Sorry for the delay in getting this out. It involves some fetishes that I am not personally familiar with, so I had to do some intense and very arousing research. This is a long chapter folks, so grab a beverage or something. 
The next two after this, which will finish out the series, will be much shorter. (In fact, part 8 is already written. I’m just hoping a female erotica writing peer will be able to glance at it and give me some input before I post it. But if she can’t, it will be up by early next week regardless.)
The Doctor Is In
By Smokedawg
(Part 7 of “Seven Sins” – Click Here for list of all current chapters)
We woke around the same time that next morning, and it was odd for me to greet the day with a pair of tits, and the remainder of my smeared and smudged makeup on my face. Oh, and the long strawberry-blond hair was new to wake to as well—I was amazed that the wig had stayed put all night.
“I’ll take my shower first and get the coffee and stuff going,” she said, and then pointed to the vanity table. “You might want to get some cold cream and start taking off your makeup before you shower. Would my sexy little bitch-slut like an omelet this morning?”
“Your little bitch slut—and thanks for calling me sexy—would love that. I enjoy dining on anything you have to offer me,” I responded, my gaze drifting over everything from her waist down.
“As you’ve proven over and over these past four nights,” she answered with a wink.
Later, when I walked into the kitchen, my wife looked at me through the steam from the coffee cup perched at her lips, and tilted her head—seeming to be examining me. I realized that out of habit, I had put on my old robe, and not the silky pink number she had bought me yesterday.
“Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry honey. I’ll go back and put on the little pink one.” I amazed myself at how easily those words rolled off my tongue, and how natural it felt to say them.
She laughed and then wiped her eyes, smiling. “No, no, no,” she said. “You’re fine, my darling. I was just looking at you and recalling last night, and realizing that when we make you over like that, you really are a whole different person. My horny little lesbian Amy with the monstrous and explosive clit. No, you’re not a woman today. Not for any of my next three nights of surprises, either. In fact, we’ll only be femme-ing you up a few times a week, at most. I’m still inclined toward having a husband, not a wife.”
I felt an odd sensation in the back of my head when she said the last part—the conflicting feelings of relief and disappointment. It was a jarring sensation. I sat down to drink my coffee, and she went to put my omelet on a plate for me. She watched me while I ate, sipping her coffee, and then smiled mysteriously.
“Today, I will need you gone most of the day,” she said. “I’m expecting several deliveries, and they all involve tonight’s festivities, and I don’t want the surprise ruined. I’m going to have our guest bedroom turned into a very adult playroom temporarily. In a few weeks, a crew will be coming by to begin an expansion on our house—a nice roomy addition that will be our permanent playroom. Something larger so that I can have all sorts of toys and themes.”
Deliveries. Plural. Just like the delivery of the bondage rack before, I realized. And the sudden appearance of a prosthetic pair of breasts last night—something that my wife had to have ordered weeks in advance. It was clear to me now that all of this had been planned long ago. Perhaps beginning shortly after I let slip about my intense smoking fetish. After I gave her the leverage she needed. The hook that she could use to lift me up and set me square in the middle of her dark fantasies.
I was still a little frightened, as there were three more kinks to go; she was having things delivered that were big enough to fill up the modest guest bedroom; and I couldn’t help but notice that each night, her fantasies pushed my boundaries farther. Each new kink was more intense and provocative than the last. She was building toward something. I longed to find out what it was, but that didn’t stop me from being a little concerned about it, too.
Between mouthfuls of her wonderful cheese omelet, I asked, “So, is there anything in particular you want me to do to keep myself busy?”
“Well, for one thing, you can buy me cigarettes, and lots of them. I’m liking this little habit, and maybe getting just a bit of a fetish for it myself,” she said. “Or maybe I always did and have been hiding that fact all along. Maybe I’ve been a closet fetish smoker all this time and you got me to agree to something I would have done willingly anyway, and chained yourself to my kinky desires in the process. Wouldn’t that be wicked of me?”
“Yes, it would,” I said, and there is no way she could have missed the way my voice deepened just a bit in arousal, my body feeling a rush of hormones at the thought of how wicked she had been already, and how much more wicked she might yet become.
“You can pick the brands. And yes, I mean brands—plural. It’s your fetish mostly, and you should have a hand in picking them from now on. In fact, I give you carte blanche, as long as you steer clear of unfiltered cigarettes and big cigars. I’m a lady, and I want you to keep that in mind. As for other errands I want you to do, I’ll make a list, but first will be to go to your job today, and clear out your stuff. Leave a resignation note on your desk.”
“You want me to quit my job?”
“Yes, I think things will work much better if we free up your time. More ability for us to play, and for you to help run things for me around the house. Besides, you’ll be making appearances once a week or so at my offices as Amy. I have work for her. Real work. And fun work behind closed doors, too.”
The thought both thrilled and terrified me. “Don’t you think your staff will…”
“They won’t catch on. And if they do, so much more the guilty thrill for you. Shame seems to put some interesting twists on your libido, all of them appealing to me. For your first few visits to the office, you’ll just act shy and not talk above a mumble. I doubt that will be much of a stretch, since you’ll be embarrassed anyway. I’m hiring a voice coach to help you work on a female voice; you’ll be starting with him next week. I’ll be even happier screwing ‘Amy’ when she sounds girly.”
“Don’t you think we should have two incomes, especially in this economy?”
“Why? I own and run my own business. We bought this house outright, and we didn’t get an extravagant one. Both of our cars are modest and efficient—and paid for. We haven’t lived lavishly and haven’t borrowed against our equity. Neither of us wants kids. We don’t even have pets. If my company tanked tomorrow, we could live lean for three years on what we have in savings. Not that we’d have to resort to that, because one of us would find work soon enough. Besides, you can do some part-time consulting or freelance work to keep up your résumé and keep yourself in the game. I don’t have enough tasks to give you to occupy all your time. I just don’t want you tied to your boss’ whims.”
“All right,” I said. It felt odd to give up my full-time career, but I couldn’t find the will—or a reason, for that matter, to argue. I’d still be working, just half the time for myself and half the time for my wife. “I’ll go free myself of my boss’ whims today.”
“Because, you know, I need you dedicated to my whims, and available to fulfill them at my will,” she said quietly and firmly. “Till death do us part.”
* * *
When I returned home much later that day, with the evening approaching, an unfamiliar car sat in our driveway, and I found myself doubting highly that it was some unexpected visitor. Whatever my wife had planned, it involved the assistance of someone else. The only question that remained was whether the assistant would be leaving before things began, or if I was going to have to endure the humiliation of an audience for whatever tonight held for me.
And would that be so bad if there was an audience? Would it make things more enjoyable?
When I opened the front door and walked into my house, the sight that beheld me simply befuddled me. There in our foyer was a small desk, complete with computer, telephone and a few file folders—and behind that desk, a nurse.
A wire had been run up almost at ceiling level, along the near edge of our living room so that my wife could hang a long, lightweight curtain there to hide it from view. Whether she had surprises waiting there for me behind it or whether this was simply to enhance the illusion that I had entered some kind of medical office or clinic was as yet unclear.
The nurse smiled as I approached, unfazed by my confused expression—no doubt because she was playing a role, and had been warned that I would not know what to expect when I arrived home.
She wasn’t precisely what I would call pretty, but she had a very cute face, so she wasn’t hard on the eyes, with shoulder-length, black hair, bright blue eyes, and dimples to accent her warm grin. My wife’s previous behavior might have led me to expect some kinky or erotic-style nurse’s uniform on the woman, but the outfit looked very much like one that any working nurse would wear.
“Mr. Smith, you’re right on time for your appointment,” she said, and whether she had any idea that my name wasn’t Smith—or whether she cared—was something I couldn’t begin to read on her face.
But it was clear that I was supposed to be Mr. Smith for tonight’s escapades, so I simply nodded and said, “Yes.”
She picked up one of the file folders from her desk, still smiling, and extended her arm toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. “Well, there is no wait for the doctor today, so let’s head straight for the examination room, shall we?”
What else could I do? I followed, and admired her very round, full ass as I did.
When we reached what had once been the guest bedroom—and I supposed would be again in a couple months—the nurse opened the door and ushered me inside. What greeted me looked every bit like a physician’s examination room. Even the small half-bathroom connected to the bedroom, as I could see through the ajar door, had been stripped of homey decorations and now looked totally utilitarian.
Once we were inside the “exam room,” she closed the door. “Dr. Jones will be along soon, but she has left me with instructions to begin taking your information and vitals,” the woman said.
Smith and Jones. Well, knowing my wife had more originality than that even on a bad day, I took it for the subtle joke that it was. Or perhaps it was the kinky-evening-with-hired-nurse-in-house equivalent of signing in at a motel with a false name like “John Doe.”
“Of course, um, Nurse…”
“Betty,” she said. “You can just call me Betty. No need for titles with me, though I wouldn’t suggest calling Dr. Jones by her first name.”
Betty. Of course. The woman looked very much like fetish pinup legend Bettie Page, but with slightly shorter hair, and “Nurse Betty” was one of my wife’s favorite movies. Or maybe, just maybe, her name really was Betty. I doubted I would ever know for sure, knowing my wife. Especially now, knowing my wife in this newer, more mysterious version that she was so confidently growing into.
The whole situation was made all the more surreal and unnerving by the fact that Betty was indeed acting like a nurse normally would. She asked all the standard “getting to know your medical history” questions, she took my blood pressure and checked my eyes and ears and throat and, perhaps most unnerving of all, took a blood sample. No doubt that caused my blood pressure to skyrocket, but I kept reminding myself that my wife would hardly have gone to all this trouble and then hired someone who didn’t know how to use a needle.
“Oh,” Nurse Betty said at last. “I will need you to strip now. You can put your clothes on the table over there.”
I complied, wondering when my wife was going to come into play as the physician, and wondering just how far this would go, given the realism that had gone into this so far. I stood there in my underwear and socks, and Betty looked at me with a charmingly scolding little shake of her head. “Tsk, tsk, Mr. Smith. Surely we made clear to you when you scheduled this appointment that you needed to be compliant with all of our directions and therapies. I said to strip. Down to the skin, sir.”
I pulled off my socks, and finally, reluctantly—not having been seen completely naked by a woman other than my wife since my bachelor party years before—took off my boxer shorts as well.
“Excellent. Boxers are an excellent choice, Mr. Smith. So cruel when men crowd their testicles into those tighty whities. After all, it’s only the women who should restrain a man’s block and tackle, right?”
I flushed then, I’m sure, and I doubt that only my cheeks turned pink and then red, knowing now without question that this woman was fully aware of what kind of evening this was, and was my wife’s aide and accomplice in a most intimate game.
“Now, I will need to take your temperature, Mr. Smith. Please, if you would, bend over the end of the exam table.”
I did so, gripping each side of the table lightly, feeling incredibly exposed with my bare ass in the air for this stranger to see. Figuring that I should at least attempt to be an active part of the scene being played out, I asked, “Couldn’t we just take my temperature orally?”
“Oh, men, always so interested in oral, and so skittish about anal—at least with their own bodies. Of course, Dr. Jones’ records indicate that you’ve been previously…acclimated to anal probing,” Betty said, sliding one latex-gloved had across my ass slowly.
I shivered then, not with fear but with the suddenness of this change from a very typical nurse to one that knew far too much about me, and was being far too personal. My cock had begun to stir slightly, and I felt myself flush even hotter at that knowledge.
I felt a sudden, cool sensation against the clenched bud of my ass, and then a slick sensation as a generous glob of KY jelly or Vaseline was smeared there. And then I felt the thermometer slide home, very slowly. After having had my anus invaded multiple times recently by my wife, digitally and with dildos, I had no problem accepting this small intrusion. And I think Betty knew that, or was told to expect some ease, because she was doing her utmost to prolong the process, and then started swirling the device in lazy spirals, one of her thumbs simultaneously tracing firm spirals on my left butt cheek. I realized that it seemed larger that it should be, and wondered what kind of thermometer was in my ass.
It took her at least 10 minutes to take my temperature, which was certainly far longer than needed. I mentioned that to her somewhere around the halfway mark, and she shushed me harshly, so I didn’t make any further comment. Satisfied that she’d “taken my temperature” to what was likely my wife’s satisfaction, she pulled out he thermometer suddenly with a moist popping sound, and instructed me to sit up on the exam table. The sterile paper strip down the middle of it crinkled as I did so, and my ass, very over-lubed, stuck to it with a greasy clinging sensation.
“So, Mr. Smith, you have expressed to us a problem with recent ‘exhaustion’ of your genitals and slightly impacted bowels,” Nurse Betty offered. I couldn’t help but notice the way she emphasized the word “impacted,” letting me know she knew precisely was kind of “impact” my ass had been receiving recently, and from whom. As for the exhaustion of my genitals, I had to admit that as amazing as the past several nights had been, I wasn’t used to having sex every day, and sometimes with more than one release, and wasn’t entirely sure at what point my penis would just tucker out.
Knowing that I was supposed to simply play along, I said, meekly, “Yes, those are my medical concerns, Betty.”
“Well, we are going to attend to both problems, Mr. Smith. The therapies are intense and very personal…I mean, personalized…to your needs,” she said with a slight leer in her voice.
“Nurse, is the patient ready?” my wife said from just outside the room, and I heard a familiar clicking noise as well. “I’m quite busy.”
“Yes, Dr. Jones. I do believe Mr. Smith is quite ready for the first phase of therapy, the genital stimulation treatment.”
“Good,” my wife said, entering the room. She was wearing a white physician’s coat and stethoscope over a lacy white bodice, short gray suede skit, white stockings and high-heeled ivory shoes. She stopped, exhaled a plume of smoke, and stood there looking me over, her hand cocked femininely beside her face and smoke rising in slow, sinuous threads up toward the ceiling.
The incongruity of a doctor smoking in her office—even though I knew my wife was no physician and this was no clinic—struck me hard in my libido. It was such a wrong image, and yet played right into my fetish. The fact that the cigarette was being held by a purple nitrile exam glove simply added to the effect. I suspect her use of the smoking was mostly to soften me up and make me less willing to fight what was to come, but I wasn’t about to complain.
The so-called Dr. Jones sauntered over to me, inhaling more smoke and leaving a stain of burgundy lipstick on the white filter, and began to examine my erect penis and firm balls with one purple-gloved hand as she blew smoke down around them. She was slow and thorough with the examination, and lovingly gentle. The almost-slick feel of the thin exam glove added a special thrill to her touches. Totally inappropriate physician behavior, and I decided the least I could do was play along, and react “appropriately.”
“Dr. Jones, I feel somewhat uncomfortable with this examination,” I said, and I wasn’t entirely acting when I said that, as I could only guess at what was in store if the theme was medical for tonight’s kinkiness, and was indeed a little nervous. “Both you and Betty seem to have very intimate knowledge of me, and you seem to be getting a bit more intimate as time goes on.”
“Yes, we do, and yes, we are,” my wife answered, blowing a soft stream of smoke toward my mouth. “You wife has briefed us on certain aspects of your case and provided some suggestions for therapeutic interventions.”
“Also, I wonder about the healthiness of smoking in a doctor’s office,” I said, my voice wavering not from fear but from the way that ‘Dr. Jones’ was now more firmly massaging my scrotum. “And why is my wife providing input? Don’t we have doctor-patient confidentiality?”
“Mr. Smith, smoking is a very important part of our therapy here, as we have been told it makes you tractable, and I do so want to have you calm for our procedures, without having to have Betty give you a shot of something stronger in your buttocks,” Dr. Jones answered, continuing to act as if she wasn’t my wife. To punctuate my wife’s point, Betty picked up a hypodermic needle that was filled with something—it might have been saline solution or might actually be some kind of drug, and I was suddenly feeling real concern again at how far my wife might be willing to go with all of this. “As for confidentiality, I can promise you that what happens in this exam room, stays in this exam room. Except that your wife will know everything. And isn’t that a woman’s right, Mr. Smith? To call the shots, and to know all?”
My wife was stroking my cock now, the purple glove contrasting with my skin, and she drew deeply on her cigarette again, and bathed my face in a generous plume of smoke.
“I understand, doctor,” I said, somewhat shakily, and silently let her continue the “examination” as Nurse Betty began to attach some sort of soft fabric cuffs to my ankles and then to my wrists. After a couple minutes of feeding me her smoke, but drawing short of giving me actual smoky kisses, she stubbed out the smoldering butt, and smiled. “I think you’re ready, Mr. Smith, for phase one.”
With that, I heard a click to my right, and as I looked down to see that my right wrist was now clipped to the exam table, an identical click sounded to my left, and then Betty proceeded to secure both my ankles as well. I was now locked to the table. My wife, as Dr. Jones, spread my 
thighs apart gently but firmly with her gloved hands, and then Betty wrapped some kind of soft strips of material around each thigh and then tied them off to some clips or rings beneath the edge of the table, ensuring that I couldn’t close my legs. My cock and balls were now totally exposed to them. I was helpless, and my mind wandered back to my leather bondage that first night of our “seven sins” pact.
“Mr. Smith, this is a TENS unit,” Betty said, holding up a rectangular device that looked like it could be a voltage meter, or large smart phone, or strange remote control, or almost anything electronic. “Transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulation device. It is used to send electrical impulses to certain parts of the body to block pain signals, to help patients deal with chronic pain. It can also be used to deliver electrostimulation to various parts of the body with the use of electrodes or probes. Especially if it’s been modified for slightly more ‘oomph,’ as this one has.”
My heart began to beat a bit faster, both in curiosity and growing concern. “You’re going to shock me?” I asked tremulously.
“Nothing so crude as that,” my wife said, stroking one of my thighs, and attaching an electrode to each of my testicles, both of which were attached by wires to a TENS device of her own. “This is not some kind of electro-shock therapy, Mr. Smith. This is not about aversion but about…stimulation.”
As she spoke, Nurse Betty was sliding some kind of ring down the shaft of my penis, and then tightened it slightly as she reached the base of it.
“Electrostimulation,” Betty said, and turned on her unit.
My heart leaped into my chest at first with worry, but then my panicked gasp was replaced by a surprised “Oh.” And then a low “Mmmmm” coming unbidden from my lips a little later, and shortly thereafter, moans.
It had started as a light tingling sensation. It didn’t sting. It wasn’t a tickle. It wasn’t an itch. I don’t know how to describe it, but it felt a little like dozens of tiny little fingers on my cock, prodding and teasing at my flesh.
And then she increased the level of stimulation apparently, and it felt more like my cock was buzzing. It was as if my own skin had been turned into a low-level vibrator. My hips began to gyrate in lusty reaction to this, the paper beneath my ass crinkling loudly.
And then Betty turned it up again a few minutes later, and my cock was throbbing. But it wasn’t like I was being given a handjob. Instead, the throbbing seemed as much inside my penis as around the outside of it. “Oh, God,” I said, my ass grinding against the table more firmly as I found myself wishing I could touch myself; hoping someone else would soon to finish me off and make me come. The paper on the exam table, stuck to my ass from the remains of the lube from my earlier examination, began to rip and tear, and I could feel the leather of the table—or whatever material it was—against my skin now.
“Nurse, I do believe the patient is responding well,” my wife said, a purring note of satisfaction in her throat. “I believe it is time to activate my unit.”
I had forgotten that she had one as well, and gasped as she turned it on, and my balls began to itch a little, and then buzz when she turned it up, and then pulse with pleasure as she turned it up again.
My cock and balls were now in total, throbbing synch, and my moans were becoming more primal; my desire for release more intense—and the movements of my hips more intense.
And then Betty turned off her TENS while my Dr. Jones’ remained on. And then a few minutes later, my wife turned hers off and Betty suddenly turned hers back on to full force. And then my wife turned hers back on again by slow degrees.
They did that to me for a long time. An hour, I think, though my sense of time was becoming harder to keep hold of as they drove me mad with stimulation and no release. They altered their intensity and which one’s unit was on—or often both—and it was entirely random. I didn’t know where to expect the stimulation anymore, nor how much.
I was begging them to let me come. Pleading with them to touch me. They never acquiesced, and they never addressed me directly. Instead, the talked with each other at various intervals, commenting on the intensity of my response, making observations about my ‘arousal thresholds,’ laughing softly at my pleas, and more. But they ignored my words, and my needs. They tortured me with teasing, electrical pleasure and gave me no quarter.
When finally they both turned their units off, at the same time—the first time that had happened—I opened my eyes, realizing I was crying with pleasure and frustration, and I saw that my wife’s arm was around Nurse Betty’s waist, and Betty’s head leaning on Dr. Jones’ shoulder as they both looked at me intently. Curiously. Even passionately, I think.
“That was very, very good, Mr. Smith,” my wife cooed. “You have been an excellent patient for phase one.”
“Please…”
“Mr. Smith,” Nurse Betty interjected, “it is very important that you let us do our work without distracting us with your perceived needs. The doctor and I know exactly what you need.”
With that, she toweled off my sweat-beaded forehead.
“Mr. Smith, we are going to progress to phase two now. I trust you will be fully compliant and follow our instructions to the letter.”
I nodded, fearing that if I tried to speak, I would only get myself into trouble now. The time to play the role of anything but a submissive fetish patient was long past, I suspected.
Betty left the room to go into the bathroom, and I heard slight splashing noises and the sound of running water as my wife ran gloved fingers up my legs, across my torso, and across my throat. She pretended at times to be examining certain portions of my body. At other times, she made no pretense and was wantonly intimate with me, and a couple times over the next ten minutes she was intimate with my asshole. She never spoke. Except once, when she leaned over, and whispered, “We have a thin probe for the TENS that is useful for entry into the urethra,” she hissed softly. “That is phase three, for another time. Imagine the possibilities.”
I did imagine it, and wondered at how much discomfort would precede what I suspected would be new heights of sensation.
When Betty returned, she was wheeling in a tall metal stand from which was suspended a large bag of fluid with a long tube and some sort of clamping devices. She maneuvered it near to the exam table and then began to undo my restraints.
“Mr. Smith,” my wife said gravely. “You will get on your hands and knees on the exam table, and you will lean your chest against the table to elevate your buttocks. You will not resist therapy in any way. Is that clear?”
I nodded, and quickly complied. It was not lost on me that they hadn’t removed the electrodes from me, and I did my best to ensure that I didn’t dislodge them.
“This will help us deal with your impacted bowels,” Betty said, and once again, with emphasis on the word “impacted.” I had never received an enema before, and that was surely what was about to happen—something that filled me with no small amount of foreboding—and I knew I didn’t need one.
But my wife needed me to have one, clearly.
And I needed to bend to her will.
I twisted my head around to see “Dr. Jones” smearing a generous dollop of KY jelly on the nozzle at the end of the enema tubing and then saw Betty take a huge dollop to make my rear entry slick and yielding, and give me a quick rimjob with her fingertip. She had much more lube than she needed, and seemed to take particular delight in pressing her finger up inside me, far past her second knuckle, and then, once she was done there, spreading the remainder all over my cheeks, thighs and lower back.
Placing her thumbs on either side of the cleft of my ass, Betty spread my cheeks wide, and my wife slid the enema nozzle home with scant resistance from me. Holding the nozzle and tube in place, my sexy physician-clad wife pressed her cheek to my face and whispered low and sultry in my ear: “Get ready for a very wild ride, Mr. Smith. When we are done, you will have to hurry to the bathroom. Trust me. You’ll understand why soon enough.”
I felt a trickle into my bowels at first, warm and ticking and strange, followed by a more insistent rush of warmth. It gave me a stretching, cramping pain at first—things were supposed to come out this route, not go in—but even as I winced, I also felt a moan brewing in the back of my throat.
This was a slowly growing fullness inside me that I had never known. It wasn’t like constipation but rather a connection between me the bag of fluid over and behind me and, by extension, a connection to the two woman controlling that flow of liquid.
“You’re doing so very well, Mr. Smith,” my wife said soothingly in my ear, kissing the sensitive flesh behind it delicately. “So well for your first time. I’m so proud of my patient.”
The invasion of my bowels continued with liquid heat, swelling and filling me to the very core of my being, and a I moaned fully now. A long, low moan like nothing I had ever let out. Something almost animal in it.
My wife stroked the back of my neck with one slick, gloved hand, soothing me and cooing to me. “Just relax and give in. The flow cannot be stopped, only accepted. Take it deep inside. Deeper than your wife could go,” she said, not giving up her Dr. Jones persona. “Do you feel it inside you?”
“Oh, godddddd, yes. I felt it. So warm. I feel like a balloon. I feel…uhhhnnn…God!”
“A balloon. Yes,” Dr. Jones said, “and I’m stroking you now, like a balloon.” Her free hand roamed gently across my ass, over my lower back and then to my abdomen. She stroked me so tenderly, and I felt even fuller with the gentle pressure of her hand on my belly.
My cock was hard, and my brain was reeling with the strange combination of sensations. This shouldn’t feel good. I was certain it shouldn’t feel good. Yet it did.
“So….wrrooooong…” I moaned.
“So right, Mr. Smith,” my wife whispered soothingly. “You can’t help it, really. The arousal, the surrender, the erection. You’re helpless to us and to the warm, warm water filling you. Pressing on your insides, filling you like some amorphous cock. You’re being violated, and you love it. You can’t help but love it.”
Her free hand slipped to my cock now, and began to stroke it slowly. There was lube enough on her nitrile glove to provide plenty of slickness, and I began to slowly pump in rhythm to her strokes. “More flow, Nurse,” my wife said.
And with another turn of the valve, more warm swelled and surged inside me, more insistent than before, and my moans became more guttural, like growls. And they wouldn’t stop; I couldn’t stop them any more than I could stop the flow of water into my bowels.
“Do you enjoy having us fill you up with water? Filling you up like the slut you are?” Dr. Jones said to me, no longer whispering, and now Betty’s hands stroking my belly and back tenderly. “You’re almost full now. The water is almost at an end. But hold on to your cum, Mr. Smith. Hold on to it until the end. You’ll know when that is. Trust me. Trust Dr. Jones.”
I was so full now, feeling like I might burst, and there was pressure in strange places now. My prostate gland? Oh, God. Inside, outside. And then, when I felt like I couldn’t possibly hold anything more inside me, my cock and balls began to thrum and pulse as both TENS units were turned on full-blast. I was filled with warm water, pressing, insistent. My skin was being titillated and rubbed, my cock was slick and pumping, and now my nerves were set alight by the TENS units.
I screamed, and I came hard, bucking into my wife’s hand—Dr. Jones’ slippery gloved fingers. I was spraying against the exam table and suddenly Betty was there licking it all up at my wife’s command, and then kissing me with her dripping lips as my wife continued to pump me. There was nothing left to ejaculate, but my orgasm wouldn’t seem to end. I throbbed and humped and kept coming dry, and then Betty’s mouth was gone from mine and the electrodes were pulled quickly from my skin and Dr. Jones was telling me to go to the bathroom now. The enema nozzle was pulled from my anus and my mind was filled with an imperative like I had never felt before and I was in the bathroom and on the toilet faster than I could have imagined.
When all was done, and I exited the bathroom, panting and spent, Betty was on the exam table, legs spread, and spreading her labia with glistening, gloved fingers.
“Show Nurse Betty your appreciation,” Dr. Jones directed me.
I half stumbled to her, and kneeled before her and lapped at her. A smell so like my wife’s and yet distinct. And then my wife was stroking the back of my head as I licked, and she pressed me deeper into Betty. Clearly, I wasn’t the only one who had been aroused by the experience, as Betty came in my mouth, squirting, within five minutes. Then four hands were stroking my face and head and neck, and telling me what a fine, compliant patient I was.
Betty slid from the exam table, and my wife said, “Schedule Mr. Smith for a follow-up appointment four weeks from today, before you head home, Nurse. I’ll need you for overtime that day, of course. Make a notation that we will add phase three to the next visit, in addition to the other two, and perhaps phase four as well, depending on the patient’s tolerance.”
“Gladly, Dr. Jones,” Betty said as she left, ass swaying gently in satisfied little waves. “I think he’ll find those phases edifying.”
Already knowing that phase three involved being electrically stimulated inside my penis, I truly worried what phase four could be.
And at the same time, I couldn’t wait for that next appointment nearly a month from now.
My wife took off the physician’s coat, stethoscope and gloves, and smiled. “Darling, you should go shower now. And then you will lick me to a pair of orgasms, since my first one will be quick in coming, and then we’ll get some rest. I think your therapy will leave you sleeping quite soundly tonight.”
I smiled, and kissed her deeply before I left this makeshift, temporary fetish playroom, and knew that she was likely right.
To all my fellow U.S. residents, a “Happy Thansksgiving Day” to all of you. To my Canadian neighbors, belated well-wishings, since y’all celebrated yours in October.
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