I had to attend an appointment with my general practitioner Dr. Cooke at 11.30am and they were running late. It was a medium sized village practice with quite a large patient catchment area which supported five doctors, three nursing staff, a dispenser and her two part-time assistants. There were also three administrative staff. I sat in the modern surgery in an almost empty waiting area staring at bland posters on the notice board, listening to ‘musak’ and feeling anxious.
I stared at the rounded nyloned knees of a skinny girl who sat near me and imagined running my hands up her skirt and into her knickers. I visualised her screaming with gratitude.
Behind the counter three female receptionists were discussing their future holiday arrangements. I noticed their dark hair was all similarly styled in neat geometrical bobs, although one had blonde streaks.
I didn’t know any of them by name but they knew me, having attended the surgery fairly often (too often), for various tests, over the past six months. The tallest one was a curvaceous lady with a large bottom, whom I warmed to, in her middle forties. She had a permanent smile and sparkling white teeth. She often wore knee length pleated skirts over black tights. She knew me very well and always greeted me in the same jolly manner. “Hello Mr.Shaw, I’ll make sure the doctor knows you are here. Take a seat please David.”
I did not care for one of the others. She was about thirty and treated everyone like idiots. She had a fawning, condescending, almost snooty manner which may work on deaf old ladies but to me, a nineteen year old, it didn’t. No way. (She had nice firm tits which clearly required sucking, presumably by deaf old men.)
At last I heard my name being called through the loudspeaker system and strode down the wide corridor in my tee-shirt and jeans, to room number four where I was greeted by Dr. Cooke sitting behind her desk looking at her computer screen with my records on view.
“Hello David, and how are you today?” she said in a ‘sing-song’ voice. I always thought Dr. Cooke was comparatively young and rather trendy for a thirty year old. She had joined the practice fairly recently and often wore ethnic style, embroidered A-line skirts. Today she wore a black skirt over black tights with black suede boots. I said I felt OK and sat on the chair next to her desk. Her shoulder-length blonde hair contrasted with her heavy black ‘designer framed’ glasses.
“We’d better just check your blood pressure David.” She said and slid forward on her computer stool until our knees met. She parted her legs so she could get closer and wrapped the monitor sleeve around my right upper arm. I was aware that my right knee was well under her skirt, almost touching her crotch area between her parted thighs and felt body heat from between her legs. She allowed the monitor to ‘do its thing’ and she assured me that my blood pressure was normal.
I, on the other hand, could bahis firmaları not fathom why I had not had an instant erection, given the circumstances. Clearly I had a problem, as most nineteen-year-old teenage boys are ruled by their penises.
“David, did you bring your semen sample as I asked you last week?” she asked checking her computer records. I explained that, because of my problems, which she was aware of, I found it difficult to initialise, or even maintain, an erection. In other words, I found it impossible to provide a sample.
Dr. Emma Cooke said that she really needed a sample today as my results had to be analysed relatively quickly considering my chronic underlying condition. She typed something onto the computer screen and printed it off. I signed a form which basically gave the practice ‘carte-blanche’ permission to obtain a ‘sample of bodily fluid’ in order to ‘identify any physiological symptoms that were in question, or required further exploratory clinical investigation.’
To me what it basically amounted to was that I was given a small plastic receptacle and encouraged to masturbate in the unisex toilet to provide a sample of my semen. I could not get an erection in there no matter how hard I tried. I thought of the ‘girl in the waiting room’ or ‘smiler’ woman behind the reception desk but nothing stirred I felt emasculated, useless and inadequate.
I returned to the reception desk and sheepishly described my problem. The ‘smiling’ receptionist said she would speak to Yvonne, one of the practice nurses, whom I knew relatively well as she and I ran half-marathons together for charity. She was in her late twenties and wore a crisp white knee-length uniform over black tights.
I knew it was Yvonne’s lunch break so I felt rather guilty when she turned up and took me to her treatment room. “So what exactly is the problem Dave?” she asked finishing her coffee and low-calorie salad sandwich. I explained that I needed to get a semen sample but found it difficult masturbating in a ‘clinical situation’. She sympathised as she read my notes off the computer and the ‘signed’ form. “Well I could try manual manipulation of the foreskin with digital stimulation of the prostate.” She whispered and I said that I would agree to anything. She wiped her mouth, washed her hands and put on thin surgical gloves.
I lay on her examination bed behind a screen, my jeans and boxers around my ankles. She coaxed my penis several times manually but it was reluctant to respond. She slid my foreskin over my glands many painful times but nothing swelled or remained upright. She referred to a small paper-back guide then asked me to swivel round so that my head was repositioned at the foot of the bed where she stood and weighed up the options.
“I do not understand why we’re having problems but it may be due to female vaginal pheromones not presenting themselves sufficiently to stimulate normal erectile function.” I understood kaçak iddaa from this that I needed someone to rub their moist vagina vigorously all over my face, whilst squeezing their tits wildly, to stimulate my erection. I shunted my head to the end of the bed while she lowered it hydraulically using a foot pedal to well below knee level.
Yvonne stood above me leaning forward and enquired whether I felt comfortable enough in the present situation for her to place her legs on either side of my face. I said that if she thought that this would be beneficial she should do so. She swung her legs over my head so that both her knees were astride my face allowing her hands access to my penis and plastic receptacle. She hitched her uniform skirt up to waist level so I was treated to a perfect view of a black lacy thong encased by her black tights. She confirmed with me that I was happy with the situation and I wondered whether I needed to fill in yet another form.
She lowered her fine denier hose onto my face and rubbed her tights over my nose and mouth. I inhaled her female fragrance and felt her hand begin milking my penis firmly into the receptacle.
She continued this way for several minutes but no erection developed. I began to wonder whether the rest of my life would be spent in a monastery. I apologised to Yvonne and said that, because I probably knew her too well, maybe I needed a comparative stranger to stimulate me while my fantasies took control. Yvonne said she’d talk to the other practice nurse who was also off-duty having lunch. She left me face up on the bed staring at the ceiling wondering what the heck was wrong with me.
Linda walked in and said to me “What’s wrong young man?” as she stared at me and my limp penis. I said I couldn’t get an erection therefore I couldn’t provide a semen sample. Linda said that men can ejaculate even in the flaccid state and that she would do her best to extract the sample.
With that she kneeled over my face while I stared up her tight nurse’s skirt and studied in detail a pair of white frilly nylon knickers stretched under the gusset of her black tights. She lowered herself onto my face and moved her pubic area over my face. I felt the scratchy smoothness of her nylon tights on my nose and lips. She smelled, however, too much of deodorant and again I failed to get an erection. With me under her she began wanking me, starting slowly then becoming more frantic. My penis kept slipping out of her gloved hands in its shrivelled state and I almost wept with frustration. After several attempts she gave up. She asked me what I thought should happen next. She draped a large paper towel over my genitals.
I told her, almost pleadingly, that one of the receptionists may be able to help. Linda said that this was completely unethical, out of the question and broke every rule of the practice. I said that I knew the ‘smiling’ receptionist well and maybe she could be just asked ‘unofficially’ kaçak bahis to help me for a few minutes with providing a sample. Linda said she’d speak to nurse Yvonne, Dr. Cooke and Dr. Stein, the head of the practice to ascertain their opinions.
After about ten minutes Linda reappeared with the ‘smiling’ receptionist who was introduced as Erica. Dr. Stein said that if Erica did not object she could help with my predicament providing I, and she, kept it strictly confidential and unofficial.
Erica smiled down at me clearly not in the least bit embarrassed. She possibly had a son of my age or younger. Linda said that she would prefer it if Erica did not witness me being masturbated and to only straddle me facing my face.
Erica stood with her beautiful bottom near the end of the bed, which was now at floor level. I shifted myself further down so my head was almost overhanging the base. Erica asked if I was ready and moved backwards, legs apart raising her skirt until she was straddling my face with me under her. Her back was to Linda who was preparing my penis for the sample. I stared up between her legs as she shook her skirt and petticoat down over me. My nineteen year old eyes feasted on a totally erotic scene. She actually wore stockings. Stockings. I wanted to scream. Stockings. Stockings.
They were dark tan in colour and, in the half light under her pleated skirt and flounced petticoat, gripped her upper thighs so that her skin appeared almost inflated above them. Her suspenders were white and so were her knickers. The gusset was slightly stained and smelled of warm vagina. She lowered herself onto my upper chest then eased herself forward so my nose was pushed firmly into her crotch. I saw her hands appear under her skirt and adjust her petticoat so that it was pulled down evenly around my face.
She dropped her skirt and I was in complete darkness. Linda started wanking me firmly and my penis thankfully began to stiffen. Erica sat on me and I was happy to experience her womanhood over me. For a nineteen year old, to have a mature woman sitting on my face with her warm vagina within licking distance was heaven on earth. Linda clearly knew what to do and within two minutes I felt seminal fluid ejecting from my knob end and her gloved hands directing it into the receptacle.
“OK David, that’s fine,” Linda shouted, probably aware that I could hear very little beneath Erica’s thick skirt.
Erica stood up and looked down at me smiling. I smiled back while she moved forward slightly dragging her skirt and petticoat hems over my face. She did not wish to see what Linda was up to so remained straddling me for a minute or two while I took in further views of her underwear and exposed upper thighs. Linda covered me up with another paper towel and Erica walked off, her skirt ruffling my hair. She gave me a wink and smiled over her shoulder. Shaking out her pleated skirt, she adjusted her sweater and went back to the reception desk.
Dr.Cooke saw me a week later with the results of the test. Everything was fine. Erica smiled at me and winked on my way out of the surgery. I cycled home thinking about the next half-marathon.