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“Good afternoon, Alexi. I am Nurse Stolgren. We prefer that our girls remain obedient and follow the rules.”
She extended her hand. I had no choice but deliver the wet tissue, after which I resumed sitting as instructed. Nurse Stolgren put the tissue in her pocket and sat behind the desk facing me.
“I handle the psychological evaluations here. With the tissue and my odoriferous surroundings, some of my questions have already been answered.”
She paused and stared straight at me with an impressive air of authority and superiority. There I sat, naked, the nipples of my swollen breasts seeming to stare back, my vagina dripping, and my overwhelming scent exposing a proclivity I didn’t know I had.
Nurse Stolgren was also blond with a white uniform disguising a well-shaped form. The hair bun, seemingly the standard hair style among nurses, projected a sternness which was offset by beautiful blue eyes and a practiced smile, obviously intended to put nude, spread and aroused patients at ease.
It did not. And her reference to the evidence of my excitement served to stimulate more juices.
“We don’t take in every girl who says she’s pregnant. But the receptionist said you worked at a strip club. Tell me about it. Please remain in the required position while you speak.”
So. She was establishing her authority. Easy to do with the nude and pregnant teenager. But I suppose the clinic occasionally came across the more belligerent type from time to time. The expecting girl who thinks the world owes her.
I spoke as directed. She interjected with an occasional question and eventually the interlocution glided to my childhood. My father’s early death. Mom’s remarrying the evil stepfather. My shyness with boys. The romp in the barn.
‘June, you say, Alexi? And there has been no other interaction with males?”
I nodded and found it a strange way to ask about sex. Nurse Stolgren wrote on her pad and the questioning progressed to my ‘escape’ from the farm and employment at the club.
“So, Alexi. You enjoy parading about without benefit of clothing.”
Her phraseology was again curious. I was about to object and state that I needed the money. That it was the highest paying job that an unskilled teen could find. But then I remembered the two auditions in the manager’s office. The strange enjoyment. How flushed I became. The moist panties after the first try. My eagerness to strip again, despite my inner belief that the fat, the bald and the perverted would always find some reason to deny my request. Deny, that is, only after an unwarranted interval of pirouetting, shaking and, worst of all, bending in his private office.
And so I meekly nodded. Yes, I guess I was some kind of exhibitionist. Farm girls from Iowa don’t have many opportunities to uncover such propensities. After all, Mom was an inappropriate observer, stepfather would hit me, and the cows could have cared less. So the desire to exhibit my young charms was something ‘uncovered’ rather late in life, at least I thought so at the time.
Nurse Stolgren wrote again on the pad.
The interview continued for another thirty minutes. Nurse Stolgren came to learn just about everything there was to know about my young life. That Mom knew I was in New York but had no street address or phone number for me. That stepfather was abusive to me and therefore I didn’t want him to know where I was. That I had told the fat, the bald, and the perver
ted I would need some time off. That what little I owned was in the cheap, run down west side hotel.
In divulging the last piece of information, Nurse Stolgren raised her finger for me to pause, wrote hurriedly then tore off the bottom portion of the page. Her hand moved under the desk and she spoke.
“You’ll need to sign some papers.”
I reached forward, took the offered pen and signed. Had I read the papers and not liked what I saw, could I really have changed my mind? That was my reasoning at the time.
“Now, keep your hands on the back of your head and move to the examination table please, Alexi. Dr. Helga will see you soon. Be obedient.”
She wrote some more than placed her notes and the signed papers in a manila folder. As I stepped to the table the door opened and a young nurse entered. Nurse Stolgren handed her the torn off sheet.
“Get this to Carl, immediately.”
She turned to me.
“I want you on the examining table. Feet in the stirrups, Alexi. Spread nice and wide for me.”
I complied and was chagrined to hear a whirring noise from the plastic dome on the ceiling. Obviously the camera was mounted on a motor. Its only reason for moving could be to better focus on me.
Nurse Stolgren noted my observation and my discomfort and smiled. As she departed she retrieved the tissue from her pocket, waved it before me with an irritating look of smugness then held it to her nose as she stepped through the doorway.
Chapter Three
As I lay there and glared at the plastic dome, I realized how perfectly positioned it was to capture the activity on the examining table and how humiliatingly open I was to the lens.
Still, the treatment was free, I told myself. And there were few alternatives available to me no matter how bizarre the antics were to become.
