One time while I was having lunch at a cafe with my mother and a friend of hers named Farah, Farah told us how she always went to see her gynecologist, a good-looking man in his forties, wearing the sexiest outfits she owned: knee-high boots, miniskirts, no bra, tiny panties, and while there acted out a doctor-patient fantasy with him that came this close to their having sex, but never crossed the line. It was their little "game," she called it, and they played it for all it was worth: she would slowly remove her clothes in front of him and would pose for him sensually on the exam table; he did all the things a gynecologist might be expected to do during an examination -- put his fingers inside of her (always after conveniently forgetting to put his gloves on), felt all around her vaginal area, carefully probed her breasts with his hands -- all very meticulously and professionally but also unmistakably very sexually. Farah wondered if he would ever take things further -- lick her pussy, say, or her nipples; she would never outwardly suggest he do those things, but tried to make it obvious she wouldn't mind if he did. But he never did. Farah said she often got to her car after leaving the office and would immediately touch her pussy until she climaxed before driving away, imagining he was in his office masturbating as well.
Listening to Farah's story made me think of Dr. Cramer and the similar "game" he played with a few of his women patients, although in his case the sexual line was always crossed. (Daria, whom I've already told you about, was one of these women.) They, too, would show up at the office at a given time, always after hours, usually dressed provocatively (stilettos and black thigh-high stockings and a minidress, say, or knee-high boots and cutoffs), with the sole intention of having sex with Philip, more specifically scat sex. Often Tasha and I assisted and would become fully involved in the proceedings. As part of the game, these women sometimes complained of some minor ailment, often spurious, perhaps an intestinal or digestive issue, at which point Philip would have them strip naked and lie on the overly-large antique exam table. Then he would begin examining them, which, as you can imagine, included procedures not endorsed by any medical board.
There was Bonnie, for instance. Bonnie was a 40-year-old shapely blonde who visited Philip about once a month and had a craving for scat sex that ran very deep. Unfortunately, she was in a marriage that gave her little chance for relief. One of her office visits was as adventurous and memorable as Daria's, and since it involved me, I thought I would tell you about it.
The time I have in mind, Bonnie appeared as planned at the office after hours wearing a tight knit sweater dress and a pair of chain sandals, complaining of the usual stomach issues, which this time included severe constipation. Philip and I (Tasha was away on vacation) brought her to the main examination room, where he had her strip and get on the exam table. Bonnie was a friendly out-going person whom I had assisted Philip with on several occasions now, not at all shy about her love of scat play in all its forms.
"Before you lie down," Philip said to her, "I'd like you to kneel on the table first." She did, which put her rear end near eye level to Philip. Holding her lovely half-moons in each hand, he spread her ass open and studied her cleft and asshole as if they were long-buried treasures just retrieved from a pharaoh's tomb, putting his face up close. He sniffed in the faint musky odor of her ass... and then quite a bit more.
"I'm sorry, Philip," she said, "I might be a little dirty back there. I was at the mall before coming here and thought I would try relieving myself one more time, but nothing happened except for some juicy farts. Then I saw there was no toilet paper left. I never remember to look before I go." This story might have been true, but probably was as fictitious as the one she told last time explaining her dirty asshole. It was all part of the game.
"That's all right," he replied, "I'll take care of that and clean you up." Indeed, there were several semi-dried pieces of shit stuck to her skin all around her sphincter. He could have very easily reached for the cleansing wipes on the counter to clean her with, but Bonnie probably would have been so shocked by that she might have hopped off the table and left. So instead, he put his tongue on her asshole and licked it hard, a clear indication to her that all was right with the world. His face lit up with the taste of her shit, its earthy semi-bitterness pure pleasure to him. He flattened his tongue and scraped it across her rosebud, and I could see it was already black, as were his lips. I knew Philip well by then, very well, and it was easy imagining how much he loved the taste of her shit, and how he anticipated getting so much more of it to savor.
After licking her for several minutes and getting her sparkling clean (a wasted effort if there ever was one from a purely practical standpoint, if not from a sexual one, seeing how dirty she would be there again in just a short while), he told her to lie down on her back. Then he instructed me to get on the table as well, behind her head. Before Bonnie arrived, I had taken all my underclothing off and was wearing only my nurse's dress, the shortest one I owned, and my Dansko clogs. I took my shoes off before getting on the table and hiked my dress up to my hips. I positioned myself behind her head, the top of her head against my pussy.
She fidgeted about a bit and finally groused, "That fucking dress is so annoying, Rita. It keeps poking me in the face. Take it off."
"Of course, Bonnie," I responded, exactly on script. And I slipped it off and flung it to the counter.
"Much better," she said smiling. "Now I can suck your pussy unimpeded." She pushed her head farther back into my pussy, lifting her face so her mouth and tongue were at my opening. I raised myself slightly on my knees to give my cunt greater access to her mouth. She rotated her tongue all around my labia and then as far inside of me as she could reach. Bonnie was no slouch when it came to cunt-lapping, and it wasn't long before I was feeling pretty wonderful.
"You're so wet already," she said to me, "so delicious, too." This was off-script, but I was not about to shout "Cut!" Her pert tits were right below me, so I caressed them and pinched her nipples between my fingers. Philip noticed the pleasure we were giving each other and didn't interrupt us, but simply looked on. After several minutes I raised myself, removing my pussy from Bonnie's mouth.
"To be continued," I said and bent down to give her a kiss; her lips were glistening with my cunt juices.
"Continued with my tongue in your asshole," she assured me softly.
"Speaking of that area," Philip said lightly, "let's see if we can expel that shit you've got up there refusing to cooperate." He told me to hold Bonnie's legs up over her head so her asshole was fully exposed. Then he took a bottle of lube, poured some on his fingers, and inserted them up her ass. He went in deep and probed all around inside her, causing her to moan. When he removed them they were black with shit. He put them up to his nose and took a long sniff and then licked them with the tip of his tongue.
"Smell and taste are normal," he said, sounding like some grand Nobel Prize recipient in medicine, a world expert on shit. All part of the game.
"Let me see," Bonnie suddenly interjected, as if she were an even greater personage in fecal circles and needed to confirm his diagnosis. He placed his fingers under her nose, and she sniffed, too, and then stuck her tongue out to lick them.
"Your opinion, madam?" he asked facetiously.
"You're right, quite normal," she replied.
He laughed and shook his head slightly. "I didn't know you were such an expert on these matters," he said.
"Like you, Philip, my expertise has been gained through experience. Do you know how much shit I've sniffed and tasted in my lifetime?"
"Tons, I'm sure."
