The Tale of Sara Radovich

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A scientist sees a proctologist for an embarrassing problem.
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This story is a collaboration with Literotica author Margaret Jenkins.

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Part 1 (Sara Radovich speaks)

As a professional, active woman in her early 40's, my physical well-being is extremely important to me. Even though I travel the world lecturing in my field (solid-state physics), and some might consider it frivolous for a tenured professor, I always make time for pedicures and facials, as well as massage therapy and vigorous physical exercise. I have been able to maintain a slim and well-toned figure, keeping my weight at less than 130 lbs despite my 5' 10" frame. Staying healthy is tough when you spend as much time in hotels as I do, but I am as strongly focused on my health as I am on my scientific work. And I am helped by my active metabolism and my slim-hipped androgynous frame, which I like to accentuate by keeping my blonde hair cropped short and layered at the back and sides. When not focussed on work, exercise, or day-to-day necessities, my main preoccupation is sex. Unfortunately, my recent whirlwind travel schedule has precluded even a casual one-nighter with any new scientific acquaintance. That is a pity, as many of my fellow professors and researchers have active libidos and fertile imaginations, and, away from their regular colleagues and family, reveal themselves to be extremely uninhibited.

However, there's one area that's my downfall: my diet. Eating hotel and restaurant food is unhealthy but unavoidable in my lifestyle. I am able to exercise enough so that my physique stays trim, but apparently my fiber consumption is neither as large nor as regular as it should be. I struggle on a weekly basis with constipation and severe flatulence.

That is why I found myself, last Thursday at 7 a.m., on the marble bathroom floor of my New York hotel room. I lay facedown, with my shoulders and knees to the floor and my buttocks raised as high as I could hold them. The problem? A rock-hard bowel movement was lodged in my anus. A turtlehead of warm brown material protruded at least an inch beyond my painfully stretched sphincter, and an unknown length of the same large cylinder of feces snaked up into my colon behind it.

Never before had I found myself in such an embarrassing and debilitating predicament. I had already missed an early-morning run in Central Park with colleagues due to this problem. To compound my embarrassment, I was unable to control certain sexual feelings. I was profoundly aware of the sensation of my nipples, stiffly erect against the cold marble floor. And the sensation of the enormous turd in my colon began to feel more and more as if I were being anally taken by an enormously endowed lover.

For the hundredth time, I reached between my legs and probed the head of the turd with my finger. I pushed firmly on its center and was rewarded with a cascade of sensation along my bowel tract as the impacted mass moved ever so slightly in and then back out. And again I ran a finger around the rim of my distended anus. The turd was at least an inch and a half in diameter. My anus tingled and spasmed as I stimulated it lightly with the fingertip.

And then, shamefully, I reached for my vibrator and applied it firmly to my clitoris. I knew that continued masturbation would not help me solve my predicament, but the sensation in my bowels was so powerful that I could not resist.

At last, by 8 a.m., I realized that I would have to take action, lest my health be permanently affected. Completely naked, and with the feces still protruding well into the cool air of my hotel room, I waddled over to the phone and placed a call to the concierge. Could he recommend a nearby proctologist who might have Friday hours, ideally one with impeccable discretion?

Did I detect a chuckle in the concierge's voice? He advised me that there were several proctologists here in Midtown, but if discretion was my desire, there was only one for me to see: Dr. Susan Phillips, whose practice was in Brooklyn. In spite of the trip that would be required, I allowed the concierge to make an appointment for me later that morning. What a relief to be able to be seen so soon!

As I hung up the phone, I remembered with a start that I had sent all my professional clothing out to be dry-cleaned. I had assumed I would be jogging this morning, so my only available garments, were my Lycra running attire. I typically run in a jog bra that supports my breasts well; for my lower garment, vanity had moved me to purchase a range of very tight knee-length shorts, also of Lycra material. And for this trip, I had packed one of my tighter pairs, of a pearly white color. They invariably draw attention to my firm and muscular derriere, attention I confess to enjoying. I had even sent my soiled lingerie to be cleaned (normally I do not wear anything under my tight Lycra shorts). I would have to wear this ensemble to my appointment, in spite of my embarrassing condition.

I fitted myself into the athletic outfit. As I bent to wriggle the stretchy shorts over my buttocks, a small yet extremely pungent fart pushed itself around the plug filling my bowels. I paused before the door to inspect myself in the full-length mirror. I turned to present my buttocks to the mirror and saw, to my dismay, that the protruding head of the fecal mass was pushing out the Lycra fabric, and a brown stain was becoming visible. With luck I would make it to the doctor's office before the stain became too blatant.

At last I stood outside my hotel on the busy New York sidewalk. As is my luck, no taxis were in sight, and neither was the bellhop to call one for me. I would have to take the subway. How I hoped it might be deserted, in spite of the weekday morning hour! I waddled to the nearest subway entrance and moved with great difficulty down the stairs. As I slowly and gingerly descended each step, a small amount of warm air escaped around the huge steaming turd into my shorts, and the stretchy fabric held the air next to my skin. A profound warmth spread over my genitals. I became aware that I was certainly fouling my tight white shorts not only with feces but also with drippings from my labia.

As luck would have it, the subway was completely packed, and the subway car I boarded offered standing-room only. At least no one would be able to see my buttocks, and the origin of any farts I released would be unknown. The car lurched into motion, and then something terrifying happened! I felt a firm sideways push on the protruding head of the turd! In a moment, the direction of the push reversed, and my anus was then mercilessly stretched in the opposite direction. Someone behind me had noticed my predicament, and decided to grip the rod of densely packed shit that impaled me and manipulate it for sadistic effect. I opened my mouth to scream, but the intense sensation in my sphincter left me voiceless.

I tried to spy my attacker, swiveling my head around as far as I could. Who--man? woman? youth?-- was abusing me in this disgusting way? But in the crush of bodies surrounding me I saw only the blase faces of a morning commuter crowd. No one's facial expression betrayed either evil intent or sexual arousal. Clearly I was in the hands of a monster. The subway trundled along, and my rectum was jerked to and fro without mercy.

At the next stop, almost all of the passengers disembarked. For an instant, my terror deepened. What if I was left alone with my attacker? But at last I was able to look directly behind me, and I discovered that my attacker was.... myself. Upon boarding, my protruding shit-rod had become wedged between a plastic panel and the metal rod that guarded its edge. The sensations I had felt in my anus were simply the lurchings of the subway car, transmitted to my aching bowel. I flushed bright red, first with shame, then with the realization that I was reluctant to move from this position. I leaned back so that the rigid panel and rod forced my turd deeper into my colon, and I folded my hands in front of my pudendum and tried to masturbate as discreetly as possible until my destination stop arrived.

In a daze I made my way out of the subway and down a leafy street to the address of Dr. Susan Phillips's clinic, which was set back from the street in a reassuringly discreet way. I entered, signed in with the attractive young female receptionist, and took a seat on one of the waiting room chairs where I observed her discreetly. Her manner while dealing with the registration revealed the maturity of an adult with at least a few years work experience, but from across the room I could almost believe she was still in her teens. The delicate features of her fresh, guileless and slightly freckled face and the medium-length dark hair gathered in a simple, youthful ponytail were most appealing, as was the hint of cleavage and swell of her breasts. As I sat on the firm, unyielding seat, I became aware that my journey had allowed my turd to work its way lower by at least two inches. Instead of a turtlehead between my buttocks, now I had a barrel-shaped fecal mass. Sitting down on it caused, by lever action, powerful sensations inside me, particularly on my bladder.

The pressure on my bladder made me emerge from my daze. Looking down I noticed that a sizeable damp patch had formed at my crotch, no doubt the result of the anal stimulation and my masturbation -- the receptionist must surely have noticed as soon as I entered. Flustered, I looked up to see the pretty receptionist herself was standing over me, leaning forward so that her cleavage was inches away from my face. She said with a warm smile, "By the way, my name is Julie. Would you care for an espresso?" Heedless of possible consequences, I took it and drank it quickly.

---end of part 1----

Part 2 (Dr Susan Phillips takes up the narrative)

I suppose I have been very lucky. I was brought up in a steel and mining area in the north of England while there was still enough work to keep my parents' heads above water, and my being an only child eased the financial burden. I was good at lessons, though not brilliant. Only biology I excelled in and loved: how animals were born, what made their bodies work, then making the natural transfer to the human species. I believe that my own onset of puberty was hurried along by a few short months our class spent learning about equine care. The other children loved brushing the horses and giving them apples and hay; although I enjoyed these gentle pursuits as well, I was entranced by the stallions' enormously long and thick penises and the prodigious size and elasticity of the mares' anuses.

From a young age I'd revelled in rough-and-tumble children's games in the local woods or muddy fields after heavy rain. Later I progressed to the messier aspects of biology study. Much of this work was in the context of my A-levels, but not all. The neighbour children and I, now adolescents, frequently escaped into a nearby wood and watched one another urinate and defecate, often within partial view of a busy motorway.

It was natural that I would decide to become a doctor, especially as I believed in the stable income physicians seemed to enjoy. What I hadn't realised was how long and hard the study would prove to be, and how little reward there was during the first years after qualifying. But that was when fortune smiled. An advanced course and practice opportunity came up, to specialise in proctology (also known as colorectal surgery), in other words treating disorders of colon, rectum and anus. At the time that the field was unfashionable, dirty and unglamorous, so not very appealing to young idealistic doctors -- and not very lucrative either. That's how the chance came up, I guessed. Not that I never minded doing anything messy.

In my adult life, I am fortunate that the lifestyle and priorities of much of the Western professional population are shifting. People are no longer merely concerned about health, but wellness. And high up on their list of concerns is the efficient and healthy functioning of all aspects of the digestive system. Hitherto taboo topics are now mainstream conversation. These have fascinated me since I entered puberty, but they had always been largely secret thoughts. I now had the chance to earn money dealing with all the real, imagined and pretended ailments concerned with the digestive system, and its link with sexual function and dysfunction. There was a market for my skills and empathies.

One thing my upbringing had bestowed upon me was a good business attitude. There was no way I would slog for years through countless 80-100 hour weeks in the world of assembly-line medicine. Instead, I emigrated to the United States, where the prevalence of private payment arrangements encourages the consumption of discretionary medical services. I also realised that the best way to attract customers was to offer tranquil, sympathetic, discreet surroundings. In fact, I soon learned that even those with a genuine digestive disorder that needed treatment were often susceptible to certain interesting responses to other aspects of the procedure. Not only was the practice lucrative, it could be highly pleasurable too. Yes, discretion was definitely paramount.

Like all newly arrived Britons, I felt the lure of New York. I set up my business in a small, secluded rented house in a quiet residential section of Brooklyn's Park Slope neighbourhood, with a short gravelled path leading between brownstones to a sheltered porch. It is a bit out of the way but much cheaper than Midtown, and much safer and more inviting too. During my business hours the door is open as there is a notice inviting visitors so as to walk straight freely in to arrive in a small entrance hall with an open door to a small reception room I used as my office. I employ one assistant, Julie, my girl Friday and admissions clerk. She is young, intelligent and well spoken, friendly (in fact, tactile), and attractive to both men and women. In other words, perfect.

I leave my contact details and profile with all the businesses that could result in a client (I prefer the term to "patient"). Early one Thursday morning, while Julie and I sat in our office, preparing for the day, she received a call from the concierge of one of the Midtown business hotels. He murmured that a lady hotel guest had requested a treatment appointment with a proctologist; he indicated that it was fairly urgent. As is our custom, I listened in on the conversation, and naturally I gave Julie the signal to make the appointment, which she acknowledged with a "wink" to indicate her thoughts. Mine were the same: almost certainly a professional person. But why come out here when there were a number of proctologists steps away in Midtown?

As if reading our thoughts, the concierge went on to say, in an amused tone of voice, that the lady had emphasised the need for discretion. I was intrigued. And pleased. It seemed her condition was genuine, hence the urgency, but perhaps the result of some unusual sexual practice on her part. Something involving anal play gone wrong? I had learned that this was amazingly common, in fact the most common cause of people needing urgently to see a proctologist, and that even serious-minded professional people are as prone to it as anybody. I felt a delightful warm tingling deep inside my lower belly and an accompanying wetness in my vagina. As it happened I had no other appointment that day, and I decided not to schedule any. Julie approved of my decision heartily, since she would be freed of other duties and able to assist.

As usual I prepared to meet my new client in normal day wear, just an ordinary blouse, khaki skirt, and labcoat, again to present a professional but not too formal air, to help put the client at their ease. Vanity causes me not to cut my deep chestnut hair and so practicality requires that I either put it up in a bun or wear it in a long plait. Today I had elected the plait, which I prefer as it presents a younger image. When carrying out the treatments, my outfit changes to something more suitable for what is invariably a very messy business. Julie, on the other hand, takes pleasure in allowing her clothes to be soiled as the situation requires.

It was about nine-thirty when Julie buzzed. She'd noticed a tall, elegant lady approach along our gravel walk, but from her appearance she thought her a jogger who had made a wrong turn. Only when she approached the entrance did Julie realise this was probably the lady for whom the appointment was made. I pressed the switch on the monitor to see and was surprised. In spite of the grainy image, it was clear that she was dressed only in her athletic gear: light-coloured knee-length shorts and sports bra, all shiny Lycra and figure-hugging. She certainly looked very fit, indeed like an athlete. But instead of moving quickly with a fluid grace, each step looked uncomfortable and made with effort. This must be our new client ..... Ms Radovich. But why was she thus attired?

I was happy to let Julie welcome her and deal with first-timer registration. We followed our usual practice: I would leave them together for several minutes longer, to let Ms Radovich take in the surroundings, relax as much as possible with some small talk. Julie is very good at that and I saw her fingertips rest very lightly on our client's knee as she leaned over to offer an espresso. In fact it's a caffeine-free espresso, and laced with mix of a mild tranquiliser and a strong laxative. The effect would be to relax the usually anxious client very quickly, and to make it much easier to expel the contents of her bowels. In those minutes I checked that my surgical attire was at hand in the white room closet, not yet being sure which outfit I would need, and arranged my desk. Just then Julie led Ms Radovich to my office, a hand gently on her arm.

Now I could see her at close quarters the first thing I noticed was what an attractive and fit-looking woman she was, and how tight-fitting and revealing was her outfit. Tall and svelte and obviously in excellent physical condition. From her birth date she must be forty-two or -three. She was more than ten years my senior but she didn't look it. I wondered about the attire, the slightly shiny sports bra and shorts, in a very pale peach color, almost white. She was either an unusual type of exhibitionist or it was force of circumstances. She'd surely expect and hope I'd comment so I decided to ease the tension.

"Good morning Ms Radovich. Welcome, and please sit down. First let me say that's very nice workout wear you have. Were you doing some fitness?"

"Oh, doctor, I'm glad you don't mind I am dressed his way. It was embarrassing on the journey..."

She related how she came to be so dressed, clearly relieved at being able to explain. What I did not immediately remark on was the state of her shorts. At the rear there was a two-inch nearly circular brown mark right in the middle of her buttock cleft, at her anus in fact. That was no surprise, given the putative urgency of the appointment. More interestingly there was a large damp patch in the front, at her pubis and further down to the crotch, which changed the hue from almost white to clear peach. I doubted it was the result of perspiration, the specific extent suggested otherwise. It glistened slightly and caused the stretchy material to mould itself to the convexities and indentations of her pubic area, of her pubis, even the delicate curves of her labia and the groove between them was apparent. I felt a copious gush release of feminine juice from the depths of my vagina soak into my panties. As usual I was wearing sturdy, full cut cotton and was glad of that. Without giving any clue of my reaction I went on, in a carefully professional manner.

"OK, we need first a few minutes to complete your registration data. My assistant has all the basic details on her form, but I need you to provide information about your medical history and anything pertinent to your need to visit a proctologist."