'The Clinic' VII

It’s Friday. Though there is no calendar to confirm and the days at the clinic tend to meld, there hangs in the courtyard the masturbation gloves. One of silky fur, the other of latex, two fingers missing.

A girl is masturbated on Friday... one girl.

So as we frolic naked there is sensed a degree of giddiness... yet with some apprehension. Only one of the dozen or so girls will be chosen, and in feeling the heat of our loins, the spicy lotion liberally applied, each must hope for selection. But in being publically masturbated, many observers in attendance, there comes reservation. Bad enough to have to prance about in the buff much less display one’s sex as it is manually penetrated and manipulated.

Yet, there is deep need. No one declines the opportunity to be placed on exhibit.

So in a weekly ritual the gloves hang in the courtyard and, as stated, such become the bell to which Pavlov’s dogs salivated in expecting a hearty meal. But with the girls of the clinic, there is no salivation, instead our cunnies begin to moisten, anticipating... strangely hoping... to be the one who will endure the intense pleasure.

Yes, though outdoors my nose detects the intense aroma, the excitement of genitalia ripened over time and strict denial. Assuming an organized masturbation schedule, a girl should not have to go longer then 12 weeks for the satiation of the gloves. But the longer I am at the clinic the more I realize some girls have been selected more than once while others remain in denial. I’d like to think my cunnie will at some point receive attention, but to date only the quick smearing fingers of the trusty have touched me there.

In time a matron comes to the door and the girls dash forth, hoping for selection. She reaches up and retrieves the gloves, snickering. It is apparent that her nose too detects the expectation, the fragrance of a herd of girls in heat.

The matron dons the gloves, fur on the left hand, latex on the right. The naked bevy gathers about and a ritual begins, the left hand reaching forth to ever so gently caress a nipple here... a nipple there.

There come shrieks of joy in believing a choice has been made. But it is a tease, the collective moisture turning to a deluge. Finally, the right hand lowers. The exposed index and middle fingers wriggle, gesturing to an exuberant little girl, breasts limited but firm, buttocks to be envied. She knows to instantly step forth and greet the upturned hand, the palm pressing against the clitoral hood.

"So eager," are the only words offered as I watch the uncovered fingers part the labia and slip inwards.

There comes a pause, a peculiar silent greeting... fingers and vaginal walls... the woman smiling wickedly, the girl sighing in delight.

"Are you going to put on a good show for us?"

Miss ‘cute buttocks’ nods with fervor, rocking her hips to enhance the penetration.

"Good. I’ll want my fingers to have a good fucking," the proclamation crass but apropos.

"Come girls, to the masturbation room," the hand withdrawing.

Only an institution such as the Clinic could conceive of such a depraved and demeaning chamber. For despite its moniker, the only purpose is to humiliate. After all, in our condition a girl can be brought to climax just about anywhere any time. Needed not is a special room for the ultimate gratification.

The matron leads, Miss Cute Buttocks follows as do the herd of bound and naked clients... into the hallway then to the end, opposite the door to the enema palace.

It is sparse but large, in the center a chair, really more of a school desk with a slim writing platform in place of the right arm. We gather about. Other matrons join, the weekly entertainment not to be missed.

The gloved matron sits. Her right arm extends and rests on the narrow platform, hand palm upwards, her moistened fingers inviting the return of the quim of Miss Cute Buttocks. With a sheepish smile the girl steps forth, parts her knees to straddle and mount the upturned hand and the platform.

As described she then begins to fuck the matron’s fingers, the fur covered gloved hand teasingly caressing the breasts, adding to the brisance of pleasure.

So degrading, yet so needed, the desire smoldering, the fire of spicy lotion finally to be extinguished after daily conflagration. In the closed room, the air fills with not only the scent of penetrated cunny, but with the moisture of some dozen others, pining to straddle and ride with equal fervor.

I know from my introduction in the infirmary, the unseen fingers hook, wriggle, knead and caress, the matrons all expert, all knowing to work the urethral sponge, the so termed female prostate.

"That little clit of yours is as hard as a pecker, I can feel it," comes one embarrassing observation after another.

Still the girl rides, the muscling of her buttocks rippling. She must work for her pleasure.

Then the fur glove withdraws. The matron commands cessation. In the height of arousal the girl knows to stop.

"Squeeze."

It’s Kegel time. In every Friday masturbation session there is a maddening pause, the rocking and thrusting of hips stilled, as the expectant girl must respond to commands.

"Good girl. Now two squeezes."

On the brink of ecstasy, the response to each directive is instant, hoping the fucking of the fingers will be permitted to resume.

"Now stay," the tone master to dog.

Miss Cute Buttocks closes her eyes... in expectation... in shame... in humility.

Finally the wicked matron offers the command.

"Finish yourself."

She does, the resulting squirt impressive.