exam

Participant is over 18.









I’m sitting on the end of the table, waiting for the knock on the door. My pulse is racing, and I take a deep breath, trying to relax. It doesn’t matter how many times my feet have been in the stirrups. I get nervous every time.



The paper beneath me crinkles when I move. I try to stay still, mostly because the paper shirt I’m wearing gapes in the front, and the paper towel covering my bottom half doesn’t stay put. My back is cold, making me shiver.



I clasp the front of the paper shirt tighter, trying to keep my bare breasts from being exposed to the chilly, antiseptic air. My nipples are already erect from the anticipation of the doctor’s clinical touch. Last year her hands were cold against my skin. They warmed only slightly as her fingers prodded my flesh, circling closer and closer to my nipples. I remember that her eyes were closed. I wondered if she did that to make me feel more comfortable, or if she could better feel the tissue beneath my skin if she wasn’t looking.



Remembering last year’s exam sends a pang of nervousness through my stomach and brings a dull throb to my clitoris. It’s a familiar pulsing, which feels like arousal, but is really nervous excitement. It’s a sensation that I have associated with a doctor’s touch against my genitals since the first time my doctor put his hand into my pants to examine me.



I didn’t know what he was doing. All I knew was that his cold hand slipped into my tomato-soup colored pants, under the waistband on my panties, and rested on my privates.



I never wore those tomato-soup pants again. My crotch throbbed every time I saw them in the bottom drawer of my dresser.



I think back to my first trip to the gynecologist. I was prepared for the paper garments and the breast exam. I knew about the stirrups, although I did not know that my legs would be spread so wide apart. I had a vague idea of what a speculum was, but nobody told me how cold the metal blades would be or how uncomfortable it would feel when they were cranked open against my vaginal walls. I knew that the doctor would insert her fingers into my vagina to examine parts she couldn’t see.



But the rectal exam surprised me.



I remember the slipperiness of her fingers as they slowly withdrew from my vagina. I exhaled, thinking it was all over.



I heard the doctor saying that we were almost done. Just a quick rectal exam, and she’d be finished.



She changed her gloves, rubbed a fresh gob of cold lube onto her fingertips, and told me to relax. I tried not to tense up when I felt her cool fingertip resting on my anus. She pushed and pushed again before my sphincter started to yield. I felt her finger slipping inside of me, and my eyes snapped open. She asked if I was OK. I nodded, afraid to speak.



I trembled as she turned her finger, right to left then left to right, inside my rectum. Such a strange sensation. The fullness. The slippery feel of the lubricated glove. The humiliation of having a stranger’s finger sticking through my virgin hole.



Today I wonder if my doctor can tell that I have anal sex sometimes. Will her finger slip in so easily that she’ll know that my anus is used to accepting a much larger intruder? Will she wonder if it’s a hard cock or some sort of sex toy that penetrates me back there?



She can’t possibly know that my first rectal exam awoke the need to have something filling my bottom. She can’t possibly know that the memory of her touch will bring me to orgasm over and over. She can’t possibly know that the humiliation of lying naked on the table, feet in the stirrups, knees spread all the way open, private parts exposed to the air and her eyes fuels my fetish, satisfies my need.



My clit is throbbing, and my pussy is warm and dripping with arousal. I wonder if I’m leaving a wet spot on the paper covering the table. I’m nervous and turned on and excited and embarrassed all at the same time. My hard nipples rub against the paper shirt, and I feel another spasm in my stomach.



I take a deep breath. I tell myself to relax.



Then I hear the soft knock on the door.

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