This story was strongly influenced by Joe Doe's "Open Book Exam," 
which I admire greatly.





 
                    TAKING HER MEDICINE 

                            by

                        C. Lakewood


                
Part 1
      
    The Spring Semester was just over, and the weather was already 
sweltering.  God knows what it would be like in July and August.    
I was between jobs, having finished my contract with the community 
college and not due to take up my new position teaching at the 
university until September.  I was really excited about spreading 
my wings in the new, wider environment -- but, before that, I was 
very much looking forward to my three months' vacation, during 
which time I'd be sight-seeing all around California.  

    Then I began experiencing a maddening vaginal itch.  I first 
tried some over-the-counter medication (which had worked before), 
but it soon became obvious that I needed something much stronger.  
The problem was compounded, though, because my previous medical 
plan had terminated, and my new coverage would not start for 
three months.  Money was unusually tight at the moment.  Since 
the divorce, I didn't have much in reserve, and I really 
hesitated to spend any of my vacation money on some new doctor 
-- even if I could find one who'd see me on such short notice.  

    Working in the garden failed to take my mind off the problem.  
I was itching and sweating and almost desperate as I attempted 
to give instructions to Jaleel Green, the husky 20-year-old 
neighborhood kid (and former student of mine) who did my heavy 
yard work.  I was obviously in distress, and he managed to worm 
most of the story out of me.  (I wasn't specific about my ailment, 
but, since I was doing a sort of "itching crotch dance," I imagine 
his guess was probably pretty close.)  In the end, he urged me to 
go to the Westside Free Clinic and even offered to drive me there.  
(He was so considerate that I almost wished I'd given him a better 
grade last year.) 

    The clinic was (of course) in the depths of the black ghetto, 
and, as we drove along, I watched askance as the streetscape 
deteriorated into a hodgepodge of seedy bars, houses with boarded 
up windows, a burlesque theatre, a tattoo parlor, weedy vacant lots 
with the rusting hulks of cars....  And the people!  Fat, scowling 
mammies...winos...hookers...and sinister men, dressed in do-rags 
and baggy clothes, lounging on street corners or slouched in 
doorways....     

    By the time we arrived, I was bathed in nervous sweat and 
beginning to think that this was not a very good idea after all.  
But the itch was getting even worse....

    We parked in a small lot next to a rundown 1930s-era building 
and proceeded into a shabby waiting room, deserted at the moment.  
I started to sit down in the back, but Jaleel steered me to a seat  
up front.  I wished I didn't have to sit next to him -- he had a 
musky, primitive odor that was particularly strong indoors...and 
which I found unsettling.  I mean, sure, I enjoyed teasing him as 
long as we were around my place; I often worked outside when he 
was there, and I usually wore about what I had on at the moment: 
a t-shirt and shorts, of thin, sweat-soaked cotton.  But we were 
on HIS turf here....  And, as a matter of fact, in jeans, sneakers, 
and a horrible, faded orange tank-top with the words "BLACK POWER" 
across the front, he was marginally better dressed than I.  (Of 
course, if I HAD changed my clothes -- into almost ANYTHING -- I 
would have been overdressed in these surroundings.) 
             
    The clinic setup was crude, almost Third World.  There was a 
battered desk at the front of the waiting room, flanked by two 
curtained alcoves (the curtains open on the right and closed on 
the left); three doors lined one side of the room.  On the side 
opposite was a scale and a height gauge.  A large area of the wall 
nearby had been painted a decaying light blue.  Farther along, a 
gaudy poster, duct-taped to the wall, bluntly commanded, 

		"Don't Forget Your Gonorrhea Check!" 

    Jaleel had me stay in my seat while he went up to the desk and 
rang the attached bell.

    A moment later, I heard a toilet flush, and, after a bit, the 
middle door opened, and a woman dressed as a nurse entered.  She 
had café-au-lait skin, somewhat pock-marked, and was a bit shorter 
and much stockier than me.  She and Jaleel exchanged a few words -- 
which I couldn't make out -- and then she handed him a clipboard 
with a pen attached.  She nodded to him and scowled in my direction.

    (What was THAT all about?) 
  
    Jaleel passed me the clipboard.  The form asked the standard 
questions: name, address, phone, SSN, DOB, marital status, 
allergies, hospitalizations, existing illnesses, current meds, 
etc.  I was half-way through the form, when the curtain of the 
left-hand alcove was swept aside, and two people emerged.  

    The first was a smallish girl of about 20, with blonde hair 
(and dark roots), pale skin, too much makeup, and cheap, skimpy 
clothes (grubby tube top, denim miniskirt, and flip-flops).  In 
other words, she was quintessential trailer-park trash.  A short, 
stout, middle-aged black man in a frayed white lab coat followed 
her.  He was very ugly, in a rather ape-like way.  Unlike the 
nurse, he seemed in good humor...but he was black.   

    They paused by the desk, and he wrote out what must have been 
a couple of prescriptions for the girl.  He then disappeared 
through the rearmost door into what I assumed was his office.

    Now, I'm certainly no prude and no bigot, either.  I mean, I 
AM a registered Democrat.  And I think Ving Rhames, for example, 
is a real hunk.  But I do expect a standard of civilized behavior 
that, I'm afraid, is often just not part of today's urban black 
culture.  I mean, a black yardman or custodian can be okay, and 
of course there should be black doctors, but....  

    If I hadn't been so desperate, I would have insisted on 
leaving right then.  As it was, however, I completed the form 
with a paragraph on my itch and let Jaleel turn it in for me.

    Meanwhile, I decided to make sure that these people treated 
me the way I deserved. 

    The nurse took her time, but finally picked up the clipboard, 
glanced over my form, and said, loudly, "Luisa Bean...."

    "'Louise Bein,'" I answered, approaching the desk.  "It's 
pronounced 'Bine.'  Rhymes with 'nine.'  And I'm 'PROFESSOR 
Bein,' for your information.  Now, when may I see the doctor?" 

    She stared at me a moment, insolently, then repeated, "Luisa 
Bean...."

    I was flabbergasted.

    "But...but...."  But my itch was getting worse.  Oh, god!  
What could I do?  "My name...."

    She tossed the clipboard onto the desk with a clatter and 
then asked, in a husky, Latino-accented voice, "What you name?"

    "It-it really is 'Bein.'  Really.  Please.  I need...."

    She shrugged and turned her attention to some forms.

    I turned around and appealed wordlessly to Jaleel.  He 
gestured at me and mouthed, "Be nice."

    I looked down at the Spic bitch and fought off the almost 
overwhelming urge to scratch my crotch with both hands.  

    "Um...miss?" I whined.

    She sighed heavily and grudgingly looked up.  "What you name?"

    Oh, god.  In my distress, I surrendered.  "Bean.  Luisa Bean."

    "So.  Exam.  Go behin' curtain there an' take off clothes...all 
clothes...ever'thin'."  She gestured peremptorily toward the 
right-hand alcove.

    I glanced at Jaleel.  He was grinning.  "You...um...don't have 
to wait, Jaleel...," I said, mentally squirming.  "You could go 
on, and I could always get a cab...." 
  
    "Oh, I don't mind.  Go on, now...mind the nurse."

    "You gots 'at right, kid," the nurse put in.  "She BETTER mind. 
You gonna mind me, girl?"

    I bobbed my head and hurried into the alcove.  

    (Why was I submitting to this kind of treatment?  From HER?  
I was a PhD, after all, an educator, a respected professional.  
SHE, on the other hand, probably wasn't an RN, maybe not even 
an LPN...more than likely an illegal, too.  But....)  

    It wasn't until I'd drawn the curtain that I noticed how 
short it was (its bottom hanging no lower than my knees) and 
how wretched and threadbare.  Then a light attached to the back 
wall of the shallow alcove snapped on, startling me.  It was 
bright and uncompromising, and I realized that Jaleel and that 
overbearing nurse could probably see my silhouette clearly as I 
stripped....  But what choice did I have?

    I kicked off my sandals, and my bare feet reacted when 
they came into contact with the cool linoleum.  Nevertheless, 
I began stripping out of my sweaty clothes...t-shirt, sports 
bra, shorts....  When I got down to my panties, I looked about, 
somewhat confused.

    "Hurry up," the nurse called.  "Don' waste time."

    "I-I can't find a-a gown, miss...." 

    In response, the curtain was flung open.  I yelped and tried 
to hide behind my hands.

    "No gowns today!  Get undress'.  NOW!"

    "Please?  C-couldn't I just keep my p-panties, miss?"  I was 
practically whimpering.  

    (It was so humiliating to be pleading this way, especially 
since I knew that Jaleel had a front-row seat.  He must have 
been enjoying listening to -- and watching! -- his stuck-up, 
nearly-naked ex-teacher trembling and begging to be allowed 
to retain her panties....  And being denied!)

    At least I was able to sidle around so that my back was to the 
alcove's opening.  I sighed and, without any more delay, pulled my 
panties down to mid-thigh, then just let them slither down my legs. 
They puddled around my feet, and I stepped out of them, leaving 
them there on the floor.  I hid my breasts and crotch, modestly, 
and kept my butt-muscles clenched.

    But the bitch nurse wasn't going to let me off that easy.
             
    "Pick 'em up an' han' 'em to me," she growled.  "You gotta 
learn to pick up you estuff.  An' no kneel!  Keep legs straight 
an' bend.  You need to estretch."
           
    Of course, Jaleel had to be staring directly at my naked bottom 
at point blank range, and I was almost petrified at the thought of 
bending over and displaying just EVERYTHING to him.  But, somehow, 
I was incapable of defying that nurse, no matter how much I might 
want to.  She seemed so...powerful, and I so defenseless.     
             
    So I held my breath and bent over to pick up my panties.  I 
could hear Jaleel's chair scrape along the floor as he edged even 
closer.  And I felt my buttocks separate, giving him a perfect view 
of my asshole and dripping pussy.  

    The nurse nodded and took the panties from me.  She looked 
them over.  "Very wet panties, no?" she sneered.  She stared at 
me, expectantly.

    "Um...yes, miss," I replied, softly.

    "My name is 'Teresa'; you call me 'Miss Teresa, yes?

    I nodded.  "Miss Teresa."  (Why can't I stand up to the bitch?  
I was so helpless.  This damn itch made it impossible to focus.)

    "You play with self too much, I t'ink."

    "N-no...not much...."  

    "So.  How much?  An' don' try to lie!"

    "I-I don't....  No more than once a day, maybe, on 
average...usually."

    "'Usu'ly.'"

    "Well, I...um...have this itch...and I want to do it more 
often...much more often...."  (Oh, god!  I was babbling...and 
Jaleel was hearing it all.)   

    "Hmmm.  You look soft.  Need to work more, not just sit aroun' 
playing with self.  We will see 'bout t'at...later.  Now we need 
take BeePee, temp.  Next alcove.  Come."
 
    "But...." 
             
    She didn't argue with me -- just grabbed my ear and pulled me 
out of the alcove.  I was mortified to see Jaleel move his chair 
over to get a better view into the other alcove.  When I tried to 
hold back, "Miss Teresa" slapped my bare bottom sharply. 
             
    "I say 'COME'!"

    I came.

    There was a standard, if well-worn, exam table in the left-hand 
alcove, and Miss Teresa gestured for me to get up onto it. 

    The liner paper rustled as I climbed up onto the table.  She 
proceeded to take my blood pressure in an efficient, professional 
manner.  Then she paused a moment and grinned, as if the foregoing 
had been a brief interval of normalcy between two bizarre scenes.  

    She snapped her fingers at me.  "Now we get height, weight."  

    Again she got me moving with a few spanks.  And, once again, 
Jaleel moved his chair, this time across the room to a place near 
the scale and the blue wall.  

    She herded me onto the scale and forced me to stand, stark 
naked, within three feet of my leering ex-student.  My instinctive 
attempt to hide my hot, wet pussy was met by more stinging slaps 
on my defenseless bottom.  

    "You be quiet...or I espank you real good, Luisa....  No.  
You too Anglo to call 'Luisa.'  Would no be right.  I call 
you...'Lulu.'  Perfec'."   

    She manipulated the weights and checked the height gauge, 
announcing, "You 5'6" and 137, Lulu.  Overweight...soft."  She 
made notes.  "What you measure?"

    "I...I th-think about...um...35-25-36."

    "I bet you wrong.  We find out."  She used a tape to take my 
measurements and sneered at me in triumph.  "Aha!  35-27-37!"

    She turned to Jaleel.  "She need more esercise.  You haveta 
work her harder." 

    Jaleel sniffed the air theatrically.  He could smell my 
arousal.  "And she's leaking," he observed, gesturing at the 
juice dribbling out of me, making a gooey mess in my pubic 
hair and threatening to run down my thighs.

    "She in heat," Miss Teresa explained.  "I clean her up 'fore 
Doctor comes."

    "Nooo...," I murmured.  "I'm not...not 'in heat.'"

    Jaleel snickered, and the big bulge in the front of his jeans 
seemed to grow even larger.

    (God!  Just how big was he?)

    "Sure you are," the nurse said.  "Nips say so."

    "No....  I'm just cold...."

    She slapped me savagely on the butt...again and again.

    "You no cold...."  (SWAT!)  "You esweatin'...."  (SWAT!)  
"Don' you lie to ME, chica."  (SWAT!)  "You LIKE it, no?"  
(SWAT!) 

    "Please!" I blubbered.  She was spanking me really hard, and 
I couldn't get away because she had a grip on my ear again with 
her free hand.

    "Tell trut'!"  (SWAT!)  "You really, really like it, no?  
Like showin' off to you boyfrien'."  (SWAT!  SWAT!  SWAT!)

    "He's not my boyfriend!"

    (SWAT!  SWAT!  SWAT!  SWAT!  SWAT!  SWAT!)

    "Yes!  Okay, OKAY!  I...um...like it....  I like...showing off. 
Please don't spank me."

    "Oh, I t'ink you like bein' espanked, too, especially in front 
of de chico."  (SWAT!  SWAT!)  "It give you escuse to wiggle for 
him...show off more."  (SWAT!)  "Tell trut'!"       
 
    "Alright!  Yes!  Please!"

    "So...say it!"  (SWAT!  SWAT!)

    "PLEASE!  I-I LIKE it...like being naked in front of him...and 
getting spanked.  I LIKE showing off for him...."

    Not only had my ex-student seen me naked and aroused, but 
he'd also heard me as much as confess that I was a masochistic 
exhibitionist.  

    Next, she made me stand up against the peeling blue wall, 
threatening me with another "espankin'" if I didn't behave 
myself.  She fetched a camera from the desk, and I had to 
stand there, butt-naked, while she photographed me -- front, 
sides, and rear...both full-length and close-up...for the 
record.  

    Jaleel had his cell phone out, and I wondered if he were 
calling people to tell them about this....  And then I realized 
-- it was a camera-phone!  Monkey see; monkey do.  God!  Could 
this get any worse?
             
    Miss Teresa prodded me back in the direction of the exam table. 
"Hokay.  Now we take temp."

		******************************


Part 2                

    Back in the alcove, the materials for taking my temperature 
were laid out: a box of exam gloves, what apparently was a jar of 
lubricant, and a device that resembled electronic thermometers 
I had seen.  (An IV stand and a red rubber enema bag were waiting 
in the wings.)                

    "Get up on table, princesa.  On knees, an' put head down.  
Keep butt up...high up."

    For a moment, I just stared at her. The position she described 
would give Jaleel a Penthouse-style view of my bare butt sticking 
up in the air.  And, if he moved slightly to his right (and I knew 
he would), he could look right up my gaping pussy.  But I 
reluctantly obeyed her. 

    "You in heat, no?"

    "Um...yes, Miss Teresa," I murmured.

    "Espeak up, gringa!"

    "Yes, Miss Teresa, I AM in heat."   

    "Ho-kay.  Now we take temp."  She snapped on a pair of gloves.  
Opening the jar of lube, she scooped out a large glob of the goo. 

    "You be a good girl, an' reach back an' espread you fat cheeks, 
so I can grease up little brown hole, too.  Looks tight."

    "Must you do it this...ouch!  She stifled my protest, by 
spanking me again...and again...and again...until I obediently 
spread my cheeks (which were certainly NOT "fat").

    Her gloved finger slowly began to slither up my rectum.  I 
gasped...and she grunted.  "Hmmmm.  Is tight little hole," she 
observed.  "You a virgin back here?"

    "Of...course." 

    "So what's wrong with boyfrien'?  He should be doin' you here, 
estretchin' you...."

    "He's not...oh, please!"  

    She had goosed me with a SECOND finger.

    Initially, the lubricant just felt cold and slippery, but it 
quickly began to tingle...and then to burn, even distracting me 
briefly from the itch in my pussy.    
             
    Miss Teresa proceeded to slowly give me a VERY thorough anal 
massage that must have lasted three or four minutes.
                 
    I squirmed while she continued, meanwhile, asking me about anal 
intercourse -- or "butt-fockin'" as she called it.

    "Don' you boyfrien' like it...butt-fockin'?"

    "I told you he's not....  Oh, crap...I-I don't know."

    Miss Teresa spoke to Jaleel over her shoulder.  "You come up 
here, chico.  We gotta talk 'bout Lulu."

    Jaleel did not have to be asked twice.  Grinning broadly, he 
wasted no time in positioning himself at my side.  I tried -- and 
failed -- to keep from whimpering as he watched me writhe under 
the attentions of Miss Teresa's merciless fingers.

    "So, why you no break in you girlfrien' right?" she asked.

    "Unh, for one thing...she doesn't much like it...."

    "But you the MAN.  You gotta MAKE her like it...make her WANT 
it...NEED it...BEG you for it...."

    She pulled her fingers from me and looked at them with disgust. 
"You need cleanin' out, Lulu."  After changing gloves, she began 
slowly lubricating the thermometer's long rectal probe just a few 
inches away from my face.   From its look and smell, the lube 
seemed to be made of -- oh, god! -- menthol and wintergreen.  No 
wonder my asshole was in such torment.

    "Now you hol' estill, chica."  She slid the probe into me...and 
adjusted its position until, at length, she was satisfied.  "I go 
talk to Doctor now.  He gonna be real interested that you a snooty 
profesora.  Keep fat ass espread, an' don' you dare spit that out."
 
    As soon as she let go of the thermometer, it started to slide 
back out -- but she intercepted it.

    "I tol' you to keep it in!  Mebbe you chico hol' it for 
you...IF you ask him nice.  Go on, ask...nice."

    "Um...Jaleel...would you p-please...um...hold the 
thermometer...so it stays in me?  Please?"

    "Sure," he said, with a toothy grin.  

    And Miss Teresa strode off to see the doctor.

		******************************

    She was gone at least ten minutes, during which time Jaleel 
continually readjusted the thermometer's depth.  Of course, I 
whined about that, but it didn't do me any good at all.  (And, to 
tell the truth, though humiliating, it was not entirely unpleasant.)

    Finally, she returned, extracted the thermometer probe, glanced 
at the reading, and said, "Is hokay."  She smirked at me.  "Doctor 
say you need enema now.  You better behave."

    She prepared the enema solution, filled the bag, and greased 
the hose-nozzle with the same burning goo that she had used on me 
earlier.  She waggled the nozzle at me and laughed as I 
instinctively clenched my butt in fear.  She released some 
liquid (to clear the hose of air), closed the clamp, slid the 
nozzle into me, and opened the clamp.  

    Gravity did the rest.   

    After a moment, she ran her hand under me to feel my swelling 
abdomen.  "Is nice, no?"  

    No.  It was godawful. 

    She made me hold it a long, long time.  My guts were churning, 
and I was sweating like a pig.  "Please, Miss Teresa!  Please let 
me go to the toilet!  I'll behave...."  The bitch made me utterly 
demean myself -- and in front of Jaleel -- before she nodded and 
pointed to the restroom door.  I scrambled from the table and 
scampered to the door...only to find it locked.

    I danced in small circles, holding my bottom with both hands, 
as she sauntered over, slowly produced her keys, smirked, and 
opened the door.

    Inside the tiny room, I rushed to the toilet and let my bowels 
empty.  It was heavenly (despite the smell)!  After I wiped and 
stood up, my itch flared.  I tried to ignore it as I washed my 
hands, but, in the end, it was no use.  I was rubbing it with both 
hands and was (I have to admit) actually near cumming...when the 
door burst open and that damned nurse grabbed me by the ear and 
hauled me, gibbering, back to the exam table.  

    Jaleel seemed quite amused, the bastard.

    "Up on table, feet in estirrups.  Doctor is coming," she said.  

    Sure enough, the doctor -- the black doctor -- waddled up, 
nodded at me, and addressed Miss Teresa.  "Please move the 
stirrups farther apart; we need her spread as wide as possible."  

    Of course, the damn woman grinned and did just that.

    The doctor sniffed the air, and the ghost of a smile played 
about his thick lips.  It was obvious that the bitch-in-heat 
smell was coming from me. 

    I didn't like appealing to this doctor's sympathy, but then I 
didn't have much choice now.  "Um...Doctor?  About your nurse...."

    "Oh, well, Teresa is apt to be a bit brusque with everybody, 
but she's an excellent nurse.  You, on the other hand, seem to be 
a bad patient -- she's told me about you -- arrogant, pretentious, 
whining....  You claim to be in distress, so you'd be well-advised 
to start being more cooperative.  Are you going to behave yourself?"

    "But...she's being unnecessarily...." 

    "Okay, that's it.  Teresa, since she won't even PROMISE to 
behave, we must do things the hard way.  Please help me strap 
her feet into the stirrups.  Good.  Now I'll just go fetch the 
razor."

    He waddled off, shaking his head. 
    
    Miss Teresa leaned forward and spoke to me softly, menacingly.  
"Remember, chica, you a patient, an' I am authority.  I not even 
estarted with you yet, profesora," she sneered.  "I gonna treat you 
like you deserve, an' mebbe give you boyfrien' some ideas....  An' 
won't be nothin' you can do 'bout it -- matter of fac', you gonna 
love ever' minute of it, aren't you, puta?"

    I shivered...and nodded.  I was in a daze and just couldn't 
think right, under these conditions, surrounded by these...these 
"people," abused and leered at.  If I had been in a classroom or 
out in public and among my own kind....

    The doctor was soon back, with an ominous-looking straight 
razor.  

    "Doctor, I'm s-s-sorry...," I began.

    "Don't apologize to me," he said.  "I'm not the one you've been 
making trouble for.  Apologize to Teresa."

    "I...I'm s-sorry, Miss Teresa," I groveled.  "I guess I've 
been...bad...."

    "You GUESS you a bad girl?" she said, superciliously.

    "No...I have definitely been a...a bad girl.  I'm sorry, and I 
ap-apologize."

    "Well, it remains to be seen how sincere you are," the doctor 
commented.  "You seem very undisciplined for an academic."

    "I foun' her playin' with herself in the bafroom," Miss Teresa 
said.

    "Hmmmm," the doctor said, noncommittally.  "Go ahead and shave 
her -- smooth.  Start off with the electric clippers, even though 
they vibrate so much.  And you," he said, looking at me, "put your 
hands under your head, and keep them there -- or we'll have to tie 
them down, too."    

    By the time she had used the clippers and then finished up 
with the razor (both accompanied by a lot of fondling), I was a 
swamp...and very near to cumming.

    "She don' need no more lube," Miss Teresa sneered.  "She plenty 
wet."

    The doctor had already snapped on a pair of latex gloves.  He 
stepped up and screwed two thick fingers into my pussy.  At once, 
I clamped down hard and started cumming.  He kept at it, and, 
barely had that spasm passed than a second orgasm began, roaring 
through me like a runaway train.

    I don't know what else his examination was for, but he made 
me cum three (or possibly four) times in the process.  I noticed 
Jaleel had his camera-phone out again, but I couldn't think about 
that.  All those orgasms...oh, god!  Meanwhile both the doctor and 
Miss Teresa kept questioning me about my "sexual history": 

    "How often do you have regular intercourse?  Anal intercourse?  
What are your primary masturbatory fantasies?  What aids do you use 
when you masturbate?"

    I was so distracted that I was unable to formulate lies of any 
sort.  I just told the truth.  (Shit!)  

    Sometime during all this, the doctor moved his fingers from my 
pussy (no, Miss Teresa told me to call it a "cunt")...from my cunt 
to my asshole.  (And I guess he gave me at least one orgasm by 
examining that.)

    Then it was over.

    The doctor straightened up, stripped off and disposed of his 
gloves, and looked thoughtfully at me.  He seemed less hostile now 
than he had been...just as authoritative, but a bit more benevolent.

    "So.  And you've had something similar before?" he said.   

    I nodded.

    "Yes.  And what was the treatment?"

    I told him what I could remember about the over-the-counter 
stuff I'd used.

    "Unh-huh.  Well, you weren't actually cured, you know.  The 
problem was just suppressed.  It went into remission...and 
mutated.  It's now more virulent than it was originally.  If you 
had persisted with that treatment again, it either simply wouldn't 
have worked at all -- OR it would have caused another remission 
(MUCH shorter this time) and a further mutation.  It would then 
reappear sooner and stronger next time.  You must understand how 
truly desperate your situation is.  Unless treated properly, this 
condition will eventually become permanent and incurable."

    I shuddered.

    "Oh, yes," he said.  "The proper treatment may sound somewhat 
unusual, but, follow my orders, and you'll soon be quite normal 
again."

    "How...how soon?"

    "That's difficult to predict, but I'd say it will take at least 
several weeks."

    "S-several WEEKS?"

    "At least.  So, the sooner we start...."

    "And...and what is the treatment?"

    "Like Gaul, it's divided into three parts.  First, there's a 
combination of meds.  Today I'll give you a shot to jump-start 
the process, but in future you'll be taking it in suppository 
form."

    "S-s-suppository?"

    "Oh, yes.  Your boyfriend can help you with that.  Enema first, 
and then the suppository....  See?"  He held up a amber-colored 
object, shaped like a cigar-butt, and about the size of a man's 
thumb.  "Three times a day," he added. 

    I cringed.

    "The second part of the treatment involves letting the affected 
area get plenty of air.  You will not be able to wear anything with 
an enclosed crotch -- no pants of any kind, no shorts, no panties." 
He grinned.  "No diapers, either, if that interests you.  In fact, 
when you are at home, you should be naked from knees to belly 
button.

    "Third, in order to stimulate your circulation, you will 
masturbate -- to orgasm -- at least six times a day.  To help 
you get 'in the mood,' as it were, I'm including in your meds 
an aphrodisiac that will increase your sex drive....  But only 
marginally, I should think.

    "But...but...."

    He held up his hand.  "Oh, don't get upset.  I did say, 'at 
least.'  You may do it more often if you like.  But, in any case, 
you must keep a log, recording the time and duration...and get 
your young man to sign it as a witness.  Okay...Teresa will give 
you a shot, release your feet, and let you get dressed."

    "She had on shorts and panties, Doctor," Miss Teresa snitched.

    "No, that won't do at all.  Young man, would you let her wear 
your shirt?"

    Jaleel nodded and pulled off his tank-top.  Despite all that 
had been done to me already, I felt myself blushing at the thought 
of wearing a garish shirt that proclaimed, "BLACK POWER."  (But I 
did put it on.)
  
    It was very short to be a dress; the hem came not more than 
three inches below my...my cunt.  And though it was almost dry 
now, it still stank of Jaleel's musky body odor.  (The smell was 
intriguing, though.  And he did look quite masterful without 
a shirt on....)

    The doctor continued to speak to Jaleel, as if I weren't there, 
or was a child, or incompetent.  "She'll have to come back three 
times a week, so we can monitor her progress.  Teresa can set up 
the schedule."

    Miss Teresa grinned at that, and I wondered what evil plan she 
was cooking up.

    Finally, the doctor did turn back to me.  "As you know, this 
is a free clinic.  We don't charge patients money, but we do expect 
them -- those who are able -- to pay us back with some appropriate 
service....  I think you can mop the floor in here today."

    "Mop is broke," Miss Teresa said.  "But scrub-brush is hokay."  

    "Fine, fine," the doctor said, over his shoulder, as he headed 
back to his office.  

    "But Doctor...," I began.

    Miss Teresa interrupted by simply flipping up my shirt and 
giving me a stinging slap on my bare bottom.

    I took the hint.

    But there was one more shock in store for me.  I glanced out 
into the waiting area (to check on how much floor I was going to 
have to scrub) and was staggered to see two elderly black men and 
a middle-aged Asian couple sitting there with rapt expressions.

    And I would be giving them a further show as I crawled around, 
on hands and knees with a scrub-brush, my bare butt in the air.

    I managed to resist the urge to touch myself, but it really 
didn't matter much, because I could feel my throbbing, twitching 
cunt heading for yet another orgasm.  I slumped, head bowed.  
Behind me, Jaleel curtly ordered me to get to work.  It was 
going to be a long, hot summer.  But I knew that I should just 
shut up and do as I was told.

    And there is some comfort in that.
             
