Author: ealstan

To introduce myself: my name is Sarah-Jane. I have recently turned 24 years old.; am 5ft. 2in. in height, with wavy-to-curly black hair, and big brown eyes with long lashes. I am a bit chubby, with big breasts and a big bottom, and a slightly rounded stomach ­ this is fine by me, I like looking curvy and womanly: why emaciated supermodels are worshipped nowadays, beats me. I’m no genius, but most people seem to find me a friendly and jolly individual. I have a rather weak sense of humour which I usually can’t stop myself indulging in, though it tends to get me pitying looks rather than laughs, other than from guys who are trying to score Brownie points with me. I’m physically clumsy: I like sports as a spectator, but have always been worse than useless at playing them, and anything that can be dropped, messed up, or damaged ­ I’m liable to do that to it. My mother used to call me “Frank Spencer”, after a British television comedy character whose fingers were famously all thumbs. I’m a citizen of, and live in, the U.K.; I work as an administrative officer (in plain language, a clerk) in the British civil service.

Not quite a year ago, I moved residence from one side to the other, of the British city where I live and work. Having done that, I decided to register with a new doctor. For past-history reasons, my previous doctor had been quite a long way away from my immediately previous abode, and also far from my new one: since I had moved, it seemed to make sense to get “medical help” things sorted out so that the source of that, was close to where I now lived. I duly picked, at random, a medical practice a few streets away from my new place.

For no particular reason, I chose to register as a patient of the male Dr. K. Haydock ­ my previous general practitioners had been men, and I’d had no problem with that (the reverse, in fact: basically I’m heterosexual, and also have, over the course of time, developed quite a taste for some of the things that can happen for a woman, in the normal course of events, in the doctor’s surgery). The new patient’s check-up ­ in the British National Health Service, a quick and non-embarrassing thing, in no way in depth ­ was done for me by the practice nurse.

It was a month or so before I needed to see my new doctor, and when I did, it was for something straightforward and not involving any “strip-tease”; I had managed rather painfully to split a fingernail, and needed that dealt with. Dr. Haydock ­ Christian name Keith, I learnt ­ looked to be some years older than me: he was dark-haired and handsome, a little under six feet tall, with a pleasant, soft voice, and, it struck me, in the brief time it took him to attend to my finger, a gentle and considerate manner. At that time I was fancy-free, having broken up with my last boyfriend some weeks previously, and felt at liberty to entertain the sentiment that I would have liked to get to know Dr. H. better; but, being realistic, there seemed to be no likelihood of that happening.

A couple of months later (still unattached, having in the intervening time met no-one I liked enough to wish to get involved with), I had cause to seek Dr. Haydock’s services again. For a single woman in her early twenties, I am in some ways a bit stodgy and old-before-my-time: after some thought, I had reckoned it wise to take out a life insurance policy, and took the required steps to get this matter on the road. One requirement was, that I should undergo a medical examination, which could be conducted by my G.P. The majority of girls would have been irritated at the inconvenience, and/or displeased at the potential embarrassment, implied in learning this, but I’m a little odd: reading the document involved, a few seconds were all it took, for the penny to drop ­ I could get Dr. Haydock to do my medical! What was that thing about “make my day”?

For the moment, it seemed all the better that I was without a boyfriend right then; no jealousy or borderline-betrayal issues on anyone’s part. I phoned the surgery, explained the situation, and found out when Dr. Haydock could schedule me in for an exam.

I arranged with my superior at work, to take the coming Friday as a day off, with the appointment fixed for 4 p.m. that day. (I wanted plenty of time to get ready at leisure for the eagerly awaited event.) After a lie-in in bed that morning (accompanied by some thoughts about the embarrassing delights which probably awaited me in a few hours’ time ­ not going too over-the-top about this, because it was merely going to be an isolated episode; there was no reason to think that Dr. H. was other than blissfully married, with several kids), I took a nice long bath, wanting to be clean and to smell good for what was approaching, chose pretty and neither-Victorian-nor-too-revealing underwear to put on, having in mind that said underclothing was shortly going to be seen by the doctor, and then, on his instructions, taken off by me; and arrived at the surgery, a quarter of an hour before the appointed time, with butterflies in my stomach, heart somewhat thumping, and the crotch of my panties already a little bit wet.

I gave the receptionist my name, and said that I had an appointment with Dr. Haydock at four o’clock. She consulted her diary, and said, “An unexpected emergency has come up for Dr. Haydock; you’re to see Dr. Swift instead.”

I felt as though my heart had turned to lead. Dr. Swift was, I knew, the only woman doctor in the practice ­ I knew nothing to her discredit, but I’d been feeling at once apprehensive and eager, about being undressed before, and having things done to me by, the most decidedly male Dr. Haydock ­ this sudden “throwing of a switch” had not occurred to me as a possibility. There was nothing to be done about it: in due course I was summoned in to Dr. Swift, who was very sweet, and conducted my examination with the maximum possible care for my modesty; but I couldn’t help feeling ­ and being cross with myself for being so silly about this situation ­ very disappointed.

I even cried a little in bed that night, before dropping off to sleep. I woke up the next morning ­ Saturday ­ disgusted with myself concerning my foolish behaviour about something which it made no sense to get upset over, and resolved to take my mind off this whole stupid business, with a day’s shopping. It was late morning when I walked out of the front door. I’d gone a little way when I happened to look round, and saw a tallish male figure walking a couple of hundred yards behind me. Some sort of chord of recognition was struck; and then it suddenly hit me ­ this person behind, going in the same direction as me, looked remarkably like my new doctor, K. Haydock!

My heart leapt. Could something odd and interesting be going on here? I forced myself to look in front of me again, and keep doing so; but I deliberately slowed down my pace ­ if it was indeed him, and his presence here was not accidental, I wasn’t about to risk his losing me. Was there possibly a chance of something better coming about, than a correct (except in my libidinous mind) doctor-patient relationship? Goodness knows, I strongly fancied him.

I walked all the way into the city centre ­ no way was I going to get on a bus and unintentionally shake him off, if things were indeed as I was beginning to hope. During the walk, and later as I went around successive shops (my mind, now, not greatly on their contents), I glanced round from now and again, and established that it was indeed him. Something was going on here! His attempt at surreptitious shadowing of me was pitifully, transparently obvious; and I suspected that my endeavours at seeming unaware of him, wouldn’t have fooled a three-year-old. Both of us, I reckoned, would be hopeless in the role of spies for respective mutually hostile nations. I felt more joyful with every minute that passed ­ whatever he was up to, there seemed a strong possibility that it involved our getting to know each other better, and ­ oh, please, please, God ­ not as officially doctor and patient.

For form’s sake, I went through the charade for a couple of hours, of cruising the shops, seemingly oblivious of him; then, I couldn’t go any longer without having mercy on him. There was a café with outside tables, with sunshades, fronting on the street; I took a seat at one of the tables closest to the pavement, and ordered a coffee. A couple of minutes after I had been served ­ YES! Dr. Haydock approached, from the other side of the street; assumed an unconvincing startled look, and said, with a delightfully wooden delivery, “Miss Morgan! Hello ­ this is a surprise.”

The dear man ­ he had to be the worst actor in the whole world.

“Dr. Haydock ­ hi!” I rejoined. “What are you doing here?” (Brilliant dialogue from both of us).

“Well, you know ­ just walking around town,” he said. He swallowed, and looked most awkward ­ it seemed that his script had dried up on him. I started to say something, to help him out; at the same moment, he blurted out: “Since we’ve met here, unexpectedly, er … well, oh, heck … I wonder if you’d fancy coming out for a meal with me, or whatever, some time?”

I felt as though I’d won the National Lottery; plus, it was so sweet that this professional guy, older than me and greatly my better in education and status, was coming across like a stammering teenager asking a girl out for the first time ever. “I’d love to,” I said; “but unexpectedly, my foot! You set this up, didn’t you ­ with maximum care and minimum subtlety?” Then I had a moment of enlightenment.

“Hey!” I said. “This is why I ended up seeing Dr. Swift yesterday, isn’t it? You wanted to be able to ask me out, without a medical-ethics hassle screwing it up.”

“That’s it,” he said. “It was taking a bit of a chance; but, well, you’re something else ­ I overcame my usual cowardice.” And our first date commenced that second, with his taking me to lunch at a convenient nearby steak house.

Over lunch, I told him that I was flattered by the risk he had taken. “I might have been a rabid militant feminist,” I said, “and been offended to the point of fury by what I saw as your abusing your position to pester me -- I might have made real trouble for you over it.”

He laughed: “Can’t you just see the tabloid newspapers ­ ‘Dirty doc switches medicals over, to set up chance for himself of groping female patient, after stalking her’. I really didn’t see rabid feminism as being you. And Swifty was great; she said to me, ‘go for it, I’m glad to help’. She understands about situations of this type; her getting together with her husband was rather a Romeo-and-Juliet sort of thing. Is it O.K. by you to change over to her patient list, by the way?”

I said, “that’s fine,” adding, strictly within my own head, “as long as I get some extra, unofficial healthcare from you.”

I mused to him: “It would have been rotten if you’d taken the risk, and then found I wasn’t interested, or was attached.”

“When you saw me about your nail,” he said, “I noticed you had no ring on any finger; and I hoped that if you had a boyfriend, I might be able to take you off him.”

“Bighead!” I giggled, “listen to Mr. Irresistible.”

“Hardly,” he replied, “I was afraid you might be in deep with some mega-cool dude fifty times more fun than me; or else with a seven-feet-tall-and-broad-to-match rugby player, insanely jealous and with a foul temper, at whose hands I’d land up in hospital, beaten half to death.”

“A little thing like me, with someone that size?” I said; “I don’t think so.”

“Not so little,” he said, gazing pointedly towards my chest.

We spent the rest of that day together, and continued seeing each other several times a week, and getting to know each other better. He was thirty-three, I learned, ten years my senior ­ no problem by me, just lucky for me that he had not been snapped up long since. He let me know that he was single and unattached, a longish relationship having come to an end for him half a year before. I had to wonder initially whether this was true ­ he was attractive, no error, and it can be, that guys will spin any kind of tale in the interests of getting laid; but I reasoned that if he’d gambled with possible trouble concerning his profession, in the hope of getting close to me, I could take the risk of possibly finding that he was cheating on someone with me, and the grief that that would cause.

As we became better acquainted, I concluded that he was telling the truth about being single when we met ­ for one thing, he had struck me from the very first, as being totally useless at acting or lying. I had bad qualms at first, for another reason: he was clearly a lot more cultured than me ­ but he was able finally to convince me that this wasn’t a problem. As he said, “Laura [ his ex] was a culture-vulture, and that one went down the drain ­ so that stuff can’t mean make or break.”

In all respects other than with words, Keith was a perfect gentleman through our first three weeks or so of going out together; we got quickly enough into some very pleasurable kissing- and-cuddling sessions, but for a while, that was all. I found this lovable in him, but at the same time, it got irritating and frustrating. My fondness for him continued to increase, and I would have loved some steamy happenings to come about.

As soon as he first declared his interest, I had lost no time in seeing Dr. Swift, to get me started taking the contraceptive pill, and I had begun to yearn for Keith to head in the direction of undoing and removing garments of mine, and was beginning to contemplate initiating some action myself.

Then, one evening midweek, we went out for a meal, and things suddenly got rolling in a big way. We had had a fair amount to drink, with our dinner and after, and no doubt this did something to get inhibitions out of the way. We had gone back to Keith’s house, we’d progressively got a bit giggly and frivolous, and Keith asked me if I fancied our enacting what I had been disappointed a while back, to find being conducted by his female practice partner ­ but this time, with the dramatis personae as I had originally hoped they would be. My heart pounded; I thought, like the character in “The Lord of the Rings”, “O great glory and splendour! And all my wishes have come true!” (Sorry, Mr. Tolkien ­ I know you were a devout Catholic, and thus ill-disposed towards anything sexual.) Bereft, by my delight, of any highly impressive words, I simply replied “yes, please, very much”.

We both felt that it would be nicest to take our time and enjoy at our leisure, what we were contemplating. He was free both days of the approaching weekend, and he suggested at first, that we go out for lunch on the Saturday, and then return to his house, and he would examine me. I considered for a little, then told him that I didn’t think ­ with the expected eagerly-awaiting stomach-trembles ­ that I’d be able to eat anything, prior to my exam, on the great day; and that besides, I’d rather the scenario feel as near to the genuine thing as possible. So we agreed to fix a time, and that I would spend the night before at my place, by myself, and on the day, would set out alone for his address, to get there at the decided time ­ just as if I were truly going to an appointment for a medical. We set the “appointment” for 2 p.m. on the coming Saturday.

I did not get much sleep on the Friday night ­ too excited with anticipation of the next day’s delicious ordeal. I was up by 6 a.m. on the Saturday, restless and with tautened nerves, eager for what was to come in eight hours’ time, and wishing we had made the “appointment” for the morning. I had a bath; afterwards, could not settle to doing anything. I wandered round the local shops for an hour or so when they opened, then went back home, had another bath, and (rather as before my genuine medical nearly a month earlier, but this time much more so) went through much indecision over what to wear. I selected attractive and sexy, but not outrageously brief, underclothes; I wanted them to be of a kind with which some performance could be made, of taking them off before Keith’s eyes. In case of possible need, I put an extra pair of panties in my bag, before I set out; and I was glad I’d done so, because before I had walked very far, I found the area of my panties between my legs, wet and slippery with vaginal moisture -- I was getting steamed-up with mere expectation of the approaching experience. I was quite near to a public lavatory, so went into the “Ladies” and took my wet knickers off ­ did a wee while I was about it (excitement over what was to come, had been making itself known to my bladder) ­ dried off my vulva as best I could, with tissues; put on my spare panties, and walked on to Keith’s house (only a half-mile or so from his surgery).

A little before two, I knocked on his door; he opened it, and I said (role-playing as long as I could), “Dr. Haydock? I’ve come for my medical.” He ushered me in, and made a bit of “pretend” small-talk, then said, “So ­ shall we get down to business?”

I wanted to shout, “YES!”, but trying to keep up the act, said, “All right ­ delaying it won’t make it go away.”

He led me toward the rear of the house, and opened a door into a room which looked rather dingy and little-used, but ­ to my surprise ­ was equipped as a doctor’s surgery, bare of a lot of the usual lesser paraphernalia, but containing, at one end, an examination couch; and with a sink at one end, and by it a wide counter, on which lay assorted medical equipment ­ in, I took it, properly sterile condition. A large electric fire had clearly been on for some time, making the room beautifully warm. (Keith was in his shirt-sleeves). “I didn’t expect this,” I said. “In your own house!”

“The practice used to be located here and in the house next door,” he explained. “It moved to where it is now, around the time I joined; I had the chance then, to buy this house, quite cheaply, and ­ well ­ I haven’t really done anything with this old consulting room.”

“How convenient!” I teased him. “I’ll bet you bring all your girlfriends in here.”

“Only those who like this sort of thing,” he said, “which I get the feeling that you do.”

“You’ve discovered my ugly secret,” I said.

“Not ugly at all; rather beautiful and sweet ­ just like you. Anyway,” he said, “to the matter at hand. Let’s take a look at you, Miss Morgan. We need you in your birthday suit for this. Get undressed, please ­ every stitch off.”

Delight! ­ he was on the same wavelength as me, ordering everything I had hoped for, as regards modesty being thrown to the winds. I removed my shoes; then took off ­ putting each item on the handily-placed chair ­ jumper, skirt, socks (taking care to attend to them quite early on ­ everyone looks silly naked except for their socks), and blouse. Here I was in just my underclothes, and they had to come off too.

Very aware of Keith’s appreciative gaze on me, I unfastened my bra catch; my breasts wobbled a little as I removed my bra and laid it on the chair. I’m proud of my milk-secreting organs, which are large and only a slight bit floppy (I don’t seem to have read the book which says that every woman hates her body the way it is). I probably sound revoltingly smug; but I’m telling things as they are.

Only my panties were left: I eased them downwards over my hips and let them drop down around my feet, stepped out of them, bent down and put them on the chair, and here I was, standing before Keith totally “indecent”, bare as a newborn. “Very nice,” he commented, which I hoped (vain bitch that I am) was either understatement for the sake of effect, or a try at putting on an act of doctorly decorum.

“Sit on the couch, please,” he said, “and I’ll take your blood pressure.”

He did the familiar routine with tightening the rubber cuff; remarking, when the test was accomplished, “Your blood pressure looks just as it should be ­ mine’s come to be on the high side, though.”

“Let’s just look at a few things,” he said; and with me sitting on the couch, he took one of the small-bore torch gadgets, with eyepiece, which doctors use, and inspected with it, my eyes and ears. Then my throat; tongue-depressor employed, instructing me to say “aaah”, and shone the torch-type thing down my throat. Next he felt my neck, on either side, and asked me to put my arms up above my head, while he felt into my armpits with his fingers.

“O.K.,” he said, “arms down; just take a moment’s pause.” He took a stethoscope from the counter, and bent down before the electric fire to warm it. (He had done the same with his hands, before the start ­ a considerate doctor.) “Cold metal never pleased bare lady,” he remarked.

“We’ve got this in common,” I said, “when we make jokes, people don’t laugh, they groan.”

“I’m cut to the quick,” he said; “just for that, I’m going to start on doing humiliating things to you. Get down off the couch, please, and stand in front of me.”

He did the heart-and-lungs routine with the stethoscope; when doing my front, he said “big breaths, please” ­ with feeble jokes being in the air, I had the silly impulse to allude to the daft old “and I’m only thixteen” joke (especially as he was, with one hand, pushing my breasts upwards to clear the way for his listening); but I restrained myself.

While he was performing on the front of me, I was acutely and pleasurably aware that lower down, my vulva and pubic hair were totally bare and exposed to his view; and when he got me to turn round, and ran the stethoscope over my back, I felt likewise concerning exposure of my bottom, and the cleft between my buttocks.

He asked me to turn around again, facing him, and said, “We’ll check your breasts now. Arms up above your head again, please.”

I did so, clasping my hands together over my head. He cupped a hand under each breast and simultaneously moved them outwards, opening my cleavage; then got down to business; left breast first, beginning where it joined my chest and working his way round with the fingers of his right hand, feeling every square inch for lumps or any other thing not as it should be; working “inwards and upwards” round and round, till he got to my plump, deep- pink nipple, via the areola ­ I thrilled as his fingers investigated this sensitive region. I like my areolae, they’re dark in colour, and decidedly big: more than two inches in diameter. He finished with a couple of squeezes of the nipple, not actually painful, but I was acutely aware of what he was doing ­ to check for any possible discharge which shouldn’t be happening.

As he did this, I felt, not for the first time in the past twenty minutes, that orgasm on my part, could well be just s breath away. He then went through the same routine with my right breast. As he attended thus to my mammary equipment, he complimented me on it, or tried to (like me, he’s not always as smooth a talker as he would wish to be) ­ such gems as “beautiful, big tits”, and “Miss Ample, or what?”, and “You’d have no problem feeding twins or triplets from these.”

I rejoined to the last, “Can I take it that these twins or triplets would be by you?” ­ he answered, “I absolutely wouldn’t have it any other way.” “You’re lovely,” I said, “and babies or not, I’m loving this.”

And indeed I was. From my mid-teens on, I had come to experience quite a high degree of turning-on from various aspects of medical examinations or procedures; but had always found it necessary to approximate a show of calm indifference, and not to blatantly reveal to the doctor or nurse concerned, how I was feeling ­ one fears being thought warped or weird. It was heavenly to be in the position of being examined by a doctor who was also my lover, and thus to be able to show my pleasure, and to say whatever came into my head. I felt wanton, abandoned, and rude, to the power of one hundred ­ there must be a lot of childishness in me, “rude” is the adjective which comes to my mind above all others, concerning my preoccupation with things medical.

“I’m glad,” he said, “because we’re a long way from finished with your baby-feeders. Up on the couch, on your back; it’s valuable to look at the same parts from a different angle.” I did as he asked.

“Arms above head again, please,” he said. He then squeezed, with both hands, each breast in turn ­ as before with my nipples, not painfully, but firmly to the point that I very much knew about it. He went on to repeat, with first one breast then the other, the same “round-running- inwards” procedure as he’d done when I was standing up, feeling and gently prodding into every sector of the area involved, and ending up brushing his finger-tips over my by now rock-hard-erect nipples.

At this point, he breathed, “I’m going to step way over the propriety line ­ I can’t help myself”; and he took hold of my right breast, bent down, and took the nipple in his mouth and kissed and sucked it and licked it with his tongue. I’ll be attempting feeble repartee on my deathbed ­ I said, “Don’t worry, I won’t shop you to the General Medical Council,” ­ then I couldn’t help myself any more than he could; I wrapped my arms around his neck, squashing his head still closer onto my chest, and whispered, “I love you.”

After a moment, he disengaged his mouth from my bosom-bud to say: “I love you, and lust after you, and in time I want to give you babies to suckle at this and the other one, and this afternoon I plan to do lots more embarrassing things to you, but right now I urgently need to dab surgical alcohol on my cock, or this whole session is liable to come to a sudden and messy end.” He went to a cupboard, and then disappeared briefly outside the surgery door, so I suppose that was what he was doing.

“That’s great,” I said to him as he returned, “you do what you need to calm yourself down, while I lie here starkers, getting more and more hot and bothered ­ what about me?”

“It’s the way of the world,” he said, “women most often get the crappy end of the stick. Anyway, sex-wise you heat up more slowly than us.”

“Don’t you be too sure,” I said, “I feel I could climax any moment, right here on this couch, without further benefit of human hand. I’m unbelievably wet down below.”

“Talking of ‘wet down below’ “, he said ­ pretending a total lack of sympathy ­ “time for a distraction and a change of focus. We need a urine sample. Off the couch, please.”

I complied. Part of the mingled humiliation and delight of medical examinations is the whole palaver of repeated changings of position ­ stand, lie, sit ­ most awkward and inconvenient and embarrassing and at the same time, if you have my sort of kinky take on things, rather sweet.

“Please would you wee for me into this phial,” said Keith ( he handed me a small glass bottle) “—you can finish off into the potty there.” He indicated a raised “commode” arrangement which stood not far from the couch.

“This,” I thought, “is a medical-sexy dream from which I hope I never awake.” I obeyed his instruction as best I could ( he watched with interest), but being a clumsy girl, I found myself getting into strange postures and, in the course of filling the phial, managed to widdle quite thoroughly over my right hand, before getting the rest of the contents of my bladder straight into the commode, as directed.

“Don’t worry,” said Keith, “peeing matters are difficult to manage if you’re a woman. This is fine” ­ taking the phial from me ­ “just go and wash your hand at the sink over there.” I did so, at once feeling like a twit, and feeling unspeakably wanton and horny ­ wet between the legs with a mixture of piss and love-juice , and highly conscious of my large and well-fleshed bottom, and its median cleft, being presented to Keith’s view as I stood at the sink.

And it came about that the “bottom” theme was continued with. His next instruction to me was, “Stand with your feet apart, please, and bend over ­ hold your ankles.” Heart thudding, vagina wetter by the second, I complied.

He inspected me in this attitude, from the back and from the side. I felt unspeakably undignified, and inexpressibly aroused. “Your milk-jugs are dangling down most alluringly,” he remarked ­ something of which I already felt well aware: it seemed to me that if I bent over any further, my nipples would be brushing the floor. He bent down, and briefly cupped his hands over my hanging-down breasts, at the nipples, and jiggled them ­ I thought meltdown was about to happen between my legs. He ran his hand along my backbone, paying particular attention to the lowest vertebra or two, just above the start of my bum-cleft; then cupped and stroked my buttocks, pulling them just a little way apart, and running his index finger briefly along the crack.

“Someone in this surgery has a big bum,” he said.

Almost seeing stars with lust as I was, my back-chat capacity was not up to much ­ all the response I could think of was, “Does my bum look big not in this, eh?”

He replied, “Your bum looks big in all circumstances ­ it is big; and it drives me wild with desire. Women are meant to have big bums…” -- he gave learned medical justification for this, which in my excited state, did not properly register with me -- and finished, “and besides, men totally love them.”

“My bum suits me just fine,” I replied, “glad you like it too.”

“Like it?” he echoed; “I wish I could keep you stark naked the whole time, and worship your body with mine 24/7.” And, overcome, he gave my bottom quite a hard slap with his hand.

“Hey,” I said, “was that part of the examination?”

“No,” he replied, “I just couldn’t restrain myself; your behind is so irresistibly smackable. Mm; I wonder if you’re coming due for any inoculations or booster injections?”

“You’ll get struck off!” I chided.

“It’ll be worth it,” was his response. “You’d better stand up, though; we’ve quite a bit more to get through ­ if we don’t move on, I might do something unprofessional and untimely ­ or need to reach for the surgical alcohol again.” I duly stood up straight, turning to face him full- frontal.

“Up on the couch, please,” he requested, “Lie on your back”. Up onto the couch I hopped. In leisurely fashion, with obvious pleasure, he ran his hands over my legs ­ murmuring “gorgeous strong, chunky thighs”, and felt and inspected my feet. He went on to quite lengthily prod and palpate the slight convex swell of my stomach ­ shivers of delight ran through me, and my breath came in gasps; and stuck his index finger in my navel and wiggled it around ­ I thought I was going to come on the spot.

“Lovely belly-hole,” he pronounced, “and you keep it nice and clean ­ that’s good.”

“It ought to be clean,” I said, “I had two baths this morning.”

“Sweet, sexy, fragrant Sarah-Jane,” said Keith. “Mind you, you’re likely to get a bit smelly down here before we’ve finished,” as he briefly put a finger on my slit.

“Oh, gosh, I hope so,” I replied faintly ­ I felt about to die from sheer lust. “You’ve got a fine curly thatch here,” he remarked, running his fingers through my pubic hair, which was more than a little wet with vaginal juices and from the recent urinating experience.

“I like pubic hair,” I said, “I find the whole idea very sweet ­ it seems inappropriate for people to be hairy just there; it’s unnecessary and inconvenient and because of that, really sexy.”

Keith delivered a brief lecture on the “why” of pubic hair, but as before, it went ­ what with my preoccupation just then, with more urgent feelings ­ in one ear and out of the other. He ran his hands round my waist and my hips. “Terrific broad, sturdy hips,” he said; “you’re all equipped to be a marvellous baby factory, my love.”

“You’re serious about these babies, aren’t you?” I said.

“You’d better believe it,” he rejoined, “but back to immediate concerns ­ roll over on your front, would you.” I rolled over; he felt my shoulders and up and down my backbone, ran his hands down the back of my legs, and could not resist a little further caressing of my buttocks, and giving a sharp pinch to the left one. “Sorry about that,” he said, “just a little reflex check. Oh, heavens,” he breathed, “Miss Enormous Bum of 2002.”

Many girls would not have felt complimented by this comment, but it raised my delight by yet another notch. “O.K.,” he said, “we’ll do your reflexes ­ in the proper way, I mean ­ and then we get on to the mega-rude stuff.” He had me sit up on the couch, and did to my arms and knees with his patella hammer, what doctors do with that instrument; then it was lie down on my back once more, and he got me to clench and unclench my toes. Then scraped the blunted-point end of the hammer across the sole of each foot in turn. “Reflexes first-class,” he said. “Well, now for the real X-rated bits.”

And I more than relished the idea of the X-rated bits. Touch wood, I’ve been very lucky so far ­ I’ve enjoyed splendid health, with only the most minor problems a couple of times, “below the belt”; so my dealings with the medical profession concerning those parts of me, have involved little other than various exams / check-ups / screenings, and fixing things up for contraception, at which appointments I’ve been feeling absolutely fine ; and being a healthy and vigorous young woman, near the front of the queue when libidos were being handed out and near the back of the corresponding queue concerning modesty -- have been disposed ( after initial adjusting to the scene ) to take pleasure in what was done to me. And when I was in love with the “perpetrator” ­ well, to put it mildly, I was a happy girl that afternoon.

“To start off,” he said, “stay on your back, and put your legs in the diamond position ­ feet together, knees wide apart. That’s right. Now we’ll take a look at your external bits…”

I did as he said, and he did as he’d promised; he gently parted my outer labia with his fingers, looked intently at what was revealed by his doing so, then I felt his fingers entering, to run along each side of my inner labia. I experienced a jolt of purest pleasure as his fingertips made contact with my clitoris, and pulled back the hood of skin to expose the head of the organ. He moved my clitoris from side to side, looking for anything not-as-should-be ­ I felt ready to die from utter bliss-cum-embarrassment.

“Oh, my,” I breathed, trying hard to hold still and not wriggle ecstatically, “you’ve opened my pussy and you’re playing with my clit ­ this is lewd and rude beyond description …”

“Just giving the once-over to beautiful Sarah-Jane’s sweet, lovely love button,” came Keith’s quiet, tender voice, “make sure it’s in good nick ­ help me to give her the best sex I possibly can ­ all looks and feels just grand. Now, let’s go a bit lower down…” and his thumb and index finger pulled open the aperture which, in the naughty-child frame of mind in which I clearly spend a lot of time, I think of as my wee-hole.

“Oh, heck,” I gasped, “this is so very embarrassing, and I’m loving it.”

“That’s the general idea,” he said, “lady has to be indecently exposed, to get her plumbing investigated. Red faces but lovely feelings ­ nice when you get the last-named, anyway.”

“I’m getting them, no worries,” I said ­ “you’re giving them to me in hearts and spades. Oh, Keith, this is so, so sexy…”

Having fingered and looked closely at the hole concerned, he gave his verdict: “All seems fine here; no rashes or anything untoward. Your waterworks are running O.K., are they ­ no soreness or problems with the flow?”

“I wee copiously and comfortably, thanks,” I said.

“Yes, so I saw and heard a little while ago,” he rejoined. “Water sports engaged in by Sarah- Jane, out of her A1-condition urethra.”

“You are seriously rude!” I exclaimed.

“That’s why I went into this line of work,” he said. “Gives me the chance to say and do rude things to gorgeous naked women.”

“Isn’t it frustrating,” I asked, “when you know you won’t be able to fuck them?”

“Very,” he replied, “that’s why I usually confine this precise kind of stuff, to subjects who are my girlfriend. Now, so far you seem in superb shape downstairs; but next, we need to look a bit deeper. We can do that with stirrups, or without: the idea is for it to be nice for you ­ which would you prefer?”

Not for the first time that afternoon, I nearly choked up. There was no way he could know what a bullseye he’d hit. Gynaecological use of stirrups is not all that common in Britain ­ tends to be reserved for specially difficult or complex situations. My own experience had been a bit unusual. When I lived at home, my family had had private healthcare; and my mother, who is American, had followed the practice, customary there but mostly not, here, of routine annual medical check-ups for all family members.

With my experiencing a bit of menstrual-type difficulty in my teens, Mum started me on “annuals” with full gynae content, from the age of sixteen; and for those, our doctor’s standard practice was to have the patient’s legs up in the stirrups.

At my first such exam, at sixteen, (my mother was present at it throughout, and gave me all the reassurance, explanation, and comfort, that she could), my reaction when it was all happening, was horrified humiliation ­ it wasn’t painful, I just thought I’d die from shame and embarrassment. In bed that night, however, reliving the experience in my mind, I suddenly saw it from a different perspective ­ the sheer sexiness and outrageousness (glorious as much as appalling) of it all, struck me most forcibly; and well, that was it: I took my pyjamas off, stuck my middle finger up my vagina, and masturbated myself to a totally intoxicating wet, slippery orgasm.

From that night, I was a gyno-addict; eight years on, I see no sign of even beginning to get over it. For a week after my first exam, every possible opportunity for privacy had me with my knickers off and my fingers in my “snatch” ­ at that time, I just had to be the horniest sixteen- year-old girl for many miles around. I felt I couldn’t wait for a year to go by, so that I could revisit the doctor for “the same again”.

Ever since then, I have found a “stirrups job” a rarish and mind-blowingly erotic experience ­ at any rate, when I’m basically fit and well, which, duly thanking heaven, I’ve nearly always been to date. I feel so wildly abandoned and indecent ­ totally bare below the waist (or better still -- as now, and on a few lucky “for real” occasions ­ completely nude, bottom and top); my legs up in the air, feet anchored in their fixings up there, and all my orifices thrust forward on display: vulva open, all the complexities inside exposed to the doctor’s gaze ­ equally on view, perineum, and there in fullest sight on the other side of it (to be childish, as frequently with me) my poo-hole. I feel ­ I over-use these words, but it’s what I adore about all this ­ inexpressibly rude and wanton, and I love the thought of what my best girl friend (who has an earthy way with words) calls the piss-crap-blood-cocks-and-babies department, being as much as possible in the showcase, and looked at with great interest by the doctor who’s examining me ( and with the prospect shortly, of his feeling and probing therein). It’s no use ­ I’m plainly just a brazen exhibitionist trollop.

So my reply to Keith, in a small but urgent voice, was, “oh, yes, stirrups please!”

“Your wish is my command, luscious one,” he replied. “Just give me a minute or two; would you like to take a short break ­ sit up on the couch?” I did as he suggested, sitting with my legs over the couch’s side. He looked at me and said, with a catch in his voice,

“You just look so sweet, perched there with nothing on at all. Oh, God, I wish I were a poet … well, I can’t write sonnets ­ better try and please you the way I know about.” He went over to a cupboard, took out a pair of the requested articles, and busied himself slotting them into the ends of the couch and carefully doing up their fastenings.

“This is amazing,” I said ­ “you’re equipped for anything here, aren’t you?”

“Call me a pervert,” he rejoined, “but I’ve kept all the gear for years, in the hope of something like this happening with someone like you.”

“You’re no pervert,” I answered; “you’re my dream come true.”

“And you’re mine,” he said, “believe it. O.K., little dream-come-true; if you’ll kindly put your gorgeous legs up and get your feet into these?”

I complied, heart thumping, insides churning with rawest lust. My very sexiest experience to date, in twenty-three-and-a-half years of life which had, happily, not been poor in such experiences. Here I was, legs hoisted up and held apart, giving optimum viewing conditions for all my private parts ­ and all the rest of me completely naked as well; my torso tilted slightly back, so that my breasts were flopping upward a little, towards my face. Most girls’ nightmare, my ­ literally ­ wet dream: my vagina was pulsing and awash with love-juice, and every nerve-end tingling. And the man I was in love with, was about to set to work on it. I reflected ­ “understatement rules” -- that I was a lucky girl.

He fetched a chair up to the end of the couch, and sat down on it, to put himself on the same level as my “equipment”. “Let’s see what gives up here,” he said. “All I want is to please you ­ if you find I’m hurting you at any point, say so, and I’ll stop at once.”

“O.K.,” I panted out ­ the sheer tension-cum-bliss of the whole thing, made me less voluble than usual ­ most of the talk fell to him. “I don’t need anything to lubricate my fingers,” he observed: “Mother Nature and a het-up Sarah-Jane are doing the job just fine.” In went two fingers of his right hand.. “Like I said earlier,” he went on, “there’s come to be a smell hereabouts, but a lovely one ­ musk and aroused woman and a slight hint of wee ­ let’s see if we can intensify it.” He pushed down on my stomach with his left hand, while the fingers of his other one prolongedly investigated my uterus and ovaries and tubes; if it hurt a little, the pleasure I got outweighed that twentyfold, and in any case it was being done by my lover, and ­ well, just say that I felt that I had died and gone to heaven, and not the kind that we’re told about in church.

The only comment I could manage, was a few squeaks and moans of delight. He withdrew his hands. “Are you all right, my love?” he asked. All I could muster in reply was something incoherent, which he seemed to interpret rightly, as being in the affirmative.

“I love you,” he said, “and I don’t know how I ever earned the good luck to meet a girl who can be so pleased by my chief stock-in-trade. Anyway, stay hoisted up there all day if you’d like to, dearest; otherwise, I have further plans for you, some of which will involve after a while ­ how shall I put it ­ the words you, me, and bed.”

“Get me down,” I whispered ­ greater articulacy was beyond me at that moment. He gently took my feet out of the stirrups, and restored me to a prone-on-back-on-couch position. “Lovely Sarah-Jane,” he murmured.

“Lovely, lovely Keith,” I replied.

We hugged and kissed for a little while, and got something like back to normal communication-wise; then he said, “There could be one culminating bit to this undertaking, or we could just call it a day now, and go straight to bed. Which do you think you’d rather go for?”

“This culminating bit,” I asked, “does it by any chance involve my bottom-hole?”

“You go straight for the heart of things, don’t you?” he said. “Yes, it has a lot to do with your bottom-hole.”

“In that case,” I said, “yes, please, I’d like it, very much; and let’s sort out the bed part subsequently.”

“If it goes this way,” he said, “ ‘subsequently’ may be very rapidly.”

“Whatever,” I said, “my darling man, my sweet, my love, the bringing-to-reality of all my rudest dreams, will you please just get on with it?”

“Princess, Galactic Empress, utterly luscious and stark-naked lady of my heart, I hear and obey,” he replied.

This nonsense aside, I had hoped all along, that the examination would not end without thorough attention being paid to “my posterior”, as they’d have said a hundred years ago. This is a kink of mine ­ if “kink” is the word ­ as pronounced as the one I have over the stirrups business. Most folk feel a certain amount of distaste about people’s bottoms, because of what comes out of them, but I’ve always found bottoms lovely; I think it’s really sweet that everyone has to defecate ­ O.K., the stuff doesn’t smell very pleasant, but to me, that just makes the whole business even more touching. And narcissist that I am, I’m very partial to my own decidedly large bum. (My friends say that it could be used as a shelf to put objects on). I’ve never been shy about baring my bottom ­ indeed, welcome almost any pretext for doing so ­ love the chance of giving people a glimpse of my back passage, out of which once a day or so, I enjoy the pleasant feeling of producing poos. (I know, I’m twenty- four going on five; it’s pathetic.)

Perhaps oddly, one thing I emphatically don’t want to know about, is enemas ­ apologies to the many fans of that scene. And though I love the situation of having my bottom probed at the doctor’s ­ I find it excitingly off-the-scale rude, the same as the stirrups scene (both had been routine in my “annuals” when living at home, from sixteen to twenty) ­ I don’t actually like the physical feeling very much. For me, it’s pretty uncomfortable, and though anything done to me in the vaginal area is likely to arouse me sexually in a big way, I’m not one who is stimulated—physically -- by anything put up my anus. However, the outrageousness of it, and the appeal to my exhibitionist tendencies, more than offset the discomfort for me. So I was delighted to agree with Keith, that my exam would finish with his inspecting my “back passage”.

He detached and put away the stirrups; then said, “Roll over, my dearest, and kneel up on the couch ­ head down, knees apart as far as they’ll go; and get that luxuriant bottom up in the air.”

I complied, head swimming with purest delight. “This is so undignified,” I murmured, “and so lovely.”

“I know something else undignified and lovely,” he said, “which I plan for us to be doing not very many minutes from now; but just for the present, let’s concentrate on Sarah-Jane’s exquisite rectum.”

He took from the counter, one of those lamp-on-a-headband devices, and fixed it on round his head, lamp mounted on his forehead; stood behind me, bent over the couch, took one of my buttocks in each hand, and pulled a buttock in each direction, opening my bottom-hole as wide, effectively, as it would go; and shone the light up my back passage to give him a view of its interior. My heart was hammering, as I murmured, “this has got to be the rudest thing ever.”

“Not quite,” he said; “all looks fine and dandy, but we need to do a digital check too. I’ll just sort things out to make it as comfortable for you as we can…”

He released my buttocks, took a tube of KY jelly , put a squeeze of it on his index finger, pulled my anus open again a little way, and smeared the jelly on the outside of my hole and a little way inside. He then put a rubber glove on his right hand, applied jelly copiously to his middle finger, and opened my anus once more with his left hand. “Here we go, sweetheart,” he said gently, and pushed his finger in, as far as it would reach.

I gave an involuntary squeak ­ it really was not at all comfortable, and the jelly felt cold. “Are you all right, my darling?” Keith asked anxiously.

“Never better,” I managed to gasp out. “I don’t like the sensation much, but I love the scene in general. I feel such a wanton tart.”

“ You’re adorable, is all,” he said. “Just bear down on my finger, as though you were doing a poo. That’s good.” He moved his finger around inside me, and I couldn’t help letting out a whimper. “Almost done,” he said. Another wiggle, with my sphincter clamped around his digit; another little squeak from me; and he withdrew the finger. “That’s my brave girl,” he said, “my sweet, my darling, my nicest examinee ever.” I turned over and lay on my back, panting with mingled relief, and sexual excitement.

I wasn’t the only excited one. “Exam done,” breathed Keith, “and I just can’t hold off any longer.” He felt in his trouser pocket and brought out a packeted condom. I must have a good deal of Mr. Spock in me: even at the extremes of love and lust, I tend to be cautious ­ though pregnancy-unbargained-for was presumably taken care of by the pill, I let him continue with the item he’d produced ­ and if Mills and Boon find this unromantic, they can go take a hike.

“I want you, sweetheart,” he breathed, taking off his shoes, and his trousers and underpants , revealing an extremely stiff cock; he pulled his shirt and vest up, climbed onto the couch and on top of me, and we made vigorous love, both climaxing after a very short while indeed. After a minute or so of our lying there panting and spent, he carefully raised himself up off me and got off the couch.

“Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean it to go quite like this. I hope my shirt buttons haven’t hurt you?”

“You silly man,” I replied, “shirt buttons indeed! I’ve just had the most overwhelming experience of my life ­ that eclipses shirt buttons.” I reached up and undid the possibly- offending buttons. He took off his shirt and vest, and socks, and at last matched me in total nakedness.

“Let’s continue where I’d meant this bit to start,” he said, and picked me up in his arms and carried me through to the bedroom, and laid me down on the double bed. Then he suddenly stood up straight, with a start. “My angel, you’ve still got KY all over your bum,” he said. “Good grief, how could I be so inconsiderate? One moment, and we’ll fix that.”

“You are daft,” I said in mixed fondness and irritation. “You worry so much about completely silly things ­ it doesn’t matter.”

“No,” he said, “I’m going to sort it out. Besides, it lets me get you to kneel up and present that superb arse to me, again.”

“I see!” I said ­ he was so exasperating and so endearing, that I could only laugh. “The man has an ulterior motive.”

He went into the bathroom, and came back with paper tissues and a bowl of warm water. “Back into utterly undignified mode, then,” I said with mock resignation, kneeling on the bed, knees apart, head down, bum in the air. “At least we’ve got more of a level playing field now ­ you’re starkers too.”

“Two naked fools,” he said. He started gently wiping the goo from around my bumhole, opening it up to clean a little way inside. “More than one situation in which a girl can get her bum wiped, isn’t there?” he mused. His hand moved a little way forward between my legs, to finger my vulva. "You poor thing, I have got you in a mess, haven’t I?” he murmured. "Never mind, lovely one; we’ll soon sort you out.”

It crossed my mind that I’d want sorting out with another bout of sex, just as soon as he could manage it; but I let him go on fussing with my orifices ­ and he was very sweet about it: cleaned away the last traces of jelly, then rinsed me off with a tissue soaked in warm water. He “signed off” with a kiss on each cheek, as it were, took me by the waist and pulled me down on the bed beside him; we got under the covers, wrapped our arms around each other and kissed and cuddled, and before very long we were indeed making love again, this time in gentle and relaxed fashion.

And this became the pattern for the rest of the weekend. We spent the majority of Saturday late afternoon and evening; and of course the night; and the majority of Sunday; in bed, talking of, and trying to learn everything about, each other ­ and making love every few hours, or so it came to feel like; and I found him to be a most sweet and tender lover. I spent more than twenty-four hours, from undressing for my examination onwards, without a stitch of clothing on me. Keith begged me to stay naked till we had to start thinking about returning to work for Monday ­ he wished, he said, that he could pass a law forbidding me ever to wear any clothes at all. When he made us quick scratch meals (eating did not feel like a priority that weekend), I sat at the table and ate, still completely nude; as related above, most of the rest of the time we were in bed together.

With our having intercourse over and over again, I thought it likely that I would get cystitis ­ yet another thing for Dr. Swift to sort out! ­ but as things fell out, I got away just with a sore vagina for a couple of days (and a sore anus; on the Sunday, I had got Keith to put his finger up my bumhole again, purely for the thrill and the rudeness and over-the-top indignity of it). I didn’t mind the soreness a bit: it reminded of our incredible weekend, and provided evidence that I hadn’t dreamt the whole thing

I’m pleased to say that from that Saturday and Sunday on, Keith’s and my relationship blossomed: we are getting married this summer.. The sex has continued to be fantastic; and he has taken me into his “home surgery” for a couple more exams, with variations from that described in this piece. I’m afraid we must seem sickeningly blissful together; it feels too good to be true, to the point that I keep fearing that there’ll have to be some horrible catch to the whole thing. (Will I find that, all appearances to the contrary, he is in fact the father and mother of all deceivers, and is about to become a bigamist? But you have to take some things on faith, or you’d live alone and celibate all your life, for fear of “what if…”

For all he knows, I might have some equally ghastly undisclosed skeleton in my closet.) So far, touch wood, the biggest source of disharmony has been, that he hates any and every kind of sport, whereas I am an impassioned supporter of Manchester United soccer team. We’ve agreed that when we have children, I will take them to the football, while he stays at home and catches his breath and gets a bit of peace and quiet. (And he and I have very dissimilar tastes in reading ­ but that’s a small thing indeed.) I feel so lucky and favoured, and keep thinking, if I hadn’t needed to get a new place to live, and hadn’t found, and taken, the furnished room which I did, none of this would have come my way.