Author's Note: This story will do fine as a stand-alone stroker if that's what you're after, but its real intent is to make you giggle and blush at the same time. The non-consent elements are all fairly mild. Our heroine is having more fun than we are, trust me. The humor can be subtle sometimes amongst all the blatant Eros, however. As an example: "Her bottom was alive with pleasure" (the final line of scene twenty) is entirely tongue-in-cheek. "Alive with Pleasure" was the tag-line in all those hilariously sexualized Newport cigarette ads for God's sake. I am self-aware enough to see the absurdity of writing these stories and I hope you share my instinct for mirth about them. This is supposed to be fun, after all.
In any case, this new Ch. 4 in Tiffany's tale replaces the original. A couple of passages and plot developments remain but the bulk is completely new. The parts that stayed in have been thoroughly edited.
Please don't worry if this series is new to you; I've included enough context to keep you oriented. Of course, it would be great to start at Ch.1 or at least Ch.3, but that's up to you. Click my username to find those.
To my loyal readers: Thank you for your patience and enthusiasm, and sorry for the endless wait. I've read all your emails and comments more than once. I do hope this submission keeps 'em coming (please recognize that as a double entendre. If you do, you are in the proper mood to continue).
Enough blah-blah... Enjoy!
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SCENE SEVENTEEN
Tiffany Topper's second workday at the medical clinic in Rifle, Colorado was nearly over. Despite the dry summertime air she felt humid and impure.
Doctor Grisholm, who had been in charge of her discipline all day, emerged from the explorer-themed décor of his psychiatry office and strode past her perch on the lobby's reception dais to lock the front door, signaling the end of patient hours.
She crossed her legs tightly; aware that her narrow Plexiglas podium offered no privacy. Indeed when Grisholm turned to face her his gaze dipped and his smile widened.
Her entire workday had been just so.
Rules promulgated by Doctor Mitchell, her main boss, had compelled her to go braless beneath her thin cardigan and silk camisole, and to wear her favorite suede miniskirt unnaturally high by cinching its wrap-around beltline at her waist's narrowest point. This left her athletic legs naked to the hip and her boobs eye-catchingly mobile. A pair of spindly nude-color stiletto sandals further exaggerated her leggy physique, but the 'piece de resistance' belonged to Doctor Grisholm, who had coerced her into wearing a vibrating butt plug in lieu of being spanked for her failure to read her employment contract.
Thusly attired she'd spent seven hours performing an involuntary floorshow for the clinic's visitors; pulled helter-skelter by competing requests like a kite on a gusty day.
Throughout, Grisholm's humming toy had kept her insides buttery. It transformed mere sitting into a sexual act. Greeting guests, serving coffee, answering the phone, escorting patients to examination rooms, helping the infirm to their seats, maintaining the appointment calendar and attending myriad lesser whims contrived by the four doctors had all become stimulants. Even after the battery died she'd remained subjugated by its presence; constantly worried of bending over too far or voicing her arousal.
Not surprisingly the lobby's male population had steadily swollen as her ordeal wore on, ballooned with patients' brothers, uncles, fishing-buddies and other lingerers. This crowd had attuned their beady eyes to her every swish and bounce as though she were an Olympic skater, staying long after their appointments were over and sighing appreciatively each time she leaned, stretched or crouched.
Now the room was finally empty and she was savoring her first moments alone; hoping her libido might cool and eating one of the ice pops Doctor Mitchell had made for her. Each contained enough protein to replace a meal, he'd said. Or was it half a meal? She couldn't remember. In any case, she'd already devoured most of it. Only a last whitish glob clung to the wooden stick between her teeth, slowly melting on her tongue.
Doctor Grisholm's burgeoning smile betrayed his awareness that each ice pop contained not just almond milk, protein powder and flavoring syrup as Doctor Mitchell had told her, but also three donations' worth of frozen semen from the clinic's reproductive therapy practice.
With a cheeky glow nearly matching Tiffany's, he approached her high stool.
"So..." he began, "Looks like you survived the day. How's my little friend been treating you?"
She dragged the stick clean between her lips and swallowed. "Um... It eventually stopped buzzing sir, so... I think I did okay after that."
"Good. Any patients notice?"
She hesitated, remembering all the looks she'd gotten and the whines of pleasure she'd had to stifle. Even now her nipples stood proud and her panties felt swampy. "I don't, um... I tried sir, but—anyway, can I take it out now? It's been like, really hard for me."
"Sure. Why don't you hop down and we'll take care of that?"
She unscissored her legs and inched forward, treating Grisholm to a lovely view as she dangled her stilettos in search of the stool's chrome foot rail.
Earlier in the afternoon she'd rushed this technique and the plug's stem had caught the cushion's edge, causing her to squeal in a manner that raised eyebrows throughout the clinic and nearly sent her tumbling into the lap of an elderly patient.
Grisholm savored the spectacle of her cautious dismount. Only belatedly did he offer her a hand as she negotiated the much easier step to the floor.
"Yes..." he smiled, scanning her from head to toe, "I imagine you've had quite a day."
Her bright eyes flicked to his and then away, acknowledging her blatant condition with a blush.
"You know," he continued, "All our patients are gone, so... that sweater can come off again."
"Wh... but—"
"No buts, come on; just like you agreed with Doctor Mitchell."
She stared at him, mute, but soon began twiddling the small buttons of her cardigan, springing them wide one by one from the waist up. By the time she reached her chest, where the knit was most strained, she'd resigned herself to a full repeat of her earlier exposure.
When the last button came free she sloughed the garment off both shoulders and let it fall to her wrists behind her. This revealed her spaghetti-strapped silk shell. Like a brief curtain it hung from the points of her boobs, wobbling buoyantly as she fought her wrists free.
"M-hm," he approved. "Much better. You can put that on again when it's time to leave."
She sucked in a breath, glancing down at her décolletage. What little concealment remained was mooted by her rudely prominent nipples.
She silently swore and turned away to lay her sweater across the stool, wishing she hadn't agreed to such humiliating rules.
Without further ado Grisholm towed her into the office corridor, moving briskly enough that she had to trot in her tall stilettos, biting her lip as the toy interfered with her gait and her boobs orbited riotously.
At Exam Room 3 he pulled her inside and shut the door.
"Hop up here," he said, patting the paper sanitary sheet covering the room's examination table.
She eyed him through a disheveled sheaf of her brunette forelocks, warily tucking one foot behind the other and whispering: "You're not, um....giving me a spanking now, right?"
"No dear."
"N'kay," she continued, reaching behind her skirt and fingering the base of the plug, which was quite secure between her round cheeks. "Then can I just like... just pull this out?"
"No, Tiffany. Come on; hop up and lay back."
"But—"
He rolled his eyes dismissively and scooped her up by the waist, effortlessly depositing her onto the padded exam table.
"Ah!" she flinched as the plug lurched deeper. "Careful sir."
"Scoot to the middle and lie down please."
She reclined onto her elbows and carefully drew her feet up, crinkling the paper sheet as she centered herself.
"Now pull your knees back and hold them," he instructed, lifting her stilettos skyward.
Her suede skirt collapsed on itself as her legs inverted, baring her suntanned ass and the blue ribbon of her G-string.
She looped one arm around her knees and tried to conceal the toy with the other hand, pleading: "I'd rather do this part."
Grisholm brushed her interference aside, saying: "Nonsense."
Her stomach filled with butterflies as he loomed over her. She rolled her face to the wall, unable to bear such exposure.
Grisholm smiled. The slender trace of her G-string was tilted aside by the toy's protruding stem. Not content to leave her any coverage at all, he plucked this damp cord and stretched it leftward to her hip.
She squirmed; aware that he was cataloguing every aspect of shaven sex beneath the overhead lights. Being is such a jackknifed pose opened her pelvis completely, displaying her unusually large clit and allowing her nubile scent to enflame his baser instincts.
"My, my," he murmured, "You really have been enjoying your day."
