This is a print version of story Sex Therapy 2 - The Ther****t by jw1137 from

Sex Therapy 2 - The Ther****t

There are no sex acts in the story but the patient does have an orgasm as a result of the Ther****t’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 Ther****t. I don’t think it matters which one you read first.

I hope you enjoy it and will let me know what you think in any case.



Sex Therapy 2— The Ther****t
By: Jackie

I close the door to the consultation room I’ve just left and walk across my office. I am trying to ignore the squishy feeling between my legs and trusting the panty liner to do its job. I know the Mitchell’s coaching session has gone five minutes overtime and that makes me step lively. I want to get the notes to file done before I meet my new patient and I have a cleanup—personal comfort issue—to deal with as well.

The fourth counseling-coaching session with Mister and Missus Mitchell has yielded the best progress of any to date. Kathleen, Missus Mitchell, was finally able to achieve orgasm as a result her husband’s oral stimulation. It was hard to resist the urge to demonstrate, but my professional restraint prevailed. I wasn’t able to control my parasympathetic nervous system though. Having a front row seat and giving instructions to the inexperienced man was physically stressful.

I was concentrating on the file update and trying to hurry which is why I didn’t hear her come in. The feel of her small hands cupping my breasts through the cotton blend blouse and lace bra sent a stream of pleasure signals to my percolating womanhood. I groaned and felt Rachel’s hot breath and tongue on my ear.

“Have you seen her yet?” she asked squeezing firmly on my sensitive boobies.

Before I could answer she slid her hands under my boobs and raked her thumb nail over my turgid nipple. The lightning bolt the impacted my crotch made me squeal.

Rachel came to work for me about a year and a half ago. She deduced my sexual preferences very quickly. I’m not exactly sure how. I hired her to manage the office, essentially she did everything but see patients. Those were her official duties. Her unofficial duties were her own undertaking.

She was smart and very perceptive. Within a couple of months she recognized the sexual tension that my practice caused me and took it upon herself to be my source of relief. As a result of her versatility I gave her more leeway than I might have otherwise and perhaps more than was prudent.

She’d mentioned Sara Chesterton to me the day the young woman had booked the appointment. Sara was a co-worker of her friend, Melinda. I knew Rachel had a relationship with this friend that included intimacies.

“I’d love to be there when you check out her boobs!”

I pulled Rachel’s hands away from my chest because with her tweaking my nipples my voice didn’t seem to work.

“I don’t think there’ll be any reason to examine Miz Chesterton’s breasts,” I informed my perpetually horny assistant.

“Oh but you’ve got to!” Rachel moaned. “Melinda shared a room with her at one of those company mandated team building weekends. She said that she never actually saw them except the way they moved around under her pajama top after she took off that tit squashing truss she wears. Melinda says they must be spectacular in the raw.”

This conversation was making me very uncomfortable. It wasn’t the first time my assistant had focused in on a patient’s physical attributes. She of course had no professional standing or training to be conscious of. I’m not immune to the sexual allure of my patients but I have to maintain control and detachment or I really can’t do my job. Having Rachel hype up Sara Chesterton’s bust was not helping me prepare to meet her as a new patient; especially since I still had the residuals from the Mitchell’s coaching session to overcome.

“She looks just like Katy Perry... you know the singer,” Rachel added. And that visual wasn’t helpful either.

About the only good news was that it was my last appointment of the day, so I’d be able to get relief as soon as I was finished—one way or another.

I held Rachel’s hands away from my chest and said, “I’ve really got to get going.”

I felt her pulling her hands free and I loosened my grip but kept my arms in a defensive position.

“I’ll be here, uh... if you need me later,” she said as she went toward the door to the larger of the two waiting rooms—the one her desk was in.

When she opened the door she looked back over her shoulder, stuck out her tongue and wiggled it. Then she left me with my pussy tingling.

Despite the fact that Miz Chesterton’s appointment time had arrived, I sat back in my executive recliner and closed my eyes.

For the next two minutes I concentrated on regaining control, meditating if you like. When I thought I was composed enough I walked to the door of the number two waiting room, took a deep breath, put on my most welcoming smile and opened the door.

“Miz Chesterton,” I called out and was slightly stunned when the beautiful face turned toward me partially shielded but long shiny chocolate brown hair.

“Won’t you come in,” I invited.

“I...uh, I haven’t finished the form yet,” she said as she stood up.

Nervousness was written all over her—naturally enough.

“That’s OK,” I assured her reaching for the clipboard. “We can cover any missing information during our get acquainted interview.”

I was ashamed of myself for scanning her up and down as she passed me and entered my office.

‘Damn Rachel for putting the thoughts in my head,’ I cursed my receptionist and rededicated myself to regaining my usual professional detachment.

I went over to the desk, invited my new patient to sit down and began reviewing her intake form. Out of habit I read aloud giving her the opportunity to correct me if I was reading it wrong.

Right under her name, her date of birth in 1982 caught my eye,

“So you’re twenty-seven years old,” I calculated and glanced at her terrified expression as she made an affirmative sound.

“Well let’s see... where did you leave off…”

“You didn’t have intercourse until you were twenty,” I didn’t mean to sound surprised but I knew I did.

She immediately confirmed what I was reading.

I knew that for a c***d of the eighties, statistically, that was very late. I couldn’t help wondering what had held her back. As beautiful as she was I sincerely doubted that it was lack of opportunity.

“You don’t currently have a regular sex partner,” I read and was again taken a back.

‘Are all the men she encounters blind... or does she push then away,’ I wondered.

“Ah… here we are you didn’t answer the question about how frequently you masturbate,” I was looking at her to see her facial expression when she responded to the exceptionally personal question.

My heart went out to her as her nervous anxious look gave way to pure panic. I half expected her to bolt from the office rather than respond. The pause was long enough for me to consider going into a spiel on how normal and natural self-pleasuring is. It seemed like my ears were turning the reception level up—searching for any sound she might make.

“I... I don’t,” she finally whispered very softly.

My knee jerk reaction was, ‘she’s lying.’

Denial of the activity was of course very common. The way she’d considered her response and her facial expression convinced me that she was telling the truth. Still it was uncommon and obviously a critically important indicator of her sexual health.

‘Maybe she means that she doesn’t do it regularly,’ I speculated, but I needed to be absolutely clear on the point.

“Never…? You’ve never masturbated,” I probed trying to keep the incredulity out of my voice.

“No, I never have,” she confirmed and seemed ashamed of the fact which was also interesting.

Using the intake form in place of my usual note pad I wrote; ‘question early c***dhood experiences’.

Self-pleasuring usually began in infancy and was not only natural but nearly universal. Of course she wouldn’t have memories that far back but something in her early c***dhood must have derailed the normal path of development. Hopefully it was something she could recall.

The next half a dozen questions on the form explored the methods used for self-stimulation, how frequently the activity lead to orgasm and how long it typically took—they were apparently not applicable.

“In that case we can skip the next couple of questions,” I informed her and skipped on down the form.

“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?” There was an assumption that she’d had a sex partner recently if not currently. “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 was glad to see her give the question due consideration.

“I guess once a week sometimes twice,” she finally responded and I ticked the appropriate box on the intake form.

“And what percentage of those times would you estimate that you achieved orgasm?”

I poised my pen over the fifty percent average point of the line scale on the form.

“None… uh, zero.”

Her response surprised me and I was aware that my expression reflected it. This was a time to be on guard against anything that might be construed as judgmental. We didn’t know each other yet and if my patient got the impression that I disapproved of her at this early stage, we never would.

I had to risk giving the wrong impression because like the denial that she masturbated the point was critical. In fact I considered the possible conclusion that it was the basic reason she was here. I wouldn’t normally jump that far ahead, not until the background information was complete but the presumption seemed reasonable.

“You did not reach an orgasm during any sexual activity with your last sex partner?” I asked.

The intense blush that accompanied her affirmative nod once again was indicative of her understanding that this was unusual. The awesome possibility entered my head and I had to ask,

“Have you ever had an orgasm?”


The monosyllable made me sad.

Throughout high school and undergraduate work at university I had repressed my sexuality. It wasn’t that I didn’t have a social life. I went on dates and engaged in sex but I always knew that I was predominantly into other women. I didn’t let that part of my sexuality emerge until I was in pre-med. Recalling the frustration I’d felt at my lack of satisfaction with partnered sex made it easy to empathize with my patient.

‘At least I had masturbation to relieve the tension. This poor woman doesn’t even have that.’

“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,” I proposed.

The fear and anxiety was still there but now her eyes were full and another emotion floated to the surface on those tears. I couldn’t read it precisely but I thought I detected shame—shame and loneliness.

Like many people first coming to grips with a problem, especially one as personal as this, I suspected she thought she was the only person in the world with this curse. She was feeling like she was a freak.

“There is a percentage of the population that does not experience sexual climax,” I began. “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 studied her face as she used a tissue to stop the tears rolling down her cheeks. I wanted to believe that I saw a tiny hint of relief as I informed her that she wasn’t totally alone.

Was that enough? Was knowing that she wasn’t a freak all she needed, or did she want to go further—explore possible therapies? Something in her demeanor told me that she did.

“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 decided to test my theory by stating it in the most positive way possible.

This time I was sure there was a brightening in her aspect—hope. She confirmed my speculation with a simple nod.

“There is a process to get to the bottom of the problem,” I 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.”

Her change of facial expression was like one of those rolling transitions between pictures in a computer slide show. Fear to the point of terror washed out all other emotions on her face.

“Examination?” she gasped. “But… but you’re a psychiatrist!”

The reaction was not unexpected. The majority of my patients were surprised when I proposed physical examination as a step in the process. An explanation was usually required. Part of the trepidation always had to do with the fear that there actually was something physically wrong with them.

“There… there,” I consoled her, “it’s just a part of the process. I am not saying that there is anything wrong with you physically. 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.”

I knew that mentioning gynecology was not helpful in calming my patient down but it was necessary, I thought, to clarify my medical credentials.

The fact was that I got referrals from an Ob-Gyn at least a couple of times a year. Whenever a woman presented with a condition related to her clitoris most Gynos got extremely nervous, especially the men. Examining this part of the female anatomy is an extremely delicate matter—all joking aside.

The potential for charges of ‘inappropriate touching’ sent Ob-Gyns running for cover. They were held to a much different, more restrictive code of ethics by our association for standards of practice than Sex Ther****ts. Some sexual touching was deemed to be part and parcel of my specialty. Charges of inappropriate touching against Sex Ther****ts were exceedingly rare and generally dismissed on that principle by the disciplinary committee. Of course if surgical intervention was required the patient was right back to their Gyno but most deemed the examination to diagnose the nature and extent of the condition to be too risky.

Miz Chesterton of course had the option to refuse the examination. I’m not sure if that would have been sufficient cause for me to terminate the therapy that hadn’t even begun yet. It certainly would make assessing and accurately diagnosing her problem more difficult.

Deciding not to explicitly offer refusal as an option I got up and moved toward the examination room door.

“Come with me,” I suggested. “I am sure it won’t be as bad as what you’re imagining.”

Deep down I knew that it was probably a lie. There was a significant chance that it would be worse than she was imagining.

The delightful tingle I felt between my legs and in my breasts as I watched Sara Chesterton walking toward me was tainted with shame. I blamed Rachel, at least in part, for the unprofessional reaction.

‘She really does look a lot like Katy Perry,’ I thought recalling my office assistant’s description.

She really was very tiny, and although I tried to resist my eyes descended to her chest. Her breasts certainly weren’t overpowering but there was evidence that they were quite significant.

‘She keeps them all trussed up like she’s ashamed of them,’ I recalled Rachel saying.

I’d performed this examination hundreds of times. All it really required was for the patient to remove their clothing from the waist down. As Sara went past me and into the sterile little room there was a conflict raging between my professional ethics and my sexually charged curiosity. I cursed Rachel for ever putting the though in my head, but I said it anyway,

“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.”

No sooner were the words out than I cringed at my breach of ethics. I briefly wondered if the guilt I was feeling could be heard in my voice. What I had to tell her next would kick her nervousness up several notches.

“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.”

Sara had turned to face me. The depth of her discomfort was etched on her face. Involuntarily my eyes scanned the compact little body and the significance of my next precautionary statement created a throb in my womanhood before the words were even out of my mouth.

“It’s not unusual for patients to become aroused during the process and I don’t want you to worry about that.”

I had been trained to deliver the warnings. My experience told me that the statements created a lot of stress for most patients, but perhaps the adage ‘forewarned is forearmed’ was appropriate. It was better that they were prepared for the embarrassing physiological response and hopefully didn’t try to fight it.

“In fact the degree of arousal is often an important part of the examination findings.”

My pale looking patient seemed to be holding her breath. I’d never had a patient actually faint from apprehension and I hoped Miz Chesterton was not going to be the first. As soon as I convinced myself that she wasn’t going to keel over I said,

“I’ll give you privacy to change,” and closed the examination room door behind me.

Now that I was out of sight of my patient I let the fullness of the arousal flow through me. My nipples tingled and my pussy throbbed drowning out my professional conscience. I wasn’t intending to do anything really inappropriate or unethical during the exam. So why had I made her completely disrobe?

‘She’ll be wearing the examination gown,’ I thought, hoping to soothe my guilt, but all it did was resurrect the memory of Rachel’s first erotic gambit with me.

About two months after I hired her she came in one day complaining of discomfort in the area of her vulva. I told her to make an appointment with her doctor and that I’d make arrangements to cover for her. She said it was probably nothing and couldn’t I take a look.

“You’re a doctor,” she’d said. “I know you sometimes do those kinds of examinations. If you find anything then I’ll go and see my own doctor… but if it turns out to be nothing then I won’t waste everybody’s time.”

I couldn’t argue with the logic so I reluctantly agreed.

There was a lull in the schedule mid afternoon that day so I buzzed Rachel and had her come into my office. She knew very well where the examination room was so when she arrived I simply told her to go in and get ready, and that I would be there in a moment.

She was wearing slacks and a blouse and it took me almost ten minutes to finish the e-mail I was working in so when I went to the exam room door it didn’t even occur to me to knock. All she had to do was to remove her slacks and panties and cover herself with the sheet. She knew the drill. When I opened the door I gasped and apologized. She was standing beside the table naked.

I was about to step out again when she hoisted herself up onto the table and said,

“No... no... it’s OK... I’m ready.”

I had never seen her unclothed before and she has a spectacular body; perfectly proportioned and curvy. By the time I had walked to the table she had very athletically put her own feet in the stirrups and spread her legs very wide.

I was a jumble of thoughts and feelings. I tried to put on my most professional demeanor as I sat down on the low stool between my naked receptionist’s legs.

“Where do you feel the discomfort,” I asked scanning her beautiful pink vulva for signs of infection.

“Right up here,” she replied, and proceeded to pull upward and outward on her vulva. Then, with her index finger, she clearly indicated her engorged clitoris.

Under the tension from her fingers her clitoral glans stood out glistening wetly under the fluorescent lights. I looked up into her face and saw her smug little grin.

“Rachel,” I said, “your condition doesn’t appear to be anything requiring medical attention. I think this is a condition that you’re quite capable of dealing with on your own.”

I tried to keep my eyes on her face and my conduct professional but my eyes betrayed me by wandering back to her explicitly splayed vulva.

“But it hurts, and... and I thought maybe you’d kiss it better for me.”

When I looked back at her face the grin had been replaced by an adorable little girl pout. I have a lot of willpower, in my job it’s essential, but it was too much.

I crossed my office to the private washroom as the scenario from a little over a year ago played like a porno movie in my head. Closing the bathroom door behind me I thought about the cute little non-orgasmic woman who was probably naked by now. She’d be standing in my examination room less than thirty feet, but two closed doors away.

Because of Rachel’s interruption I hadn’t changed the panty liner as I’d intended to do after the Mitchell’s session. I was able to strip off my underpants easily because of the thigh-high stockings that I preferred to wear. As expected the absorbent pad was near capacity. I peeled it off the crotch of the panties and was about to get a fresh one from the drawer when an incredibly erotic notion came into my head.

My hands and erogenous zones conspired to override my ethics. Without being really conscious of what I was doing or why I stripped naked. Firmly squeezing my ‘B’ cups and tugging on my semi-erect nipples, curiosity about my patient’s touted breasts swirled in my head. Images of the many other impressive busts that I had seen in personal situations as well as professional ones all tumbled over one another. My right hand dropped to my crotch and patted right on top of the landing strip above my slit.

My statement to Rachel haunted me, ‘I don’t think there’ll be any reason to examine Miz Chesterton’s breasts.’

The statement was correct but I knew that I was going to do it anyway.

I had completely lost track of time.

‘How long have I been standing here fantasying’ I wondered. ‘If I’ve had time to undress then so has she.’

I put only the white medical smock over my nakedness, buttoned it all the way up and opened the washroom door. Taking deep breaths as I crossed the office I was consciously trying to suppress the pounding between my legs without much success. I stood at the door to the examination room doing relaxation breathing for several seconds before I rapped.

“Are you ready Miz Chesterton?”

Her affirmative response was clear but weak.

At least I had enough professionalism left to f***e a comforting smile as I entered.

“I’ll be with you in just a moment,” I assured the petrified looking young woman on the examination couch as I went over to the sink.

Dutifully washing my hands thoroughly I glanced at the box of latex gloves beside the towel dispenser.

“I wonder if she’d notice if I didn’t use them,’ I dried my hands. ‘They’re as much or more for my protection as hers, and I’m willing to take the risk.’

Without giving it another thought I turned, seated myself on the low stool and rolled into position in front of my seated patients bare knees showing below the hem of the examination d****. I slid the concealed stirrups out, locked them in position, and then gently but firmly placed each of Miz Chesterton’s heels into the padded brackets.

She was sitting up straight which caused her pelvis to rotate forward. I knew that her vagina and most of her vulva would be pointed down toward the seat even though her crotch was still covered by the gown.

“Just lay back and try to relax,” I suggested.

If she was reluctant to recline I’d have had to state the requirement more clearly—it wasn’t necessary.

The pulling together of her knees was a usual reaction and actually helpful. It made laying the halves of the gown to the outsides of her legs easier. Her minimally trimmed bush came into view. The overfilled crease down the center was just visible through the tight little curls. It was a good thing that she gasped because it covered mine.

“OK... I need you to relax for me,” I directed as I pushed firmly outward just below my patient’s knees.

I saw the tendons in her groin stand out as she resisted.

“It’s OK… just open nice and wide,” I encouraged her.

Slowly the resistance decreased and her legs began to spread. As her knees approached their outer limit I slid my hands down the silky warm columns of her inner thighs.

“Good girl,” I congratulated her, forcing myself to look up into her terror stricken blushing face.

It was hard to tear my eyes off the parting of her outer lips which were steadily revealing more of her intricately folded labia.

“I want you to take some nice deep breaths,” I recommended hoping to promote some degree of relaxation. I was giving myself the same advice.

“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,” I promised my patient.

My deep relaxation breathing and some vestige of professionalism steadied my hand and nerves. The incessant throb from between my legs played somewhat distractingly in the background.

“This part will be quite similar to the exam your Ob-Gyn does,” I said hoping that connecting the examination with something she’d experienced before would help her to relax a bit more.

Aside from embarrassment induced by the explicit position, there was a natural fear of the unknown to be overcome. ‘What’s she going to do to me?’

I visually inspected the puckered pink rose bud between her rear cheeks as I gripped her fleshy outer lips between my thumb and two fingers. A delectable thrill shot through my own crotch as I felt the hot slipperiness of the spongy tissues.

Working my way up, palpating the fatty outer labia, I could feel the crinkly hairs under my fingers beginning to dampen with the plentiful vaginal secretions. I was glad that I’d opted to chance going bare handed. Sara didn’t seem to have noticed at all.

I was continuing to breathe deeply trying to contain the yearning from my crotch, but the scent of my patient’s quite evident arousal was making me a little dizzy. I hoped my u*********s competence at performing this type of examination would detect any irregularities in spite of my distracted state.

Pulling on the fleshy lips exposed more of the very healthy looking interior and the inner lips unfolded and blossomed into the classic butterfly shape. The sensitive tissues no longer performing their protective containment allowed some of her clear, slightly milky juice to escape. My eyes were drawn to the bulging cone of skin where the labia minora merged. I reached the juncture of the labia majora observing the opening of her prepuce. The clitoral glans did not emerge but it was a significant finding that the opening did appear to be open and unobstructed.

The scent of her arousal was more powerful now that the containment had been breached. My head was spinning faster than before. My training demanded that I provide a progress report.

“You’re doing great... nice deep breaths,” I encouraged my patient.

Judging by the increasing flow of vaginal secretions the next part of the examination was going to be a challenge for her.

“I’m going to start the inner ones now,” I dutifully informed Sara.

Gripping the lower part of the delicate tissue right at her perineum I saw the anal sphincter muscle, which was only an inch away, twitch. Rubbing the slippery folds between my thumb and fingers, similar to the gesture sometimes used to imply currency, I moved quickly up to the longer thicker part that was spread like wings.

This is where cysts often formed and required my concentration. I tugged on the labia to pull the folds completely out so I could effectively palpate them. The incredibly deep pink of her vestibule and remnants of her hymen came into view. Her secretions trickled down over her delicate looking rear rose bud.

Sara’s involuntary mewing sounds were getting louder as I worked. Her vaginal muscles were twitching and mine twitched in sympathy. I noticed the increased tension in her thighs as she pushed against the stirrups as if trying to escape the compelling sensations.

“OK... it’s OK... just relax and breathe,” I encouraged my patient. I needed to be taking my own advice.

Letting my eyes stray up her body the large bumps atop the melon sized breasts tenting the examination d**** were impossible to ignore. The impressive size of her nipples was fascinating considering that she had never nursed. Rachel’s words came back to me.

‘I’d love to be there when you check out her boobs.’

Continuing my visual sweep up over her chest l saw the contortion of her facial muscles; evidence of the effort she was putting into maintaining control of her sexual responses.

‘There’s no justification!’ I chided myself, but the tingling in my breasts and throbbing between my legs overrode my ethics.

Gripping one of the trailing strings of the examination gown’s single tie, I at least summoned the courtesy to ask permission.

“Can... can I open this?”

Without waiting for her to respond I began to pull on the tail end of the little bow. Her eyes were open now; somewhere in their fearful embarrassment there was puzzlement.

‘She’s rightfully wondering why I need to expose her even further,’ I concluded, but didn’t stop tugging on the tie of the gown.

She kept glancing down observing my unfastening progress but when her eyes met mine there was no panic in them—no clear disapproval—not even when the tiny bow released.

Her eyes were scared and pleading. They could have been begging me to stop or go.

I decided that if she was going to object that she would eventually make it clear.

“I’m just going to open this up... OK?” I stated my intentions again grasping the edges of the d****.

The flush on her face deepened and I thought that she was holding her breath but still she remained silent.

Spreading the d**** brought her formidable mammaries into view. My own nipples clenched and tingled at the spectacular visage. I’d undoubtedly seen larger breasts but Miz Chesterton’s melons were impressively firm for their size. The narrowness of her chest made them appear that much bigger. Gravity of course made them rest on her rib cage but they turned upward in defiance and pointed the deep pink gumdrop sized dugs straight ahead and directly at me.

Fascinated by the crinkled appearance of the gumdrop the hand I’d used to release the tie of her gown approached the tantalizing peg of its own volition. The way she jerked and squealed when my fingertip made contact was not unexpected and the thought that was in my head came out of my mouth,

“They’re very sensitive aren’t they?” I knew it was a stupid question.

My hand, still operating without conscious instruction, moved to test the rubbery stiffness of Sara’s other pert nipple eliciting an instant replay of her response to the first touch.

I hadn’t planned or intended it but the point that had been reached was clear. My patient was on the verge of orgasm—a completion that she claimed to have never experienced.

The physical exam was pretty standard practice and some degree of arousal was normal. Had things gone as expected the next step would have been to counsel her on self stimulation techniques and send her home with some instructive material to see if she was able to overcome the impasse. Only if her solo and private efforts failed would I—should I—personally intervene.

There was still one critical part of the examination of her vulva to be done. My expert observation of her condition was telling me that it would most likely result in orgasm.

‘Unless I distract her... persuade her to transcend the fear and anxiety of this examination, she’ll try to hold it back... maybe she’ll even succeed, that could be disastrous,’ I calculated.

“I know you said that you don’t masturbate, but do you ever stimulate your breasts... play with them?” I asked in a very soft encouraging voice only half expecting a reply.

“Uh... uh... sometimes,” she croaked.

“When do you touch them,” I continued to try and get her thinking about her private self stimulation.

“Usually when I’m... uh... oh! in the shower,” she stammered. “When they’re all soapy and slippery it... uh, it feels... uh, really good,”

“Show me... show me how you touch them.”

When her hands cupped her large firm mounds I knew she’d turned a corner. At least part of her brain had escaped the sterile medical environment and gone to that place where the setting didn’t matter; only the sensations had meaning.

I unfastened the top two buttons of my coat and slipped my hands inside. Squeezing my own much smaller breasts and feeling my proportionately smaller nipples dig into my palms. I wished our hands could exchange positions.

“It feels good... doesn’t it?” She responded with a moan.

She was still squeezing the whole of her boobies and I knew that she needed some encouragement to go the next step.

“Wet them... wet your fingers... and touch your nipples,” I instructed and we both followed my suggestion.

The tensing of her legs thrusting against the foot rests was all the evidence I needed that Sara had left the building. Reluctantly I abandoned my needy boobs and got back to work.

I warned her of the final part of the examination not sure whether she would hear me or not.

“I’m going to attempt to retract the hood of your clitoris... to see... uh, to check for adhesions.”

It was hard to get the words out. I didn’t seem to have any air in my lungs.

I used my left hand to pull upward separating my fingers at the same time to spread the thick fur trimmed outer lips and put tension on the prepuce. When the pinkish red breath mint sized glans emerged I was relieved.

‘There’s no anatomical reason this woman should not be able to achieve full satisfaction,’ I concluded as my own love button twitched.

“Good... good, your clitoral glans is exposed,” I informed my patient.

The deep color was evidence enough that her pleasure organ had adequate bl**d supply so my next examination was unwarranted.

“I’m going to check its rigidity.”

Extending my middle finger I pressed on Sara’s clitoris and rolled it under my fingertip.

Her grunt was the sound of all the air coming out of her. All of her muscles tensed and her pelvis thrust off the table. A delicious thrill shot from my crotch to my head (what some people call a mini orgasm) as I watched my patient experience what according to her was her first climax.

Her shuddering was diminishing. I re-buttoned my coat, got up from the stool and stood beside her, stroking her long silky brown hair as she entered the recovery phase.

“Well we’ve established that there is no physiological barrier to your sexual satisfaction,” I informed her. “In case you weren’t aware you just had a nice little climax.”

Sara looked as though I’d just told her that the world was flat.

“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 explained further. “When you’re feeling up to it you can get dressed and I’ll see you in the office.”

I left the examination room on wobbly legs. I had a cramp in my pussy that was getting painful. I crossed the office and chose one of the masturbation guides from my lending library praying that Miz Chesterton would not be too long.

She came out of the exam room with only a tinge of embarrassment clouding the otherwise ‘just fucked’ expression. Handing her the book I said,

“This will help you get started.”

“Thank you,” she said in a faint whisper, but the sincerity of her gratitude was loud and clear.

“Call Rachel and make an appointment for about two weeks from now. Then we can start working on your psychological issues.”

Before the door was fully closed behind her I pushed the button on my phone labeled ‘Rachel’.

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