A New Practice

Originally written for HenryHiggins

Content warnings for this story (click here for guide):

A New Practice

The waiting room was quiet, even for a weekday. The receptionist signed me in and offered me a glass of water. So this was going private, I thought. No more year-old magazines with completed crosswords; no more faded signs excusing the expected 20-minute delays. I took a seat and read my book until a bell jingled and the screen on the wall read: Holly Foster, Room 4, Dr Barnard.

I began to turn the handle, then spotted the notice on the door instructing me to knock. I let go like the handle was electrified and knocked softly. After five seconds, a voice called me in.

“Holly, yes?”

Dr Barnard did not look up from his computer as he spoke. Instead, he finished typing up some notes, then opened up my file and turned my way.

“I understand you’re having trouble sleeping.”

I nodded.

“Is it the quality of the sleep, or the amount? What time are you getting to bed each night?”

“A bit of both, I think” I said. “I…I’ve been finding…even if I go to bed around 10pm, I’m not dropping off…My GP wasn’t really taking me seriously, so I thought…”

He nodded.

“I’m getting…I suppose four or five hours a night,” I said.

“OK,” said Dr Barnard. He was a well-dressed man with neat silver hair and oddly intense eyes.

“But even if I sleep longer, I wake up and I’m exhausted,” I said, breaking into a yawn.

“I can tell,” smiled Dr Barnard. “So you’re finding it hard to switch off. Are you worried about work, or is there something else on your mind?”

“It’s not work,” I said. “Uh…it’s just that my mind wanders.”

“Go on.”

I blushed. “I think about certain things a lot at night.”

Dr Barnard made a note on his screen.

“Sexual things?” he asked, not looking at me.

“Yes,” I said, blushing more deeply.

“I see.”

He stood up and walked over to the examining couch. Rolling a sheet of paper over the wipeable plastic, he told me to undress.

“Sorry?”

“Undress please. I’d like to check a few things.”

I was thrown for a second. I’d come to talk to him about sleep and hadn’t banked on needing an examination.

“Sorry, why…?”

“Get undressed, Holly,” said Dr Barnard, looking me in the eye. There was an edge to his voice that stopped my mouth. I paused, locked in place for a moment, then found myself slowly unbuttoning my top.

Dr Barnard watched me intently as I slipped off my blouse to reveal a white crop top with a pink bow in the middle. I’d never grown breasts big enough to need a bra, and preferred soft cotton to unnecessary underwiring, but standing here in front of him I was suddenly self-conscious about my pre-teen underwear.

“How long have you been having these thoughts at night?” asked Dr Barnard, checking my heart rate as I unfastened my belt.

“About…10 years,” I said, bending down to untie my shoes.

“That would make you about fourteen when this began,” he noted. “That’s quite young to be masturbating, Holly.”

I looked up, appalled, and clutched my bundled jeans to my chest.

“I didn’t say I -”

“Put this on.” He tossed a cotton garment at me. It was a hospital gown in a chintzy print. 

I slipped it over my underwear, relieved to be covered.

“Panties down, please,” said Dr Barnard, as he gathered instruments and arranged them on a tray.

I hesitated, then tugged them down. As I bent down to lay them on the chair beside me, I felt a breeze across my bottom, and realised with horror that the back of the smock was completely open. Clutching the excess fabric together at the back, I made my way to the padded plastic couch and hopped up as modestly as I could.

Barnard wheeled across a trolley and told me to lie back. As I did, the smock rode up to the tops of my thighs.

“Now, Holly,” he said, pulling on a pair of latex gloves, “I’m just going to examine you below the waist to check for evidence of anything unusual. I want you to relax.”

I tried to resist tensing as he picked up a metal speculum and smeared it with lubricant from a white pot. He told me to bring my knees up to my chest, keep the ankles together and let the legs fall gently open. My heart began to hammer as I felt the breeze on my clitoris.

Dr Barnard began to slide the speculum into me and I gasped a little. It was warm and slippery, and I was embarrassed to be explored like this. He began to open it – and me – up to that same cool office air.

He looked down the speculum and made a couple of notes, then introduced a cotton bud, which he pressed and pushed against my skin. He bagged the sample and labelled it, then slid the speculum wetly out of me.

“Now then,” said Dr Barnard, “I’m going to need you to be a very good girl for your secondary examination, Holly. 

He locked the door.

“Because I suspect you’re actually a little slut.”

I sat up on the bed in shock, reddening at his words and ready to jump down, but he pushed me back onto the plastic. Swiftly, he drew up two restraints from beneath the couch and cuffed my wrists. I began to shout and he pushed a soft ball gag into my mouth, buckling it at the back of my head.

“A little slut,” continued Dr Barnard, thrusting two gloved fingers inside me, “who needs to be treated appropriately.”

The gag muffled my cries, but my legs were still free, and I lashed out, landing a good hit on his thigh. He stumbled backward for a second in pain, then stood back up, smiled and drew down a pair of stirrups from the ceiling. 

I thrashed and tried to twist my body out of the way, spit running down the sides of my gag as I did. But my wrist restraints were strong and limiting, and he was able to grab my legs, holding them firmly to stop me kicking him.

“You’re a very naughty girl, Holly,” he remarked as he flipped me over onto my stomach, causing the wrist restraints to twist on their pivot. He stretched my legs out till my ankles were snugly fixed in the stirrups. The hospital gown began to slide open.

“No,” I thought. “NO…”

Gravity won. The printed fabric fell away, exposing my bare bottom and wet, open pussy to the doctor.

“That was very bad behaviour, Holly,” I heard him say. “I think I’m beginning to see what the problem is here. Yes indeed. A dirty girl like you needs very special treatment.”

He opened a drawer and took out a harness, which he passed around my waist and up between my legs, buckling and locking it securely in place. Next he brought out a large purple toy, which he proceeded to coat in lubricant. He slipped this inside me and I gasped as he secured it in place with the harness.

“Oh dear,” he said. “You’re confirming my diagnosis with every little movement.”

He clicked a device in his hand and the toy buzzed inside me. I whimpered and he turned the buzzing off, thinking for a moment.

Inspired, he went to a different drawer for a pink device shaped like a butterfly. He clipped this into the front of the harness so it was held firmly against my clit, and pressed the remote again.

The butterfly vibrated powerfully against me, and I cried into my gag as my synapses fired, pulse surged and shivers took me over. The doctor stopped the buzzing again, leaving me panting and embarrassed. I heard him scribble a note, then there was a plastic click as he lifted the phone receiver.

“Hello, yes. Could you reschedule my 14.15 appointment, please? I’ll need a little longer with Ms Foster. Thank you.”

Click. 

The plastic couch was hot and moist against my cheek. A tear crept down my jaw as I heard the creak and jingle of a belt being unfastened, then a rhythmic slapping of leather against palm.