"Next item," Doug announced, wheeling out a sophisticated medical cart with a large monitor and probe attachment. "The UltraScan 5000, a portable transvaginal ultrasound unit from Belgium. State-of-the-art imaging for obstetric and gynecological examinations. Wireless connectivity, Bluetooth enabled, streams directly to tablets or smartphones."

Kimberly sat on the edge of the examination table, her hospital gown barely covering her, her bare feet cold against the floor. She barely registered what he was saying until he turned to her with a smile that made her blood run cold.

"For this demonstration, we need to show the probe's functionality," Doug said. "Kimberly, you'll need to assume the examination position. This device requires internal vaginal placement for proper imaging—completely different from abdominal ultrasound."

She looked up, confused, terrified. "What?"

Dr. Peter Whitford stood from the audience—the Englishman with the red hair and wire-rimmed glasses, wearing a tailored suit. "If I may, Mr. Sharpe? I'm familiar with this unit. I've used it in my research at University College London. The probe requires internal vaginal placement for proper imaging of the uterus and ovaries. It's quite standard for gynecological examinations, but yes, quite intimate."

"Of course, Doctor," Doug said smoothly. "Would you assist? Your expertise would be invaluable."

Whitford approached the stage, adjusting his glasses, his eyes already fixed on Kimberly's exposed thighs visible beneath the short gown. "The patient needs to be positioned with the pelvis elevated and the legs spread. Stirrups would be ideal, but..." He looked at the folding examination table. "Bent over the table will suffice for proper access. Or on her back with knees up and legs spread wide."

"Kimberly," Doug said, his voice hard. "Lie back and pull your knees up. Spread your legs. Or bend over the table. Your choice, but we need to demonstrate the probe. The buyers need to see how it works on a real patient."

She shook her head, tears streaming down her face. "Please, Doug, please don't make me... not in front of everyone..."

"Now," he snapped. "Or I make the call. ICE. Your father. Deported. Fifteen years gone. Is that what you want?"

She moved like a robot, lying back on the table, her hospital gown falling open, exposing her lime green thong and her olive-skinned thighs. She pulled her knees up, her wide hips spread, her thick ass barely on the table, her legs trembling as she exposed herself to the room.

"No, no," Whitford said clinically, pulling on latex gloves with a snap. "The panties will interfere with the probe. They must be removed for proper insertion. And the gown should be lifted to provide full access."

"Doug," she begged, her voice a whisper.

"The panties, Kimberly," Doug said, holding up his smartphone threateningly. "Now. And lift the gown. Show them what we're working with. Remember—diverse anatomies. The buyers need to see how the equipment accommodates different body types."

She reached down with shaking hands and pulled the thong down her legs, over her feet, leaving her completely exposed from the waist down. Her dark curly pubic hair was visible between her legs, her olive-skinned pussy exposed to the room, the pink labia visible between her thighs. The men leaned forward, cameras clicking, recording the moment, zooming in on her exposed vagina.

"Excellent," Whitford said, approaching her. "Now, the probe is quite large—designed for clear imaging. The patient needs to be... prepared. The canal must be ready to accept the instrument. The tissue must be relaxed and ready for proper accommodation."

He approached her, his gloved hands touching her knees, pushing her legs wider. Her wide hips were spread obscenely, her thick ass lifted slightly off the table, her pussy fully exposed to the audience, the pink interior visible.

"Preparation is key," Whitford lectured, picking up a large tube of medical lubricant. "The tissue must be relaxed and ready. Manual preparation is standard to ensure proper accommodation of the probe. Four fingers minimum to test the elasticity and readiness of the tissue, to prepare the canal."

He squeezed lubricant onto his gloved fingers—first one, then two, then three, then four fingers coated in the clear gel. Kimberly watched with horror as he approached her exposed vagina, her legs spread wide, her most intimate area exposed to thirty men.

"Doctor," Doug said, "perhaps you should explain what you're doing for the audience."

"Of course," Whitford said, his British accent crisp and professional. "I'm inserting fingers to prepare the canal, to ensure proper accommodation of the probe. Four fingers minimum to test the elasticity and readiness of the tissue. This is standard procedure for patients with... diverse anatomies. Those with wider hips and thicker tissue require more extensive preparation."

He touched her, and Kimberly cried out, a sharp gasp of humiliation. His four fingers pressed against her entrance, then pushed inside, stretching her, filling her. She was dry with fear, and the intrusion burned, but he worked the lubricant into her, his four fingers moving in and out, scissoring, opening her up, preparing her for the probe. The room was silent except for the wet sounds of the lubricant and Kimberly's soft whimpers of shame.

"Very tight," Whitford noted clinically, his four fingers buried deep inside her, moving in a scissoring motion. "Excellent muscle tone. But we need her relaxed. The probe is quite thick. Four fingers may not be sufficient. Let me try..."

He added a fifth finger, his thumb, pushing into her, stretching her vagina wide. Kimberly sobbed, her olive skin flushed dark red, her curly dark hair spread across the table, her big firm breasts heaving with sobs visible through the thin gown. Her wide hips were spread obscenely, her thick ass lifted, her pussy stretched around Whitford's hand.

"Excellent accommodation," Whitford said, withdrawing his fingers slowly with a slick sound. "Now, the probe."

He picked up the ultrasound probe—a thick, curved instrument, ten inches long, covered in a condom and gel. It was phallic, obscene, designed for internal imaging, thick and ridged.

"As you can see," he said, holding it up, "the probe must be inserted fully to reach the cervix and image the uterus. Watch as I demonstrate on this... diverse anatomy. The equipment works for all body types, including those with wider hips and thicker tissue."

He positioned the probe at her entrance, pressing it against her puffy labia. Kimberly tensed, her hands gripping the sides of the table, her knuckles white.

"Relax," Whitford commanded, and pushed.

The probe entered her, thick and unyielding, sliding deep into her vagina. Kimberly let out a cry—a sharp, humiliated sound—as it filled her, going deeper and deeper, until only the handle and cord protruded from her body. The men leaned forward, cameras recording, as they watched her pussy stretch around the thick instrument.

"Excellent accommodation," Whitford said, his voice slightly breathless. "As you can see, the unit works for diverse anatomies. Even... tighter specimens with thicker tissue."

He adjusted the probe, moving it slightly, pressing it against her walls, then pulled it out slowly, almost all the way, before pushing it back in. The monitor showed grainy internal images—her uterus, her ovaries, the intimate interior of her body displayed on the screen for all to see, projected large on the wall behind them.

"The image quality is superb," Doug said, stepping close to the monitor, his eyes flicking to Kimberly's face, then down to where the probe disappeared into her body. "Perfect for early pregnancy detection, fibroid identification, any number of applications. And as you can see, it accommodates even those with... thicker anatomy."

Whitford continued to work the probe in and out, demonstrating different angles, different depths, each movement making Kimberly whimper with shame. Her legs were spread wide, her wide hips lifted, her thick ass exposed, her pussy stretched around the instrument. He pushed it deep, then pulled it out to the tip, then plunged it back in, again and again, demonstrating the "functionality."

"And extraction," Whitford said finally, pulling the probe out completely with a slick sound that was audible in the silent room. "Clean, efficient, minimal discomfort. The canal returns to normal size immediately, showing the elasticity of the tissue."

He held up the probe, glistening with her fluids and the lubricant, then set it aside. Kimberly lay there, exposed, violated, her vagina aching from the intrusion, her mind shattered, the gown fallen open to expose her breasts with their puffy nipples.