Private clinic
It was time for another check-up at the women's clinic. Everyone knows what an unpleasant procedure that is, especially in our old hospitals, when an old gynecologist just for formality's sake pokes around in your most intimate parts and writes that everything is fine. You understand that this procedure is completely pointless, and no one will seriously examine you. You don't feel like going, but work requires everyone to undergo a mandatory medical examination.
I had already mustered my courage and mentioned it in a conversation with a friend. My friend told me that she used to feel the same way about this procedure until she tried getting
an examination at a private clinic, and she described the service there with such delight—no worse than in Europe. "You'll have to pay, but it's worth it," she advised me and gave me the address of the private clinic she went to. I decided to follow her advice and went to that private clinic the next day.The clinic made a truly stunning first impression on me. Clean, bright hallways carpeted with runners, soft armchairs, live houseplants everywhere, various paintings on the walls. Instead of the usual registration desk in the waiting room, there was something like a hotel reception. A girl filled out a form on the computer, asking for my details and the purpose of my visit, then asked me to wait five minutes and offered tea or coffee. I agreed, deciding to relax a little, as the anxiety before the upcoming procedure was still present. Settling into a comfortable soft armchair near a small table, I enjoyed a natural mint tea and examined the interior. I didn't have to wait long—after about three minutes, the girl said I could go in—room number 5, straight down the hall, the last door on the left.
I knocked and entered the office. It made an impression no worse than the waiting room: bright but soft light streamed from the ceiling, there were two soft armchairs and a sofa in the front part, with a coffee table in front of them. A large, beautiful painting of a beautiful semi-nude woman hung on the wall. At the far end by the window stood a desk with a monitor and papers (presumably the doctor's), along the wall were two tall carved wooden bookcases filled with some intelligent-looking books. The air in the office was cool, fresh, with light pleasant scents.
"Hello, my name is Andrei Ilyich," he said with a good-natured smile on his face and extended his hand to me. I greeted him uncertainly, a thought already spinning in my head: "Is a man really going to examine me?! Why did I agree to this clinic? Maybe it's not too late to refuse and leave here?"
While I was looking around the office, the doctor entered from the adjacent room. And, oh horror!—it was a man. This I absolutely did not expect. I immediately felt hot, and apparently, this was reflected on my face.
"Don't worry so much, have a seat," the doctor continued. "We have the most modern research methods here, practically eliminating physical contact between the doctor and the patient and medical error. I see it's your first time at our clinic, that probably explains your anxiety, but I assure you, you will be satisfied."
He smiled all the time, and during the last phrase, it seemed to me that his smile expressed something more than just friendliness.
"Well, I suggest you go to the changing room, and in the meantime, I'll ask you a few questions and draw up an examination program."
He gestured with his hand towards the door to the adjacent room. It was a small room with a soft armchair, a nightstand, and a coat rack. A folded hospital gown lay on the nightstand. The doctor said, "You need to take off your clothes and put on this gown," and drew the curtain. The light in the changing room wasn't as bright, so a lot could be seen in the office through the curtain. It was visible how Andrei Ilyich was entering some data into the computer.
I started undressing, and the doctor asked questions like, "Have you had any venereal diseases?", "Do you have regular bowel movements?", "How often do you have sex?", "When was your last sexual intercourse?" and so on.
Do I take off all my clothes?
Yes. Although you can leave your bra on.
I decided not to leave my bra on, as it seemed to me it would look silly. I put on the gown (I've seen such gowns in American movies—it goes over the head, wide, with short sleeves, it fell just below the hips) and announced I was ready.
A few more button presses and he, pulling back the curtain, with the same smile, asked me to go into the other room.
This was also a small room, closed off by a curtain, with a gynecological chair and several devices that reminded me of physiotherapy machines. Everything sparkled with amazing cleanliness and sterility.
"Make yourself comfortable," said the doctor, pointing to the chair, "and don't worry about anything. The devices will do practically everything, and my presence here will be minimally necessary."
I climbed onto the chair and immediately felt how comfortable and cozy it was, not like in free clinics. The doctor adjusted the position of the chair's back and headrest so that I would be more comfortable.
"Now put your legs on the supports."
I did as he said, and the hem of the gown rode up. I reflexively pulled it down (there's a man here).
"Place your hands on the armrests and relax," the doctor continued in a soft tone. "We have modern research methods, including comprehensive study and diagnosis. In just eight minutes, we will conduct a whole series of measurements and analyses, including measuring blood pressure, pulse, electrocardiogram, ultrasound examination of internal organs,…"
He continued listing various research methods while turning on devices unknown to me, then attached wires to my wrists and secured them with Velcro straps (probably to take pulse readings and something else, I thought). It seemed a little strange to me that not only were the electrodes on my wrists secured with straps, but my wrists themselves were secured to the armrests. The doctor did the same with my legs, attaching electrodes just above the ankles, and in turn, securing my legs to the chair.
After that, the doctor put on gloves and took out a tube of cream from somewhere.
"This is a special gel used as a lubricant and also necessary for the devices to work," the doctor explained.
He squeezed a portion of the gel onto his fingers and began to coat my perineum with it, slowly and carefully. I trembled a little—the gel was quite cold.
"Just bear with it a little more. There."
He thoroughly lubricated me—from the pubis to the anus, not missing a single fold, then squeezed out a little more and began slowly inserting his fingers into my vagina, carefully lubricating everything inside. Two feelings fought within me: a sense of shame and an arousal that appeared from somewhere. I squeezed my eyes shut so as not to see anything. It seemed to me that I was being raped, and on top of that, my hands and feet were secured. Finally, he finished.
"I'll step out for a short while, as we need to wait for the gel to take effect."
"What does 'take effect' mean? Isn't it just a lubricant?"—I thought, but I didn't have the courage to ask.
After about a minute, I felt a slight itching and a rush of blood down below. I looked and saw that my labia had noticeably enlarged and opened up, my clitoris was also very swollen and protruding outward. Then the doctor entered and looked appraisingly at my perineum and nodded approvingly.
"Well, now we can begin."
With these words, he approached the "physiotherapy" devices and took something like a steel rod, very reminiscent of a vibrator (I've seen such things in some magazines). The device was about 4 centimeters in diameter and 15 cm long with a rounded end, from the other end came a wire connecting it to a control panel, which had a small
electronic display, several control knobs and buttons.
"Bear with it a little. Perhaps this is the most unpleasant part of our procedure."
He began slowly inserting the device into me, stroking my stomach with his free hand, more precisely the lower abdomen. The rod was quite thick for me and moved inside with difficulty. The doctor tried to do it as gently and slowly as possible, twisting it a little. His other hand descended so low that his fingers touched my clitoris. I let out a soft moan.
"Forgive me, I'll try to insert the probe more carefully," the doctor apologized, as if he really thought this procedure was unpleasant for me.
He continued slowly inserting this so-called probe into my already aroused vagina, and the fingers of his other hand seemed to accidentally touch my clitoris. I began to breathe heavily, and the doctor kept calming me down. Finally, the device went all the way in.
"Well, all the unpleasantness is behind us," he said, looking at me, flushed and breathing heavily. "Now let's move on directly to the examination."
Having said this, he left, closing the curtain behind him, and sat down at his computer.
"You will feel a slight discomfort during the device's operation, but it is absolutely safe," he said and pressed a few buttons on the keyboard.
I felt a slight tingling coming from the rod inside me, like during physiotherapy sessions. It would intensify, then weaken. But there could be no talk of any discomfort. I was surprised at myself that this excited me so much, this thick rod in my pussy stretched it so pleasantly, and these waves emanating from it spread through my perineum, gathering at the tip of my clitoris, making me even more aroused and move my pelvis.
I closed my eyes and completely surrendered to my sensations. I heard the doctor tapping on the keyboard, after which the nature of the tingling changed. The current would intensify, making me tense up and let out another moan, then weaken, allowing me to relax a little.
"So. Excellent!" said the doctor. "Now it's necessary to conduct rectal examinations."
While I was remembering what the word "rectal" meant, he approached the second device and took another "probe," only thinner, one and a half centimeters in diameter, and, lubricating it with the same gel, began to insert it into my butt. The device entered me quite easily for its entire ten-centimeter length and disappeared inside past the sphincter. The doctor gave the wire a slight tug, checking if it would fall out, and went back to his workstation. A few keystrokes—and the devices started working, now with double force.
And again I began to moan, then breathe heavily, squirming in the chair, and could do nothing about it. My clitoris burned with arousal and electric current, and only the straps prevented me from reaching out and rubbing it for release.
"How are you feeling? Bearable?" asked the doctor and pressed a few keys.
"Is he mocking me or what?"
At first it seemed so, but soon I clearly felt that the devices inside me began to vibrate barely noticeably. Gradually the vibration intensified, my moans merged into a drawn-out whine. I was still fighting my feelings and trying to hold back my emotions, but I wasn't doing well. Everything down below was vibrating and tingling, the seat was covered with my secretions, streaming out of the vibrating vagina.
Tears rolled from my eyes, I clenched my teeth, trying to hold myself together, but orgasm was inexorably approaching. The two rods inside me vibrated stronger and stronger, especially the larger one. Its force was such that, looking at myself, I saw my stomach vibrating.
"M-m-m, u-m-m-m! A-a-a! I-i, mo-ore, I c-ca-a-n't ta-ake it!" I pleaded through moans. "Ple-ease!… Ah!… Ah!… A-a-a-a!"
At that moment, the vibration increased so much that I couldn't stand it and began to come loudly, shaking in convulsions. Waves of orgasm shook me, rolling to the tips of my toes. I don't know how loudly I was screaming—at that moment I could no longer hear anything. The vibrators reduced their intensity, but after half a minute the amplitude began to increase again, and I experienced orgasm again. And so about five times, probably, I had already lost count. My whole body was shaking, the chair was soaked with my juices, I no longer had the strength to even hold my head (thank goodness for the comfortable headrest).
Finally, it was all over.
"Well, how are you feeling?" asked the doctor, entering the room, and cast an experienced glance over my exhausted body. The smile never left his face. "I'm sure you liked it more than in other clinics."
He carefully removed the devices from me, at which my vagina treacherously squelched, thoroughly wiped my wet perineum with a towel, and helped me walk to the changing room.
With difficulty, I got dressed: my legs barely held me, and my fingers wouldn't obey. The doctor saw me to the clinic doors and said on the way out:
"You can come for the results tomorrow. And I advise you to get examined with us more often,"—the same smile was on his face.
I smiled at him too and, staggering, went home, deciding that I definitely had to come here again.
Author's e-mail: sylvаn29@yаndеx.ru