"Blame It On the Doctor"

      by Carlos Cervantes

Blame it on Dr. Eichammer. He was the one that discovered it - the extra clitoris that clung to the rear wall of my second hole. With my legs in the air, I didn't know what was happening. Why was a ob/gyn looking around down there? As he probed the pain was unbearable. I thought, perhaps, I had some kind of cyst or something that he needed to explore. At least that is how he couched the exploration. So I let him even though that area was supposed to be private. Mine only. That all ended the he found it. My special "G-hole," he called it. His fist gleamed with the translucent lube as he sang me selected songs from the Sound of Music. "To calm you down." he said. Didn't work. The pain, at first, was unbearable.

Then I felt a strange spasm; kind of like the pain and pleasure one feel when you have that great big sneeze you've been suppressing. I can only imagine what the patients were thinking in the waiting room outside when I let out a big scream. Another followed and the stirrups rocked and trembled. I was giving the Doc everything he could handle with my twitching as he probed deeper in circular motions. I thought I was going to loosen my bowels. Oh, little did those sweet women in the waiting room wearing their pink sweaters and squeezing their butts tight near their one clitoris, one clitoris, know that my pleading with the good doctor had nothing to do with pain. Or what they were missing. Or were they?

Maybe they were here as unexplored territory too?

Maybe a bright hard road had been forged up their assholes too. I have never been one to beat around the bush. Rather, I like getting to the point. When I realized that I had never lived the way I wanted to live after my first anal orgasm I was unstoppable. It was a rude awakening for my boyfriend Billy. He had the size to please but not the wherewithal to really please my second cherry. He couldn't see it. How I needed the subtlety of his hand inside me instead of his dumb un-evolved penis. Sure, Billy was crafty in spurring my vaginal-clitoral orgasms. They were my first and intense and pure as the skin of a ripe and unplucked orange. But nothing would ever compare to the bursting pleasure that the Doc unleashed when his lube-dripping fist probed me and the small bump at the base of his wrist. I became an addicted to his forearm. The addiction was base and unreasonable and no different than that 16 year old heroin junkie with the nose ring that sits cross legged on w. 71st. and Columbus.

Blame it on Doc Eichammer.

He ruined love and life for me. I was forever a shadow of myself from that day onward. In countless hotel rooms and gas stations bathrooms and with the a vile parade of strangers, I searched for the equivalent of what he had given me on that first day of anal rocking pleasure. But I never found it. Only one man held the key to my inner joy. It was the Doc. He was the explosion expert. Every one else was a novice. He alone knew that the fist was a marvelous curving thing. A thing that could evolve into a subtle shape that felt like millions of droplets of anal heroin upon my brain. And then I grew jealous of him. Weekly appointments would no longer do. I took to seeing him twice a week. Three time towards the end.

Then one day he told me that I was cured. "Of what." I said. He never answered me. He just threw away the latex gloves that had more of me on them than lube and walked out the door.

I demanded one more visit, for old times sake. He relented. The day I went to see him I had a 9mm Glock in my pocketbook. I emptied all six bullets into him and walked out the door and past a room filled with stunned, speechless women. I'm doing a fifty two year sentence in a prison upstate now. No chance for parole. The judge took no sympathy on a woman with a clitoris in her asshole. None at all. If there is a silver lining in all of this it's the fact that I have found a special wonder here among my cell mates. It comes at a few minutes past midnight, and it comes silently this time. No pleading, no loss of innocence, just plain unadulterated pleasure. Me and my cell mate both have a clitoris you-know-where. And though society has chose to damn us to hell in this prison, I have a consolation. Not only has she surpassed the gifts of pleasure the Doc bestowed deep inside me. I have found a special talent for doing the same to another.

If only the warden knew. But he won't because our secrets expire into our wet pillows. They alone know our pleasure.

I guess you could say that I am a model prisoner now. For I give way more than I get.

- The End -

[Note: this story is protected by international copyright law,
all rights not expressly waived are reserved by its author.]

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