3 comments/ 57023 views/ 18 favorites The Tale of Sara Radovich By: vicburress This story is a collaboration with Literotica author Margaret Jenkins. * 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." The Tale of Sara Radovich I went through the items, asking for the information. It is easier than trying to get the client to fill out the form herself. I included the questions about her masturbation habits, for medical reasons -- in my judgment, clients who do not masturbate frequently and vigorously lack appropriate pelvic-floor toning. Most clients are not honest about this. They are either very modest or they exaggerate, and it is usually obvious which. Ms Radovich clearly was in the former category. Even so she was so apologetic about her answers that I felt it necessary to reassure her. "Believe me, if your response is to be believed your self-pleasuring is remarkably moderate, on the verge of abstinence. I suspect that your work is your main preoccupation." By now I knew the reason for her visit was the uncomfortable and embarrassing section of stool held tight by her sphincter, unable to emerge or retract. It certainly needed urgent attention. I decided to make a very quick and superficial inspection here just to check, and directed her to stand up. Such was her condition that just a few light touches on her lower abdomen were enough to confirm my suspicions; the whole of her large intestine was packed solid. The other preliminaries -- check of her temperature, heart rate, blood pressure -- could be left to Julie; I was absolutely sure there would be nothing abnormal. To be honest I preferred to defer any further physical contact until later, and I knew Julie would be more than happy to perform these tasks. In any case I would need a bit of time to change into my operating attire. Which meant Ms. Radovich would then be on her own in the room for a few minutes. By then I was sure she would definitely be aroused. If she could not resist the urge to masturbate then so be it. ---end of part 2---- Part 3 (Sara Radovich speaks) Within minutes of Julie's appearance, my anxiety receded. It was as if her warm and lightly flirtatious manner washed away all the embarrassment and terror of my journey. I even grew somewhat more comfortable with my exposed condition. I knew that my body was fragrant with the odor of shit and vaginal secretions, but somehow I felt myself beginning to revel in my debased condition. Needless to say, I planned to keep these feelings a strict secret from Dr. Phillips and her kind and bosomy assistant. With smiles and gentle touches on my knee, Julie gathered the most basic information about me: my name, my insurance details, and the fact that my complaint today was rectal in nature. Then she ushered me into a small consultation room, informally furnished, into which Dr. Phillips came without delay and greeted me kindly, introducing herself in a cordial way that further increased my sense of ease and comfort. She had the translucent skin and flaxen hair of an Englishwoman; her accent suggested education and culture, and I found it devilishly enchanting. Something about the setting, or these two women's appealing manner, was certainly affecting my reactions. I made a point of seating myself so that Dr. Phillips could see my moist crotch, and, when she inquired as to the nature of my complaint, I turned and displayed my odorous buttocks to her brazenly. After I resumed my seat, she then began a series of questions that, as it progressed, caused me to grind myself into her consultation chair ever more urgently. The chair was upholstered with a roughly textured polyester fabric, and I found the friction it offered my anus satisfying in the extreme. "Ms. Radovich, how would you describe your dietary habits?" "Poor, I confess. Because of my travels, I eat many fatty foods, and my consumption of fiber is intermittent at best." "Does this diet lead to upset stomach, heartburn, constipation, diarrhea, or flatulence?" "Fortunately my stomach never complains about anything I put into it. And right now I would consider explosive diarrhea a paradise! But my bowel movements are frequently hard and painful, and require severe straining to extrude. And I am also often flatulent, especially when I exercise or take part in social situations." "Are your farts predominantly noisy or smelly?" "Doctor, they are both." I was surprised by her use of the nonclinical word "fart". For some reason, hearing this apparently well-bred Englishwoman utter such a base term made my heart skip a beat. "And this causes embarrassment?" "In some cases, yes. But I wouldn't say this is my chief complaint. In fact, my smellier farts bring back a happy association. When I was a girl and suffered from intestinal gas, my mommy would bend me over her knee and massage my bare buttocks to help the gas escape. It was a very special time between the two of us, and the memories are a source of pleasure." My own words shocked me; I had never disclosed this to anyone! Perhaps Dr. Phillips noticed my sudden discomfiture. "Ms. Radovich, let us return to the bowel topic shortly. I have a few other questions related to your lower abdomen. How would you describe your menses?" "They are regular, on a 27-day cycle, with a heavy but short flow." "What forms of exercise do you perform for the internal musculature of your abdomen?" "Exercise for the internal musculature? I don't take your meaning." "I mean to ask how frequently you perform Kegel exercises, masturbate to orgasm, insert dildos and buttplugs into your vagina and rectum, and do any other activity that tones your gluteal and peritoneal region." I blushed deeply and stammered a little, suddenly finding it difficult to form words. I was suddenly aware once again of the pressure in my bladder. And a small, rapid-fire sequence of small farts chose that moment to work its way around my shit-plug, breaking the silence like the rattling of a toy drum. Dr. Phillips took my flustered response to mean that I did not masturbate much, and I was too tongue-tied to give her a fuller explanation. She smiled and continued: "My dear Ms. Radovich, I have only one further question, and then we can move to my main examination and treatment room--which, by the way, you will find quite relaxing and which we call the White Room. When was the last time you successfully moved your bowels?" Once again I found myself brought up short by an innocent question. I couldn't remember! World travel can be so disorienting! Last week I had been in Budapest, but I didn't recall having defecated while there. The previous week I had been in Tokyo, and I distinctly remembered using the Asian-style squat toilets while there. But had I shat or not? I decided not, because I would have remembered how blatant a large turd would be in the shallow pan of a squatting lavatory, and how powerful its odor. At last I met Dr. Phillips's gaze. Suddenly I became conscious that her nipples were protruding through her blouse, which made speaking coherently even a little more difficult. "Maybe, uh, a month ago?" "Oh, Ms. Radovich," she replied earnestly, "I am so relieved that you have come to see me. You probably have many kilograms of accumulated feces in your bowels, and continued retention of this thick mass places your health at risk. I am fairly certain that the turd inside you is at least a meter and a half long, extending from your anus through all three sections of your colon, and it is beginning to fill your small intestine. We must urgently address this, and I have a variety of techniques at my disposal. I will return in just a moment and escort you into my White Room for urgent treatment. Would you please remove your lower garment now and give it to me for sampling and analysis?" At this point I was so aroused that I would have probably complied with any request. I stood up and slowly peeled the soiled and odoriferous shorts from my body. First I slowly lowered them in front so that Dr. Phillips would see my shaved pudendum and sodden labia, and then I turned away, squatting so that my protruding turd would be shamelessly revealed to her. Once I had removed the shorts, I handed them to her inside out, so that the enormous brown stain I had made inside them was obvious. What had come over me? She seemed genuinely pleased to receive this gift. She said, "Please continue to wait in this room for just a moment longer. Do resume your seat, and please do not worry about contaminating this chair with feces, urine, or any other secretion your body cares to emit. It is cleaned regularly by my staff. When I return, I will bring you a pair of disposable briefs for your modesty." With that, she exited the room, and my fingertips flew instantly to my swollen and abused clitoris. ---end of part 3---- Part 4 (Dr. Susan Phillips speaks) I call my main examination room the White Room because everything, the walls, ceiling and floor are completely white, even the cupboards, and there is a tiled alcove where a large shower and toilet are installed. At one end there is also a large deep tub with several jets which I use for cases needing underwater and hydrotherapy treatment. But the centrepiece is the treatment table, with multiple padded sections which can be arranged in any number of ways to facilitate the treatment. Into this room I escorted the almost-naked and very flushed Sara Radovich. I had reentered the consultation room noiselessly, and so had been able to watch her frenzied masturbation for a few moments. She lasciviously ground her arse on the seat and, unless I am mistaken, she even deliberately dribbled urine onto my furniture and floor while she wanked, a positive sign. I noted that the chair's coarse fabric had sheared off a thick stain of shit from Sara's log, and I also noted a similar stain on Sara's left middle finger. Whether deliberate or not, she had clearly crossed a line about her body's more intimate functions, as was clear from her lewd displays when displaying her shit-soiled athletic shorts and exhibiting her shaven pudendum, glistening with her own vaginal secretions. I was glad I decided to give her the protective garment, a thin, plain white pair of plastic briefs that would just about preserve her "modesty" and prevent any loose pieces of excrement dropping on the floor of either consulting room or white room. I had arranged for Julie to wait a few minutes and then enter the White Room as well, and to leave all doors wide open behind her. At my suggestion she changed out of the attractively embroidered white low-cut blouse and navy skirt and into a pale blue cotton nurse's frock, with short sleeves folded back and buttoned with the traditional starched white bib apron. The only departure from classical and rather shapeless styling was that it was quite closely fitting and shorter at the hem which barely reached mid-thigh. For reasons of comfort and convenience, Julie elected to wear it without underwear. It was immaculate, and any soiling would be particularly apparent. One would imagine it quite impractical for assisting in the treatment to ensue. While Ms. Radovich had been left to her own devices, I changed into one of my items of operating attire. Like most of my professional garments, I specially designed it. It comprises a short-sleeved halterneck frock of light blue and flexible PVC, close-fitting but not tightly so, with a cut-away panel to leave the entire back bare down to the reinforced and belted waist. Below the waist it transitions to a skirt which terminates just below mid-thigh. The skirt is just long enough to maintain visual covering of my buttocks, at least in most positions I might assume. There are four popper studs in front to which I can attach a bib-apron, usually white, and either the same PVC some other material, such as cotton. Today PVC might be more practical. Above the waist it is cut a little like a bodice so as to closely mould and display the swell of my medium-size breasts. When thus attired for operation I usually (at least at first) keep on my white cotton panties whose gusset was by now quite thoroughly impregnated my my vaginal secretions. Their compliant stretchiness thus allows easy to my genitals or anus. If I so wish I may make them available to my assistant, myself, and any other needful individuals, in particular my client. All in all, my frock not only projects an outwardly professional appearance but is also cool, comfortable and practical to wear -- important during a long and arduous operation, especially as the room is kept warm for the benefit of the usually naked client, and above all very easy to clean after even the messiest of operations. I was about to perform the final preparations when I remembered something and called to Julie. "There is something I nearly forgot, Ms Radovich. Could you just remain seated there and excuse me a minute? Julie, you'd better check me." "Yes of course doctor, shall we go to the other room?" I positioned myself in the middle of the consultation room, choosing the spot carefully so that Ms. Radovich would not quite be certain of what she was glimpsing through the open door. With my back to Julie I hiked up my skirt, bent forward, pushed down my panties and pulled my buttocks apart as wide as I could. Julie put her face close. "I don't see anything unclean, but I'd better probe." She then and ran a finger along my anal cleft several times, each time a little deeper, then inserted the tip enough to push past my sphincter and penetrate my rectum. She quickly withdrew and sniffed. "Immaculate, doctor." We switched places and I performed the same intimate check on Julie. Although her cleft was completely clean, it was obvious when I pushed inside that there was some fecal waste still remaining after her last bowel movement. Unlike me, she had not taken pains to cleanse herself inside with a double enema, soap followed by clear rinse. Before washing my hand I proferred my stinky middle finger for Julie's inspection. "Oh dear, am I too dirty? Will it matter?" "Clean enough I think, a bit of shit inside doesn't matter." As we returned I was sure my client was wondering what we'd been doing that was so important. "Sorry, Ms Radovich, a little detail I should have checked earlier." For the next minutes I busied myself with the final preparations -- all the necessary equipment and liquids were arranged conveniently to hand and ready for use. During those minutes Julie carried out Ms Radovich's routine measurements - height, weight and vital signs. As usual she maintained very close physical proximity as she made the measurements, almost continuous hand contact and much of the time body contact. Before leading Ms Radovich to the treatment table she spoke. "Good, you're just about ready. But perhaps you should take off your bra, it's better if you're totally nude." I had thought Julie would immediately go to remove it for her, but to my surprise Ms Radovich stepped back and turned to face Julie directly. From across the room I saw her nipples pressing through the sweat-damped material of the tight fitting garment, standing out like large blackberries. Sara and Julie stood less than a meter apart. Maintaining continuous eye contact with my assistant, Sara brought up her hands and pulled her bra up by the sides in a slow, fluid and quite erotic movement, exposing her firm, well-shaped breasts and the erect nipples. Once removed she casually tossed it to the side. Ms Radovich presented a captivating sight, clad only in those white plastic panties. Julie walked her side-by-side, hips touching, to where I stood at the treatment table. The panties are designed to rip straight off and Julie reached to do just that. Instead Ms. Radovich stepped aside, turned her back to us and bent over in an exaggerated stoop. Pushing down the panties at the waste she brazenly exhibited her finely muscled buttocks and the dark cleft between them, occupied by the now misshapen brown log protruding from her anus. Traces of her shit had become detached at the edge and clung obscenely to the smooth and creamy skin of her cheeks. She carefully stepped out of the panties and turned them to display to us their brown covering. There was a film of liquid as well, not quite colourless and evidence of urination and the drippings of her masturbation. Julie and I looked at each other and smiled. As Sara handed the disposable garment to Julie she made a point of staring into them and commenting, "Good thing I was wearing these, look how filthy they are." Julie and I each took one of her hands as we helped her mount the rather complicated table, and positioned her so she was comfortably rested on her back supported by the softly padded, plastic covered central section. We placed her legs along the two adjoining panels; articulated so they could swivel horizontally and tilt independently. Her mature breasts flopped to the sides as she settled in, and her dark and crinkled nipples seemed to become even more rigid with exposure. I said in a casual tone of voice: "I hope you do not mind being secured. There is a real risk of slipping off and hurting yourself." Ms Radovich accepted this without protest and allowed us to attach the broad strap around her middle, just below her rib-cage, and then two at each leg, just above the knee and just above the ankle. It was possible also to secure her arms, but in this case I felt there was no necessity. It might well have caused some anxiety. Besides, I preferred Ms Radovich to have free hands, at least for now. With practised skill I arranged the table so as to achieve the most convenient access to Ms Radovich's rear. It meant parting her legs and tilting them up. Her buttocks were only supported just below her tail bone, and her anus and the shitrod emerging from it were directly above a sink with a gentle slope down to a shallow trench at the end away from under her legs. For most of my operation I would be in the V between her legs. Ms Radovich's moist labia seemed to quiver under my gaze, as did her obscenely protruding turd-log. The turd had obviously been bent to and fro during our client's masturbatory stay in my consultation room; what had formerly been a well-formed barrel of feces was now a misshapen lump, and a ring of shit-smears circled Sara's anus. When our client was fully positioned, I noticed how reminiscent her situation was to that of a woman about to give birth. Of course, she was preparing to deliver, not a baby, but rather an enormous bowel movement. Now that at last we were ready to begin, I called her attention to two important topics. "Ms Radovich, you are not bound, but it would be most unsuitable to interrupt the operation once it starts. I expect your bladder is not empty now, and it will carry on slowly filling. I will supply you with various liquids, both to avert dehydration and to assist with the clearing of your bowels; I will need you to drink them rapidly and without hesitation. The treatment will take a long time and you will not be able to get up and use the toilet, so if at any time you have to urinate, I beg that you simply let it go. I know it must be embarrassing, perhaps even humiliating to urinate in front of me, but you must not be inhibited. "The other thing is that the treatment will be extremely intimate, invasive even, as well as messy. We will do our best to make sure it is not too uncomfortable. However, a fair amount of physical contact is unavoidable. Your body will be moved about within these confines and you might need to put a hand on me to steady yourself, or for reassurance. Please do not be shy about contact with any part of my person. I won't be offended if you touch me. And the same goes for my assistant. Isn't that right, Julie?" Julie, who had taken up a position to Ms Radovich's side, smiled at her warmly and placed a hand tenderly on her inner thigh. "Yes indeed. Your comfort is my primary concern, and I will always be striving to soothe you in any way you require." The Tale of Sara Radovich Our client looked up from the treatment table at Julie, then at me, and then immediately began to cry. She wailed, "Oh, Doctor, I have to pee so bad right now, but now I can't for some reason, because something's blocking the pee! Help!" "Of course we can help you with that, my dear." I brought my face close to her genitals to inspect them closely. They exuded a variety of rich odors; the mix of cunt drippings, piss leakage, and turd scent made me moisten my cotton panties further. With the index fingers of each hand, I gently drew aside each of Ms Radovich's swollen, purple labia. I could immediately see that the region around our client's pisshole was being forcibly pushed forward from within. "I think I see the problem, Ms Radovich. By the way," I continued, leaving my fingers on her labia as close as possible to her clitoris without touching it. "May I call you Sara?" "Yes," she said between sobs. "The log of shit filling your bowels has a bulge behind your anus, which is quite typical of these cases. Not only does this bulge make the feces more difficult to pass, but it also distorts the shape of the anatomical structures around them. The reason why you cannot urinate is that the opening of your urethra is being forced closed by this turd-bulge. Julie, would you please manipulate the turd so that Sara can drain her bladder?" Julie smiled at me, outside of Sara's view, and licked her lips. She certainly loves her job, and often expresses her gratitude to me for steering tasks to her that she will find pleasurable. I stepped aside and allowed Julie to take my place between her legs. She faced Sara square on and, with her left hand, spread her labia wide. Then, with her ungloved right hand, she firmly grasped the turd and pushed it downwards. She was immediately rewarded with a short, strong blast of yellow piss, which arced from our client's hairless pussy onto the front of Julie's nurse's frock. Sara moaned with relief. From behind, I reached under Julie's skirt to confirm that her genitals were wet. They were indeed, and I used the lubricant of her vagina to insert a finger deeply into her slightly dirty rectum. Julie cooed, "Is there more piss, sweetie?" "Yes, oh yes...." panted Sara. Julie reached under her own skirt to lubricate two of her own fingers. "Now, Sara, I will have to slide two fingers into your anus, alongside your waste product. Your anus has suffered considerable abuse, so it may be somewhat painful at first. But I'm sure you'll feel much better when you can squirt all the piss out." Slowly and firmly, Julie slipped her cuntjuice-covered index and middle finger along the gigantic turd into Sara's bowel opening. She positioned her index finger just to the left of center, and her middle finger just to the right. Once her fingers were fully inserted and Sara's howling had subsided somewhat, she pushed and twisted slightly, and in just a moment our client's urine flowed freely into midair. The flow first saturated Julie's face, smudging her mascara. But in a few seconds, our client, sighing with relief and obviously much more comfortable, placed a finger to her clitoris and began to wank. The rapid movement of her finger turned the jet of piss into a coarse spray, and urine splattered at random onto Julie's dress, the floor, and Sara's own hairless and deliciously toned lower abdomen. This arousing sight caused my finger-fucking movements inside my nurse-assistant's shitpipe to become more forcible. Julie was tweaking her own nipples aggressively through her piss-soaked frock. The stains on her formerly immaculate starch cotton apron were particularly vivid. Ms. Radovich had become quite dehydrated and her urine was a deep golden yellow. There was no mistaking the nature of the stains. At last the geyser of urine subsided. I slipped my finger out of Julie's bumhole, lest our client notice, and she said calmly, "Doctor, I still have a pretty firm grasp on the shit-bulge. Shall I try to work it out?" "Yes, Julie, that would be excellent. I will fetch a receiving pan." Now Julie lubricated the fingers of her left hand in her own cunt. It pleased me that our client had not yet noticed the source of Julie's lubrication. "Now, Sara, this is going to be an intense sensation, but I believe it will be brief. On the count of three: One! Two! Three!" Julie plunged her left index and middle finger into our client's anus, on the underside of her turd. Sara yelped from the sudden and forcible further dilation of her sphincter, but that is by design in this technique, because that sensation provides a welcome distraction from the trauma to follow. Now with four fingers around the turd-head, Julie used a flipping motion to quickly pop the bulge out of Sara's rectum. I caught it in my shiny aluminium receiving pan as it fell. It was shaped like a large yam and was about 18 centimeters, or 7 inches, in length. Its inmost end was rough and wide like a broken tree-branch; clearly, it had snapped free from a much larger mass. I set the pan and its foul contents aside for future use, wisely I thought, beyond Sara's reach. "Well, Sara, we have successfully evacuated just over 10% of your impacted fecal mass. In other words, we have retrieved about seven inches of shit. Julie, would you make a note of that?" Julie used her shit-stained index finger to draw seven tidy brown hash marks on Sara's chest between her breasts. "But now, Sara, the real work begins. The espresso you consumed on arrival was intended to help you move your bowels, but it does not seem to have had a great deal of effect. We will have to use other means to encourage the mass in your colon to descend. And, as I mentioned earlier, dehydration is always to be avoided, especially since dehydration makes constipation even worse. We will have to leave you I would like you to drink at least a liter of electrolyte-bearing fluid before we continue, and you will I'm sure be more comfortable if we leave you alone. We have a choice of drinks, which would you prefer: Gatorade, cold orange juice or lemonade. And would you like a special personal liquid additive of your own making, my own or Julie's?" We connected her up to the device that I'd made ready and in place. She had already imbibed one large glass of isotonic electrolyte, and we left her with a refill and some items of personal interest to help her pass the next ten minutes. ---end of part 4--- Part 5 (Sara speaks) By the time Julie helped me to empty my bladder and to free the initial few inches of impacted shit, I was in an emotional state unlike any I have ever experienced. Shamelessly masturbating in front of these attractive and professional women had transported me to a level of sexual arousal I had not known since, years ago, my sister Penny invited me to help sexually initiate her previously fresh and innocent daughter Lindy. What my present state had in common with that delicious weekend with Lindy and Penny was my craving to defile someone innocent and pure. Although, intellectually, I knew that Nurse Julie was an adult woman, and presumably experienced, her fresh-faced appearance made me want intensely to make her very dirty... dirtier than she had ever been before. Seeing my urine saturate her dress had ignited a fire in me, and it would not be satisfied until I had utterly debased her. I realized with a thrill that in fact it was Julie who would be required to clean my caked-on shit from the consultation-room chair. How I craved to watch that in progress! A sudden intestinal cramp cut through my reverie. I remembered that my colon was indeed still full, and that I was still under the care of the equally attractive Dr. Susan Phillips. Although she had directed a question at me, I took a moment to reach between my legs and finger my asshole, now extremely loose and gaping open. It occurred to me that this situation was my opportunity for a "Sara sandwich": allowing Dr. Phillips to defile me while I defiled her busty assistant. At this moment, I hoped that the turd inside me would somehow be endless! At last, I spoke. "Hmmm, Doctor, I can't help but notice that, if I understood correctly, out of that list of choices for my hydration, some involve the consumption of human urine. Are you quite sure that that is medically indicated?" "Oh, yes," she replied without hesitation. "It has the perfect mix of salts, it is perfectly sterile, and it is quite flavorful when served at body temperature." I felt a fresh wave of pussy juice release itself into my vagina. "Well, in that case, Doctor, I will select...." I paused just long enough to lock eyes with Julie. Her color was high, and she had unconsciously grasped one of her nipples through her piss-soaked dress. Our eyes met, and she flushed further and then looked away, biting her lower lip. In a slow voice, I finished my sentence: "...orange juice. For now." "Very well, Sara. Julie, would you fetch that, please? Thank you. Now, Sara, as you probably recall from your schooling, the human colon has three segments, and it is shaped more or less like an upside down U. The rectum dangles from one end of the U, after a seventy-five-degree turn. Your turd-log presently fills all three sides of the U, although your rectum is now empty. Our immediate task is to encourage that turd to descend, so that we may grasp it and move it further mechanically. I intend to use a combination of techniques: first powerful suction, then anal stimulation. Shall we begin?" I said, "Of course, doctor." Making as if to scratch a facial itch, I brought up to my nose the finger I had just used to probe my anus, inhaling its intoxicating scent. "Sara, your anus is somewhat dilated, but for this procedure we must ensure that it remains dilated, so that the suction will act upon the feces inside you rather than on your outer skin. I am now going to insert a low-profile speculum to hold your sphincter open. Please don't worry; this speculum has been warmed to body temperature." What a relief! I am sure that my anus would have clamped shut if one of the freezing speculums my gynecologist employs had touched it. The doctor gently applied a warm lubricant to the gaping ring of my shithole, and inserted a speculum whose handles lay flush against my buttocks. She slowly squeezed the handles together, and I felt a delicious agony as my fatigued and abused sphincter was once again pushed beyond its ordinary limits. Once the speculum's handles clicked together, she tucked them into my asscrack; no doubt that the doctor had noted my large and well-muscled buttcheeks and decided to employ them. "Thank you, Sara, I have now distended your anus to an inside diameter of six centimeters. I will now lubricate and insert this vacuum hose. The system is much like your ordinary household vacuum, except the suction it delivers is intermittent rather than constant. This helps the turd to overcome friction. Ah yes, thank you, Julie. Sara, here is your orange juice! Please sit up a little and drink it right away." I sat up and took the glass from a once-again-blushing Nurse Julie. As I did so, the change in position of my torso caused a fart to escape from my lower intestine. Because my anus was held wide open, the fart made no noise, but instantly the room was filled with a profound odor of human shit. I swigged the glass down and returned it empty to Julie. As she turned away, I noticed that rivulets of moisture were dripping down the backs of her thighs. She refilled the empty glass placed on the table nearby and then returned immediately with a rolling cart. "Sara, I will now insert the suction tube into your bowel and activate the air-pump. We will allow it to tug on the turd for about ten minutes. It is important that we keep your lower abdomen heavily supplied with blood, so here on this cart to help you pass the time is a selection of vibrators, and an even broader selection of pornographic magazines. Nurse Julie and I will give you a bit of privacy. Of course, it did not escape our notice that you have been masturbating throughout your visit, but our absence will at least allow you to select wanking material with maximum freedom. Some of these magazines reflect unusual sexual tastes, and it would be regrettable if a sense of propriety kept you from availing yourself of them." Then I was alone. Soon I had established a rhythm with a vibrator, stimulating and backing off my clitoris in time with the chugging and thumping of the suction pump. Obviously the pump was vented directly to the room, because the latrine odor went from strong to intense. I felt a perverse pride that I had made this foul stench all my myself. After ten minutes' time, Dr. Phillips and Julie returned to the room. They deactivated the pump and gently removed the tube and the speculum. My anus tingled anew on contact with the air. While I waited, the doctor donned a latex examining glove and Julie slathered it liberally with an especially thick lubricant, and then, over the next five minutes, she worked her entire hand into my rectum. I was greatly relieved that she had not taken away the vibrator! At last Dr. Phillips spoke: "By manual inspection, it is clear that the bowel movement has changed its position, and so now it is time for the second phase of the procedure: direct stimulation of the anus, so as to continue the motion. Nurse Julie, under my supervision, will apply this stimulation using her tongue. Sara, I notice that your anus is quite dirty. May Julie gently clean it first with a wet wipe?" I smiled sweetly. "No, she may not." Dr. Phillips replied. "Very well! Julie, please kneel between our client's legs, apply your lips to her filthy turdhole, and begin." ---end of part 5---- Part 6 (Dr. Susan Phillips speaks) I was expecting and hoping that the period of time we left Sara alone would cause a further development in her transformation- the more relaxed and comfortable she was about her body functions, the easier and more effective would be the treatment. I had no objection at all if it caused her to revel in her filth, nor if it meant Julie and myself getting thoroughly soiled. The action of the air pump on her bowels would also have an erotically stimulating effect and would further release any remaining inhibitions she might have about her body functions. The magazines were pornographic in the extreme, concentrating on lesbian encounters and including close-up sequences of mutual cunnilingus, rimming, and more. One magazine featured a series of encounters between a haughty aristocratic lady and her maid who was dressed solely in a skimpy black tunic and a dainty white frilly apron. In one sequence, the maid was lying underneath her mistress as she squatted and urinated over her face. In another she was pissing into the maid's mouth. In the final sequences the lady had turned around to reveal her spread buttocks and was defecating copiously on her maid's face. If those scenes did not excite our client's darker urges then nothing would. The interlude also gave chance to check the results of analysis of Sara's stained shorts. It was opportune that she has worn the tightly figure-hugging garment next to her body, so that traces anything that emanated from her would be taken up by the microfibre. I'd been concerned about possible infection, either as the cause of her intestinal seizure or resulting from the long period of stagnation. As I looked at the output I saw, as expected, a very high bacteria count in the traces of her stool but no sign of anything unhealthy. Similarly her urine, very concentrated in urea and metabolites from enzyme activity but nothing more than would be expected as a result of dehydration and reduced digestive activity. Also as expected there were abundant traces of vaginal secretion occurring several times over a period of some hours. The results indicate she was nearly mid-way between menstrual periods, a time of heightened libido. Everything was demonstrably normal. I was greatly reassured. Since Julie was well-used to contact with human feces and other body fluids, nothing produced by our client would pose any danger to her health even if she ingested a little of it. I looked at Julie, her hair somewhat dishevelled, her makeup smudged and her apron showing deep yellow splotches where Sara's deeply concentrated urine was staring to dry. She looked at herself in the mirror and seemed surprised at her appearance. "Oh Susan, I do look a mess, shall I clean up and redo my hair makeup?" "No need to, Julie. You look fine, just the way a nurse should look in the course of assisting in one of these treatments. You won't mind getting more messed, I hope?" "Oh no, as long as Ms. Radovich is OK about me like this." "I'm sure she is most comfortable with seeing you getting messed, in fact I suspect she fully intends to get you much dirtier than you are now. Don't worry about the state of your uniform, even if it ends up so soiled it cannot be properly cleaned, even ruined. By the way, do you need to piss or shit? You haven't gone all morning." "I'll have a piss now but I don't need to shit right now, maybe a bit later. Not sure, I've been feeling a bit constipated today." "Well, I don't think I'll be able to spare you later. If you cannot go now .... there isn't really time for me to give you an enema. If you like I'll insert a suppository, but then you'll need to do it while we Sara's treatment. I don't expect she'll mind but it'll be rather embarrassing for you. Are you OK with that Julie?" "Oh yes, and I'll have the suppository anyway.." Naturally I was delighted with Julie's reaction. She was not at all self-conscious about squatting over the plastic bucket and emptying her bladder in front of me while I took out from the packet one of the magnum glycerine suppositories. I got her to bend over and part her buttocks while I pressed the torpedo-shaped object as far into her rectum as possible, making sure it was deeply embedded. She was fuller inside than when I'd inspected her earlier, clearly her digestive system was active. She let several wet farts while my fingers were at work and my hand came out thoroughly smeared. I couldn't treat our client with Julie's shit all over my hand so I wiped it as clean as I could on my apron. When that was done Julie asked, "How long does her treatment need?" "Oh, with a jet-delivered colonic enema she could be cleaned out in less that half an hour, but it would not be comfortable or pleasant for her. That mode of treatment leaves the whole of the intestinal system out of balance and exhausted of its vital enzymes and bacteria. Digestive problems nearly always recur. We'll eliminate the mass of impacted waste by transferring it into the rectum, a bit at a time, then using a variety of methods for evacuating -- a combination of oral stimulation, manual extraction, and induced self-evacuation. By near the end she should void naturally, her anus will be well-dilated and the muscles of her rectal wall will be reactivated -- the different voiding methods will help to stimulate the neurons. Remember she hasn't defecated for some weeks and the rectum has temporarily forgotten how to do it properly. One reason to repeat the process many times. And we will of course have to inspect the process to see how well she is managing. Therefore we have to make sure that she is entirely happy with this close examination and the best way to guarantee that is to participate enthusiastically and to show her that we enjoy the intimate involvement with these most private body functions, including handling her fecal waste and getting thoroughly soiled with it." We then returned to the White Room to see Ms. Radovich with the largest of the vibrators in her vagina and avidly looking at one of the magazines. A puddle of her juice had collected between her legs and was glistening on the plastic surface. She was clearly well ready for the next phase of the treatment. I noticed that a thick, foul stench of fecal waste pervaded the room, and that she seemed not to mind.