'The Clinic' IV

"Enema time girls," a matron calling out, standing at the only egress from the courtyard.

The girls obediently trot to reenter the building.

"Line up... tits to shoulder blades... cunny to buttocks... nice and tight for me."

Returning to the hallway, the naked girl, she who picked the bowls and smeared our labia and vaginas, beckons from a far door. She is unfettered, though with many loops in place, easily restrained should the need arise. I am to learn the girl is a trusty, offered relative freedom in order to perform tasks too lowly for a matron.

The lead girl knows to prance then humbly stand before her in wait. And sure enough the next girl presses against her...then the next and so on to form a chain. The girl of color, somewhat enthralled with my posterior, makes it a point to get behind me, now able to frottage against my globes without fear of discovery, pressing such that my mons in turn is thrust into the girl in front of me more then I’d like.

It feels good... and I am most chagrined. My heated ‘cunny’, as the matron terms my sex, attains a degree of satiation.

Yet I need more.

As we girls collectively squirm, absorbing the modest thrill, the matron smiles in squalid delight. I feel the rock hard breasts of my new friend, the nipples rubbing with enthusiasm against my back. The behavior is not only acceptable, but welcomed... the entertainment appears to be mandated... and no one disappoints.

Then the scent of women in need wafts through the hallway air. It is strong, so many wet love canals, and the matron begins to cackle depravedly.

Over the months of ‘therapy’ I am to find that douching is prohibited... totally denied. And whereas my relatively fresh, new arrived ‘cunny’ is not overly ripe, some of the girls are in need of hygiene... hygiene they shall not have.

"Enough," comes the matron’s command, the grinding hips and jiggling breasts instantly brought to stillness.

The naked trusty reaches to the neck loop of the first girl, slips her finger beneath and pulls, guiding her into the ‘enema palace’, the ironic name for the clinic’s chamber of concrete walls, well drained tile floor, plumbing and water... much water.

******************************************************************************

I sit in the office of the chief therapist. Elbows clipped together, a tending matron secured me to a straight back chair facing a large walnut desk. Restraining my thigh loops and ankle loops to the sides, she assured that I sit well spread, exposing the mass of feminine pink flesh between my thighs.

Despite the massive enema administered earlier, normally tending to induce torpor, I feel apprehension.

The chief therapist sits behind the desk doing paperwork. Being ignored, for now, I visually examine the large office. Most notably in one corner to my left sits a sizable steel cage. Within a naked girl rests on knees and elbows, her cable ties secured in such a manner that her legs and arms cannot straighten... ankles to the waist... wrists to the biceps. A slack leash is attached to her neck loop and is tied to the bars. Beneath her head is a bowl, presumably that intended for a dog, filled with water.

Opposite to the right, restrained to a vertical pole, is my new friend, the girl of color from the courtyard. She forcibly stands on the toes of her left foot. The right foot is raised, leg bent back, the ankle loop secured to her waist loop. Arms tethered behind her back, her neck loop is attached to the pole to assure she does not topple.

As with me, to assure she properly displays her feminine charms, the right thigh loop is tied from above in such a manner that she in turn much offer a spread shot. The pose is awkward and challenging. She perspires. I can see the glistening moist pink of her splayed inner labia, the slow torture seeming to bring arousal as vaginal juices slowly ooze to her left thigh. I am sure the matrons are to be greatly entertained.

"Your friend was talking this morning... in the courtyard. Against the rules. I trust you did not respond to
her?"

The therapist speaks for the first time, evidently noting the direction of my gaze.

I must assume my response to the girl was not noted on the camera. Otherwise I am sure I too would be placed in an unending stress position.

I prevaricate, shaking my head to deny.

"Good. You’ll note that we like to have naughty girls display themselves in such licentious ways. It’s good for the spirit, don’t you think? Makes a girl aware."

I nod. Whom am I to disagree. Yet... aware of what?

"And that one, over there. Therapy revealed a rather telling penchant. Makes for a cute little pup don’t you think?" the woman nodding to the cage.

I shrug my shoulders as best I can.

"She’ll forever either be caged or leashed. In time, I tire of my pets. So at some point she’s to be kenneled. But for now, leading a girl about on a leash can offer quite the thrill for a woman of my ilk. And it so placates her needs."

The woman stands. I begin to tremble, now more than ever understanding her power... and her enjoyment in exercising such.

"We all have fantasies... desires we prefer not to divulge. Held deep within, never to be shared... at least by the outer self."

She approaches as she speaks, something indiscernible held in her left hand.

"Here we delve into the inner self. And we discover such fascinatingly secret things. The curious desire to be leashed and fed from a bowl, for example... to be mated and forced to breed," gesturing to the cage.

She steps to my girl friend of color. The right hand extends and toys with a pinkish brown left nipple. Then her hand lowers and a finger dabs at the flowing vaginal juices.

"Well bound... yet aroused. Plus do you find anything distinctive about the muscling on this one? You may speak."

"She’s... she’s in good shape," my quaking voice stuttering, the extensive muscling indeed tending to ripple in the stress position.

"Oh, better than good. She runs and runs. Extremely strong legs, good endurance, the limited breasts those of an Olympic track star... or better perhaps, those of a girl who’d like to spend her life harnessed, bridled and responding to the crack of a riding crop."

The head of my new girl friend of color slumps to the degree the neck restraint permits. The downward cast of the eyes suggests the observation is appropriate.

"Yes, this one would like to serve me, the power of my psyche subduing hers, forcing her physical strength to yield to me. So physically potent, yet she so much desires to mentally capitulate, cede to a woman’s whip hand."

The woman approaches me to stand close, gazing downward at my pinkness, again offering the look of a fine chef planning a meal. She drys her wet finger on my upper lip, the scent of the juices quite strong.

"One cannot help comparing the glands," her right hand lowering.

She palms and cups my right breast. Soft yet firm, as stated I am well endowed there. Normally I ward off such advances, particularly from women. But I am helpless to resist and the woman plays without compunction, moving her hand to give equal credence to the left breast as well, smiling wickedly.

"Quite the set of mammary glands. Have you ever thought of lactating for us?"

"No, ma’am."

"Well we have our puppy girl... we have our pony girl. Why should we not have our cow girl? I think you would enjoy entertaining us."

I shake my head in denial.

Then comes, should our tete a tete be considered a duel, the coup de grace... finally presenting the contents of her left hand. My trembling transforms to outright shudders of concern.

"Caught shoplifting this. You had the money with you to pay for it, but you just did not want to be seen purchasing it."

It is the evidence of theft from my trial... a breast pump! And the chief therapist is correct. Before me is divulged the deep dark secret fantasy... my deep dark secret fantasy.

The woman leans. There comes again that look of Schadenfreude, her warm breath felt on my nakedness

"Your secret need to nurture. I think we know how to make your stay here... your therapy... very enjoyable."