A Factory Girl's Examination

Please sit, Dear Reader, and let me tell you my story. It may seem ordinary and humble to me, but in your country and perhaps in your era (should my words survive), the lives of women may be different. In this record, I wish to serve as an example of how things should --and shouldn't-- be.

I am not an artful writer, so grant me indulgence and I will tell my tale frankly. The year is 1929. The place is the USSR --the Union of Soviet Science and Research. Already, thanks to the rapid advance of electro-magnetic technologies, we have mechanized our nation and improved our farming. Grain shortages have been averted. Our Electro-Zeppelin farms prowl the sky trapping lightning. And most importantly, our population is growing. I am a proud part of the population management goals laid out in our great First Five Year Plan.

You see, I am a "Factory girl": a woman bred to breed, to perpetuate the Motherland through her labour. But, I am only a young Factory girl. Though physically mature and of age, I am new to the Factory floor. I was raised in the State Nursery, so like all the other girls, I had no idea that my career would be to labour with my body in the Factory. I had rather hoped to be given the position of switchboard operator on Work Allocations Day. But of all my high test scores, the ones they counted most were my physicals, which showed me to be especially fit and fertile. When I protested, they just repeated the Allocations motto:

"All Work Equally and All Work is Equal."

So, to the Factory I went. They have been trying their best to train me on the job here. I am ashamed to admit that I was resistant to the service at first. True, I was bred to be docile to men and the fertilization machines they use on me. But some stray inheritance or outmoded morality passed on to me by teachers or schoolmates made me stubbornly uncooperative in my conduct, in my ideology, in my lack of comradely behaviour, and most of all in my refusal to be penetrated.

I have been a bad girl. But no more. This is the story of how I put aside my personal revolt and learned to embrace the Revolution.

*

It was a cold day in February the day my conversion began. My Factory Director, whom we girls called the "Owner," had brought me to see the Doctor in our region. Her name was Doctor Pavlova. I recall her so vividly: a tall, dark-haired, commanding woman, pristine in her white coat, deft and skilful with her white-gloved hands. I had never seen a woman Doctor, and I am sure I stared at her unabashedly. How did she managed to get such a lofty position, when professions were almost always allocated to men? Or rather, who did she know, what powerful Party connections did she have, to be granted the favour of a change in her allocation?

I was standing lost in wonderment in her office when my Owner took my arm and jolted me back to reality. He pushed me roughly towards a side door, then turned back to talk to the Doctor. I realized that I was to be taken away without even being told why I was there or what the procedure would be.

'Unfair,' I thought. 'This is unfair.'

I made an unhappy noise in my throat, shoved back against his hand as much as I could, and kicked my heels against the floor as I walked, trying to get their attention enough demand to know what was happening to me. But my little disturbance was completely ignored as they both continued to look over my registration papers. Not knowing what else to do, I went through the sickly-green wooden door I had been pushed towards. Right away I was met by a nurse, a rail-thin blonde woman in starched whites. She took me to a little side closet and demanded that I take off all of my clothes except for my underlinens.

"Yes, Miss," I said, "I certainly will. Only, could you leave or turn around or just, just give me some privacy to undress? I'm...ill at ease, being watched."

The nurse's lips twitched.

"Ill or not, I've been ordered to watch you." She said. "And a word to the wise: watch your language, Comrade. You of all people shouldn't be concerned with a bourgeois concept like 'privacy.' Everyone knows what you do in the Factory."

My blood rose. My eyes fell. My hands shook with shame and anger as I slowly reached up to the buttons of my blouse. I undid them one by one, trying to be quick, yet afraid of the exposure. You see, under my regulation shift, I'd added some extra wrappings to hold my breasts down. I'm not as full-breasted as some of the other Factory girls, but I'm big enough and I've always preferred to look smaller. Besides which, the binding makes me feel good. It makes me feel secure. They wanted to take all that away from me. So while I stripped off my shift, I left on the bindings and crossed my arms over my breasts, half in resistance, half in the hope of passing unnoticed.

The air was so cold on my exposed arms that it raised gooseflesh on my skin. I tried to ignore it. I kept one arm tightly over my bound breasts and used the other to hook a finger in the back of my skirt, undo the catch, and slide it down, leaving me in my knickers. To my utter humiliation, I could see the skin along my sides and belly was all prickly and aroused. I could barely tell whether I was hot or cold. I was blushing, and yet my skin felt electrified, visibly so. The Nurse nodded in approval, muttering to herself. I caught the words "built for it." I thought I caught an older word, a Prohibited word, but she couldn't have said it. She couldn't have called me "slut." Still, I glared at her and crossed my arms harder over my breasts.

"I'm ready," I said, purposely omitting the "Miss" this time.

"Not til you take off those rags around your breasts. Knickers only, that's what she's ordered."

The look in her eye was steely, but then again so was my resolve. I didn't move. I faced her down until she actually grabbed my arms, forced them open, and started to strip me herself, tearing the linens I'd so carefully hoarded.

"No, don't rip them!" I yelped.

"Well then, you do it." She replied testily.

I had to back down and submit to doing it myself. Flushing with humiliation under her sharp gaze, I unpinned and unwound the wrappings. My freshly-bared nipples were hard and pointed --a reaction, I told myself, to the cold tile under my feet, the cold air on my skin. The Nurse smirked as she tossed me a blue cloth hospital robe with ties in the back. I was in it in a flash, tying the strings behind me in awkward bows. The Nurse looked me up and down. Finally she said,

"Go in. The Doctor will see you now."

I entered the room carefully, though all the caution in the world couldn't stop the blue robe from opening in the back. I glanced to my Owner, and he gestured for me to stand before a mirrored wall. Doctor Pavlova sat at her desk behind me, checking my charts in reverse-image. After a few moments she spoke to me absently, without even looking up.

"Hmm. Interesting. Natalya, do you know what your Owner says about you? What they say about you at the Factory? They say you aren't taking to your training or doing your work. You don't like it. Whatever could be wrong with you?"

I frowned to be called 'wrong,' and insisted with quiet defiance,

"Nothing is wrong with me."

"Nothing? Come now, that can't be true if you're not working. Speak plainly with your Doctor."

"Well, I just don't want it."

"Don't 'want it'?"

"I mean, I can't. I can't do...what they want."

I could see my clasped hands beginning to tremble against the too-thin robe in the mirror.

"And why not?"

"Because--" as I confessed my shame rose to envelop me like a hot tide. I shook my head, cheeks burning to admit, "Because it hurts me."

Doctor Pavlova, far from being appeased with my confession, seemed annoyed. She stood up and walked over, looking straight at me for the first time. She said,

"You will have to give more detail than that. What hurts, precisely?"

"It hurts when they...when I'm penetrated vaginally. When my Owner does it himself, and when they use the fertilization machine on me." I shivered, recalling the particularly large chrome shaft used to 'train' uncooperative workers. "And then, I can't help it, I scream and pull back, I fight, I won't let them inside me."

"Well, well. That is a problem. There must be something very wrong with you."

I shook my head again, then stared straight ahead with determination. The thoughts flashed in my mind like the title cards in the Kino-Pravda films:

'I am right.' 'I know I'm right.' 'The system is wrong.'

But when the Doctor laid her firm hand on my shoulder, I wavered. She said to me,

"You are a worker who refuses to work. There is clearly a problem here. Now, the question is this: is the problem in your mind--" she stroked down my shoulder to my breast "--or in your body?"

I couldn't answer. I was overcome with emotion, with sensation. Doctor Pavlova smiled.

"We will just have to run some tests to find out. Take off the robe."

"Yes, Doctor," I whispered.

I pretended to fumble with the strings. I acted as if I couldn't find them, to delay or to get her to bare me and spare me the humiliation of doing it myself, I can't say. But she and my Owner simply watched, so finally I had to catch the ties and pull. I let each arm slip out of its sleeve individually, so that I could still hold the robe before me to hide my naked breasts. I was sometimes naked in my private cubicle on the Factory floor, but here, under the powerful gazes of the Doctor and my Owner, the experience was completely different. I clutched the fabric to against myself, feeling my nipples harden again through the stiff fabric, until she said,

"Hand it to me."

With that, I was forced to bare myself directly to her and reveal my body. I handed her the robe.

"Now your knickers," she said.

I couldn't refuse. I closed my legs as much as I could and wriggled, pulling the knickers down over my hips without even untying the strings. I handed them to her. I could see myself in the mirror, my thighs folded around the smooth yet terribly suggestive V between my legs. I squeezed tighter, hiding and compressing the tender flesh of my sex. To my horror, I felt something I had never felt on the Factory floor: a heat, a tingling, a flow deep inside me.

'Stop it,' I told my body. 'This is not the time nor place! Resist!'

But I couldn't help it. I was getting aroused.

Once I was naked, Doctor Pavlova put me through the standard, State-regulated physical exercises. These were not meant to be done in the nude, or with others watching. Even in group sessions were always told to keep our gazes forward and maintain our modesty at all times. But she stripped me and turned me to face the mirror, so she could see me from every angle --and so that I must see every shameful thing I was made to do.

She had me do a series of ten squats first. The Nurse came in and turned on a metronome, to set the rhythm. She counted aloud --one and two, one and two-- as I stood, legs together, and then crouched. I tried at first to crouch without opening my legs, but I nearly lost my balance. It was much easier if I spread my legs a little, as I was taught in Physicals. Only every time I spread, I could feel the cool air on my wetness. I begged in my mind for it to end, but as soon as I'd finished the squats, she made me do jumping jacks. My breasts bounced painfully without anything to hold them down. Though I was fit enough from years of compulsory exercise, the situation left me gasping as if I'd run a marathon. The Doctor tsk'd and took my pulse rate at the end. She listened to my heartbeat, cold stethoscope against my prickling flesh. And then, for no apparent reason at all, she reached out and gave each of my nipples a hard tweak.

"Your heart rate is appalling," she told me. "Your level of sexual arousal, however, is just what we'd expect from a Factory Girl. Let's do one more round to be sure. On the table."

I climbed onto the examination table and sat with my legs closed and drawn up. The Nurse came over and pulled my ankles apart and down, strapping them to opposite corners of the narrow bed. After inspecting the placement of my legs, Doctor Pavlova circled round the bed and attached a monitor of some kind to my breast with a sticky rubber pad. Then she commanded me to place my hands behind my head and do ten sit ups with my legs spread. I should not have had trouble, but with my legs so wide, I had very little leverage. Oh, no, I have to confess, that wasn't the real problem. It was the stares of the Doctor and of my Owner, which seemed to rest on my body like lead weights. My thighs and belly liquefied, quivering. I began my course of sit ups, but after six I had to stop, slick with sweat and panting.

"No, please, I can't. I won't do this!"

The Doctor gestured sharply. I received a flat slap on the belly from the Nurse, as casual as goading a horse, and just like a horse I jumped at the sting and began immediately with a new wind. Every time I raised my head, I could see the glistening thing between my legs. I wanted to crawl away under the table and hide. But in the end, after another round of measurements, I was certified healthy.

"Her general physical health is fine," the Doctor reported to my Owner, fully in my hearing. "So it must be a psychosomatic effect. Like a switchboard, the body is connected to the mind, and vice versa. We must check to make sure all the connections are being made."

"How can you test that?" I asked boldly.

The Doctor gave me a rap on the cheek for my impertinence, hard enough to turn my head.

"You will see," she said.

What happened next...well, there is no shame in the Factory, not any more, so I will just say it. To begin my sexual testing, she started by measuring the sensitivity of my nipples. She had me get up off of the table, and stand back before the mirror, so that I could see everything that was done to me. She stood behind me and began to knead and caress my breasts, asking at intervals how much I felt. At first, I told her,

"Nothing, I'm not sensitive there."

I was lying in the hope that she would give up and move on. Instead, it only made her treat me more roughly. Her gloved hands twisted my breasts, and she used her long nails to pinch my nipples like bladed vises. She twisted quick, and the heat of friction alone was nearly unbearable. Added to her nails, the sensation was sharp, vivid, exquisite. I cried out despite myself and my hips bucked like an animal.

"Ah. She responds to pain, does she?" Doctor Pavlova murmured ominously.

With clinical calm, she produced two serrated metal clips and attached them my erect nipples, each facing down and curving out with fearful symmetry. It didn't hurt right away, but the longer she kept them on me, the more I began to feel their sharp little teeth digging into my tender flesh. The pain grew and grew--and so did my excitement. My eyes closed in something halfway between ecstasy and horror as my body rocked back and forth, almost thrusting against the mirror. I tried to rein it in, but still my hips squirmed.

"Time for a manual check," the Doctor said.

I could hear her snapping her gloves, pulling them up. I could see her ice-blue eyes, cold as the Siberian sky, reflected in the mirror over my shoulder as she leaned in behind me. But I couldn't tell what her hands were up to until suddenly I felt a smooth finger sliding between my nether lips. She drew her finger along, then pushed up and into my hole until I whimpered. She fingered me long and hard. Then she pulled out and held the slick tip of her gloved finger right in front of my face. It was glistening with thick clear fluid.

"What is this?" she asked.

"I don't know!" I cried, innocent and panicked.

"You are lubricating. It's what your body does to ready you for your duty."

"No, no, I don't want it!"

"No? But you're wet all the way up to here." She traced the line of my furrow up to what I would shortly learn was my clitoris. "The juice is fairly dripping out of you. You do want it. You just don't know it yet."

When she touched me there, my knees went weak with blossoming pleasure. It was so dizzying that the Doctor had to catch me by one shoulder, rough enough to bruise.

"Ah yes!" She exclaimed. "I see what your problem is now. Listen to me. There are two kinds of women, sexually speaking. First there are those who are aroused mainly through stimulation of the clitoris."

She rubbed my clit again with circular motions until I moaned aloud, my voice echoing shamefully.

"And then there are those who take pleasure in vaginal penetration."

Her finger slid down and into me. Deep.

"Clit girls are apt to masturbate, that is, to waste their energy and productive potential in pointless self-pleasure."

She pinched my clit with her other hand, using pain to emphasize the point that my pleasure was wrong, though being abused this way just made me squirm even more.

"By contrast, a good woman wants to be used the natural way, to take seed from a man's member or his scientific instrument into her womb. You, my broken creature, are the wrong kind of woman. You need treatment. We need to conduct a pleasure reassignment."

She was tormenting my body so much that I couldn't even speak to disagree, but only make whining, nonverbal protests. Doctor Pavlova, however, turned coolly to check with my Owner, and then called in her Nurse.

"We'll begin today."

She delegated again. She was so cold, the way she handed me off to the Nurse. It was the Nurse who put me back on the table, kneeling on all fours like a dog. There was a long shaft attached to an armature on the foot of the bed, and this she raised so that it was positioned on the bed below me with the tip pointed up ominously between my legs. It was still too far away to penetrate me, but I could just imagine it rising, striking into me, piercing me again and again. So vivid was my imagination that it surprised me very much when the Doctor came over and laid a hand on my raised rear end.

"Sit," she said, pushing my hips into a sitting-dog position, my sex towards the shaft.

When I resisted, she gave me a hard slap on the ass, then another and another in quick succession. Some perverse instinct made me hold the pose and just stay like that as she thrashed my bottom until it burned so bright and hot I felt it must be glowing. I could feel my sex flushing wide, gasping, and so I lowered my hips just a little, into a crouch. The tip of the shaft touched my lips, and in that moment, the Doctor flicked a switch so that it began to vibrate. It was electrical! It was just brushing my lower lips, not direct enough to make me come, but close enough that I panted and cried and sat, trying to press my hips back further so that the stimulation would be on my clit. I wriggled shamelessly and still couldn't reach. Then the shaft pulled away. To my surprise I nearly cried for it to come back. Something had been put into action within my body that couldn't be stopped. It had to be completed.

"Shall we finish the correction today?" Doctor Pavlova asked aloud.

"Yes, please, please!" I screamed, unable to help myself. Within a split second I realized she had been talking to my Owner, and felt furious at my outburst. But they both laughed.

"It's a very effective program for ones like her," the Doctor remarked. "Now, Nurse, we're changing position. Get her head down and her bottom up. She should bow for this."

Before I could respond (and I admit: I wanted to respond), the nurse pushed my face down to the metal tabletop and parted my legs as my ass lifted. In this position my sex was helplessly exposed, my liquid arousal running down my inner thighs. As I trembled, bent over that way, Doctor Pavlova approached. In that moment, all my senses came into hyperfocus. The sound of her heels clicking on the tile floor. The antiseptic smell. The harsh white light. The ache in my shoulders and the arch of my back. How had I never experienced this before?