The Imprint Ch 04 Thomas Dean Imprint

THOMAS DEAN IMPRINT Part 4 Hot and Cold

I jumped when heard the screeching sound of the nurse slipping on rubber gloves. I took a deep breath the ordeal was about to begin: the assumption of power over the person and the loss of personal autonomy. For the second time this week I found myself dethroned in this predicament in this clammy sub -- basement at the entry point to a fertility experiment. In these cinderblock rooms, I reduced. I was no God. I was a subject. This time the fault in my demotion could be traced back to my doing.

How did I trap myself into a group physical -- with Dr Regina Windham, the hospital president, no less? Pilus (Hair) knotted in a bun atop her cranium (head) like a crown, Dr Windham was amiably chatting with the nurse. As noticeable hidrosis (beads of sweat) sprouted on Dr Windham's sinciput (forehead), I began to feel hidrosis (driblets of sweat) moisten my axilla (arm pits), pubes and rectum.

"For a sub -- basement in this bitter cold Northern climate, this sub -- basement level," I blurted out, "is unbelievably clammy."

Turning to me, Dr Windham gave me a hug, "We're ignoring poor Dr Rebecca Barton." Dr Windham lauded me, once again, "I'm so proud of her. Not only did she volunteer to donate eggs to our Fertility Program, her able assistant joined her in making this personal sacrifice to an important study. And now," Dr Windham hand clutching my back, "Dr Barton supports not only an important study undertaken in this Hospital, but also shows her support for her subordinate. In this study, through the efforts of Dr Rebecca Barton and other dedicated physicians, the Hospital will leave its imprint."

I smiled. What had Erica my nemesis, former roommate and friend said of a woman's smile? "Be guided by this portent. Nothing conceals stealth and guile // no poison more potent // than what lies behind a woman's smile.

It was wise to say nothing. I came down here because I was using my promise to drop off my secretary's change of clothes to dart out of work early. At the barrier, I ran into Dr Windham chatting with the guard. Turning to me, Dr Windham declared, she was looking at me. "Oh, Dr Barton, it's so good of you to drop by. Oh, yes, your girl -- your secretary -- is going through an extraction this afternoon. It's is nice of you to drop by to wish her well. Naturally, you'll want to hold her hand through the procedure." With the accolades, Dr Windham heaped on me, I couldn't slink away. How could I back out? — The Hospital President was my boss.

Leveling her glance at me, Dr Windham add, "you'd hold her hand like I did for you." She pronounced me, "A true leader makes her imprint!"

Without much further ado I found myself with Dr Windham inside the cinderblock chamber which acted as the portal which opened onto The Fertility Study.

Casually conversing with the nurse, Dr Windham, with a puzzled fogging her face, strove to recall my secretary's name. "What's her name?" Snapping her fingers, Dr Windham went through common girl's names, "Susan, Sharon, Shelly, Shannon, Shawna..."

I interjected, "Sherry. We had discussed her at lunch, You no doubt recall, Dr Windham., you wanted to use Sherry's talent to translate medical -- ese in constructing a Remedial English program for incoming Medical students lest popular vulgar anatomical terms become embedded in the Medical lexicon."

Sherry left quite an impression, even if Dr Windham forgot her name. Though my subordinate, Sherry had a great deal of influence over me, particularly in writing reports. "Dr Barton, you're 100% doctor. The rest are not; they're just placeholders, more politicians than real doctors. When you address your colleagues, you must translate medical -- ese or they won't understand."

"Do they even kiss babies on command?" I chided Sherry.

In the anteroom to the Fertility Experiment, Dr Windham declared, "Little Sherry, indeed!" Brushing up to me to kiss my cheek, Dr Windham reminded me, "Down here we're very informal, on a first name basis, like kissing cousins. What nickname do you go by? I'll bet it's Reba!"

I sighed. This was the fourth time Dr Windham embraced me that day. What had cute little Sherry said of Dr Windham only a few hours earlier when Sherry informed me of a luncheon engagement in the Executive Lounge. "Dr Windham likes to project a -- motherly aura, but I think she runs hot and cold."

"Ladies," the duty nurse stretching the gloves on her hands, "I think we're finished with the salutations. Aren't we? Let`s get down to business."

I gulped. In administering group physicals, I love playing god, experiencing that quiver of corpora in an unclothed condition (naked bodies) reacting to palpation (my touch), reflexively drawing back like the reaction to the sting of a bee, setting into operation the autonomic nervous system causing tumescence in the male and vaginal lubrication in the female. I enjoy the embarrassed reaction of many men to the appearance of pre-seminal fluid (pre -- ejaculate) at the tip of the glans (head of the) penis. Women tend to be more subtle. In defense of my gender, I prefer to say "subtle" rather than "more docile."

But with either sex, the certain pleasure drawn from sexual contact is far exceeded by the surge of power. I am God. People submit, crying, `yes Doctor.' Now today, I would be once again the subject, but as one accompanying Dr Windham treated with greater gentility.

"Ok, ladies, I know you're busy so shall we begin," the nurse ordered, "Remove your boots and your dresses and hand them on a hook so that we can chart your height and weight."

Hobbling on one leg, I pulled my boots off. Standing behind me, Dr Windham requested permission to assist me. I stood upper extremities (arms) in the neutral position (at the side) as she unzipped me. "This is like a range of motion study," Dr Windham quipped as she raised my upper extremities (arms) to a humeral elevation of 180 degrees (aloft) in order to lift my dress over my cranium (head). Kneeling in front of me, Dr Windham slid my stockings off my lower extremities. I was left in underwear. Had Dr Windham felt me up in the process?

The silliest things come to mind at such awkward moments. I'll have to ask Sherry, if there was a medical term for being "felt up."

Naturally, I had to assist Dr Windham. Standing behind her, I hesitated. Underneath her dress was a pair of panty hose. At that time, pantyhose was becoming the favored undergarment for its utility by many women over old fashioned stockings and panties. "Go ahead dear," Dr Windham, turning to look back at me, laughed, "in order to enter we're going to be stripped naked anyway." One yank her inferior dorsal plane was in an unclothed condition (naked from the waist down).

Dr Windham, lifting her upper extremities (arms) in triumph, pulled the clip out of her pilus (hair) that sent her crown crashing over her auricles (ears). As I rose from my patella (knees), Dr Windham turned to me to assist me to my feet. Now that I stood as proximate to facing Dr Widman as possible, the tip of my nasus (nose) barely reached her enlarged and erect mammary papillae (tits) visible through the bra.

Turning her back to me, she requested assistance removing her bra. Fully exposed, Dr Windham tap dancing in a circle un - constricted mammaries bobbing, declared, "sans cullotes! I'm ready for my photographic shots."

Earlier today over lunch in the Executive dining room, discussing potential remedial measures to prevent a recurrence of the October exercise which occasioned my former friend Erica's malpractice lawsuit, Dr Windham reported confusing legal advice on photographic studies of the crisis actors my department employed in the emergency response drills.

At lunch Dr Windham explained, "I'm not sure whether the hospital's counsel wants us to photograph the participant nude before the exercise to document their condition before the exercise, rely on existing photos in our files or completely discontinue the practice altogether. All I get from our house counsel is a firm, `it depends. There are advantages one way and advantages the other." Shaking her head in bewilderment, Dr Windham added, "So, in simple English, the procedure we observe cuts both ways," Dr Windham weighed the choice.

"Obviously," I have to conduct the exercise," I snapped my response. "We either photograph the participants in an unclothed condition and conduct a physical exam prior to the exercise or we don't. Which do you want?" I delineated the choice, "A doctor must be decisive. Pending other instructions, I must act at discretion."

Back in the ante -- room to the Fertility Study, the nurse reminded Dr Windham, "First the weigh -- in then we'll have your performance." Gently led by the hand to the scales, Dr Windham weighed in at 160 lbs. "At 5 - 8, Dr Windham—eh Gina," the nurse announced, "you're slightly overweight. Nothing to worry about, something to watch."

I shuddered as I was ordered onto the scale. "Dr Barton," the nurse declared, "5-1, 195 lbs, still grossly overweight, but I do see a slight improvement. You lost five pounds. Can you account for that?"

"Good clean living." I replied with a straight face. I was proud of myself for the racy remark to my secretary Sherry when she reproved me for having gone out to schedule the upcoming Emergency Response Exercise in violation of doctor's orders for bed rest.

"Shouldn't I have given the guy a few minutes to catch his breath before I finished with him?" I playfully asked Sherry. "So, I managed to fit in an hour or two of business in between my eh—episodes of bed rest."

In the entryway to the Fertility experiment, the nurse proved not to be amused. Handing me a cup, the nurse quipped, "We'll see, just pee." After a pause the nurse added, "Hmm, oh, by the way, Dr Barton, have you been monitoring your rectal temperature to chart your cycle for the egg donor program?

"Should I have?" I asked

"You're privileged, collecting a stipend and accepted into the program, without quarantine," the nurse's scowl was restrained by Dr Windham's presence. "Every other day. Weight and temperature report. Today was your due date. Fortunately, you're here. Finish getting undressed, get those under drawers off, face the wall and bend over."

Dr Windham put a firm hand on my shoulder. "My dear your heart is racing. Take a deep breath." Swiftly Dr Windham unsnapped my bra. In seconds Doctor Windham's gentle hands were palpating (caressing) my mammary glands (breasts) and scrunching my papillia. "No evidence of growths or lesions."

"Temperature time," the nurse prodded Dr Windham to move it along.

Before I could reach for the elastic band, Dr Windham had already jerked my panties down and I was leaning on her to step out of them. By the time I was bent over, legs spread wide, to receive the rectal thermometer, Dr Windham was already giggling declaring herself ready to add her photograph to the hospital's gallery.

Behind me the nurse, with a lubricated a gloved finger inserted it in my rectum (asshole) and twirled it around the sphincter ani externus (sphincter muscle) before she introduced the thermometer. "We have to leave it there for up to 5 minutes. Hold still."

Having photographed Dr Windham, the nurse read my temperature and pronounced me normal. "Which do you prefer, morning or afternoon?" To my request for an explanation, the nurse replied, "for your weigh in and temperature reading. We have to monitor your weight and body temperature to time you next donation—you've signed up for a year."

"But," I protested, "I thought I could monitor my own temperature."

"Rules, Doct," the Nurse looked to Dr Windham, "Doctor—eh Reba, if you can't chart yourself, we chart. It's purely routine."

"Rules," Dr Windham shot me a sympathetic look.

The nurse snickered, "The sure way to make an impression on any employee regardless of their title is to mess with their time. Mess with their time and money and their hearts and minds will follow."

After I was photographed, I found myself tagged with an hospital identification band. Led into the shower with Dr Windham, I was offered her hand to hold. Turning to me, as the steam from the first shower filled the room in a fog. "We're like two newly arrived freshmen fumbling around in undergraduate communal showers."

I laughed. I'm sure the behavior of young females thrown together in college communal showers was mild compared to what happened in the convent school I attended. Could I teach Dr Windham a lesson? I wondered.

"Let's," Dr Windham suggested, "step under the hot water together."

I found myself facing Dr Windham holding hands as the warm water pelted down on us. Pelted by the warm gush, her pilus (hair) was plastered against her scapula and clavicle (shoulders). Large globules exploded as they landed at our feet.

My eyes were fixed on Dr Windham's mammaries. Mammary glands, I recalled, are not sexual organs per se, but function as secondary sexual characteristics which distinguish women from men. However, in Dr Windham's case, her mammaries were impressive for a woman in her mid - 40s, guaranteed to attract both men and women.

Her hands gently palpating my collum (neck) and scapula and clavicle (shoulders) sent a surge through my body that stimulated my clitoris.

I strove to remain clinical in my ruminations, apart from myself evaluating Dr Windham. Her areolae were larger than most, a pale pink consistent with her lighter epidermal (skin) tone. Had Dr Windham been a natural blond?

Gently pulling us under the second spigot which blasted soap, Dr Windham worked the soap into my anal cavity and worked a finger around my sphincter. "We need to clean out the rest of that lubricant."

A long phalange (finger) dripping with soap was introduced into my vagina. "Relax," Dr Windham whispered, as two fingers then three rhythmically entered and withdrew while Dr Windham's thumb depressed my clitoris. With a deep breath, Dr Windham exclaimed as the palmar side (palm of her fand palpated (felt) my mons pubis (mound), "Smooth!"

"A pleasant tactile sensation // accompanies palpation // of a mons freshly shaven." Did my former friend and rival Erica come up with that up in happier days after she was accepted into the hospital's medical model program? She was suing me over her dismissal from that job as well.

In the shower with Dr Windham, my rate of respiration increased. Dr Windham's mammaries heaved in unison with mine. Just as we were coming together, Dr Windham hugged me and pulled me under the third stage the cold dousing. Was she laughing as I shrieked from the shock of the inundation of frigid water? I wasn't sure.

Thrown towels by the shower girl, Dr Windham reminded me that it was time to get to work. Yes, Dr Windham could run from hot to cold.