Saturday, February 18, 2012

'The Clinic' VIII

The rattle of keys, the dull gray of the high window, it is morning.

A matron enters and unclips my loops. With a snap of her fingers I know to roll to the floor. She exits. Another quick snap of her fingers and I crawl to the hallway to join the naked clients of the clinic. A third snap and I position, my backside toward the center, head to the wall, bowl between my knees.

More doors are unlocked, more naked clients join, then another snap and we collectively lower our heads and further spread. Then comes the wait. A night’s excretions have built. Much to be expelled from brimming bladders. But clinic discipline mandates the timing is not ours.

Finally a far off door opens and we are heartened to hear the tap, tap, tap of boots.

"Good morning girls. I trust all slept well, so nicely bound and helpless."

I turn my head ever so slightly. In the corner of my eye the chief therapist struts as every morning, her authoritative words augmenting the sense of frustration of the dire need to urinate. But we must await those two snaps of the matron’s fingers.

On this morning she holds a leash. Obediently heeling as she marches down the center of the hall, those lustful eyes visually feasting on well parted cheeks, there crawls her pet, the girl caged and leashed in her office.

"I have a treat for you all this morning. A little pet puppy dog. She’s a licker. So when you’re finished with your morning business over the bowl, you’ll no longer need to be wiped. My little puppy in training is so eager to see what you all smell and taste like."

Such ignominy! One must wonder if the deep dark fantasy of being kept as a canine included orally tending to so many cunnies.

Reaching the end of the dual line of kneeling clients, the chief therapist turns to look back. She nods to the matron. There come the two snaps. Heads lower, knees and thighs further part. Another snap and some dozen bladders open, spurts and splatters, the initial sound of pinging metal quite strident.

Completing the task, the trusty rolls the cart and removes the filled bowls. And then begins the puppy training. Satiation not to be offered, each kneeling client is offered gentle but teasing laps of a generous tongue, all remnants of the morning need removed.

It feels good, warm wetness where so little is offered. Yet such is evanescent, more teasing than satisfying... and in a way I am dismayed in sensing delight from another woman.

Our cunnies are not to be denied the quick smears of warming lotion, the clinic’s spice. So as the leashed puppy girl works her way down the line, right quim then left, the trusty follows. I note on this morning, my love nest is offered inordinate time, my inner labia coated as always but the fingers briefly probe deeply inward, the walls of my vagina well smeared.

"Another treat, girls. The little bald one here needs to be suckled. So limited touching is permitted during your courtyard recreation. No punishment if you’d like to taste these nice plumping titties," bending, hand lowering to cup my left breast. "Orgasms denied as always, girls. Be careful."

I hear soft laughter. Then a matron steps behind and I feel her work my ankle loops, pulling my feet together. Just as I observed that girl hobbled on the day of my arrival, I too have my feet joined. Connecting the ankle loops is a one foot long length of rugged plastic. Next the matron guides my hands. Behind my back, elbows folded, wrists are attached to my neck loop. Then most aggravating, my elbow loops are secured tightly together and another length of plastic connects my bent arms to my waist loop. The procedure requires less time to institute than to describe.

I must be assisted to stand. And I find the forced posture to be quite awkward yet in a way inviting... for those indeed desiring to suckle. With arms and wrists so secured my shoulders are forced back and my chest juts forth. I appear to be all breasts.

As my naked compatriots stand and head for the door to the courtyard, I take my first step to follow. Quite limited, I feel the smack of the matron’s hand to my right cheek.

"Hurry along," my feet shuffling rapidly in compliance.

My boobies bounce with the cumbrous gait and I note the evil smile on the face of the chief therapist as I struggle to shuffle past.

I know she’ll be watching closely on the video camera.


As Miss Ann divulged, my girl friend of color is no longer. She has been stabled, I can only imagine the consequences.

Yet I have little opportunity to ruminate on the matter. The words of the chief therapist have authorized a game of hunt. And in being hobbled, I am not challenging prey.

As expected, a tall girl approaches, smiling lustfully with the opportunity. I recall that first visit to the courtyard with my friend of color frottaging against my buttocks, the incredible delight she experienced, her heated cunny finding some magnitude of satiation, however limited.

And now special permission has been granted. Suck on my nipples, frottage without circumspection.

I scramble. But my motion just jiggles the objects of their desires and invites oral attention. Meanwhile, with the abundance of spicy lotion, my own nest is in need.

I ungracefully prance about. The tall girl follows. Another girl joins. I am soon cornered, literally, angled concrete walls of the courtyard to my left and right, two naked clients before me. My homophobia brings a sense of repulsion. Yet, my heated cunny beckons, suggesting concession. The internal conflict is of no matter. In being so tightly bound, I do not so much surrender as am pinned to the adjoining walls and orally ravished.

Both girls bend at the knee to lower. Each orally captures a nipple. Under the brief rules proposed by the chief therapist, suckling suspends the edict against touching.

And touch they do, pressing as much of their bare flesh against mine as possible.

My disgust yields as my glands receive the soft wet swirl of tongues, the pressure of eager lips. My nipples harden in greeting, then soften. I feel them expand in welcome, seeming to fill the hungry mouths.

In feeling the brisance of ecstasy my knees buckle. I slowly lower, heedful of the somewhat rough concrete behind me, finally conceding so as not to scrape myself. To the ground, the two girls, lips never diverting from the task, reposition themselves, the shaven pubes of each pressing against a thigh right and left. Hips wriggle in earnest.

In my adolescent years, boys have likewise partaken, but obviously one mouth... one nipple... and clumsily. My cohorts, my repugnance quickly melting, are gifted, truly knowing of the feminine need.

I only wish some attention for my cunny. But alas I recall the words of Miss Ann...

‘You’ll need to be suckled as well.’

And I am suckled indeed. I feel what seems like a river flowing from my unsatiated loins, the heat turning to a comforting glow of intense warmth. I close my eyes. How long, I do not know, reveling in pleasure long denied.

When I open I look up to see a semi circle of naked clients looking on with envy, hands and arms bound, their feet gently kicking my oral assailants, wordlessly suggesting my breasts be shared. Well above their heads I note the video camera. Within my mind I can hear the snicker of the chief therapist.

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