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The young nurse returned carrying a tray. A basin of warm water and a razor evidenced her intentions. She wordlessly lathered my pubes and deftly began to scrape away the short curly hair I had so carefully trimmed in anticipation of my dancing career.
The young nurse worked diligently and it wasn’t until she moved from my left side to my right that I realized during the entire procedure she positioned herself so as not to block the camera’s view of my moist, pink vaginal opening.
Before I could comment or protest, she smoothed the fingers of her right hand most sensuously over my bald mound then briefly inserted her middle finger. I moaned. At first embarrassed by the unintentional response, I became flustered realizing that her caress was deliberately less than professional.
“You like to show yourself, yes?” she inquired in accented English. “You’re wet.”
But she turned away, pompously neither expecting me nor giving me an opportunity to reply. This young vixen, not much older than me, was dismissing me. Treating me like an object. A pile of flesh to be groomed and toyed with at her whim.
She removed the tray, took the time to tightly secure my ankles into the stirrups, then pushed the supports as widely out to the sides as my feet would tolerate and locked them in place. Her final action was to slowly smear a skin cream over the slightly reddened area exposed to the razor. When finished she looked up to the plastic dome, obviously ensuring that I was properly exposed to the hidden camera and diddled my depilated outer labia, pulling apart the large lips to momentarily expose my clitoris to the intrusive dome. Then she laughed, picked up the tray and left.
With the action of the pretty young nurse’s soft fingers and the effect of the room air even more pronounced, I once again felt my juices flow as the sensation of the cooling air interacted with the cream and highlighted my nakedness. I was flushed with embarrassment. But I had said nothing! And I was indeed wet.
With the silence of the empty room, the whirring noise emanating from the ceiling dome became more noticeable. I imagined a telescopic lens moving to hone in on my newly shaven mound. Appearing as a newly plucked chicken, it had a curious attraction and even I found myself looking down at the shining skin and the obscene gash, which allowed my lips to blossom forth for the benefit of the camera.
Now a puddle of my essence would indeed form, I thought. And with my feet secured there was no way to obtain another tissue.
The waits between procedures seemed very long. The dock was empty, as written, and I had not seen any other expecting girls when the reception nurse walked me through the ship and showed me to the examination room. Since there seemed to be little activity I wondered what took so long. Where was the doctor?
Finally, the door opened. Stepping over the high threshold of the watertight door and simultaneously ducking under the top of the frame was the largest woman I had ever seen.
Dr. Helga was blond as were all the staff, at least six foot tall and with a massive frame. Her hair was straight, simply cut, and hung evenly to her shoulders with bangs crossing her forehead just above her eyes. One’s first impression was to assume she was fat, but with closer observation it was apparent that the broad shoulders and powerful hips were a source of deceit, making the expanse of her white smock to appear to cover obesity. It did not. As she continued toward me, the brevity and efficiency of her steps evidenced not corpulence but power and purpose. A professional smile appeared but could be interpreted as one of either care or condescension. I assumed the latter.
The saucy young nurse followed her into the room and silently stood at a nearby cabinet.
“Good afternoon, Alexi. I am told you have been enjoying your brief visit.”
Her slightly accented English was readily understandable and much better than the young nurse. But her words were both annoying and embarrassing, obviously referring to the telltale tissue.
“You’ll keep your hands behind your head for me like a good girl, yes? And we like our girls to be quiet, so you’ll only speak if I have a question.”
She stepped toward the young nurse who dutifully handed her gloves. She snapped them on forcing the latex to make the expected squeaking noises. Then her examination of me began. It was the most debasing experience of my young life and I could not help thinking much of it was for the benefit of the camera. I wordlessly lay there recalling a television documentary I had once seen. It suggested before abortions were legalized, many were performed quickly and dangerously in cheap hotels where the most useful implement was a wire coat hanger. A strange vision came where I wished for such a scene. Where no one knew my name, or cared, and where the job was done quickly. Over. Finished. And life resumed.
Finishing with my eyes, nose, mouth, throat, etc. Dr. Helga lowered her hands to my breasts.
“Very nice, Alexi. Beautifully shaped and firm. They are plumped lately, yes?”
I nodded as she toyed with my right breast. I had never been examined in such a way by a doctor. I once had a boy play in a similar fashion, during an afternoon after school when I was sixteen...
She pinched the nipple, firmly squeezing and ignoring my muffled squeal. Slightly cloudy liquid at first dripped out and when she moved her fingers and increased the pressure, it streamed down to my stomach.
“Colostrum, my dear. Very good. It’s one of the early stages of lactation. The advent normally does not occur so early in a first time pregnancy, but you’re a very healthy girl.”
She performed the same vigorous squeeze on my left breast with the same result. Then, leaving the two trails glistening in the room lights she stepped back. I peered downward and could not help but think of the view from the camera. When I looked up, incredibly, Dr. Helga was licking the essence from her gloves!
She noticed my shock and smiled.
“You’ll get used to our affectations over time.”
Before I could think she stepped between my well spread thighs and began the pelvic examination. She was gruff and initially cursory with much of her handiwork, then she slipped two fingers of her right hand between my bald lips and of course had to comment.
“You’re absolutely dripping, little girl. I won’t need to lubricate a thing!”
I was not sure whether her statement or the accompanying sardonic laugh was more disconcerting.
She continued exploring, making comments about my vaginal walls and the healthy condition of all my feminine parts. But then I felt her left hand above my mons and looked down to see her thumb and forefinger positioned over the clitoral hood. Then there was a new sensation of cool air as she spread me further open there. My little bud popped into view and she laughed again. There was nothing left to be shown. Nothing she didn’t toy with or expose to the camera. Despite the sensations I felt caused by her penetrating fingers, the feel of my flowing juices was even more apparent. I was gushing and she noticed.
“Yes, my dear. I think you’ll like your stay here.”
