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Fertility Clinic Pt 7 Pillow Talk
I may have spoken of the much about my romantic interludes, sex play with my husband Jerry during my internship at the Fertility Clinic in my last year in college. I sighed ‘husband’ and ‘wife’ had become archaic words officially, but everyone in heterosexual relations still used those words in lieu of the official term `partner.’ In a reflective moment cuddling, “Partners,” Jerry had dismissed much modern parlance, “Sounds like something cowhands said to other guys in the old Western Movies.”
With both of us in school and working, our quest for physical intimacy tended to result in a quick, but spirited struggle, a wrestling match, Jerry called sexercises. There only precious moments for a little cuddling time which generates pillow talk. As days grew longer and time in school shortened, we suddenly found more time for each other.
“Have you thought what you’ll do after you graduate?” Jerry asked the frightening question. Up to now my hectic schedule, at school and work, gave me little time to ponder that the curtain would close on this life shortly.
My mornings began early. I was due in at the Clinic at 5:45 AM. I had to give myself extra time. On my way to the bathroom on those mornings, Jerry’s strong hand often landed on my shoulders. I’d feel the stumble of his whiskers rubbing against my neck, especially if I awoke still in my improvised PJs, worn panties and Jerry’s raggy T – shirt.
“Jerry,” I’d chide him, “Why do I know that if I find myself wearing my panties when I wake, it was good to have allowed extra time to get ready?” Wrestling me to the ground to take me from behind, Jerry quickly whipped my night clothes off. We rocked together till he came. “All too quickly,” I pouted, “even if you never make me late for work.”
On my birthday, Jerry presented me with a harem girl PJs, a flimsy cotton bra and baggy bloomers tight at the waist and midcalf ballooning out in between. “Hmm,” I inspected the present, “Sheer. They should slide off easily enough when your projectile rules your brain.”
Contrary to his rough grab and tumble style, ritualizing the extraction procedure practiced in the Fertility Clinic dominated our sex play. Jerry played the docile partner when we reenacted my experiences at work.
As much as I tried to keep my work life as an Intern at the Fertility Clinic entirely separate from my life at home, my husband Jerry’s fascination with my role in assisting the drawing of sperm from virile young men occupied not only what few moments we could spare for our table talk, but also our sex play. Lounging on our couch with Jerry in my harem girl outfit, a loose fitting, billowy PJ bottom and matching cotton bra, Jerry appeared to be more intrigued than concerned. “It’s a mechanical process,” Jerry recognized, “without an emotional attachment. Kind of like the short — arm inspection in the service.”
Joining the nursing assistants in what we dubbed ‘The Walk of Shame,’ strolling nude from the locker where we stowed our street clothes to the employees’ showers, Dr Velour, exchanging pleasantries, smiled as she watched my eyes follow her double DD boobs bouncing with her every stride. “You’re married to a male partner. Right? I meant to ask you,” Dr Velour got directly to the point, “how does your partner feel about your role in harvesting semen?”
“My husband,” I paused for emphasis before continuing the response, “Jerry regards it as a process, like drilling for oil.” I paused. “The clinic produces a yield and sells its product aloof from any personal commitment beyond professional pride in the product. The physical contact is incidental to the process, entirely impersonal without an emotional dimension.”
Snuggling with Jerry on the couch, I exclaimed, “Truth,” I paused for emphasis, “could never have been better said! How could my work in extracting sperm from a male donor be any different from operating a pump?” I shot Jerry an expression of benign innocence as I plucked his member from his boxers. “All we do is work the handle to draw fluid from the well. A pure question of hydraulics. You’re the engineering student. All that is little more than Archimedes Principles at work!” I declared.
Told of Jerry’s description of inducing an emission as an application of the principles of `sexual hydraulics,’ Dr Velour described Jerry’s reaction as objective with a bias toward structural analysis that she’d might expect from an engineering student. Pausing to think, Dr Velour remarked, “It’s good you have support at home. Some women might eh—not want to be so open with a partner. Surprisingly—men are different.”
“Jerry is so fascinated with my work at the Fertility Clinic,” I shook my head, “We reenact the procedures to draw sperm. Interaction, says Jerry, might stimulate the donor, but the purpose is impersonal to draw the product, not to administer pleasure.”
“Hmm, there is,” Dr Velour raised her penciled in eyebrows, “a slender difference between the pleasure of business,” She smiled, güvenilir bahis “and the business of pleasure, one wavering on a subtle question of purpose, intent and motivation.”
I chuckled. “Motivations, that’s my field in Industrial Psychology.”
On the couch with Jerry cuddling up in a rare precious moment, I nested my breasts into his bare hairy chest. The outline of erect nipples proudly jutted out in the soft cotton fabric of the harem girl top. Whispering provocatively, I tapped Jerry’s chest with the tip of my index finger, “two romantically motivated people putting their heads together can have more fun than one guy hitched to a post to jerk off.”
Then came the moment I dreaded. An aroused and tempted Jerry, brushing past the thin elastic band of my baggy bloomers, seized the flesh of my butt in his hand and kneaded it for a full minute before his hand reached over my hip and plunged down toward my pubes. “Slick!” Jerry’s shriek ventured into such a high octave it sounded as if I had yanked his testicles. “When did this happen? If you wanted to go bald down there, why didn’t you let me shave you?” Jerry cried.
I sighed. “Shaving is so passe,” I protested, “To avoid infections, hospitals, these days, use depilatory creams. No nicks, no cuts, no razor burns, thank god!” I exclaimed.
At the entrance to the shower, I stood with Dr Velour. Tilting her head back in a moment of reflection, Dr Velour placed a firm hand on my bare shoulder. A shot of electricity ran through my body. My breath quickened; my nipples hardened, but I was confused. Velour was a woman.
I had classified myself as a heterosexual. That’s what it said on my marriage license in the statistical section — a totally private declaration not available to the public or even to `my partner,’ but of course was available to the advertisers who loaded down our mailbox.
Dr Velour remarked, “Much of what we do here in the clinic to some outsiders may seem a semantic shuffle. It is unlawful for say a brother and sister to have sex, but a client seeking certain features might request a sister be inseminated by her brother’s sperm.”
“Hmm, perfectly legal?” I inquired.
“Yes, but what are the ethics,” Dr Velour continued the hypothetical, “of inseminating a woman with sperm from a male with whom she could not legally have sex? From the perspective of your discipline, could you prepare me an opinion of whether we should tell the sister that she’s being inseminated by her brother? Are you up to it?”
“A project of that nature would be difficult, lasting well beyond the few days I have left in school — and in this internship.” I was reminded of Jerry’s gut — wrenching question. Also, to graduate, I had finals to study for. I daringly raised the issue, “Could this project lead to a permanent job?”
With a pleasant smile, Dr Velour announced, “Perhaps, then I should consider rounding out your experience here at the clinic. I think it’s time to advance your nurse – trainees’ group to the next level, the female’s body. The female body, like the female mind, is far more complex. I’ll summon the rest of the group to meet downstairs in the theatre.”
Inside the shower, Dr Velour seemed to vanish into the misty droplets that permeated the room before it condensed in dips on the tiled wall. I guessed Dr Velour was in a hurry to accomplish some tasks before a training session. After rinsing off, I told the clerk, “I need scrubs for Dr Velour’s Nursing Assistant training.”
“Next level?” To my nod, the Clerk advised with a pleasant smile, “Congratulations, promoted to tend to females.” A disarming smile filled her face when she reminded me, “With each little step the next one becomes that much easier.”
“Now, if that leads to a full — time job after graduation …” I shook my head.
“Today,” the clerk noted as she handed me a package, “you get the Nursing Assistant’s full kit—scrubs, your very own plastic name tag, granny panties, bra and white sneakers.”
“I suppose I could attach the plastic name tag to the Shower Siren’s top — the white bikini top the girl who works the donor’s shower sports, but,” I smiled, “there’s something—a special eh — different appeal—to the nurse’s scrubs,” I remarked as I accepted the uniform. “Clothing defines the person and their role.”
On the couch with Jerry, I tried to conceal my delight over Jerry’s present of harem girl pajamas. Holding the bottoms in front of me, I tried to assume a clinical tone in my comment, “tight at the waist and ankle, puffing out in between. Thin waist band may have trouble holding the bottoms up.”
To Jerry’s smile, I shook my head. “I guess they’re not intended to stay up. But this bra,” I pulled the two ends to test it, “Cotton, no elastic, do you think this bra is sturdy enough to bind my wrists.”
Jerry responded with a devilish grin. Tilting my head, I smiled. “I guess you prefer to whip these PJs off my body to use me like a whore.” With an evil smile, I added, “I should be proud to türkçe bahis accept this gift as your candid appraisal of eh — my talents, quite a complement.”
“Clothing does add something,” Jerry quipped, “even if I don’t figure that you’ll need it all night long.”
Receiving the scrubs from the clerk reporting in after showering at the Fertility Clinic, I reflected, “Scrubs do lend an air of authority.” My comment drew a polite half smile and a nod.
Fully dressed in fresh scrubs, I walked with an air of confidence as passed by co-workers moving toward the ramp that led to the subsurface level gym, pool and theatre. Trading pleasantries, I enthusiastically declared, “class exercises today, Introduction to Female Anatomy.”
When I entered the small theatre next to Dr Velour’s office, the other nursing assistant trainees, Cassie, employed by the clinic’s gym, muscles bulging under short sleeved scrubs, Pat, the big breasted college girl, participating in an experiment at the Clinic and dark-haired Beth the oldest of the group had previously acted as a surrogate mother. All turned their heads to look when I entered, as if they had been waiting. Waiting for what? I wondered. What was up?
On stage, Dr Velour stood hand resting on a gynecological table. “Amy,” Dr Velour beckoned to me in a pleasant but officious tone, “how good of you to join us.” To her left side in a corner of the stage rested a 5′ x 5′ white privacy screen. Inviting me on the stage, Dr Velour announced, “Ladies, our study of anatomy of the female begins. Amy, would you go behind the screen, disrobe and put on a gown for us.”
I shook my head. “Why did you waste time by having me dress?” I allowed a tone of annoyance of enter my voice. “An anatomical model needs no costume.”
“The gown is optional, Amy,” Dr Velour, raising her eyebrows, snapped, “at your discretion.”
“You’re going to poke and prod,” I replied, “the gown will just be getting in the way.”
Undressing quickly behind the screen, I dismissed the fear that I was being submissive. Jerry taught me that he got over the rigors of the Marine Corps by responding enthusiastically to outrageous orders and overdoing it. “They’re trying to cow you. But, if you show you can’t be humiliated, they’ll think you’re crazy and leave you alone.”
Emerging from behind the screen, I held my arms out, “TA – DA!” The faces of the nurse — trainees fell; Even Dr Velour looked away. No one laughed. I had humiliated them. “I’ve exhibited my virtues. What’s next?” I demanded.
After a deep breath, Dr Velour recovered from her surprise. “Lesson One is prepping, but first we have an initial evaluation,” Dr Velour pointed to my hair “hair clean, skin clear, breasts symmetric, no obvious discoloration of the nipples. You’ll notice Amy has untamed pubic hair, slightly darker than her auburn hair.”
Ordered to turn around, I felt a tingle when Dr Velour laid sturdy hands on my bare shoulders and grabbed the flesh around my hips. Tickling me by running a fingernail down my spine, Dr Velour complimented me, “good posture.”
Stood on a scale on the right side of the stage, I measured in at 5 — 2 and weighed 115 pounds. I jumped when Dr Velour placed the cold steel of the stethoscope against my bare chest wall to listen to my heartbeat. With a playful, slap on my bare tush, she ordered me up on the table. I felt my fanny with great exaggeration like a chastised child.
Placing my feet in the stirrups, Dr Velour invited the other trainees on stage. “To examine the vulva, the female’s external genitalia thoroughly, there is only one way: first remove the pubic hair.” Leaning over to address me, Dr Velour asked my permission, “Is that OK with you, Amy?”
I had already decided to co-operate. “I’m willing for the cause of — science, but what do I tell my guy?” I asked in an exaggerated plaintive voice.
Momentarily stunned, Dr Velour hesitated. After a delay, she spoke, “You may tell your guy. `I was lucky,” Dr Velour took a breath, “`I wasn’t shaved. My curly mess was trimmed by an experienced person, not a trainee and the hair was vaporized by a gentle cream.”
Turning to her audience, Dr Velour discoursed, “In the course of human evolution, hairless bodies with smooth, clear skin signalled good health. Even though women are naturally less hirsute, sexual selection, ie attraction of a mate, may be the female’s hidden agenda in her preference for bare pubes. Motivations and preferences are your field, Amy.” Dr Velour threw the question back to me, “Do you have any thoughts?”
“As far as male donors,” I replied, “and female surrogates, the clinic insists that all females participating in our programs as well as male donors be shorn — With the male a clean pubic region assures that the iron jock strap fit snuggly. Also, it makes visual examination of the reproductive organs easier — for signs of infection or injuries.”
“In the outside world,” Dr Velour lectured, “some women and men remove body hair for aesthetic purposes; güvenilir bahis siteleri others for hygienic purposes; still many others as a matter of arbitrary choice. Soon, each of you will begin depilating the body hair of a patient. However, first you must watch it done. Amy, with your permission, I’m going to depilate your pubic hair.” When I deliberately hesitated, Dr Velour prodded me, “Are you ready?”
“I hear short skirts are coming back,” I replied enthusiastically, “this is free grooming.”
“First, we comb the pubes for lose hair from the external genitalia, the perineum under the vaginal orifice and the perianal skin around the anus. Pat,” Dr Velour calling the college girl forward, “You’re in the milk induction study and regularly are groomed here. Could you show Amy how it’s done?” When Pat snatched the fine – toothed comb, Dr Velour, grasping Pat’s hand to guide Pat through the tangled web over my pubic mound, pleasantly reminded her, “gently.”
Summoned to the stage, Cassie was handed a damp rag and told to clean my pubic region. “This will remove whatever loose hairs and dirt the comb did not pick up.” Beth was invited to scissor clip my bush. Beth pleasantly chattered away before she left me with stubble. “Good bedside manner,” Dr Velour complimented Beth, “Now I’ll take over and apply the cream.”
Taking a small jar of cream, “nothing works better than my own special concoction,” Dr Velour assured me. “I’m going to rub the depilatory cream into the inguinal crease, the boundary, often hairy, between the thigh and the pelvis.” The sensation was pleasant when she worked the cream into the crease massaging the outer edge of my vaginal lips in the process.
When I reacted to her circular motions rubbing the cream in an arc across my mound, by attempting to rear up my butt, struggling against the stirrups, she, in comforting almost hypnotic tones whispered, “Close your eyes. Relax. Breathe easily. Think of yourself somewhere else with your guy, except he’s doing it your way.”
Her voice — or was it some property in the cream — sent me into an altered state. I chose not to fight it. I was vaguely aware that Dr Velour was addressing the ladies, “While we wait for the depilatory cream did as instructed, we can continue to study the vulva, older texts may call the area between the legs the pudendum. In the center is the vestibule of the vaginal orifice. Superior to the vaginal vestibule is the urinary orifice and the clitoris, the analogue to the male penis, and the seat of much — eh — eh –,” she giggled, “mischief.”
I’m pretty sure she smiled as a gloved finger prodded the clitoris. “Distal to the vaginal,” Dr Velour expounded, “vestibule are the vaginal lips or labia, the fleshy folds that surround the opening the vagina. Hair can grow in the pudendal cleft the crease or crevice between the ridges of the major and minor labia. Let me work some cream there.”
My heart was palpitating as she worked the crease between the vaginal lips. “The inner lips,” Dr Velour taught, “the labia minora link up superior to the clitoris at the frenulum or prepuce and inferior to the clitoris at the glans clitoridis or clitoral hood.”
I was there, listening to the lecture, but no longer cared anymore. I was hoovering on the edge of an orgasm when Dr Velour’s nimble fingers outlines the folds around the clitoral hood. “Inferior to the vaginal vestibule are the perineum and the anal cavity,” Dr Velour addressed the trainees, “still covered in the depilatory cream.”
Reaching for a clean towel, Dr Velour, dowsing the cloth in alcohol, handed the hand cloth to Beth, muttering at low breath, “finish her off.” The lecture continued; Dr Velour droned on, “future lectures will address how the complexity of the female reproductive tracts, why the old wive’s adage `Good fucks make babies,’ has a certain validity but I, for the moment, lets concentration on the fun part where it begins at the lower end of the reproductive tract….”
The presentation continued. How long had I rested on the gynecological slab? I’m not sure. My body experienced waves of convulsions, the seismic eruptions of intense orgasms. I faded into a euphoria. As I came to, a penlight was shining in my eyes. Behind the glare, Dr Velour’s face was hoovering over me. Her fingers had pried open my eyelids.
Regaining consciousness, I found myself drenched in sweat. Still woozy, lifting my head slightly to look down at my pubes, I find them wiped clean and bare. When Dr Velour turned off her light, I looked around. The other trainees were gone but Dr Velour was ready with a hand to help me to my feet. “They’ll each get their turn,” Dr Velour assured me.
I was tempted to say that I had gotten the best part of this sexercise. Indeed, I should hope the other girls will have as much fun, but held back when I looked in her eyes. Could I read an emotion — concern or fear perhaps — off her face? Had Dr Velour expected this stimulating sex-ercise to go this far? Something would move in my favor.
Dr Velour expressed confidence that I’d come to appreciate “every facet of the significance that we covered in the lesson today,” With a sigh she mumbled, “particularly in that full time job I’ll give you when you graduate.”
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