The Moc Patient

This story will appeal to those turned on by sexualized medical examination, unwanted orgasms, masturbation, and light non-consent. Please enjoy.

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Professor Adams strode to the podium at the front of his lecture hall. He turned to face his audience and held one hand aloft in the air, politely requesting quiet. The rabble of a hundred first year medical students died down and all eyes fell on him. He could feel the relentless hunger and intellectual curiosity of the next generation of doctors.

"Congratulations on completing your first semester. It is no small thing to go through the rigors of learning all the basic science that you must know as physicians. However, from here your curriculum only gets more difficult and more important. You have spent the past few months learning what can be gleaned in textbooks - biochemistry, basic anatomy, cellular biology. But now we turn our attention to what matters most: the patient. Today you all begin a new series, integrated into the curriculum, teaching you the physical exam. Using nothing more than your eyes and your hands our faculty will be instructing you to illicit a hidden understanding of your patients.

"This is medicine as practiced by Hippocrates and the ancient Greeks. It is the art of medicine. You will not need smart phones, artificial intelligence, or advanced imaging technology. You will understand the heart by the contour of its pulsations, intuit the lungs by the sounds they make, and appreciate the nerves with the soft tap of a hammer.

"These sessions will be organized according to organ systems. Most students are eager to start with the heart. Many universities teach in a systematic way anatomically, literally from the head to the toes, beginning at the top of the body and moving down system by system. However, we believe that the doctor-patient relationship is the most important component of a good physical exam. It is more than just a knowledge of the maneuvers and the body's anatomy. It is about connecting with a vulnerable individual sitting on your exam table in a wafer-thin gown.

"We believe that the best way to expedite your comfort in this role is to begin with the most difficult components of examination. You will learn to get comfortable being uncomfortable. That is why today, in your first session, you will be learning the gynecologic and breast exams."

An uncomfortable murmur rippled throughout the room.

"I will begin with an hour-long lecture, reviewing the basics. Then we will all split out into assigned smaller groups for hands-on instruction."

The group discomfort grew louder. Professor Adams laughed quietly to himself.

"Now in the old days students would all practice on each other." Shocked eyes darted around the auditorium. "But these days things are more civil. You will meet your first of many mock patients. Periodically during this curriculum, you will interact with actors and others who help us out by portraying patients for you. You cannot learn the gynecologic exam through books or mannequins, and we cannot unleash you all to practice on real live patients in our clinics. You will be placed in groups of five with one faculty instructor and one mock patient. I will give you those room assignments at the conclusion of our lecture. Now let us begin."

Professor Adams began his lecture in earnest. The medical students sat in rapt attention, scribbling notes and following along with phrases like "firm pressure" and "anterolateral direction." The anticipatory tension sat thick in the room.

Meanwhile, Molly waited in room 124, a windowless mock exam room in the basement of the local university's medical college. She was a struggling, arguably fully failed at this point, actress. A friend had referred her to the medical school's mock patient program because it paid well and helped keep rent flowing in between other work. In the past couple of years Molly had portrayed all sorts of patients in all kinds of different scenarios, but today was her first day as the vessel for the instruction of gynecologic examination. She was nervous, unsure of what to expect.

Molly was in her mid-30's, older, but not by that much, than most of the students. She wondered who her five would be. Would one of the men be handsome? Would she get turned on, or would this all be too clinical - partitioned off in another part of her brain that was separate from the pleasure centers? In this job she had been interviewed by many a handsome young doctor. It always felt bland, like work. This time would be the same, she told herself.

She thought about how long it had been since she'd been with a man. This would be the first time anyone had put hands on her there since, what, months? Molly was lost in thought when a knock came from the door, and it opened. Professor Adams poked his head in.

"Well, hello. I see that you are still fully dressed. If you would please, undress and put on a gown from one of the cabinets across from you. We will give you a minute, and then I'll be in with the students." He began to withdraw but returned for a final word. "Please do take everything off, my dear," and the door shut.

One by one Molly removed and set aside her shoes, socks, jeans, and shirt, meticulously folding the larger items. She shook out one of the gowns and tied two cloth chords together behind her head. The oddly shaped sheet came to rest against her front. Molly reach behind herself to tie the back of the gown closed, and in doing so felt her nipples lightly chafe against the cheap clinical fabric. She looked down and noted that they were visibly erect beneath the gown as another knock came from the door, and the group of six entered her space. To hide her shame, she hunched her shoulders forward and shielded her breasts from any forward thrust.

"Molly!" Professor Adams approached and shook her hand. "Meet the students. Students, meet Molly." Awkward waves and "hellos" ensued. "Molly, I presume you know the drill by now." She didn't, but she nodded meekly all the same. "Go ahead and lay back on the exam table and we will get started." Professor Adams adjusted the table so that she was reclining back but not entirely flat, and a section was extended to support her feet. He turned to address the five students circled around. "Let's start with the breasts."

Professor Adams began droning on about the finer points of a breast exam, describing both the "clockface" and "lawn mower" techniques. Without warning and without engaging her, he moved Molly's body into his desired position. He grasped her right wrist and brought her arm up and over her head. He reached behind the left side of her neck and pulled the gown tie loose then pulled down the section of gown that had been hiding her right breast and exposed her.

This being Molly's first encounter as a mock patient for a hands-on exam session, she wasn't sure if this was how things usually went, but the students seemed fine with Professor Adams' approach, greedily taking notes as he spoke, so she went with it. Her right breast just sat there in the open air for all the room to see. The teacher spoke at length about the tissues and structures that were nestled beneath the skin, just out of sight. All Molly noticed was the rigidity of her right nipple, fixated on her body's unusual response to this awkward situation. She was by nature a private, conservative person. This was the first time she had been even partially nude in public.

Professor Adams brought the students in closer as he reached for Molly's breast. His fingers meandered and massaged their way around, superficially at first and then deeper with more pressure. He invited the nearest student to place his hands on her. This young man used a cupping motion with his palm. Molly felt more of a caress than the clinical probing of Professor Adams. The wires in her brain crossed. What she detected was pleasure across one of her erogenous zones.

"No, no, more like this." Professor Adams grasped the student's hand and puppeted it with his own. "Yes, that's it. You start at the nipple and work your way out, then repeat at different angles."

The harsh touch of the professor returned, but the initial sterility of this encounter was gone. In Molly's mind she was no longer a professional being paid to act as a flesh and blood mannequin for purposes of instruction. She was not a lifeless vessel. She felt touched, and she felt seen. She could not control her body as it sent messages to her brain indicating pleasure. Molly wanted to sit back, shut off, and collect her check. But each time a fumbling hand inadvertently grazed her nipple she was overruled by her own body.

Traitor, she thought.

"That's good, that's good, but let's pick up the pace a bit. You, come around to this side." Molly felt Professor Adams pull her left arm up and over her head as he slid more of the gown off her body, releasing her left breast. She decided to succumb to the moment a bit. With her body in recline and both hands folded behind her resting head, Molly closed her eyes. Two sets of hands were nervously pawing at both of her breasts. As she unpacked her feelings, this did not seem explicitly sexual - more like a massage. It might be an inept massage, but it was pleasant all the same.

She lost track of who exactly was touching her, stopped paying attention to the professor's instructions. Molly sank into the experience and simply allowed herself to be groped. She was brought out of the trace by the smacking of Professor Adams' hands clapped together.

"Fantastic. I don't think I've seen a brighter group of students in all my career. I think you are all ready for our trip down under." The clumsy, inappropriate attempt at levity made Molly feel icky. Yet as she reached up to tie the top of her gown closed, shifted her body, and repositioned her legs in relation to each other, she detected the pooling presence of moisture between her legs.

Traitor. Fucking traitor, she thought. She attempted to conjure unsexy thoughts - baseball, church, baseball again. That was what men thought about when they wanted to delay orgasm, right? None of it seemed to be working. Her mind was ravaged by images of hands and fingers invading her most personal of spaces. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that when the next exam started, everyone in this room would notice her sopping wet shame.

"Molly? Earth to Molly. I require your left leg please." Professor Adams once again brought her back into the present. The stirrups of the examination table had been extended into position and were awaiting Molly's legs.

"Oh, right, of course." She leaned further back and scooted her butt down, lifting each leg in turn and setting it within the cold, hard plastic stirrups. She was exposed now - fully exposed. The students were all pointedly averting their eyes and making deliberate eye contact with the professor. Though no one could see her as of yet, to Molly's horror she found that she could smell herself. The pungent aroma of her own arousal had rapidly permeated the room. She prayed no one else had noticed, and her eyes darted from face to face in the room searching for the appearance of sniffing and a dawn of realization over anyone's eyes.

Professor Adams was passing out latex gloves and individual packets of petroleum jelly to the students. "There is no such thing as too much lubricant here. You want your patient comfortable. I will now demonstrate the external and manual exams. Molly, first you will feel the back of each of my hands on the insides of your thighs." True to his words, Molly felt the backs of two gloved hands pry her legs apart, exposing her even further. Professor Adams sat on a stool at the base of the table between her legs. She could not see him behind the tented gown over the tops of her raised knees, but she watched as the students all turned and looked directly into her opened flower while the teacher narrated his approach.

Molly felt the occasional soft glance of fingertip across bare flesh as his pointing and gesturing occasionally made contact with her. She lost track of the exact words being spoken around the time he pried open her pussy to highlight the "labia minora." She wondered how swollen her clit must be with all this attention. The soft caresses, light touching, and finger exploration felt startlingly like foreplay. Every part of her body was responding in ways that horrified her. A flush spread across her chest; her breathing quickened; her breasts remained as sensitive as before; and below the sheet she just knew that her pussy was opening, flourishing, betraying, dripping, swelling, and all manner of behaviors that invited further pleasure.

At that moment, one of the professor's rogue fingers made incidental contact with Molly's clit, and it sent a shiver quaking her from head to toe. No one in the room noticed, nor did they notice Molly's subsequent aftershocks as her button was pressed again and again by mistake. The professor was speaking distractedly, animatedly about female anatomy, and Molly's clit was being treated like a punching bag.

"For the manual exam, ordinarily now is when I would apply the packet of lubricant, but as you can see, that is not necessary in this case." Adams chuckled to himself, and Molly wanted nothing more than to crawl out of the room and die of embarrassment. They all saw her. They all saw it, a river of moisture flowing from her in response to a pretend, sterile, clinical encounter. She felt outed as a pervert, not only to the students but also to herself.

"You will want to use the second and third fingers," the professor prattled on. "You are looking for masses, anything unexpected, as well as..." but Molly heard nothing further as her mind went blank when he entered her with two fingers. Molly could not imagine what was medically necessary about fingering a woman, yet here she was, with a graying, chubby old man rummaging around in her pussy and triggering every pleasure center on her body by accident. She tensed up and gripped the sides of the table. She pursed her lips inward and bit down on her tongue, trying to avoid the release of any moan. His fat sausage fingers remained there, filling her up, as he turned his head over one shoulder and spoke to the students. If any of them noticed the pain of her pleasure, it did not show on their faces.

Professor Adams withdrew his fingers and removed his glove. Molly breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed, but her torment was only beginning. The instructor had the students line up single file, with a handsome young man between her legs and the others behind, waiting their turn. It was a finger-fuck assembly line.

"Don't be shy. Surely this isn't your first time seeing one. Just follow your training," the instructor coaxed the instructees. It was all so inappropriate, Molly thought. She had expected more professionalism, more formality. The inappropriateness mingled with shame at her arousal mingled with the physical touch, and they congealed into an intoxicating stew of stimulation that Molly could no longer deny. She worried what would happen if Adams kept providing unintentional verbal proddings (maybe, "Now, you don't normally see a clit that swollen during the exam, but Molly here is a bit more excitable than most," or "Can someone get me a towel? The amount of lubrication this woman is producing is overwhelming the exam, which I did not think was possible") while the students' fumbling fingers groped her from within, it might send her beyond the point of no return.

No, she thought. I'm not going to cum in front of a room of complete strangers. I can hold this together.

Molly tightened her grip again on the padded edges of the table as the first of five students began his examination. His fingers traced the margins of her outer lips. He pulled them apart and leaned his head in closer ("Ah, I see what you were talking about, Professor"). Molly's eyes rolled back in her head as his investigation led to the unintended pulling back of the hooded flesh covering her clit, and the beating heart of her sex was open and available in the room. From that moment, all rational thought and protest evaporated from Molly's mind, replaced by the uncomplicated passive receipt of pleasure. His fingers entered now, and it was all she could manage to keep from rocking her hips in response, inviting deeper entry.

His prodding investigation filled her completely. He connected with every corridor and crevice of her pussy. She luxuriated in being explored. She was a book, creased and split at the spine, open wide for curious eyes, fingers running across her lines of text, pages turned with excitement for what was to come.

Molly gripped the table tighter and closed her eyes. No one in the room noticed the pleasure-pained crinkle of her face in grimace.

The first student completed his exam, withdrew, and had a sidebar conversation with Professor Adams as the next member of the assembly line stepped forward and began stroking her labia in futile attempts to identify her anatomy. Molly heard none of the words exchanged. Her mind was elsewhere, lost from this moment and this room. She had fallen to the bottom of a deep, dark well of stimulation, disconnected from all input save the feeling of her legs bound in stirrups and her pussy masturbated by others in fits and starts. She lost track of who was where, whether this was the second or third or fourth student in line. The medical gown draped over her knees blocked her view from the knowledge of who was between her legs at any given time.

She felt fingers - sliding in and out. There was no rhythm; it was unlike any sex she had had, but she felt as though she were being fucked all the same. They slid and pivoted and pushed and withdrew and advanced. Some were petite, narrow, light in their approach. Others were thick-knuckled and caused her to gasp when they penetrated to the depth of her cervix. Molly held her breath tight inside her chest, lest she begin panting in appreciation or allow a moan to submit her pleasure before this audience. She was watched, on display, all eyes on her pussy, all hands inside it.

Molly was wrestled from her reverie by a meaty hand clasping her shoulder and shaking gently.

"Are you OK, dear girl?" Professor Adams was peering into her now-opened eyes. "Do you need a break?" Molly snapped back into the moment. Clearly he had noticed the expression on her face. Fortunately, he seemed to have confused it with discomfort. Molly continued holding onto her breath. She did not want to open her mouth, fearing her voice would betray her like the rest of her body - whether with a vocal tremor or a Tourette's-like involuntary expulsion of a sentence like, "No, keep fucking me; I need the release."

Molly nodded meekly in the affirmative.

"Alright all. Let's give Molly some space. It is quite an ordeal to be a mock patient for the likes of you. We will return in five minutes time and continue once you've had a breather, dear."

Five minutes, Molly thought. I've got five minutes to release this tension from my body, so I can get back to being an appropriate mock patient. She believed if she could give herself an orgasm, she would not be so sensitive and would no longer be sexually triggered by the exam. Molly usually pleasured herself with a vibrator at home. It had been years since she'd gotten herself off with her hands alone, but she figured she was far enough along that it would not take much to send her over the edge.

As soon as she heard the door shut behind the students making their exit, Molly entered herself with her middle finger and simultaneously applied pressure over her clit with the base of her palm. She reached deeper within and applied upward pressure, stimulating her G spot. She drove her palm down harder, kneading her clit in circles before rhythmically stroking it from top to bottom. She could feel the bead of flesh beneath stiffen as she hooded it with each downward stroke and uncloaked it on each upswing.