“Please remove all your clothes, including your underwear, and put on this gown. The doctor will be with you shortly,” the nurse stated, her eyes fixed on the computer screen.
“Everything? Even my bra?” I asked, a hint of hesitation in my voice.
Without looking up, she confirmed, “Yes, please, and your bra. Dr. Evans will be performing a comprehensive examination today.”
“Okay,” I replied, accepting the inevitable.
As the nurse left the examination room, I began to undress. The sterile environment and the crisp white gown felt clinical, yet a strange sense of anticipation was building within me. I carefully folded my clothes and placed them on the designated chair, tucking my socks neatly into my shoes. The room was slightly cool, raising goosebumps on my arms, but it wasn’t uncomfortably cold. The standard hospital gown, open in the back, always felt ridiculously flimsy and exposed, but I slipped it on, the ties feeling like weak defenses against the vulnerability of the situation.
Settling onto the examination table, the thin paper crinkled beneath me. Boredom began to creep in as I dangled my legs, waiting. Doctors always seemed to operate on their own mysterious timelines, arriving long after you were prepped and ready.
This visit was to my gynecologist for a follow-up, two weeks after having an IUD inserted. At nineteen and in college, being sexually active meant prioritizing birth control. An IUD seemed like the most responsible choice, especially since my relationship had recently ended. My ex-boyfriend had been diligent with condoms, but now, entering a new phase of my life and potentially meeting someone new, I wanted to be proactive about my sexual health.
After what felt like an eternity, a knock echoed through the room, and Dr. Evans entered.
“Hello, Emma. It’s good to see you again. How are you feeling today?” he greeted me with a warm, professional smile.
Yes, Dr. Evans was a male gynecologist. It had never bothered me; he was a doctor, and a highly recommended one at that. His expertise was what mattered.
“Hi, Dr. Evans,” I responded, returning his smile. After years of seeing him, we were on a comfortable first-name basis in my mind, even if I maintained a polite formality in person. “The nurse mentioned a full exam? I thought I was all set until my annual check-up.”
He wheeled over a stool, positioning himself beside the examination table, clipboard in hand. “Yes, a thorough check is standard protocol after an IUD insertion. Hormonal changes can occur, and we want to establish a solid baseline and ensure everything is settling as expected.”
“I understand,” I nodded, accepting his explanation. Doctor’s orders.
Flipping through the pages of my chart, he continued, “I see your recent STI panel came back negative. Have you been sexually active since your last visit?”
I shook my head. “No, I haven’t.” He had advised abstinence until after this check-up, and I had followed his instructions. It had actually been over a month since I’d been intimate with anyone, and a restless energy was starting to build within me.
“Excellent,” he noted, setting the clipboard aside. He then proceeded to prepare the stirrups, the cold metal glinting under the examination room lights. “If you could please lie back and scoot down to the edge of the table, Emma.”
I instinctively moved into position, my hips sliding forward until I felt like I was almost sliding off the edge. Reclining, I placed my heels in the stirrups, the gown inching further up my thighs, exposing me completely from the waist down.
“Perfect, thank you,” Dr. Evans murmured, his voice now closer, positioned between my legs. I offered a small, slightly nervous smile down at him.
Dr. Evans was undeniably attractive. Not conventionally handsome, but with a kind face, intelligent eyes, and an aura of quiet confidence. I guessed he was in his early forties, though he carried a youthful energy.
He moved to the side of the table, reaching for a slender metal pole positioned near my shoulder. This was new.
The pole extended upwards and then arched across the table, parallel to my body. He draped a soft cloth over it, creating a screen that settled just above my collarbone, effectively blocking my view of most of the room and, more specifically, his face.
“What’s this for?” I inquired, a touch of curiosity mixed with unease.
From behind the fabric barrier, his voice was slightly muffled. “It’s a new procedural addition to ensure patient comfort and maintain a professional environment. Does this make you feel uncomfortable in any way?”
I shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant. “No, it’s fine, I suppose.” Though, a flicker of intrigue sparked within me.
“Wonderful. We’ll begin with the pelvic exam. Just a moment,” he stated, the sounds of rustling gloves and the soft clink of instruments from a drawer drifting over the screen. Then, his warm hand gently touched my inner thigh.
“Alright, Emma, I’m inserting the speculum now. You might feel a bit of pressure.”
A familiar discomfort washed over me as the cold metal of the speculum was introduced. I tensed slightly, grimacing as he maneuvered it into place. After a few moments of adjustment, he spoke again, his voice reassuring.
“Everything appears normal. The IUD is perfectly positioned. Are you experiencing any discomfort or unusual symptoms?”
“No, everything feels fine,” I confirmed.
“Good. I’m removing the speculum now,” he announced, and relief washed over me as the pressure subsided.
More glove sounds followed, and then, “We’ll proceed with the breast exam now, is that alright?”
“Yes, of course,” I agreed.
His hand, surprisingly warm against my skin, gently pushed aside the edge of the gown, exposing my breasts. He began the examination, his touch professional yet undeniably intimate. He palpated each breast meticulously, his fingers kneading and pressing, exploring every quadrant. His thumb would occasionally brush against my nipple, sending unexpected shivers through me.
A warmth was spreading through my lower abdomen, a familiar dampness beginning to form between my legs. My cheeks flushed, and I was thankful for the screen obscuring my face.
I suppressed a soft moan as he continued to massage and explore, pausing intermittently as if focusing on a specific area. He seemed to be taking an unusually long time, his fingers lingering on my soft flesh, lightly circling my nipples, coaxing them to harden.
Finally, his hand withdrew. A sigh escaped my lips, a mixture of relief and a strange sense of disappointment.
“Everything feels normal and healthy. Now, Emma, there’s one final, optional diagnostic test I’d like to perform. It’s simply to ensure all systems are functioning optimally. It does require a mild sedative, administered intravenously. Would that be acceptable to you?” Another drawer opened and closed softly as he spoke, the clinking of vials and instruments adding to the clinical atmosphere, yet now, tinged with a growing sense of something else.
“A sedative? Like what kind? Is it like the ibuprofen the nurse gave me last time for the IUD insertion?” I asked, a hint of uncertainty in my voice.
“Slightly stronger, but with a similar purpose – to relax the muscles and ensure accurate test results,” he explained, his tone calm and reassuring. “Essentially, yes, for relaxation.”
“…Okay, I suppose,” I agreed, a sense of curiosity outweighing my hesitation. “If you think it’s necessary, then go ahead.”
“Excellent,” he responded, his voice taking on a new, almost anticipatory tone. “Just relax, Emma. You’ll feel a small prick.”
I felt the cool swipe of an antiseptic wipe on my arm, followed by a sharp, brief sting. He was manipulating something around the injection site, presumably inserting the IV.
He wheeled over a slender metal stand with a bag hanging from it, connecting the IV line.
A wave of warmth began to spread through my body, a pleasant numbness creeping into my limbs. I could still move, but a heaviness settled over me, my responses becoming sluggish. It was a peculiar sensation, yet my mind felt strangely detached, drifting, making the physical effects less alarming.
“Emma, can you hear me clearly?”
“Mmm-hmm,” I managed, attempting to say “yes,” but it emerged as a soft, mumbled affirmation. My lips felt heavy, resistant to forming words. I likely could speak, but the effort seemed immense, unnecessary.
“Perfect. No need to talk then, just relax completely. I’m going to begin the final test now,” he announced, and then his fingers, warm and gentle, began to caress my vaginal lips. “Please let me know if anything becomes uncomfortable at any point.”
Another soft grunt escaped me. No, not uncomfortable at all. It actually felt… pleasant. A languid warmth was pooling between my legs. I vaguely hoped he couldn’t sense how incredibly wet I was becoming.
“Alright, Emma, I’m going to gently stimulate your vagina now. Don’t be concerned about your reactions, just allow them to be completely natural. We need to observe the most authentic responses possible for this assessment.”
Why the sedative then? The thought flickered through my mind, then drifted away, lost in the growing sensations. The doctor must have a valid medical rationale.
The sedative was inducing a dreamy, detached state, allowing me to sink into the sensations without self-consciousness or inhibition. His fingers were tracing slow circles around my moist entrance, gliding along my swollen folds. His thumb pressed lightly against my clitoris, stroking, teasing.
Then, he gently slipped a finger inside me, the pressure surprisingly welcome. He began to explore my vaginal canal with slow, deliberate, curved thrusts. He added a second finger, continuing the rhythmic stroking, the gentle pressure deepening with each movement.
A soft moan escaped my chest, involuntarily.
“Your responses are perfectly normal, Emma. Just continue to relax. Let me know if you need me to stop at any time,” he murmured, his voice closer now, breath warmer against my exposed flesh.
I wasn’t sure how I would communicate if I couldn’t speak properly, but perhaps he would interpret the nuances of my sounds, like a dentist gauging pain. Besides, a protesting voice deep inside me whispered that I didn’t want him to stop.
The fine hairs on his forearm brushed against my inner thigh as he worked, adding another layer of sensory input. His other hand was resting on my leg, a reassuring weight.
“You’re a remarkably healthy young woman, Emma. Mm,” he murmured, his voice thick with a new timbre.
He continued to rub my thigh, then withdrew his fingers from my slick depths. A wave of disappointment washed over me, quickly followed by a surge of anticipation.
Then, a warm, wet, enveloping sensation pressed against my opening. It was undeniably his mouth. His lips, soft and yielding, and his hot breath ghosting over my most sensitive flesh. He was licking me. Licking my swollen folds, his tongue pressing firmly against my clitoris.
A moan escaped my lips, louder this time, unrestrained. I no longer cared about the ‘test’ or the professional boundaries. It simply felt too exquisite. His tongue, I was certain it was his tongue, plunged deeper into my core, lapping at my juices. I could have sworn I heard a soft swallow, a muffled groan from him, but it was a fleeting sound, easily dismissed in my hazy state.
He swirled his tongue around my entrance, then returned to my clitoris, sucking firmly. My hips involuntarily arched off the table, and he patted my thigh reassuringly, as if grounding me.
Sadly, this intensely pleasurable part of the ‘test’ ended too abruptly. The exquisite warmth vanished, leaving me throbbing, aching for more. A whimper escaped my lips.
He chuckled softly, a low, intimate sound that resonated through my body.
“Okay, Emma, I’m going to insert my… the probe now. You’ll feel some pressure.”
His bare skin brushed against my inner thighs, a startlingly intimate contact, and then something firm and substantial pressed against my opening.
It felt undeniably like a penis.
My hips instinctively twitched, but my body felt too heavy, too languid to fully respond.
“Sorry, I know it might feel a little unusual. Just try to relax completely,” he instructed, his voice strained, breath quickening.
The ‘probe’ pushed into me, slow, deliberate inch by inch. A soft grunt escaped my lips. It withdrew almost completely, the intimate brush of skin against skin repeating, then plunged back in, deeper with each thrust.
This sensation was undeniably like being fucked. Maybe, in some bizarre way, it was supposed to simulate intercourse for diagnostic purposes?
What felt like a bulbous head stretched my entrance as it pushed in and out, the tool retracting almost fully before sliding back in, penetrating deeper each time. It felt thick and hard, like a cock, not the cold, clinical hardness of the speculum.
“You’re doing wonderfully, Emma. You feel so incredibly good,” he murmured, his voice husky, thick with suppressed desire.
He sounded… different. Off-kilter. But my mind was too clouded, too consumed by the escalating sensations to fully register the shift.
And the ‘tool’… it felt unbelievably good. I was already highly aroused, and the preceding part of the ‘test’ had ignited a fire within me. I sighed, a breathy sound of surrender, as the ‘tool’ continued its slow, deliberate invasion.
The head bumped against my cervix, a deep, resonant thud. I could almost feel the weight of his pelvis pressing against mine, the contour of his hips nestled against my flesh, but it was likely just my imagination, the drug-induced haze enhancing the sensory experience. It was probably just his hands guiding the ‘tool’.
“Okay… I’m going to assess… the elasticity of your vaginal walls now. Just hold on. This might… take a little while,” he panted, his breath ragged now.
The implement began a slow, agonizing retreat, dragging its thick length along my slick vaginal walls, until the head was kissing my lips, then it plunged back in, the penetration just as slow, just as torturous and exquisite.
It felt unbelievably good. A primal urge surged through me, a desperate need to thrust back, to meet his movements, but my body remained heavy, unresponsive. Whatever this ‘tool’ was, it was surpassing any dildo I had ever encountered. Mmm, fuck.
“Oh… you’re so tight… so incredibly good… oh yes…”
The questions, the inconsistencies, the subtle shifts in his demeanor – they all faded into the background, irrelevant in the face of the overwhelming physical pleasure. Why he was panting, the possessive, intimate words he was uttering, the uncanny feeling of his pelvis pressing against mine with each thrust – none of it penetrated the fog of my drugged mind.
After a few more slow, torturous pumps, he sighed, a shuddering exhale, and the rhythm of the ‘tool’ shifted, accelerating. The sounds became more pronounced, a wet, slapping sound against my flesh. I felt his thumb press firmly against my clitoris, and my hips involuntarily twitched, my inner muscles clenching around the invading ‘tool’.
“Yes… just testing… your natural reflexes. Mmph. Don’t worry… about it. Ungh…”
It felt too intensely pleasurable to be alarming. The ‘tool’, so convincingly like a cock, pistoning in and out of my eager depths. Fuck, he could ‘test’ me like this all day, if he desired.
His ‘rod’ was thrusting harder, faster now. A primal part of me yearned for it to be his cock, to be him. It felt so real, soft and hard simultaneously, filling me completely, fucking me relentlessly, driving my pussy to tighten with mounting pleasure.
I was undoubtedly drenched. His thumb continued to massage and press my clitoris, intensifying the heat coiling low in my stomach. I hoped orgasming wouldn’t compromise the ‘test’ results, because the pressure was building, exquisite waves of sensation washing over me. If he persisted at this pace, I was going to come on this ‘thrusting tool’.
I attempted to vocalize a warning, just in case he didn’t want that to happen. “Mmm, mmn… mm.”
His breathless voice cut through my hazy consciousness. “Shh, it’s alright… everything’s proceeding… perfectly. Hold on… just a little longer… Your, uh, reactions are… mmm… yes… ah…”
Well, I had tried to warn him. It was too late now anyway. With his next few deep, powerful thrusts, the coiling heat within me erupted, an explosive orgasm ripping through me, my pussy convulsing around its invader, waves of pure pleasure radiating through every nerve ending.
I couldn’t feel my toes, but the luxurious heat certainly permeated every inch of my skin. I whimpered softly, helplessly.
The ‘tool’ lodged itself as deeply as possible inside my throbbing pussy, holding still for a moment. If it were a cock, a delirious thought surfaced, it could probably feel my pulsing inner muscles.
“Oh yes… Emma, yes… You’re so tight… That’s an excellent response, yes. Absolutely perfect,” he panted, his breath ragged, voice thick with satisfaction.
Oh good, I thought, a wave of relief washing over me. I hadn’t ruined the test.
He resumed moving the ‘tool’, pumping faster, harder, short, rapid-fire thrusts, like a man on the verge of climax. The implement seemed to swell within me, growing even thicker, filling me more completely as it impaled me again and again, in and out, the thick shaft plunging through my depths.
The moan in my chest escaped as a soft, breathy sound. I wished I could arch up into the forceful thrusts, shove my pussy deeper onto this incredible ‘tool’. I vaguely registered my body rocking rhythmically with the force of the pumping shaft.
“Mm… almost… finished… ungh. Y-you might experience… a fluid injection… Oh yes. Oh, oh, oh, unh. Yes! Emma! You feel… so perfect! Ohhh!”
Hot liquid suddenly flooded my insides, wave after wave. It felt undeniably like cum, like he was ejaculating inside me.
My pussy clenched around the sensation, loving the fullness, sending shivers of pleasure through my body as the ‘rod’ thrust and twitched, filling me with its warm fluid. The ‘tool’s’ movements became erratic, jerky as the doctor groaned and panted above me.
“Yes… oh yes… incredibly good. Oh, oh, ohh… so good. Yes. Mmm…”
The ‘tool’ shuddered, thrusting deeply one last time, then slowed to leisurely strokes, warm liquid leaking out of me. It glided through my sopping tunnel a few more times before finally withdrawing. The doctor’s satisfied sigh mirrored my own inner contentment. I could feel the fluid beginning to drip down my inner thigh, onto the paper beneath me.
He patted my hip, a final, lingering touch. “Thank you for a truly wonderful session, Emma.”
What a peculiar thing to say.
He efficiently removed the IV, wiped me clean with a cool cloth, rearranged the gown to cover me, and then stepped away, dismantling the screen. His face looked slightly flushed, his eyes half-lidded and sleepy as he offered a small, intimate smile. “The test results were outstanding, Emma, your body is exceptionally healthy. The sedative should wear off completely in about twenty minutes. Please check out at the front desk when you’re feeling ready.”
He gathered his clipboard and quietly left the examination room.
I drifted in and out of consciousness for a while, until I finally woke up with a yawn, realizing I could move with more ease again.
The entire experience felt surreal, detached from reality. It was more like a vivid, erotic dream than a concrete memory.
I slowly got dressed, gently touching my slightly tender but undeniably satisfied pussy. Something warm and viscous dripped out. It smelled distinctly like semen.
On my way out, I passed Dr. Evans in the hallway. For a fleeting moment, I almost stopped and asked him point-blank if he had just fucked me during my ‘test’.
He caught my eye, offered a polite, distant smile and a curt nod, then turned back to his paperwork, instantly reverting to professional detachment.
Hmm. Guess not. Still, maybe I wouldn’t wear that hospital gown on my next visit.
