Tiffany's Timidities Ch. 04

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."

Her face went scarlet. Her jaw clenched.

He pursed his lips and blew a stream of air at her overheated mound.

Goosebumps sprang up all over her, especially around her areolae.

Then his cool touch alighted on her vulva.

She jerked in surprise, shocked by the sensitivity. Even the temperature difference felt extreme.

"Oh Doctor, please I—"

His thumb penetrated her before she could finish.

She burst with a wanton cry and then slapped a hand across her mouth.

It was too late. Her interior was awash and now they both knew how close she was.

He marveled at the way her diminutive inner labia slathered his embedded thumb with nectar, clinging to it.

"Goodness, it's like you fell in love out there," he taunted. "You're a self-basting treasure!

"No sir!"

He applied his other hand to the smooth fold of her clitoral hood. She bit back a moan.

"Come on, 'fess up ..." he continued, "All those hours in front of strangers... plugged-up like this -- it seems to have suited you. Remember what I told you about being a passenger? How you crave this sort of thing, but only when it's forced on you?"

"Mihm-m!"

His thumb went deeper while he smeared her clit side-to-side. The petals of her pussy curled inward.

She nearly came right then, bearing-down against the pleasure.

He watched her countenance morph from shame to panicked joy. Her spindly stilettos flicked the air.

The more extreme tantalization for him was the anal toy. Its protruding stem had been kept slick all day by her excited weeping and now her pose was lifting it toward him; silently begging for manipulation.

"Jesus," he breathed, wondering how he'd gotten here. Her sexuality was out of all proportion to his personal experience. His erection beat like a kettle drum.

Carefully he grasped the rubber toy and gave it an outward twitch.

"Slow!" she yelped.

He paused, savoring her torment. Then with his other hand he spread her engorged mound, making her clit rise from its hood like a rude finger. It looked as hard as a bee-sting.

"Please... please slow," she begged.

All her sensitivities were right there, pining for it. He waited as long as he dared, quavering in anticipation. Then he opened his maw and dove right in.

A wail erupted from her, obscene in pitch, and she immediately grabbed the back of his head.

He slurped her oversized clit eagerly, licking it up and down, squashing her entrance with his stubbly chin.

She cooed and grimaced, bucking her pelvis.

He tightened his grip on the rubber stem.

She slapped the mat and chanted nonsense.

He kept nodding while making the knot of her anus slowly bulge.

She hugged her knees, tightening her jackknife and pointing her feet as her whines blurred to one long moan.

The toy crept outward, distending her smallest orifice at the rate of his choosing. When it reached its fattest point a levee broke somewhere inside her, unleashing the day's pent pleasure.

She hooked three fingers into her mouth and pried downward, howling through a tangle of hair.

"Yessh," he hissed, muffled by her sex.

Her lungs emptied, her toes curled and her suntan shivered.

He let go.

The plug shot back inside.

She came in a spasm of joy, unable to quell the whorishness.

Still nursing her clit he drew the tapered toy partway out again, pumping it, exaggerating its demands, testing the elasticity of her seal.

Her climax bloomed. Pelvic thrusts and sobs conveyed her undivided pleasure. Fluttering contractions danced through her interior.

A dozen heartbeats later she was still rapt, delirious and dribbling all over.

When at last she'd had enough she attempted to cover her butt.

He pressed the plug inward and held it.

"Oh fuck... Oh God," she begged. "Please, I just... I... Holy shit."

It was an endorphin overdose.

He lifted his face from her sex and waited, slowly drawing the toy back out to its widest point.

She gave a shaky plea: "No I can't take it, I can't take it."

He let go. All her orifices winced at once, sucking the toy back in.

"Nyah!" she cried. "Please!"

"God that's perfect. It doesn't want to let go."

"Shh, please take it out!"

He eased the toy free. When its tip emerged there was a subtle gasp of suction before her anus disappeared within itself in a long-overdue contraction.

She groaned and went slack. Her stilettos stabbed the paper as she rolled to her side.

He stepped away and placed the toy in the washbasin, announcing: "I knew you'd enjoy that."

"N-nn..." she answered.

"You have a wonderfully erogenous body, my dear. It's made for things you can't even imagine."

Her skin was sheened, her pupils were dilated and her blue G-string remained stretched to one side. Her silk camisole was askew, revealing the underside of one boob.

"No... no...." she kept whispering, rubbing her forehead to restore cognitive focus. "You—you just made me... All of you... with these rules and these crazy... things."

He stood beside the sink and blotted his chin with a paper towel. Then he returned to her side and softened his expression into a conciliatory smile before saying: "We're simply bringing out the real you, Tiff."

Her blue eyes found him. They shimmered with emotion. "No. You're turning me into some... some crazy person. I can't— I... I only wanted a job."

"That's not all you want now, is it?"

She scrunched her face and dislodged a tear. "I can't be this way."

He patted her knee. "I understand. You may wish you were different... but now you know what your real needs are, don't you?"

Her vocal chords tightened, preventing response. She looked away and smoothed her skirt down, seeking to recover some fraction of dignity.

He allowed her to rest for a minute before venturing: "I have a prescription for you."

"Hhn?"

"Something you'll need to do from now on... at least until your probationary status ends. I think you'll want to continue it afterward, but that'll be up to you."

She turned her head: "What?"

"Well... in order to continue exploring this kind of pleasure -- particularly this special kind, which obviously you have a talent for, you'll need to keep clean."

Her eyes narrowed.

"A simple home enema kit would suffice," he continued, "but I think you'll find a pump easier and more discrete."

"What?!"

He pulled a plastic jug from under the table and handed it to her. "Like this," he said. "It's saline; a mild solution with decent antiseptic properties."

The two-liter bottle was capped by a pistol-action tap and a rubber tube.

"No way," she marveled, reflexively examining it.

"From now on," he elaborated, "Each morning after your bowel movement I want you to rinse out at least twice. Three times would be better. Do it before you shower, obviously. And afterward I want you to apply a generous amount of this ointment."

He placed a squeeze tube of lubricant beside her.

She lay very still; eyes wide.

"Today," he continued, undeterred. "I'll do it for you as an example. But then I want you to become responsible for your own hygiene."

"You're out of your mind sir. I'm not—"

"Are you ready?"

"No!"

"It'll only take a minute. Then you'll need to use the bathroom."

"No! Just no, okay?"

"You're going to love it. I know you will. And it's easy once you get the hang of it. It won't seem weird at all."

She resisted far longer than he'd guessed, but in the end his arguments prevailed. [Another win for psychiatry, I guess.]

Scarcely a minute after acquiescing she found herself staggering to her feet, fully brimmed with room-temperature saline. She was tentative at first, especially on account of her steep shoes, but quickly straightened her clothes in preparation for a scamper to the lavatory, concerned that if she didn't hurry her entire lower half would explode.

Awkwardly, Doctors Mitchell, Adams and Jacobsen all burst in at that moment; grinning ear to ear as though they'd expected to find her and Grisholm mid-coitus. They crowded themselves into the small room, three-abreast between her and the door.

"We were wondering where you two were!" guffawed Adams.

"Keeping our girl late, eh Griz?" teased Mitchell, bouncing his eyebrows.

"Why is she holding her breath?" asked Jacobsen.

Grisholm glanced sideways at her and elided: "Uh... no reason."

She went clammy everywhere.

"Say something," Jacobsen insisted.

"N-no reason," she chirped through a lopsided grin, one eye much bigger than the other.

This convinced no one. They all stared.

She went a florid hue, unable to process thought, just clenching her glutes tighter and tighter.

Thankfully for all present she did eventually clear this mental block and exhale, feinting one foot forward and announcing with all the composure she could muster: "I just need to use the Ladies' room, please."

The wall of men parted.

She stepped through.

Grisholm wiped his brow.

SCENE EIGHTEEN

It was dark outside by the time Tiffany hopped onto the double bed in the guestroom of her grandmother's house that night.

She opened her battered laptop and discovered several messages from friends back in Boston to answer, including a sarcastic one from Annabelle full of animated emoticons and quadruple exclamation points which nonetheless ended with a sincere question about her new job at the clinic. Tiffany deliberately made her reply blasé, confident she could assuage her best friend's curiosity with normal-sounding banter.

Normal, however, was not how she felt. For one thing her anus seemed to have acquired sentience, because another echo of Grisholm's vibrating plug buzzed through her just then, forcing a pause in her typing.

"Jesus," she whispered, adjusting her cross-legged posture.

It had been hours since he'd taken it out, yet somehow its ghost was still in there.

Her principal concern remained whether to continue. Going back would involve more libidinous games and humiliations, certainly, but now she truly craved them. She wanted to feel that sweet build-up of tension again; the stripping away, bit by bit, of her volition and poise in the service of some naughty voyage -- to become a passenger, as Grisholm had labelled her, chauffeured from one erotic destination to the next, each surpassing the last.

Who in their right mind would re-bottle that genie?

'Besides,' she assured herself, 'I can always quit later.'

Refocusing on her laptop she completed her replies and then found Clause 17 of her employment contract; the part Doctor Mitchell said obligated her to abide his crazy discipline rules.