An Incident at the Clinic

It's an old story, but it's still vivid in my memory. Sharp. I was an eighteen-year-old greenhorn, a first-year student. I had a girlfriend, a classmate. We trained together seven times a day wherever we could and couldn't. I was all fired up, and then she left for the summer holidays to her native foothills of the northern Caucasus range. I was left alone in the dreary contemplation of my unclaimed potential. I lost sleep, and if I did sleep, I had nightmares like the one mentioned in the previous post. Women liked me, I know. Why? Nature didn't shortchange me; by those years, I was already playing as a forward for the Leningrad "Burevestnik" (Class "A") team,

volleyball. But I wasn't trained to approach women on the street. Words got stuck in my throat, and nothing but something like "moo-moo" could be squeezed out. Friends sympathetically suggested I pretend to be a deaf-mute cripple and get a chest placard to that effect (it's no secret, women are drawn to invalids), but that didn't fit into my early ethical views. The institute girls openly flirted with me, but I was afraid of provocations. I valued my girlfriend; we ended up getting married later. That's not the point now. Losing sleep, I could also lose my spot on the team; you can't play well when you're a boiled mess. So I went to a nerve doctor for treatment. I'm sitting in the queue, all old ladies around, nowhere to rest my eyes. Awkward. What can you expect from them, these white dandelions, but me, an eighteen-year-old stallion, here I am, just like them, a psycho. I wanted to run away. Oppressive.

Suddenly, the door swings open noisily, and from there...

Mamma mia! Now that's exclusive! No, Sophia Loren is far from her. That one's on screen, but this one—here, in the flesh, within arm's reach. The same slanted almond-shaped gray eyes and narrow nose with a slight hump, the same black-reddish hair. Everything was tight on this superstar. The blouse utterly refused to contain the overripe melons of her breasts; the brown circles of her nipples bulged carnivorously through the transparent fabric. The skirt... it was ready to burst on its own, even without my gaze. I froze, unable to look away or extinguish the engulfing fire. She threw some final irritated words at the doctor, indifferently-disgustedly scanned the queue, and lingered for a moment on me. I lost my breath.

I caught a shadow of an encouraging smile (it can't be! imagined it? no way, definitely!), and she was already hurriedly walking, rather, running towards the exit stairs. How wonderfully the multicolored curls trembled on her shoulders, how tight the narrow panties were on her, blatantly pushing her body through the thin fabric. Does such underwear even exist that could completely contain these luxurious forms, heavily shifting under the vainly guarding material? A wind washed over me, infused with some unheard-of, not-yet-invented perfumes, a spring birch forest, and I, no longer obeying reason, stood up.

I watched her rapidly receding narrow back, astonishingly thin waist, shapely calves, on one of which a small birthmark blued. Without thinking, I moved to follow. I forgot about the queue. I walked, head bowed, and greedily sniffed the trail of her scent in the corridor, like a despicable male dog after a bitch in heat, having absolutely no idea or thought of what would happen next. She disappeared behind some door—I didn't have time to notice which—and I stopped in confusion. I looked back. The old women were mockingly watching me. And one of them screeched that I was being called.

Oh, how I envied that puny, pimply boy-neurologist, whose hands still exuded her magical fluids. And this guy, undoubtedly a recent C-student, directs me to a procedure called a "circular shower."

I won't tire the reader with a description of this torture device; I hope everyone knows it. I'll just say I felt a deep disgust for it. Not only did I have to pull out a wooden stand for Lilliputians from under the bottom of this moonshine apparatus each time, and the wooden piece wouldn't give up without a fight, but also a pensioner-aged nurse in a white coat irritably gave instructions while I stood with my back to her in an immodest pose, hopelessly trying to follow them. Then, in an informational-station-announcer voice, she issued commands like: "Patient, don't cover yourself, this isn't a bathhouse, I'm medical staff. Don't stand still, turn around..." and then something about active points. If only she knew that by that period, all of mine had pathologically descended to the lower abdomen, and what that entailed. Fortunately, the old woman's shouts, like whip lashes, cooled the flesh trying to rebel.

Moreover, the cramped anteroom at the entrance was shared with women, and this was perhaps the most oppressive ordeal. I never met any men there, but these wrinkled ladies examined me point-blank, almost through a lorgnette, without any visible embarrassment, as a rare specimen of the male sex and age from the variety *homo sapiens*, no, more like some fossil reptile. Sometimes I heard: "Look at him, so young, just a boy, and already... what's happening these days, where are we headed? Oh dear..." Then the anteroom split, and I, mentally relieved, sat alone in the male bunker waiting for the entry signal. You were supposed to enter naked.

The old woman's table was positioned sideways opposite the door, and from it to the left stretched a rubber mat to the aforementioned torture machine. Thank God, this was my last procedure. The old woman stuck her head out the door and screeched: "Any more men? Don't be shy!"

And then came the long-awaited fanfare of the finale—the entry bell. I pushed the door and stepped over the damp threshold. Only upon hearing the old woman's shout: "Patient, I didn't call you!" did I raise my eyes and see...

With her back to me, a few steps away, stood a naked woman. That is, absolutely naked. Moreover, she was unsuccessfully trying to perform the thankless task intended for me—to extract that damned stand from under the rusty iron. Her body was bent over to the floor, her breasts shuddering from the futile tugs. An arc of electric welding blinded the wet buttocks with a narrow triangle of sun-untouched skin, traces of a reddish, neatly trimmed beard between them, and that place which was meant to be covered, and below, the shapely calves, the familiar birthmark.

I squeezed my eyes shut, and then everything was like in a fog.

The woman turned around. She looked up at me in surprise from below, gasped, straightened up, and quickly strode, yes-yes, towards me—where else could she go but the exit. She was pressing the peaks of her breasts, the marble flesh of which treacherously seeped through the thin, splayed fingers with manicured nails, and I, not knowing what to do, where to go, froze, covering the shamefully shriveled pathetic organ with my palms, and couldn't tear my eyes away from her body. She walked along the narrow rubber mat towards the doors, not raising her eyes, her nostrils flared, and a meter from me, she threw such an angrily-scorching look in my face that I, already insignificant, felt like a complete scoundrel and in great confusion retreated onto the cold ceramic tile floor. Oh, that smell! With an incredible effort, I restrained myself from looking back.

And then the old woman's shout lashed my back: "Where are you barging in, patient, I didn't call you. But since you've intruded, don't stand there like an idol, proceed to the procedure!" Shrinking and continuing to cover my shame, I stood under the hot jets. On the stand, which she hadn't managed to pull out. Now my heels cover the imprints of her feet, the jets hit her most active points, and they are all over me. I closed my eyes, caught the magical fluids... an obsession, her body is nearby, I clearly see it in that very pose fixed by my gaze. From afar, through the veil of water and the whistle of nozzles, I hear the familiar commands: "Patient, turn around! Remove your hands! Don't cover the active zones, how many times do I have to tell you! This isn't a bathhouse! After all, I am medical staff!" These phrases suddenly take on another, perversely-lustful meaning. Fine, you're medical staff, I'm a mental patient. No one asks much from such, don't blame me, old woman, if something's not right.

I completely surrendered to the sensations. I distinctly saw before me huge buttocks, the gap between the thighs, and there... *hot target*. Meanwhile, the jets slammed into my sides, stomach, groin. There was no strength or desire to evade. Sweet waves rose upward, my member swelled and lengthened to indecency. I removed my hand, as the old woman demanded. I turned, as she wished. Interesting, if you stripped this hag of her robe and sat her on a stool. That's how she would appear before me in black lace garters with a demandingly-playful look and a spread, craving entrance. I stopped restraining myself, I didn't even try to shield myself from the jets, on the contrary. I exposed myself to their itching drills, in oblivion I felt no shame. The slowly kindling fire finally, with a jerk, engulfed my lower abdomen. I knew how it would all end, but I stopped caring, come what may. My skin broke out in goosebumps, precursor spasms throbbed below, ominously warning of the outcome. There was no strength left to hold back the dam.

Suddenly, the jets weakened and disappeared. I heard from there, from a parallel world: "Patient, take your procedure sheet." I came to. Yes, it was her, the old woman's voice, strained, unusually muffled. She was sitting in her chair, head bowed low, scribbling something on paper. With difficulty, as after a heavy sleep, I headed towards her. Thank God, she didn't raise her eyes: the member, swollen to monstrously hard forms, swayed from side to side and, spurred by convulsions, bounced as I walked. I dared not touch it, cover it, to avoid causing the irreversible. I reached out to the pile of sheets on the edge of the table. Disobedient fingers pushed away the needed certificate, I reached for it and involuntarily leaned on the back of her chair. And then...

It was a long time ago, but I remember it in detail to this day. I was very afraid of meeting her at the clinic afterwards. Funny, isn't it?

Author's e-mail: аnа6186@yаndеx.ru