This is a print version of story Sex Therapy 1 - The Patient by jw1137 from xHamster.com
Sex Therapy 1 - The Patient
There are no sex acts in the story but the patient does have an orgasm as a result of the Therapist’s physical examination.
Part 1 is the Sex Therapy appointment from the patient’s point of view and part 2 is the same examination seen through the eyes of the Therapist. I don’t think it matters which you read first.
I hope you enjoy it and will let me know what you think in any case.
Sex Therapy- 1: The Patient
‘What am I doing here? What the crap am I doing here!’ I asked myself as I stared at the next question on the intake form.
‘How often do you masturbate?’
My choices were from less than once a month to more than once a day, in five increments; NEVER, was not an available selection. I didn’t know if I should write it in, leave the question blank or choose the lowest frequency available.
‘How did I get myself into this?’
Of course I knew how I’d come to be filling in the form in the psychiatrist’s office in preparation for my first appointment. I should have known that there’d be some embarrassing questions. I mean this is sex therapy; isn’t it reasonable to expect questions about your sex life?
When the friend of a co-worker had slipped me the card in a bar during the after work happy hour, I’d stuffed it in my purse. I was more than a bit tipsy at the time and the full meaning of it didn’t hit me until the next day.
I work with Melinda and when she arrived with the Rachel, a woman I’d never seen before, I didn’t think too much of it. I’d already had one Tequila Sunrise and was well into my second so the stress from the day had pretty much floated away. When Melinda related that her friend worked for a sex therapist I got a really funny feeling.
I’d just broken up with my third boy friend in two years and Brian had been man enough to tell me why.
“I just can’t satisfy you and you deserve better,” he’d said over drinks a couple of weeks ago.
I knew exactly what he meant and even wondered later if it was the same problem with the others but they just hadn’t been willing to go there. Even though I’d never had an orgasm in my life I thought that I’d gotten pretty good at faking it; evidently not good enough for him.
“I just find it really frustrating, and I can’t do it anymore,” he said very sympathetically.
Through my tears I’d tried to explain that it was me and not him. He was the gentlest most patient lover I’ve ever had. We’d been dating for six months and I really thought that this might be the one. My tears did no good and the relationship ended there. His parting words sort of stung at the time,
“Maybe you need to get professional help.”
I wanted a committed romance and even marriage like most of my co-workers already had. That’s the way I was raised. When he’d suggested that I ‘get help’, I had no idea where to begin so I put it out of my mind and simply wallowed in the post relationship blues that I was becoming all too familiar with.
I hadn’t thought much about his final comment until I met Rachel.
With four other girls from the office sitting in the back booth of the bar, I’m sure I’d never have had the courage to ask the stranger about her job, or more precisely her boss’s practice if it hadn’t been for the booze.
‘Was it something I said... my tone of voice... maybe it was the expression on my face that made her decide to slip me the card.’
Dr. Christine Moore followed by a long string of abbreviations and underneath Psychiatrist the card read.
It didn’t say anything about sex therapy on her business card, but Rachel had made it clear that it comprised a majority of her practice.
The next day when I was sober I came across the card and, as if to taunt myself, set it on the end table where I normally keep the cordless phone.
Home—alone—every night for two weeks I’d see the card sitting there. More than once I nearly threw it out but something stopped me.
Finally one morning last week I stuck it back in my purse and, with great trepidation, made the call.
‘What harm can it do?’ I reasoned. Aside from the obvious embarrassment of discussing your in ability to climax with a stranger there wasn’t really a downside.
‘If it doesn’t get any results I just won’t bother pursuing it... but I could use it nevertheless. It’s been a month since Brian and I broke up I could call him and tell him that I’d taken his advice... maybe he’d be willing to give it another shot.’
“Miz Chesterton,” the voice made me jump.
The waiting area for the psychiatrist was small and very elegantly furnished. The lighting was subdued, so much so that I had difficulty reading the in-take form Rachel had given me on my arrival.
I hated my last name. It always brought back memories of my high school nick-name—Chesty. I was always embarrassed about the development of my bust. I was wearing a ‘C’ cup when a lot of my classmates were barely out of their training bras. I’d always tried to minimize them but it was hard because other than my over developed boobs I was quite tiny.
I got through shuddering over the mention of my name and looked at the woman wearing a white medial coat standing in the doorway that evidently led to her office.
She was taller than me, but when you’re five foot three almost everybody is. Her hair was short and darker brown than mine. She wore it in a fashionable tussled style that I think is sometimes referred to as a Haley Berry. She had a kind sort of ageless face and smiled compassionately at me when our eyes met.
“Won’t you come in,” she invited.
“I...uh, I haven’t finished the form yet,” I confessed as I got up from the stylish sofa and discovered that my legs were really wobbly.
“That’s OK,” she excused me while reaching for the clipboard I was holding. “We can cover any missing information during our get acquainted interview.”
It all sounded so benign... ‘get acquainted’. Still my stomach was in a knot as I passed by her. As I entered the luxuriously furnished office a couple of things flashed through my mind. The first was that the sex therapy business must pay pretty well. Since it was covered by my work insurance I didn’t need to concern myself about that. The second thing was,
‘Where do all these doors go?’
There were six doors leading out of (or into) Doctor Moore’s office counting the one that I’d just been admitted through. The doctor came around and took a position behind her desk which brought my next disjointed thought,
‘I hadn’t expected her to be wearing a medical smock.’
The white coat was open so I could see the white silk blouse and dark skirt she wore underneath. The skirt was a little longer than the coat ending about an inch above her knees.
“Please, have a seat,” the woman behind the desk encouraged and waited until I sat down before she seated herself.
“Sara Chesterton,” she read from the identification section of the form I’d been filling in.
“…and you’re twenty-seven years old,” she continued with a slight pause as she did the math from the date of birth that I’d recorded.
“Uh-huh,” I confirmed feeling the knot in my stomach getting ever tighter as the pleasantries were about to come to an end.
“Well let’s see... where did you leave off…” she scanned the front of the form which I knew that I had finished.
It was all basic stuff that you’d find on any medical or insurance form; c***dhood diseases, any f****y history of this and that and some other; medications you’re taking, etcetera. The back side of the form is where the embarrassing questions started.
“You didn’t have intercourse until you were twenty?”
It was a statement but it sounded like a question and the doctor looked up at me.
“That’s correct,” I certified what I had written on the form.
“You don’t currently have a regular sex partner.” Again she was just reading the answers on the page.
“Ah… here we are you didn’t answer the question about how frequently you masturbate,” she raised her eyes from the form and looked me directly in the eye.
I felt like digging a hole. The question echoed in my head again,
‘What the hell am I doing here?’
“I… I don’t,” it came out as such a soft whisper that I am amazed that she even heard it.
I probably wouldn’t have noticed the slight raising of her eyebrow if I hadn’t been looking for her reaction.
“Never…? You’ve never masturbated,” it seemed important to the doctor to get this point absolutely correct.
“No, I never have,” I confirmed and found it somewhat ironic that it made me feel guilty.
She jotted something on the form which was more than just ticking a box.
“In that case we can skip the next couple of questions,” she said, looking down at the paper on her desk again.
“We’ve established that you don’t currently have a regular partner but when you last did, how often did you engage in sexual activities,” she looked up and added, “that includes but isn’t limited to intercourse… oral and manual sex qualify as well. I suppose I would define it as any activities with a partner that involved genital contact.”
I thought back to my six months with Brian.
“I guess once a week sometimes twice.”
“And what percentage of those times would you estimate that you achieved orgasm?”
“None… uh, zero,” I replied surprising myself by how easily the admission came out.
This time I don’t think Doctor Moore even tried to suppress the surprised look. Eye brows raised she clarified,
“You did not reach an orgasm during any sexual activity with your last sex partner?”
Again it was a statement intended as a question. I nodded in confirmation.
I could feel the flush in my face and I knew that I was blushing. The knot in my stomach began to twist.
“Have you ever had an orgasm?” she asked as if a light had just gone on.
“No,” I replied. The croaky whisper was back.
The psychiatrist looked down at her desk again collecting her thoughts.
“This form is really only intended to give me some background information as a place to start… in this case it seems that it has served to define the problem… I mean the reason that you’re here.”
Doctor Moore looked up from her desk and the expression on her face conveyed the compassion that I had sensed the first time I laid eyes on her in the waiting room. I felt my eyes filling up and pulled a tissue from my purse anticipating the inevitable overflow.
“There is a percentage of the population that does not experience sexual climax,” she began an explanation. “The condition is not unheard of and it isn’t dangerous… it doesn’t lead to any other conditions or disease as far as we know. The exact percentage of people who are non–orgasmic is hard to establish since many of them never seek treatment.”
I was dabbing at the tears when she said,
“I am going to conclude that you want to see if something can be done to enable you to experience full sexual gratification or you wouldn’t be here.”
I nodded in reply, having no confidence in my voice.
“There is a process to get to the bottom of the problem,” she explained. “The first thing is to conduct a thorough physical examination to rule out any physiological causes… which are typically much easier to correct than psychological ones.”
I didn’t really hear or absorb much that she said after ‘thorough physical examination’. My breath caught in my throat and the lump in my abdomen rolled over making me nauseous. A disturbing new sensation directly between my legs joined the physical symptoms of anxiety.
“Examination?” I responded and heard the incredulity in my own voice. “But… but you’re a psychiatrist!” I was almost sobbing.
Doctor Moore was up from behind her desk and stood beside me with her hand gently resting on my shoulder. I looked up at her through my swimming eyes.
“There… there,” she said, “it’s just a part of the process. I am not saying that there is anything wrong with you physically,” she assured me obviously missing the reason for my panicked reaction.
“And as far as being a psychiatrist I did the same training before I specialized as every other doctor. I chose psychiatry but I could just as easily have decided to become an orthopedic surgeon, or a cardiac specialist or a gynecologist with the education and training I’d had at that point.”
When she said gynecologist the sensation between my legs seemed to pulse in response.
I did, as every responsible woman should, see my doctor annually for a pelvic examination and a PAP smear but it was one of the most challenging things that I had to f***e myself to do repeatedly.
“Come with me,” she said moving to toward one of the mysterious doors. “I am sure it won’t be as bad as what you’re imagining.”
I had been raised to respect authority. Doctor’s, teachers and policemen were to be obeyed without question. It was that deeply engrained early education that got me to my feet to follow her.
She opened the door near the back of the office suite and stood aside to make way for me to enter. It was like going into another world. Gone was the subdued lighting, the rich deep wood tones and the woodsy nutty fragrance. When I crossed the threshold I was in bright light surrounded by stainless steel and lacquered surfaces. The medicinal antiseptic smell wasn’t powerful but it stood out in contrast to the aromatic scent of the office. Doctor Moore’s white coat seemed completely at home in this setting.
I entered but she did not follow. Standing in the doorway with her hand still on the knob she said,
“I need you to take everything off for me including any jewelry... there is a gown hanging on the stand, please put it on with the ties to the front.”
The feeling of other worldliness was getting worse. Even the doctor’s voice sounded different in the sterile little chamber—it was surreal.
I’d come here with some anxiety about discussing my problem, but that’s all I’d been expecting—discussion. The idea of taking my clothes off was the furthest thing from my mind. I hadn’t prepared myself for this in any way.
The examination room looked much like others that I’d been in. The examination table was different though. It looked more like a reclining chair. Instead of being a flat table, there was a flat portion like a seat and the back was inclined steeper than a forty-five degrees. The black vinyl pad did not have the usual paper covering either. There was a counter and a sink with cupboards above and below. A clothes tree stood off in the back corner with a pale blue gown hanging from it. The only other thing in the terrifying little room was a low examination stool.
bl**d was pounding in my ears so loudly that I had to strain to hear.
“I need to mention that this will be different from other wellness check-ups that you’ve had in the past. I will be examining parts that are carefully avoided in a standard physical exam.”
By this time I had turned to face the doctor. After she made the mortifying statement she paused to let it sink in. The compassionate smile was less evident now and there seemed to be something like tension in her expression.
“It’s not unusual for patients to become aroused during the process and I don’t want you to worry about that.”
She paused again studying my face and I suppose waiting to see how I would react or if I had anything to say.
At that moment I don’t think that I could have spoken to save my soul. I knew that I wasn’t blushing. As a matter of fact it felt like all the bl**d had drained out of my head; I was feeling dizzy and I can only assume that my expression reflected the terror that I was feeling.
“In fact,” she continued, “the degree of arousal is often an important part of the examination findings.”
Once more she paused waiting for a reaction. I stood frozen in the middle of the little room. I may have been holding my breath.
“I’ll give you privacy to change,” she announced closing the door behind her as she stepped out.
My hands were shaking so much that it was hard to unfasten the buttons of my blouse. When I’d finally managed to undo them all I shrugged it off and hung it on the clothes tree opposite the examination dr**e. There was a moment of indecision whether to remove my bra or my skirt next.
‘What does it matter... it’s all got to come off anyway.’
I unfastened the skirt and stepped out of it, hanging it on the hook below my blouse. With only the bra, pantyhose and panties left the decision was easy.
It took some strength to stretch the sports style bra that I always wore out to clear my breasts. I wasn’t exactly ashamed of them it was just that I thought they looked out of proportion unless I squished them down. They plumped out to their unrestrained fullness. Looking down I could see the indentations left by the bra’s heavy duty elastic. To my embarrassment I also saw my nipples respond to the exposure to the cooler air. I saw the dug rising and growing before my eyes. Around them my large dark brownish areola crinkled and puckered.
‘I wonder if she needs to look at my breasts?’ the thought sent a shiver down my spine and my nipples tingled.
‘Why else would you have to get completely undressed?’ I reasoned. ‘If she was just going to check... uh... uh down there I could have left my top on.’
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my pantyhose and panties and pushed them down over my butt and hips together. Bending forward to push them over my knees and down onto my lower legs I was much more conscious of the pendulous wobble and sway of my boobs than usual. I put one hand on the exam table for support while I threaded my nylons off one foot and then repeated the process on the other side. Standing there naked I began to unravel my undergarments trying to concentrate on the annoying little task and not what was about to happen. Being naked in the unfamiliar surroundings I was acutely aware that in just a few minutes a woman, a stranger that I’d only seen for the first time less than a half an hour ago, would be looking at my body and touching me in ways very few people ever had. There was no way to push the reality out of my mind.
I took the skirt off the hook so I could hang the panties and pantyhose underneath it—out of sight. Just for a flickering moment the irony struck me that I didn’t want the doctor to see my underwear.
I suddenly had an incredibly horrible thought.
If I had known that I was going to have to undergo a physical examination I would have taken an extra hour off work to allow time to bathe. Looking down at my bikini waxed bush I wiped my fingers through the curly thatch that was just around my slit. It felt a bit swollen but that wasn’t my concern at the moment. Bringing the hand that I’d just passed over my vulva to my face I sniffed my fingers. A wave of relief swept over me when all I smelled was just a hint of the scent that I associated with arousal. There was no objectionable odor.
The gown was nice and soft on my skin as I slipped into it like a robe. Pulling the dr**e around me I discovered that there was only one tie at the waist, like a dressing gown. The small comfort of no longer being naked was outweighed by the fact that I didn’t have anything left to do. There was nothing to occupy my mind not even the routine task of undressing to distract me from what was about to happen.
The seat of the unique looking examination couch was quite high. Fortunately there was a little step stool beside the table; but even with that I had to give myself a boost by pushing down on the vinyl pad to get my tushy high enough. Now I sat there, bare legs dangling over the end, feeling about as vulnerable as anyone could ever be.
It seemed like a long time before there was a small rap on the door.
“Are you ready Miz Chesterton?” the doctor’s voice came through the closed wooden door.
“Y..yes,” I responded. I had to take two cracks at the simple affirmative because my throat was so dry.
Christine Moore entered the room looking no more relaxed than when she’d left. Smiling she said,
“I’ll be with you in just a moment.”
As she went over to the counter to wash her hands I noticed that the white coat was now fully buttoned. I was looking at her back as she worked up a lather. Without attaching any significance wondered why I couldn’t see the hem of the skirt below the bottom of her smock.
With her hands thoroughly dried she sat in front of me on the low stool.
The supports for my feet were hidden under the mattress pad. The doctor deployed the padded stirrups one by one. Gently but firmly she grasped my right calf with one hand, my right ankle with the other and placed my heel in the cushioned metal bracket. When she had repeated the process with my left leg she looked up.
“Just lay back and try to relax,” she suggested.
At the time I was still sitting upright and not leaning back on the slightly reclined backrest of the novel examination platform. Following instructions, like a good patient, I leaned back feeling the thin mattress support my upper body. I realized at the same time that the change of angle had resulted in my pelvis being pushed quite a bit forward. Some automatic protective or modesty reflex made my knees collapse inward.
The doctor lifted the halves of the examination dr**e over my thighs and put them on the outsides. I took an extra deep breath, almost a gasp, as I felt myself being exposed.
“OK... I need you to relax for me,” Doctor Moore said and began to apply some outward pressure just below each knee.
The automatic modesty reflex resisted.
“It’s OK… just open nice and wide,” she encouraged while she increased the pressure on my lower thighs.
The reflex was stronger than I’d thought and I had to consciously will my legs to relax. My thighs moved outward until the flexibility of my groin muscles established the outer limit.
“Good girl,” the doctor congratulated as she was sliding her hands slowly down my inner thighs.
For me it was like a musician sliding a finger down the neck of a guitar after a string had been plucked. The pitch of the tension I was feeling in my crotch rose like the sound of the vibrating string. I was also acutely aware that with my legs splayed, as they now were, that my labia had parted quite a bit and I could sort of imagine the sight that greeted Doctor Moore’s eyes when she looked back down.
The knot that had been in my stomach and doing various contortions since I was filling in the form in the waiting room seemed to have dropped several inches. It now resided about even with my pubic bone.
“I want you to take some nice deep breaths,” the woman sitting between my obscenely spread legs requested.
“I’m going to examine your outer and inner labia first… I’ll always tell you what I’m going to do before I do it so you won’t be surprised.”
She glanced up at my face briefly before proceeding. I sure my expression didn’t provide any encouragement. Between the ever increasing pressure in my low tummy and the adrenaline or something causing my head to spin I must have looked like I’d seen a ghost.
“This part will be quite similar to the exam your Ob-Gyn does,” she informed me as I felt her grip my outer lips between her thumb and fingers and begin gently kneading them.
I told myself that there was nothing erotic about the sensation as she moved her active fingers upward. She had started near the very bottom, sort of where they transitioned into my butt, and moved steadily but not quickly toward the top.
I’d never had a problem getting through this part of my annual exam. Usually I felt cold, uncomfortable and exposed; just laying there looking at the ceiling wishing for it to be over. When Doctor Moore had begun to palpate my labia the sensation was entirely different. I wondered why.
‘Could it be because she is a woman and my regular doctor is a man…?’
I thought that her technique was considerably different from my own doctor but it was hard to say because when he did it I was trying as hard as I could not to think about what he was doing.
There were two other significant differences between this examination and my other experiences. My annual PAP smear was scheduled several months in advance and I had time to sort of suppress the dread. This invasion had come as a complete surprise.
The other thing was that when I went for my check-up there was never a sexual thought in my head. It was pretty close to the opposite of arousal. In this case I had come into Doctor Moore’s office prepared to discuss and explore my sex life in very intimate detail—it was on my mind. In the car on the way over and even in the waiting room before Rachel had given me the clipboard I had been rehearsing the answers to questions that I suspected would crop up.
Thinking about past sexual encounters in minute detail had taken a toll.
When the doctor reached the top where the outer lips came back together to form my mons, a noise escaped my throat and the knot dropped another inch or two. It was now right at the top of my crease.
“You’re doing great,” she complimented. “Nice deep breaths…”
Her voice was softer not as assured as before. I was tempted to look down at her but I kept my eyes closed.
“I’m going to start the inner ones now,” she warned as she’d promised to do.
I felt her grip the thinnest part of my inner lips about an inch from my anus. The sphincter twitched in reaction to the proximity of the touch and a fresh pang of embarrassment slammed into my belly.
‘She can see that too,’ I moaned inside.
Her fingers upward movement seemed more rapid than it had been on the outside until she reached the longest thickest part—the wings. She was squeezing and sort of tugging and I could feel how slippery they were. That’s when I knew for sure that I was flowing.
Despite the fact that I was non-orgasmic I had never had a shortage of vaginal secretions. I felt the heat rising up my neck and I knew I was a brilliant shade of scarlet. Some malicious part of my brain was pondering the question—which is redder, my face or the inside of my pussy?
The knot at the apex of my lips had begun to throb.
I knew that I was as physically aroused as I had ever been and I knew what a clitoris was—I wasn’t stupid. Telling you exactly where it was would have been a challenge though. I might have touched it once, maybe more, but the one time I recall stands out clearly.
I was five. I know for sure because it happened just after I started school. I was in the bathroom wiping myself after I’d peed. Somehow the toilet paper slipped or I dropped it and my finger came in direct contact with my girlhood. It gave me such an interesting, kind of scary feeling that I started to rub it. Just as it was starting to get hot and feeling pretty good my mom came in. She went ballistic. I had never seen her that angry before. She called me a dirty nasty little girl and sent me to my room. Mom was never like that and it was the only time the thought ever entered my head that she might hit me.
Much later on she came to my room and sort of apologized. She said that when I grew up and had a husband then I would understand what those feelings were for but that it was sick for me to do that to myself.
It was eight years later, about six months after my first period, that I tried it again—rubbing myself—but it didn’t really go anywhere. It felt kind of good but all I kept thinking about was that it was ‘sick’. A little while after that I discovered that rubbing my boobs could give me almost the same feeling down there. I’d never been told not to do that so I came to really enjoy washing my chest in the bath or shower. Sometimes I wondered if it was all that extra attention that made them grow so much.
I established the direct and powerful connection between my boobs and my pussy.
As time went on I did it less and less because, although it felt really good, it left me with a yearning, hungry crampy feeling afterward.
Boys I dated were very appreciative of my tits and played with them—when I let them—until I thought I’d go mad.
In college I finally gave into a boy; a young man. I thought it would be the answer to hot pressure that always built up. It wasn’t, and in fact made it worse. I did it a few more times in college with the same result.
After I graduated and got a job I was ready to settle down. I know it was stupid to think that being married was going to change anything but somewhere deep in my psyche my mother’s words shaped my expectations.
Three or four relationships later, when Brian told me that he was breaking up with me because I didn’t cum I got really depressed. He blamed himself for the failure, but I knew the fault was mine. I glumly began to accept my fate and wondered if I could ever find a man willing to marry me in spite of my disability. Then Melinda’s friend, Rachel, gave me Doctor Moore’s card.
So here I was, embarrassed out of my mind, submitting to this invasive examination and all that was happening was the same frustrating tension that I’d experienced before. But it wasn’t the same. It was worse! The pressure had reached a point that I thought I was going to explode and on top of that I felt delirious.
The delirium was caused by the doctor squeezing and tugging her way up my inner lips. The closer she got to the top the more my head spun. I had my eyes tightly shut and I think I was making little noises.
I could hear her voice; faint and distant,
“OK... it’s OK... just relax and breathe.”
I was trying to concentrate on that, on my breathing and ignore what she was doing to me.
“Can... can I open this,” I heard her say.
I opened my eyes since the question apparently needed a response. The doctor’s left hand was beside my pussy, sort of on my groin. Her right hand was fingering the securing tie of my gown.
I made the connection and realized that she was asking if she could open the examination dr**e. She’d told me she was going to explain everything she was going to do before she did it, but she was offering no explanation as to why she wanted to expose the rest of my body.
Our eyes were locked, except alternately we both glanced at her hand which was very slowly pulling the gown’s tie-string. It felt like slow motion. Her question was still hanging and I though I should respond but I couldn’t seem to get my voice to work.
The neat little bow that I’d tied popped out, leaving the two loose ends entwined. We both saw it release and immediately looked at each other again. Doctor Moore reached up with both hands and grasped each side of the robe. Her eyes were searching, questioning.
Two thoughts were in my mind—the first was why? The second was I hope my nipples aren’t all hard and sticking out like they were before. It was a dumb wish because I knew from the incessant tingly that they were.
I’m not sure what she saw in my face but she began to part the gown anyway.
“I’m just going to open this up...OK?” this time she stated her intention instead of asking if she could.
She was still seeking permission but was making it clear that in the absence of a clear negative she was going to proceed.
I couldn’t answer her. I seemed to have lost the ability to speak. I realized that I was holding my breath again as the two halves of the gown were lifted away.
The examination room air was cool on my skin and it occurred to me that I was as exposed as it was possible to be. There was something about that thought that made everything sort of clench.
I found myself looking down at my melon sized breasts resting on my rib cage the dug projecting from their pebbly caps. They hadn’t been firm and pert since I was fifteen—they were too big and heavy for that. I found it embarrassing how out of proportion with my narrow chest they looked.
My nipples had been tingling more and less intensely since I was filling in the form in the waiting room. Exposed to the cool air they had now begun to itch. My head was still reeling and my pussy felt abandoned as I gazed at my own boobs.
One of the doctor’s hands entered my field of vision. Her finger tips very gently touched one of my k**ney bean sized crinkly nubbins. The jolt that went directly to my cookie was not exactly unexpected. I had experienced the intimate connection of those parts of my body before. Nevertheless I was surprised that she had touched me there and I cried out both from the sensation and the shock.
“They’re very sensitive aren’t they?” she asked rhetorically as she moved across and applied a similar gently caress on my other nipple.
My whole body heaved and it felt like my pussy had gone into spasm. It was yearning, begging for attention.
“I know you said that you don’t masturbate, but do you ever stimulate your breasts... play with them?” she asked not much above a whisper.
“Uh... uh... sometimes,” I replied and was surprised to find that my vocal chords worked.
“When do you touch them?”
“Usually when I’m... uh... oh! in the shower,” I groaned.
We were both staring at my chest and the itching was becoming unbearable.
“When they’re all soapy and slippery it... uh, it feels... uh, really good,” I felt I had to explain.
“Show me... show me how you touch them,” Doctor Moore encouraged.
My hands were shaking and I was embarrassed out of what little was left of my reasoning mind. The sensation was similar to times I’d done it before but different too. I cupped each boob and squeezed gently feeling the long rubbery hard nipple pressing into my palm.
Out from the hard lump that was throbbing at the apex of my crease came little waves of heat that merged and joined with the pleasure sensations that seemed to come not only from my nipples but even from the palms of my hands. I was ashamed of the fact that I was groaning but I couldn’t stop the sounds that vibrated up from my core.
“It feels good... doesn’t it?” Doctor Moore asked in a croaky tone.
“Mmmm...” was the sound I made.
“Wet them... wet your fingers... and touch your nipples,” the doctor advised.
She sounded breathless.
I brought each hand to my mouth in turn and was surprised to find out how much saliva I had. Carrying a finger load of spit each hand returned to its respective tit and applied its slippery cargo to my crinkled areola.
‘There... there it is... that’s what was missing,’ I realized and grasped the firm long dugs, pulling and squeezing.
A lightning bolt struck directly on the knot above my vagina and my heels dug into the padded stirrups pushing up towards it.
“I’m going to attempt to retract the hood of your clitoris,” Doctor Moore announced breathlessly; “to see... uh, to check for adhesions.”
Her hands were on my vulva pulling me even further open. The pressure she was applying to my hypersensitive slippery tissues was upward and causing the waves that had been flowing back and forth from my crotch to my breasts to get much hotter.
“Good... good,” she sighed. “Your clitoral glans is exposed... I’m going to check its rigidity.”
By this time my head was spinning so wildly that I could hear her speaking but couldn’t comprehend what she was actually saying.
When her finger made contact with the burning hard knot the entire world stopped for an instant and then it exploded.
The huge hot bubble that had been pressing in my belly erupted sending scalding hot waves out to every part of my body. In reflex I squeezed as hard as I could on my nipples which seemed to add a tingling electric charge to the waves. I was jerking and twitching while a world class fireworks show exploded in my head.
Gradually the heat began to decrease and the waves were smaller, merely ripples of warm satisfaction caressing me. I heard some groaning and I didn’t think it was me but I was so immersed in the deep pool of bliss that I couldn’t be completely sure of anything.
I seemed to be in some altered state. Paralyzed and semi-conscious I was vaguely aware of the gown being closed over my nakedness.
As my brain began to function again I came to realize what had just happened.
Suddenly I was in love with Christine Moore (later I would conclude that it was just extreme gratitude).
My senses returned slowly. I opened my eyes and saw the doctor standing over me. I thought that she looked flushed. She stroked my hair gently.
“Well we’ve established that there is no physiological barrier to your sexual satisfaction,” she pronounced. “In case you weren’t aware you just had a nice little climax.”
“Little!’ my brain screamed. ‘I don’t know if I can stand a big one.’
“The nerve pathways used by your body for orgasm are like most other bodily functions. The more they are used the stronger and more effective they become.”
I think she could see the disbelief in my eyes.
“When you’re feeling up to it you can get dressed and I’ll see you in the office.”
She loaned me a book on masturbation and told me to go home and practice.
“Call Rachel and make an appointment for about two weeks from now,” she said as she handed me the book; “then we can start working on your psychological issues.”
I don’t think my feet actually touched the ground until I’d been home for an hour.
Story URL: http://xhamster.com/user/jw1137/posts/39472.html