'The Clinic' V

The chief therapist returns to her desk, her smug look seeming to radiate. One girl caged, another bound, well stressed, cunny well displayed, another mentally stressed, sinfully spread to exhibit feminine charms.

She is in her element.

A matron returns to the office to release me from the straight backed chair. It is lunchtime and in leading me to join the group I spy a number of horizontal lengths of padded wood, stanchions holding such at waist height. Numerous, there are short cords with clips, similar to that on my cot, suggesting that a girl can be instantly secured.

I am to later learn the position is assumed upon the command ‘belly to the board’, uttered whenever a tending matron has the whim to inspect a girl’s cunny.

As described, with belly resting on the padding, the ankle and thigh loops are secured to the stanchions, offering a good spread. The girl is bent over, face towards the floor and the wrist loops are then tied off above.

The pose exposes all a girl normally seeks to cloak, cheeks parted, labia splayed. Is a girl so restrained for punishment... or amusement? I suppose it does not matter.

With elbows again connected behind me, the matron leads to the dining hall where my compatriots sit at a long table in wait. All naked, all with arms and hands fettered in some manner, the naked trusty offers lunch. Before each girl is a small bowl. The trusty steps from client to client, spooning a large glop of mush into each bowl. Two matrons stand in watch, the duty of serving beneath their status.

I am seated at an empty chair and in seeing no one move, assume a similar pose, just silently staring down and forward.

Finally, with all bowls filled, I experience another form of clinic discipline. A bell rings. All heads collectively lower, face to the bowl. We’re fed like dogs, no hands or fingers to be used. I quickly join, my head lowering in kind not to delay.

Lips and tongue work. I am surprised to find that the mush is not objectionable, seeming to be nutritious food ground to facilitate the unorthodox method of ingestion. However acceptable the offering is, however, I find my nose is soon coated and certain morsels stick to unreachable parts of my upper lips and chin.

Within moments the bell rings twice. All heads rise... I follow suit. It is amusing to see the soiled faces, no girl able to neatly partake, I must assume mine is similarly decorated with glop. Yet in noting that all girls freeze I dare not move my head to further survey.

Such obedience! Not a word spoken. Not the slightest attempt to move. The trusty returns, wet cloth in left hand. She one by one tends to the faces, the fingers of the right hand scooping visible remnants of the meal and pushing such into receptive mouths. Then the wet cloth of the left hand cleanses.

The trusty works quickly, stepping from girl to girl. I see that as she leans she lets her breasts freely brush, rub and abrade the backs and shoulders of the clients. It would seem to be a reward, the matrons permitting the limited teasing contact, smiling in seeing the nipples harden, the tits firm in pressing warm skin.

Being last, I feel her glands firmly greet my right shoulder. There comes a subtle shake of her upper torso, her left nipple grazing to bring herself a brisance of joy. Then an index fingers instantly smooths about, collects excess sustenance from nose and lips and introduces such to my mouth. I ingest. As the wet towel cleanses, the bell rings three times. The girls rise and I again mimic and stand.

Afternoons are therapy time. Our group parts, each girl to receive individual ‘counseling’. I am led to a small room. Within is a straight backed chair. A matron quickly secures me, spread widely open, just as in the office of the chief therapist. Before me is a small table with a simple chair, more comfortable than mine. I cannot help gaping at the collection of short cords and clips about the perimeter of the table. A ‘client’ can easily be restrained on the surface.

I wait, several moments. The door opens. It is the trusty. She carries a tray, an empty bowl, scissors.

In silence, she cuts my hair. I dare not protest. I cannot move.

Caring not to conform to any known style, the long locks surrender quickly and in large clumps, summarily tossed into the waiting bowl. It takes not more than two minutes for my remaining head of hair to resemble that of every other client. Short... horridly short. Does she cut evenly... with a hint of decorum?

It matters not. She finishes, momentarily plays with my nipples, and quickly departs, smiling smugly in having stolen an unauthorized copping of my glands.

More waiting. The door again opens. In walks the woman who will change my life.

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

I am to find at the clinic that the psychological stress to be endured can greatly exceed the physical.

My new girl friend of color, for instance. Which is to challenge the most, having to stand, presumably for hours, on the toes of one foot? Or posed to so salaciously exhibit a very ripe and wet quim, oozing with evidence of stimulation, the scent of feminine arousal filling the room?

So the cutting... chopping actually... of my long prideful hair... concurrent with the introduction of my therapist is no coincidence.

As I sit in self pity, sensing the conflicting need to assess my new look versus the horror of discovery, Dr. Ann Roberts... Miss Ann... introduces herself. I am in the depths of despair, the timing superb. I so need to talk to someone.

"Welcome to the Clinic."

Voice smooth, I look to appraise. Relatively young for having an advanced degree, I judge her to be early thirties. Professionally attired. No starched blue uniform. Long hair dark, similar to mine, that now residing in the trusty’s bowl. Handsome, even features, confident, knowledgeable, in my state of vulnerability her demeanor brings a degree of comfort.

"When in this room you may speak... in response to my observations and inquiries of course."

She carries an over the shoulder bag, extracting a note pad with a fountain pen. Long since practicable, it appears to be a treasured gift... perhaps an heirloom.

"Lana Morehouse aged 21," she reads from her pad, leaning back against the table. "Shoplifting, first offense.

High school graduate. Dropped out of college after three semesters."
She looks up, judging my reaction. But also glancing down to where my shaven mons is so thoroughly displayed.

"The matrons here do tend to enjoy themselves do they not?" in apparent reference to my naked vulnerability.

She steps around the table, grasps the empty chair and slides it before me, sitting such that her knees brush mine.

"You’ll find that they like observing the pink flesh of young girls. It is best for you to be obedient and let them feast their eyes. When it’s time to be masturbated... just relax and enjoy. Within, girls such as you enjoy the humiliation. There is no point to resisting."

Her right hand extends to gently smooth along my inner left thigh, slowly approaching my ‘cunny’. I shiver... in fear... in delight?

She withdraws as my nipples firm in response. She sits back, apparently learning what she needed to know.

"So let’s begin. Start with your childhood... speak chronologically."

I do.