steps from the small room.

"Come, on hands and knees," another single snap of her fingers.

I crawl into the hallway, aghast to see a bevy of girls assuming the same position, every head touching a wall, naked bottoms well exhibited and thrust toward the center of the hall. Beneath each is a bowl, pressed between the knees.

"Over your bowl, quickly, press it between your knees," another single snap of her fingers.

A bowl awaits me and I comply as the matron departs, crossing the hall to unlock another door. I hear more snaps, no words, as a pretty young girl crawls out and positions herself over an identical bowl.

Meanwhile, a night’s build up of excretions provokes a need. In recalling the directing words of the chief therapist, not daring to soil the linoleum or the bowl, I squeeze, assuring no release of my bladder.

Two more doors, more snaps. I do not move my head to dare count the kneeling naked forms, but there are more than a dozen, each assuming a kneeling position over a bowl.

Then there comes silence. Moments go by. At last a door at the end of the hall opens. Boots tap a leisurely cadence on the linoleum.

Tap, tap, tap, there finally comes the sound of a stentorian voice. It is the chief therapist.

"Good morning girls. You will greet me like this every morning as the more experienced girls know. It is good to begin the day on all fours. It offers the proper mindset. Quite demeaning to have to crawl. Quite a struggle to hold what nature urges you to release. But you’re here to learn discipline, and I like to begin with the control of the most basic of functions. For the new girls, the demand is that you hold until you hear two snaps of the matron’s fingers. Then you will lower your head to the floor, further part your knees and mentally prepare. With the next snap you will release. The girl finishing last will be punished. Meanwhile those Kegel muscles will work and strain, but hopefully not let you down."

I glance to the side noting the look of Schadenfreude, the chief therapist slowly marching, boots authoritatively tapping, as she speaks, her eyes glowering as would a bird of prey, seeming to imaginatively devour well exposed feminine flesh.

Meanwhile listening to her words causes my mind to focus on the urge which I must not indulge.

The speech ends. The silence seems to make it more difficult. My muscles below indeed strain. I cannot imagine the punishment for early release, but in being naked, the many loops of vinyl offering the capability of instant restraint, I am vulnerable to anything the matrons desire to mete.

Finally, two snaps. Heads collectively lower to the floor, including mine. I further part. The shift renews the dire need. The pause further tormenting, yet I dare not release.

Finally comes the single snap. My heart leaps, but more importantly my muscles know to relax as I open myself. The hissing sound and the splatter join that of some dozen other girls in the collective demonstration of institutional authority.

I finish, thankfully not last. In noting that no one moves I remain kneeling, now realizing for the first time how obscenely spread open I am.

‘It’s just us girls’... I tell myself.


"Remember... silence. No touching unless instructed by a matron."

Spoken as yet another matron works and my elbow loops are closely clipped together behind my back, returning my arms and hands to uselessness.

Next I feel a brisk slap to my buttocks, somewhat playful, somewhat in an earnest expression of control, and I know to rise from the floor, emulating the other girls.

For the first time since my arrival I am not being handled and am free to gaze and survey.

Every girl is naked, limbs, torso and neck encircled with identical cable ties. One by one each is bound... some as am I, others with wrists to the waist loop, one girl more cruelly. Yes, she who finished splashing into the bowl last has her arms pulled behind and folded at the elbows, wrists brought up between the shoulder blades and tightly secured to the back of the neck loop. Then the elbows are pushed together and secured as well.

Bound in such a tormenting fashion... yet so quickly... so easily. I note tears forming as I tell myself never to be last in emptying myself.

Continuing to survey, I note all hair is short. With mine draping to my shoulders I am an outlier.

Curious we are all approximately the some age, post adolescent, judging none to be more than early twenties. And though not an afficionado of the female form, there is youthful attractiveness. All are shapely, non overweight, non to be considered overly lean. In observing the lustful looks of the matrons, the chief therapist appearing to mentally prepare a meal, there comes suspicion.

Then my thoughts are diverted as below, there comes tingling... a degree of warmth... and then a most acute need to disobediently touch and rub my love nest.

With hands secured I can do nothing, but the cause of the sensation is apparent.

In completing the morning task, we all remained kneeling as a naked girl pushed a cart down the hall. One by one the filled bowls were removed, placed on the cart, and a rather experienced, tissue laden hand wiped dry the many quims. But fingers then briefly returned and wiped to apply an unguent.

Having had my rectum set afire in the infirmary I am aware of the clinic’s penchant. And sure enough, though pleasant the warmth spreads. The need amplifies. I look to see other girls apparently experiencing the same.

Such wickedness!

A matron opens a door at the opposite end of the hall. The girls begin to filter out and I follow, my mind transforming to that of a sheep. We step outside. The sun is chasing away the morning chilliness. Still I note many pairs of nipples firm and crinkle in the cool air.

"Get some exercise girls. Enemas and breakfast soon."

With that, the door closes behind us, leaving the naked group milling about in a high walled courtyard.

Some girls, obviously feeling the effects of the unguent more than me, walk about briskly. I recall an occasion where I applied depilating cream to my mons and in direct contrast to the instructions, inadvertently smeared some on the tender pink inner labia. The burning, much more severe than this, would not diminish, no matter my attempts to relieve myself of the intensity... not water... not soap... not skin cream.

I had to wait out the effect, and judging from the manner in which the girls walk about, it appears their application of whatever exceeded that of mine.

Not knowing what the day will bring, but aware of the propensity for strict bondage, I decide to move about, my muscles welcoming the chance to limber after a long night and a challenging morning kneeling in wait for the whimsical snap of fingers.

As I circle about, I once again survey and note a video camera high above on a pole. What a libidinous scene to be recorded, I think to myself. Nothing but T and A... spiced with some bondage.
A girl of color seems to follow me. Reaching a certain point I hear her voice, in direct violation of the rules.

"New girl," she whispers. "Stop and turn to the wall."

Being new indeed, I comply, not daring verbal response.

"There are no microphones. They just look to see if your mouth and lips move," the girl explains, stepping closer but not too close.

"Don’t nod or do anything to indicate we’re speaking. And make sure you face away from the camera... and away from me."

Apparently the girl of color has been in ‘therapy’ for a while.

"Your cunny a little hot?"

I mumble soft words of affirmation.

"Nasty stuff. Drives a girl crazy. A special spice, some concoction which brings a need every morning, lasting most of the day. It’s part of the discipline. You’ll be able to handle it today. Maybe tomorrow. But then as the need grows you’ll be begging. I can help you."

I say nothing. Is this a plant? A set up?

"Move more to your left."

I step. The girl, tall lean and muscular moves with me. Then I am shocked to feel her warmth abrade mine.

"It’s a blind spot," she explains as I feel the heat of her well shaven mons press against my right cheek.

"You’ve got the perfect ass for this. Push back against me. I’ll do the same for you some time."

Though well aware of the my firm roundness there, I blush.

"I don’t go that way," I rather demurely protest.

I hear a slight chuckle, perhaps my words amusing but more likely my smooth cheek bringing a welcomed degree of satiation.

"You will girl. You’ll soon be going any way they want you to go."


Anonymous said...

Without a doubt, I will be buying this book when it is published. Which cannot be soon enough

Anonymous said...

And I meant to sign myself above as Verloc, and did not.