Doctors Orders 3

You sit on the edge of the examining table, completely nude as I conclusively remove the tight, latex gloves from my hands.

Your annual physical just completed, you promptly reach over to retrieve your discarded clothing, modest, fumbling hands attempting to simultaneously conceal the exposed generous peaks of your breasts, and your neatly trimmed triangular duvet of pubic hair.

You have demonstrated discomfort and self-consciousness during the thorough, yet routine examination, despite my frequent reassurances in my attempt to put you at ease.

Not wanting to prolong your awkwardness for longer than is necessary, I nonetheless stop you with a reminder that the session isn't quite complete, and that one last procedure needs to be addressed; all annual examinations require a mandatory stool sample deposit. You look at me with uncertainty, but then nod your head in quiet acquiescence, realizing that it's not an issue up for debate.

You begin easing yourself from the examining table, furtively looking around for the privacy of a secluded facilities cubicle, but once again, I stop you with a raised hand, indicating the examining table, where I direct you to remain. You look at me questioningly as you climb back atop the table. Soon, my intentions are made clear as I open a cabinet door, retrieving a stainless steel bedpan.

I then proceed by instructing you to settle into a squatting position. You immediately comply, making the creased wax paper crinkle under your shifting weight.

Now, you squat, your back slightly rounded, your feet pointed on tip toes, your hands positioned on both sides of you to maintain balance. I move towards your nude, squatting form, and gently position the bedpan beneath the upraised, creamy white globes of your buttocks which I briefly pause to admire.

I then return to my swivelling seat, perching myself upon it as you once again glance at me uncertainly as if waiting for the next command. I simply tell you to take your time, and to begin whenever you are ready.

You turn your gaze straight ahead, shifting around in a more comfortable position, remaining motionless for several seemingly long seconds.

At last, you inhale a deep breath, and suddenly, your body becomes tense, rigid. You frown slightly, your forehead creasing in concentration, your lips pursing into a tight, compressed line, your hands clenching into fists on both sides of you, grasping the wax paper. Your face becomes flushed from your initial exertion as you finally pause to catch your breath.

You bow your head, and your long, auburn hair partially drapes and conceals your strained, determined features as you begin your second push.

You expel a lengthy release of flatulent air, and you turn around to face me with an expression which is at once timid and embarrassed. I simply smile in reassurance as you turn your attention back to the task at hand.

I allow myself to lean to one side, albeit discreetly, in order to get a better view of your flexing buttocks, the smooth halves slighty parted, your anus expanding and contracting in synchronization with each labored attempt at evacuation.

I encourage you through your efforts, as one would coach a birthing mother, and minutes later, you finally reach a breakthrough. I lean forward, just in time to see your anus puckering outwards, accommodating the tip of a seemingly thick, brown mass as it emerges almost cautiously, like the head of a hesitant turtle.

A breathy exhalation escapes your parted lips before you bear down with renewed determination. I watch, transfixed as the stool inches slowly forward with a moist, crackling sound. The protruding tip is hard and knobbly, a dark cluster of compacted, pebbled fragments.

As the excreted formation progressively eases along, I notice that its shade becomes contrastingly lighter, its texture becoming smoother, countless folds and creases elaborately etching its surface like the detailed markings of a road map. At this point, it exits almost effortlessly, requiring just enough pressure to keep it moving along. Soon, the lengthening stool reaches the bottom of the bedpan, growing longer still, coiling in on itself.

The odor of fresh fecal matter wafts forth, and I notice that the impressive growth now hangs suspended, having finally ceased its development, still held captive by your dilated anus, motionless for several seconds, the rest of its glistening, perfectly shaped length resting in the bedpan like a dormant snake. Then your anus contracts, releasing its grip from the completed specimen, its ending tip protruding slightly upward.

Afterwards, you remain hovered over the bedpan for a few seconds, perhaps anticipating the sensation of another overbearing pressure against the threshold of your anus, and I wait with baited breath for another push, the emergence of a second stool, but alas, you allow yourself to fall forward on your knees, indicating that you are spent.

You sit back on your heels, your hands cupping your knees, and you timidly ask if you can clean yourself up. I walk towards the cabinet once more, and extract several packets of moistened wipes. I tear open the packets and hand you the damp, cool sheets.

You shift your position until you are resting on your side, facing away from me. You reach back and begin wiping yourself vigorously, delving deep between your shapely posterior mounds, swiping across your tantalizing crevice with swift, upward strokes.

You raise the soiled tissue, and I can distinctly see the pattern of faded brown smears marring its white surface. You begin using a second cleansing tissue, until you become fully satisfied that you've wiped all traces away. I then allow you to descend from the examining table, indicating a wastebasket in which you dispose of the stained sheets. You then proceed to gather up your garments and begin dressing as I retrieve the bedpan, seeing its contents up close for the first time.

Once you are dressed, you begin to exit, and I thank you for your time. At last ensconced in the privacy of my office, I look down once again, at the perfect, solitary specimen before me, a stark, brown contrast against the sterile, white surroundings. It is then, that I allow myself to reach under my imposing lab coat, unzip my pants, and proceed to satiate the overwhelming arousal which had festered within me since the beginning moment of your defecating process.

Once spent, I recompose myself, looking again through my hazy, blurred vision at the immobile anal offerings for one last time, before reluctantly taking it down to the laboratory for its final observation and analysis.