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Subject: {ASSM} Blame It On the Doctor {Carlos Cervantes} (MF fist reluc 1st)
Date: Mon,  2 Sep 2002 18:10:10 -0400
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"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 --


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