Perverts 'R' Us

Francis Gets Abused - Part 6

By Francissy ( MF/M )

It was twelve years ago that I received a two-year driving ban for drinking and driving. It was a bitter blow, especially as I depended on a car for work, and so I eventually lost my job. I just had to grin and bear it and cope as best as I could. At the time I received all sorts of paperwork from the DVLA and the courts, which I briefly scanned, and then consigned to a bottom drawer in the bureau. I remember reading something about having to visit a doctor at the end of the ban before my license could be re-instated. Having endured two years of public transport, two years of waiting in the wind and the rain for buses that never arrived and trains that were late, or dirty, or both, I was naturally anxious to resume my affair with the motor car; and ready submit to just about any indignity to regain my license, or so I thought.

I assumed that all I would have to do was attend to my local GP and give a blood sample for analysis. Then I received "the letter", the one that detailed my appointment with the doctor. The whole procedure was designed to be as belittling as possible. First of all, you had to attend to a doctor nominated by the DVLA, at a location nominated by them. No expenses incurred could be reimbursed. There was an administration charge pre-payable of twenty pounds, non-refundable; and then there was the doctor's fee of seventy pounds, to be paid in cash (no checks or plastic) and handed over in a plain envelope. It was all so tawdry and as I was to find out, the whole examination was based on the premise that anyone caught drinking and driving was an alcoholic beyond redemption, and it was up to me to prove my sobriety and worthiness, and for them to disprove it.

Anyway, the appointed day arrived and I set off on train and by bus to Dr. McNulty in Mossley Hill, a very select area of the city, much favored by the professional classes and old money. It was a hot summer's day, the quiet roads were tree-lined and the pavements shaded by overhanging tree branches. It was a long walk from the bus stop to the doctor's (no-one uses buses in Mossley Hill, only Mercedes and Jags).It was so quiet and peaceful.

I heard the clamor of boys' voices from behind the iron gates of a private grammar school. The houses were enormous and hidden behind high, granite stone walls and the thick foliage of flowering bushes. I must have walked past the gateway to the doctor's two or three times before I spotted the small brass plate set into the gatepost, "Dr.McNulty".

The appointment was for two o'clock and it was already ten past. I walked nervously up the gravel path, my footfalls crunching beneath me. The "doctor's" was a detached Victorian mansion, set in acres of its own, beautifully manicured gardens. The lawn stretched away to the left, where in the distance a gardener toiled at the flower beds. I suddenly felt intimidated by this gothic pile and approached the double front doors with trepidation. My letter of appointment and the envelope containing the seventy pounds were held in my sweaty clutch. I pressed on the big, enamel button and a distant bell rang within.

The door was opened by a stout, matriarchal figure of a woman. She was about my own height, with grey hair brushed to the back of her head in a strict bun. Her face was lined and whiskered and she looked at me with disdain through rimless glasses. She made no concession to the midsummer heat and was kitted out in a tweed jacket and grey, woolen skirt. Her feet were encased in sensible, brown brogues. As I tried to introduce myself, she interrupted me and simply held out her hand for the letter of appointment and ushered me inside.

I stepped into a Victorian time capsule. The entrance hall was large and octagonal with the wall opposite dominated by a grand, spiral staircase. The floor was a marble mosaic. There were doors leading off from the entrance hall and it was to the first one on the right that the women led me. I followed meekly. I was still clutching the envelope with the money in it. I found myself in a large reception room, fully furnished in the Victorian manner. Polished oak floor covered with thick rugs, the windows ran from floor to ceiling, with heavy velvet drapes and a view overlooking the lawns. An ormolu clock ticked quietly away on the massive mantle piece. Motes of dust swarmed in the beams of sunlight. All that was missing was a suit of medieval armor and a stag's head mounted over the door. I turned to the severe woman, anxious to relieve myself of the 'penance' money and to get the blood test over with. She picked up a wire shopping basket from a side table and handed it to me. "Strip off and place your clothes in here!" she ordered.

I looked at her dumbfounded. I was expecting a doctor's surgery, a quick prick on the thumb with a needle, maybe a form to fill out, and a sharp exit. Before I could close my mouth or utter any protest, she had turned on her heel and strode from the room, closing the door behind her. She didn't mean stark naked, did she? I must have misunderstood. I looked around. The windows were overlooking the gardens; the gardener only had to look my way to see me undressing. I stood to one side of the velvet drapes and with fumbling fingers quickly undressed to my socks and underpants. I folded up my shirt and trousers and placed them into the wire basket, and then I set the envelope down on top of them.

Feeling very exposed, I sat down on an ornate chair, crossed my legs and tried to make myself very small. The minutes ticked by and I had time to think and began to fret. Why could they possibly want me naked? And something else occurred to me - for years now I had been keeping myself clean-shaven from my navel down to my knees; if I had contemplated having to strip, I would have allowed some pubic hair to grow. Just as I had prepared by refraining from any alcohol for the last month, in case any trace of it were found in my blood or on my breath.

Then the door opened and "she" reappeared. She stopped in her tracks and pointed at me, no trace of emotion in her face or her voice, "Completely naked!" she said and stooped to pick up the basket. She stood waiting. Who was this woman? She didn't look like a doctor or a nurse, more like a governess or a school teacher. I bent forward and pulled off my socks and dropped them into the basket that wavered in her outstretched hand. Then I stood up, turned away, and removed my underpants. I had to turn back to drop them into the basket, but did my best to shield my privates from her view.

"This way" she said, and led the way back into the entrance hall. We walked across the marble floor, her brown brogues clomping, my bare feet padding. I felt so helpless and vulnerable. What was I doing walking nude through this great hall behind an old dame?

1She knocked at a wooden paneled door on the opposite side of the hall. There was a muffled grunt from within and she opened the door and bade me enter. I stepped in, still covering my genitals with my hands. The room was on the shadowed side of the building and my flesh felt the drop in temperature. The room I found myself in was mostly library and partly surgery. Three of the walls were lined with bookcases crammed with lofty tomes, while the other wall to the left had an examination table, a gleaming chrome sink and taps and a draining board. There were various other items of medical furniture and equipment.

The room was dominated by a massive mahogany desk and behind it sat the figure of a man, busily scribbling on a pad and studiously ignoring me. He was grey and grizzled, and sported a moustache that betrayed the evidence of a pipe smoker. This must be the dour Scot, Dr. McNulty, and I disliked him on sight. He too wore a tweed jacket. By the door through which we had entered was a second, smaller desk, on which was set a computer and monitor screen. The woman put the basket with my clothes on the edge of the desk, and silently withdrew. I was left standing alone, quite nude, in the middle of the room. There was no other chair in sight so I had to remain standing. I was loath to approach the desk and stand before it like a naughty schoolboy. I felt ridiculous. And I didn't know what to say. "Good afternoon" hardly seemed appropriate under the circumstances. The silence became embarrassing.

Then the doctor ceased his writing, laid down his fountain pen, pushed away the document, and picked up my letter of appointment. He perused it in a cursory manner. Only then did he favor me with an appraising glance. His eyes were clear, and hard and piercing. I wanted the ground to swallow me up.

"Approach the desk, please" he said, in a gruff, Glaswegian accent.

I walked tentatively toward him, just like a boy before the Headmaster, the very thing I had feared. I thought it must be how a model feels walking on the catwalk. The doctor then went through a questionnaire with me, writing the answers down in the boxes provided. When did I last have a drink? How much did I drink? How often did I drink? Did I drink beer? Did I drink spirits?

The list was endless and all the time I was fidgeting with my hands over my parts.

"It says here you were a sales rep." he said, "how are you managing without your license?" he asked.

"I'm not" was my reply.

"Right" he said, "step around here and stand in front of me".

I slowly walked around to his side of the vast desk and stood inches from him. I felt sure he must be able to hear the hammering of my heart.

"Hands by your side!" he ordered. I meekly obeyed. Now my shaven and shriveled genitals were displayed before him.

He reached out and cupped my scrotum in the palm of his gnarled hand. He felt for my balls and rolled them in his hand.

He ordered me to cough and I obliged.

The doctor then donned his stethoscope and began sounding out my chest, then I had to turn around and he repeated the soundings on my back. Then he took a bright light and shone it into both my eyes in turn, and then peered into each of my ears.

And then I had to hold my hand out and the doctor pricked my thumb and took a smear of blood onto a piece of glass. At last, the blood sample was taken and perhaps now I could get dressed and escape.

"Right" said the doctor, "I want you to turn around, spread your legs and bend forward, and rest your hands on your knees"

I felt my throat go dry and my face redden. I was longing for the ordeal to end; I wanted to shout out, "Why?"

I turned around and did as he said. I spread my feet apart and leaned down with my hands on my knees. The effect of being naked in the presence of a dominant dressed male, and having to spread and bend, brought all those familiar sensations creeping back into my loins, and in spite of the circumstances, I felt my penis stirring. I gritted my teeth. Just as I didn't think things could get any worse, they suddenly did. The door opened and in walked the woman, bearing a cup of tea. She walked right up to the desk where I was bending over, and set the cup of tea down in front of the doctor. There were two biscuits balanced on the saucer.

"Thank you, Mrs. Mac," the doctor said, and she crossed the room and settled in behind the other desk behind the computer screen. (Mrs. Mac? Surely she wasn't the doctor's wife? Please God, I thought, is she to watch my humiliation? ). The doctor took a sip of the steaming tea, and then extracted a latex glove from a box. Looking back, I watched in horror as he forced his fingers into the tight elastic. Then I felt the smear of cold cream on my anus. My penis reacted at his touch, swelling and stretching.

I felt the doctor's forefinger probing at my hole. He began to force entry past my sphincter and my willy grew a little more. Then he shoved his finger in another inch and my willy grew another inch. Satisfied with his progress, the good doctor now forced entry up to his knuckle, and I grunted, in pain and with pleasure. He began searching my anus. When he finally withdrew his penetrating digit I began to straighten up, but the doctor laid a hand on my back and told me to remain bent over. In a way I was glad, because as soon as I stood up, my erection would become obvious to both of them. Then my shame was compounded when he inserted a rectal thermometer up my bottom. I had to remain like that while he returned to his cup of tea.

Another few minutes and he pulled the thermometer out and wiped it and my bottom with a surgical wipe. Now I had to stand up. I held my hands over myself to hide my hard-on, but the doctor pushed my hands away. We both stared at my swaying six-inch shaft.

"Are you a practicing homosexual?" he demanded.

This was preposterous! "No!" I spluttered, "I'm married with a family."

The doctor gave a grunt of disbelief. "Right" he continued, "I want you on the scales over there."

I walked self-consciously over to a pair of bathroom scales, my erection swaying as I walked a drop of pre-cum forming at its tip. I stepped onto the scales. (Nine and a half stone. Have been for years.) Looking down at the scale meant staring past my penis. The head was purple and shiny. Then I had to stand flat against the wall while the doctor bought down a sliding scale down onto the crown of my head to measure my height. (Five feet seven inches).

I noticed that "Mrs. Mac" was not working at the computer, but watching me closely through her rimless spectacles.

"Now climb up onto the examination table, face up, your head on the pillow."

I did as he said, staring up sightlessly at the carved plaster ceiling. The doctor came and stood over me. Then he brushed aside my drooling prick and with the flat of his hand, began applying downward pressure onto my stomach and sides, each time he changed position, he brushed against my lewd hardon. Then he made me turn over onto my stomach, and the process was repeated, this time pressing into the small of my back. The pressure had the effect of rubbing my erection against the mattress and heightening my tension. My ordeal was reaching its inevitable conclusion. (I have since heard that alcoholics are liable to suffer swelling and hardening of the organs, especially the liver and kidneys, hence the probing; and that the prostrate can be effected, thus the anal penetration).

Now I was told to get off the bed and stand up. I was facing them both, hands now at my side, there was no further point in covering my privates up. I was cowed and subdued, only my prick betrayed me, yearning and stiff and rude. The doctor led me to the stainless steel sink and handed me a plastic beaker.

"A urine sample please," and I'm sure he smirked.

I looked at him with an expression that begged for compassion and mercy.

I couldn't give a urine sample. Firstly, I was dry. Secondly, they were both staring at me. And thirdly, I had a raging hard-on. I looked around bewildered. I took hold of my vertical shaft and forced it down into the beaker, but it was useless.

"Is there a toilet I can use, please?" I whispered.

"Absolutely not!' snorted the doctor, "all tests and samples must be performed in front of the doctor."

He went to the sink and started running the tap and gave me a cup of water to drink, hoping that it would induce urination.

I felt like an inadequate failure, unable to pee, unable to control my willy, naked before my prosecutors, a condemned drink-driver, a shaven queer. I gulped the water down but to no avail.

"Failure to provide a specimen means the suspension of your driving license for an indefinite period" Mrs. Mac called out from behind her desk. I looked around in surprise at the unexpected contribution. She got to her feet and came around her desk and stood next to Dr. McNulty. They were enjoying my discomfort.

I looked down at my quivering dick and cursed it.

"Can you give me five minutes?" I pleaded. I looked from the man to the woman, imploring. I needed the license back.

"I'll give you five minutes," growled the doctor, "but I've another patient waiting, so you had better do whatever it is you feel you have to do, here and now."

What could I do? The abject humiliation I had experienced had bought me to this state of sexual urgency and now I had to assuage it. I fingered my erection nervously. Then I took it between my index finger and thumb. The thought of deliberately masturbating in front of these two for their own gratification filled me with disgust, but also sent a delicious shiver through me. My foreskin was already well back but I pulled it back even further and the glans of my penis swelled in response.

Then I pulled it up until it hurt, and then reversed the process. A string of drool hung down like gossamer and attached itself to my shaven thigh. The silence was deafening, except for my breathing and the slurp of my sticky willy. I would liked to have grasped the shaft of my prick in my fist but my prick was too narrow and short and became too hidden, so I wanked it with just my finger and thumb, like an effeminate tart. In my left hand I was still holding the cup that I had drank out of, and I intended using it to catch my cum in. Neither of the Macs said anything, as if they were watching a scientific experiment. It would have been easier for me if they whispered a word of encouragement, even an expletive or two, or some quiet obscenity. So I stood and quivered and quaked in front of them, grimacing and moaning, and all the time punishing the sliding flesh of my straining organ.

As my excitement increased, I felt overcome with abandon and any self-respect that I may have had left deserted me. I spread my legs wide, arched my back, and began to yearn for the smack of a hand against the cheeks of my pumping bottom. My mouth was open, my eyes were glazed. I sneaked a peep at their faces, but they were quite impassive, staring at my wanking prick.

"Less than two minutes left" intoned Mrs. Mac, adding insult to injury. I had to pull on it harder and quicker. I began hurting it, by pushing it back down between my legs and twisting it around. The prick liked that and it emitted a glob of juice. I squeezed the eye open and more followed. Suddenly I wanted to please them, by debasing myself even further in front of them. I wanted them to verbally abuse me, to call me a nancy and a queer, and a sissy. I wanted them to lay hands on me. I wanted them to finish the job, they had raped me mentally, now I wanted them to rape me properly; but it was left to me to defile myself.

As my moment approached, I spread my feet even further apart, until it was a physical strain, and gyrated my hips, back and forth, and up and down, like a bitch in heat. Now I was glad they were watching, now I wanted them to see what a sex pervert I was. My mouth gaped like a fish out of water and I was strangling my tortured hard-on as I began to ejaculate great gobbets of cum. I tried to catch the sudden eruption into the cup but most of it tossed and turned in the air and splattered at their feet. For the first time they moved as they stepped back to avoid the creamy whirls from besmirching their sensible shoes. They need not have worried; I would have licked their shoes clean if necessary. I leant back against the side of the steel sink as my orgasm subsided, but still milked out more cream.

The doctor took a cloth from the sink and dropped it at my feet. I went down on to my hands and knees and began obediently wiping up my own mess. My willy still drooled and I had to wipe that as well. I sat spent at their feet awaiting their next command.

"A urine sample, if you don't mind!" he said.

I staggered to my feet and took the proffered receptacle. I pointed my leaking willy into it was able to pee enough to satisfy the doctor.

"Now laddie" said Doctor McNulty, "there is a disclaimer for you to sign and the small matter of seventy pounds." (Laddie? This was 1993, so I was well into my forties!) I followed Mrs. Mac to her desk and retrieved the envelope from on top of my clothes in the basket. Still naked but now shriveling and ashamed, I handed the doctor his money.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Mac gave me a form to sign. It said that I was satisfied that I had been treated properly and all the tests conducted fairly. I read no further and signed the form. Mrs. Mac then handed me back the basket and escorted me from the room. We crossed the entrance hall back to the reception room. I was a chastened man from the one that had walked the opposite way. In the reception room there was another unfortunate victim. He was in the act of undressing as we came in. He hurried to cover himself up. Mrs. Mac left and I stood nude in front of the complete stranger, my shaven, little sticky willy plain for him to see. I dressed without speaking to him, and let myself out.

My license was returned within the next ten days.

Contact Francissy at supersunray@sapo.pt