Saturday, February 25, 2012

"The Clinic' IX

Tabled in the counseling room, I kneel on all fours, presented as a work of art... a sculpture.

Miss Ann tends, first retrieving a water bottle from her bag, 20 more milligrams of Domperidone to be ingested. Having endured another grueling enema, the wicked trusty assuring bowels most receptive, something within welcomes Miss Ann’s expandable anal plug and plastic bag of whatever she deems good for me.

"Your titties are plumping. And those nipples, long and red."

She recites the obvious, having had so many lips suck, tongues swirl. By morning’s end my chest was coated with saliva, my thighs with remnants of heated sopping vaginas.

"The Chief had you suckled. How do you feel?"

The counseling begins as I hear the hiss of air and feel the anal plug expand. I sense this odd need for the doctor’s concoction, for some reason receptive of the notion that I will absorb... whatever it is she offers.

"A little sore."

She steps to my front. I feel the flow of the ooze begin... oddly comforting.

"I have some cream for you. But how do you feel within. What are your thoughts, nurturing so many?"

I search for words. The initial repulsion dissipated as described. Do I tell her? How do I explain that the last duo I attempted to kiss in gratitude?

Yet she must have watched, seeming to know that my reddened nipples did not result from one set of lips.

"I don’t know," my reply seeming to disappoint.

From her bag comes a tube of some unguent. She smears her gloved hands and stands before me smiling, rubbing to rid the coolness of the ointment. It is a pleasant smile, not a hint of demented joy. And within I feel warmth, that I am cared for.

Her hands reach forth and first palm my breasts. There is an initial sting, then the skin acclimates. She knows to pause then slowly close her hands to cup both glands entirely, pausing again.

I smile in return. She’s a handsome woman, Miss Ann... caring... knowing... perceptive. There comes a sense of envy in viewing her hair. I have none, the cranium of a beast... an ugly duckling.

The pause ends. Her fingers work in the cream. The soreness dispels. Then I am both chagrined yet strangely pleased when the fingers tighten about the nipples and draw downward in a milking motion.

"Like this? Is this how you milked during the summer on the farm?’

I nod but feel it necessary to clarify.

"Udders are longer, filling the entire hand," I naively explain.

Her hands shift, closing about the body of each breast. She squeezes, for some reason bringing no discomfort, then draws downward again, quite the earnest effort.

I do not understand my inner reaction. At another time, in another place I would object... to becoming an object... a beast... forced to cater to this woman’s desires.

But I have this need.

So when I close my eyes in silence, Miss Ann knows to continue, her grip tightening, her pulls strengthening.

She is stretching my glands... and internally I find no objection... not a word of remonstration to be offered.

A dozen tugs, perhaps more, I open to see her calm confident smile.

She knows. Knows me. Knows of my warped desire.


The days become repetitive, with some changes.

To my food bowl, noon and night, the trusty dutifully adds, enlarging and enhancing my ration with white goo similar to that which Miss Ann has seeping into my bowels during counseling.

Whereas the sustenance of all the other girls is monitored to inhibit weight gain, keeping me trim is no longer an objective. It seems quite the opposite.

I begin to plump... rapidly.

I am offered the pill, Domperidone... mornings, lunch time, evenings and of course during counseling.

Within a week I am led to my small cell-like room to find my cot has been modified. Two five inch diameter holes have been cut in the canvas, side by side. When I am bedded, for the first time lying prostrate, I find the openings accommodate my breasts. With my many loops clipped to hold me in place, I of course cannot rollover and therefore must sleep face down, my glands dangling below.

This facilitates two augmentations of my protocol. The trusty arrives nightly, impales my anus with an expandable plug and I feel the slow ooze of more concoction slithering inward throughout the night. I must assume it is that of Miss Ann’s formulation. Also with breasts so conveniently exposed, the gloved hands of a snickering matron grip and pull for up to an hour each evening, replicating the motion of Miss Ann.

The chief therapist’s permission to suckle in the courtyard continues. I cannot resist the confrontations with my cohorts. And in time, I no longer think of such interaction as confrontational. Almost every day I line up for my enema and cleansing smelling of overly ripe vaginas, my thighs coated with the juices of desperate girls in sexual denial.

I cannot decide which brings the greater thrill, having Miss Ann, my cherished mentor, mechanically tug on my glands, coming to revel in her touch, or having my breasts suctioned by the clear plastic cups. In one last modification to protocol, my mind determines...

"I brought a little suction cup for you, my plump little cow."

I take no offense in her words, offered with that smile that has come to charm. I am indeed with girth, and with my head weekly shaved, it is difficult to consider my look as human. The trusty, in a moment of jest, shaved my eye brows as well. She continues, seeming to enjoy the resulting tears. My waist loop, thigh loops and arm loops have been replaced, larger circumferences mandated.

There is no longer feminine pride in my appearance.

Miss Ann holds up a small cup indeed. It is the size of my pinky finger.

"I will save this for a special occasion. When you let down for me... untouched."

She steps behind my tabled kneeling form. A gloved hand works below the nourishing anal plug, first splaying my labia then gliding lower to my clitoral hood. Her touch is delightful, rarely palpating there. And then I feel her work the cup to encircle my little man, so long denied attention.

Goose bumps form... the physical touch... the thought of having my little nubbin suctioned as are daily my nipples.

And the deed to be performed by my idol... Miss Ann! My heart leaps in anticipation, despite the sinking feeling as her fingers and hand withdraw and she returns to face me.

She smiles, knowing my thoughts. Then as in every counseling session, having finished drawing strongly on my breasts, she glides a breast cup in place and begins to squeeze the pump to remove air and suction. It feels so good. Any comparable delight promised my clitoris cannot be imagined

I will perform. I will let down for her with zeal.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

As always there is a slightly surreal and very welcome difference to these entries.