PT 4 Fertility Clinic : FUN AND GAMES: THE GAMES PEOPLE PLAY
With my promotion to Nursing Assistant, my pay at the Fertility Clinic increased but my morning hours were scaled back to accommodate the arrival of male donors. With the later starting time, I reported in at 5:45 AM to a locker far less crowded. There may have been only another man and two women in the locker with me.
Initially, my duties would be to receive male donors, release them from the chastity device, we called the cock blocker and examine their genitalia for potential abnormalities or injuries before their penises are secured to a hitching post for sperm extraction. As I went through the paces of purely mechanical procedures designed to efficiently draw sap, my mind wandered from my rote tasks to wonder, was there any magic between men and women?
To get to this level at the Fertility Clinic, I had to take and pass a crash course on anatomy while I still had to deal with my senior year classes toward my degree in Industrial Psychology. Fortunately, my work at the Fertility Clinic qualified to satisfy one of my requirements toward my degree, an Internship.
My tall and muscular husband Jerry, pleasantly bemused, encouraged my studies and offered his body for practice.
"First, I wash my hands and introduce myself," I went through my checklist, "Good morning Mr Warbler. I'm Nursing Assistant Amy Warbler. After I release you from chastity, I'm going to conduct a testicular exam, a complete physical inspection of the genitalia, the penis, scrotum, and testicles."
"Oh, please do," said Jerry with a smile.
I moved his chin to the right and ordered Jerry to put his hands on his head.
Passing my written and practical test, with Jerry's help, I found myself in a somewhat more staid, professionalized environment. On duty, I was addressed as Ms Warbler. I wore medical scrubs replete with a name tag that identified me as a Nursing Assistant.
Coopting in the trial run -- through for the hands -- on portion of the exam, Jerry complained that I should borrow surgical scrubs for more realism in my exam. "There's something to the medical accoutrements, the scrubs, the name tag, and the stethoscope that promote cooperation of the subject."
With Jerry's size and strength, I needed all the help the prop of an improvised costume could bring to assure his pliancy.
To accommodate Jerry's quest for realism, I wore one of his white shirts, backwards, over a loose, billowy pj bottom. I preferred the short sleeve shirt to tease Jerry with a glimpse at my breasts. Jerry's T -- Shirt fit loose enough; I only buttoned the top button to make sure the top flowed with my movement. To Jerry's suggestion that, on duty, I wear a bra or a T -- shirt under the scrubs, I reminded him that paying customers give tips.
"Tips for Tits!" Jerry exclaimed. "You must model this exceptional garment for me. Bring a pair home."
"To leave at the end of my shift," I replied, "I have to walk naked from a communal shower along a steel mesh parapet for 100 paces. How can I spirit scrubs out of the clinic?"
Still, even after elevation to a demi -- professional caste, we had to strip, stow our street clothes in a locker, and walk naked along a catwalk about 100 feet to communal showers. Instead of the 4AM race of the cleaning crew to the showers, we leisurely strolled to the showers. One of the women walked with the man, idly chatting. Next to me walked a cherubic brunette Darrie. "Think of it as short for Darling," she told me.
"Appropriate name," I replied, "for the angel who releases the male donor from the cock block to release the built-up ehβtension."
"Angel Darlin', now that would be a nice name," Darrie chuckled, "the guys call the nurse in the locker the Angel of Mercy. We call her the `Warden.'"
In our practice for my hands on exam, Jerry expressed interest in experiencing me in the role of the Angel of Mercy.
"Not ready to recognize me as your warden," I chided Jerry.