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Part 10: FERTILITY CLINIC: THE CHOICE
I was standing on the stage with six other naked women. The foot lights shone right in our face. We couldn’t see our audience. It didn’t matter. From this beauty pageant, Dr Velour’s preferred clients would pick a Surrogate from one of the bare assed and bare footed females on display. I already knew that Dr Velour’s intended guests would be Alison and Cindy, a sperm-less pair, the current ‘correct term’ for a lesbian couple who wanted to start a family.
A while back, Dr Velour presented the problem to me in one of her casual asides in the subterranean pool that the clinic provided as a diversion offered to male donors and female surrogates as well as employees. Looking out on the work on the adjacent solarium and sauna, Dr Velour waved her hand as she visualized her dream, “Right what’s just a ditch will bring natural sunlight to the subterranean level.”
“Naturality,” Dr Velour shook her head, “has its advantages.” Turning to carefully studying my bare body, Dr Velour paused to nod approvingly at my freshly depilated pubes. Dr Velour noted, “I hope our informal, poolside tete — a — tetes in the natural state promote openness, honesty and trust.”
“It would save on the laundry bill,” I hid my reservations in a joke.
“Let’s talk about your patient Cindy.” Dr Velour began, “Her partner — Oh, the sperm — less pair plans to marry and produce a child — is concerned. Cindy’s obsessive modesty is noticeable even at home. Cindy responds well to you. Her partner believes you can bring Cindy to accept an injection with the specialized syringe I designed — you call it –…”
“The sperminator,” I reminded Dr Velour. Chuckling, I added, “A little dose, we say, brings on ‘The Big one,’ pregnancy.”
“Sperminator! `The Big One!'” Dr Velour exclaimed, “My nursing assistants, a bunch of cards, have devised a cute but sophomoric expression to describe my ingenious design. My invention combines the injectant power of a syringe with thrusting power of a dildo and the stimulation of a vibrator. The sperminator delivers warm sperm into a body in orgasmic convulsions, replicating the euphoria of natural intercourse,” Dr Velour explained.
“No sperminator natural or artificial,” I replied, “can bring ‘The Big One’ to Cindy, eh — impregnate her if she won’t be seen naked.”
“Cindy trusts you. Work on it.” After a pause, Dr Velour suggested, “Join me at the end of your shift for a swim?” Dr Velour requested.
Weeks later, on stage, I was wondering how did I end up on display? Upon graduation with a degree in an Industrial Psychology, I had been promised a position in management at the clinic. I should be behind a desk studying the motivations of the naked women flapping their lips around me. Only last month, I was leading candidates for selection on stage. Somehow, the wistful plaint crossed my mind: when one door closes another one opens. The direction of my work at the Fertility Clinic had shifted in stages during my treatment with Cindy, the seemingly diffident partner in a eh — sperm – less pair.
Gloria, whose towering height and bright red, bubble cut hair stood out like a police car’s flashing dome light among the women on stage competing to be selected as a Surrogate, chatted with the other women. “Why do six — seven beauties parade themselves like prized cattle competing to be impregnated? For a strip tease without a roaring crowd, why do we fall in line?”
I blurted out an answer, “Power.”
For foreplay, my husband Jerry and I wrestled for the upper berth. If successful Jerry who preferred doggy style would bind my hands with my bra and stuff my panties in my mouth. Forcing me to the floor face down, Jerry lifted my pelvis and thrust his penis inside me. Spitting my panties out, I asked why.
“Power takes many forms,” Jerry boasted, “Financial power, positional power, and physical power.”
Holding a hand up to shield her eyes from the glare, Gloria complained, “That damn blinding light! We’re not to know who has the dough to rent out,” Gloria, rubbing her tummy, exclaimed, “my baby factory!”
Yes, Dr Velour, the Clinic Director did not like a bond to form between the Surrogate and the adoptive couple. “Nurse Warbler, while I prefer to keep relationships on an anonymous, impersonal, business — like basis,” Dr Velour spoke of Cindy’s overture, “your patient Cindy and her partner have extended a most generous offer directly to you. It falls outside my usual bounds of anonymity.”
I grinned when Gloria recognized me, “Nurse Warbler, you’re,” Gloria declared as she studied me from my bare toes to shaven pubes and erect nipples, “out of uniform,” She laughed, “Out of uniform. That’s an understatement! I’d never expect to find you on stage with cattle.”
I felt deflated. Without scrubs, symbol of power to impose orders, I was no better than anyone else. Gritting my teeth, I muttered, “The punishment for good performance in dicey work is more difficulties.”
With an encouraging expression, Gloria touched my shoulders. In comforting eryaman bayan escort tones, she exclaimed, “A little extra money for a few minutes of standing wearing nothing more than a cute smile! Same reason I sought out being filmed for training films in the use of the sperminator. The eh–procedure was filmed for eh — training purposes, you may recall. Which version was ultimately selected for use?”
I forced a smile.
Glancing at my flat stomach, Gloria assured me, “The facility talks its clients out of picking a first time,” Gloria looked to the ceiling snickering, “birthing person as a Surrogate. Too much trouble.”
I shook my head ‘Too much trouble,’ that characterized cute little Cindy. Honey blond haired blue eyed, Cindy had come to the Western Avenue Fertility Clinic to be impregnated. Dainty Cindy had been placed in my care as a Nursing Assistant at the clinic. How did I come to have my virtues put on display and ostensibly up for bid to her and her partner?
Oh, shy little Cindy, so excessively modest, the clinic director Dr Velour had to find a bathrobe for Cindy when Cindy was granted an extraordinary privilege of personally inspecting male donors. Two hospital gowns, one worn backwards were inadequate to shield Cindy’s virtue. How could we impregnate a girl who didn’t want to be seen naked? Alison and Cindy were pleased with my performance. They paid Dr Velour. So, I was assigned to continue trying. “Trying what?” I protested, “We’re just marking time.”
On stage Gloria turned to the other women. Most, apparently 30-ish, chatted about husbands and kids. “Did you ever sneak a peek at your guy’s porn?” Gloria interjected, “Did you ever see a porn star barefooted?” Gloria kicked up her heels to the giggles of the others. “Nude 18-year-olds in porn with itty bitty titties hobble about bouncing flat butts on spiked high heels. Barefeet and big bouncing boobs,” Gloria cupped her hands under her D cupped breasts, “come with rounded bellies and pregnancy.”
As a nursing assistant treating petite Cindy, the prospective mother, I was responsible to shepherd Cindy to an impregnation. “Dr Velour,” I told Cindy on my initial contact as she lay on the treatment bed clothed in a sheer pink hospital gown, “has a theory that stimulating the body to orgasm replicating the conditions of natural intercourse increases the chances of an insemination. Now how do you expect me to accomplish this for you if you aren’t willing to be seen naked? Just what do you do for a living?”
“I’m a doctor,” Cindy replied.
“You must see more naked people than a pornographic movie’s camera crew,” I took a deep breath before I continued, “Let me take this step by step.”
On stage, Gloria moved over to a younger college age girl whose face and chest were burnished crimson with embarrassment. “First time in the `Beauty Pageant, Hun?'” Gloria, hand lightly on the girl’s shoulder, spoke softly in comforting tones, “Take it one deep breath at a time. Hold your head high. Besides you’re past the hardest part of the drill. You’ve already felt the Back Draft.”
“Backdraft?” the girl questioned.
“Feeling your skin tingle when the rush of cold air comes up through your crack as soon as you start to walk around naked,” Gloria lifted the girl’s chin to give the girl an encouraging smile.
In the treatment room, I had to take Cindy one step at a time through the process of exposing her body her inch by inch. When I raised the possibility that Cindy’s excessive bashfulness represented a serous psychological problem, Dr Velour snapped, “you relate well to Cindy. Besides, you studied psychology.”
“Undergrad Industrial Psychology,” I reminded Dr Velour. “I’m not a Doctor. I can’t tell you why Cindy is reluctant to be seen naked. Nor am I a magician. I can’t wave a wand and make her gown vanish.”
“Continue the treatment,” Dr Velour ordered imperiously. “Cindy and her partner believe you are making progress. “
“Have you,” I asked, “explored with Cindy, why she’s so afraid of exposure? What are we trying to conceal? Or are we stringing Cindy along?”
In a super charged mood on stage, Gloria declared, “Why have prospective birthing persons stripped naked and exhibited like zoo animals? Depersonalization? We’ve had physicals. Isn’t that enough?”
“Is nudity as exhilarating to the voyeur as it is to the exhibitor?” I replied, “Plucked of plumage, we’re equal, without pretenses. Could the tingle you feel, the draft up your crack, be the thrill of freedom!”
Cindy scheduled her appointments so that she could enjoy private use of the visitor’s communal shower. I was tempted to stop by to chat while she rinsed off her day. The longer workday opened a door to overtime Dr Velour provided to treat special customers. Paying a mortgage, I chose not to intruding on Cindy’s privacy. Still, concerned, I raised the issue with Dr Velour in one of our asides.
“How do you expect me to fondle Cindy to the overpowering orgasm,” I protested, “which will facilitate a successful impregnation, if she won’t let me lower escort etimesgut her gown below her breasts?”
“Depilate her pubes,” upon reflection, Dr Velour ordered, “I require patients to present a clean pubis.”
“Over many sessions, Cindy has allowed me at first to slip her hospital gown just far enough off her shoulders to permit me to massage her upper body muscles to release tension.” I exclaimed. “We know she doesn’t want to be seen naked. How do you expect her to shave her pubes?”
“Stitch by stitch, Nurse Warbler,” Dr Velour smiled. “Gently coax Cindy to turn over on hands and knees after you massage her shoulders,” Dr Velour suggested, “A loosened gown will fall away.”
“You don’t expect the impossible,” I growled, “You expect the miraculous.”
“No,” Dr Velour tenderly touched my cheek and smiled as she reminded me, “take it smidgen by smidgen. That way, we might reach the underlying problem.”
“Little by little,” Gloria declared, “this place ensnares you. Who comes here to rent out her belly?”
Challenged, I shook my head.
“One hurdle at a time!” Gloria exclaimed, “At first it’s innocent enough. An ad for an experiment in drawing down milk brings you in. You pass the physical. Easy money. One new requirement at a time at a time; You learn that to enter the facility, you have to disrobe, pass through a communal shower, and wear a hospital gown. Then in the treatment room, you’re on the scales and the nursing assistant will…”
“I unknot the laces and whip the gown off,” I added, “to get an accurate body weight of course.”
“To pass in and out of the building through the shower easily, you cut your hair short. Then, in the shower, you realize other women are hairless down there. You don’t give it a thought. After a few visits, it’s time for a paycheck,” Gloria smiled, “new hitch. That contract you signed requires a cleared cunt.” Gloria gave such a grin when she let the nasty word hang that I knew I was being baited.
“Standard equipment,” I replied, “We all have one. Some know how to use it as opposed to being one.”
Continuing with her account, Gloria recalled, “`It’ll just take a sec, sweetie,’ payroll assures you, `They use a cream. Most find its application relaxing.’ OK, you say, it’s no big sacrifice. Once you get your feathers plucked, you’re on your way to taking your place on stage in `The Beauty Contest.'”
I braced myself as I entered the treatment room. I had my orders. Cindy was to leave bare of pubic hair. Would an assumed self — assured bravado hiding misgivings be enough?”
Lying supine on the treatment table, Cindy lifted her head and smiled at me. Pliantly Cindy allowed me to untie the bow on her gown as I massaged her exposed shoulders. “You’re still very tense, Cindy,” I spoke in a pleasant tone, “I need to release some of muscles of your neck and back.”
To my surprise, Cindy simply rolled on her side and raised her body on the palms of her hands and on her knees. Her gown drooped away. I repressed a chuckled when she wiggled her tiny heinie in my face. I was tempted to swat her squarely in the butt, but I resisted — murmuring one thing at a time.
On stage, Gloria complained, “Hurry up and wait. It starts with the physical. You’re stripped naked, just another bare butt shivering in the corridor waiting. Oh, the process is efficient. Squat, pee in a cup. Hold your arm out. The Clinic draws blood, cops a feel. On the table. Spread your legs. Date of last period. You’re done.” Gloria laughed as she added, “Now that didn’t hurt a bit.”
Listening to Gloria’s description, I found it hard to picture of cute, delicate Cindy as part of a herd of cattle processed like a piece of meat through an assembly line.
In my treatment of Cindy, I had to coax the story out of Cindy. Manipulating the muscles of her neck, I commented on the tension I felt, “Tough day at work, Cindy?”
“Stomach churning,” Cindy gritted her teeth, “work is an everyday chore for a surgeon.”
“Oh,” I continued to chat Cindy up as I worked my way down her back, “you must be a brain surgeon.”
“No,” rigidity of her muscles easing, Cindy breathed easily as she spoke, “I’m a urologist specializing in inglorious genitourinary surgery with few bright days and no miracle cures. Most of my surgeries involve excision of the testicles of male cancer patients, castration.”
On stage, Gloria spoke of the impact of the selection process on male companions, “If the facility puts you on display for a special client, you’re high on the list for selection out of the facility’s mare directory. Most times, you’ll be chosen by someone. What about your guy, Nurse Warbler? Why does a virile man stand by like a pussified palace eunuch while someone else’s seed infects his wife’s belly?”
In the treatment room with Cindy, I maintained eye contact as I loosened the muscles of her shoulders. “Can I ask,” I kept the tone pleasant and conversational, “What brought you to the Fertility Clinic?”
“Your director,” Cindy, thrusting her butt out provocatively, elvankent escort related, “was interested in non-surgical techniques to temporarily sterilize male companions to insure integrity of selective breeding.”
“From castration to insemination,” I remarked as I kneaded her neck and shoulder muscles.
“It did take an interesting turn. My partner — we’re not married — suddenly expressed interest in having a child,” Cindy’s voice turned wistful. “And I was elected. When one light turns red, another goes green.”
“Why are you on my table and not your partner,” I asked.
“My partner is a tough, warrior, Corrections Officer,” Cindy chuckled, “My partner passed on that idea with a laugh. `Could you picture me in uniform with my belly sticking out? Me pussified! Never!’ so the decision was,” Cindy snickered, “joint: the birthing person would be me.”
On stage, Gloria towering over me insisted on hearing my husband Jerry’s reaction to enforced chastity, “What virile man wants his cock in a blocker while his wife is fertilized?”
“The decision was joint,” I retorted.
“Really?” Gloria expressed shock. “Your guy’s nuts were locked down,” Gloria laughed, “after you guys weighed the alternatives and made a joint decision. You are married to a saint.”
“As close as any man could be,” I retorted. “Like a prince, we kissed as his pubes were vaporized and his phallus was encased in the cock — blocker.”
Gloria declared, “Nurse Warbler is right! Most guys don’t mind pussification. They get to jerk off and hang out in a gym. Those too lazy to shower have an excuse not to bathe…” Gloria’s voice trailed off into a laugh. Turning to me and the college girl, Gloria asked, “How did your guy take the good news of pussification?”
When I outlined Cindy’s proposal to my husband Jerry, Jerry believed, “It is generous. I could launch myself into a consulting business, but the sacrifice is all yours. You have to decide.”
“Hmm,” I replied, “Oh, the sacrifice is yours as well. The clinic doesn’t pretend we’re eh — you’re capable of voluntary abstinence. You get pussified, pubes shaven and cock blocked. The cock block only comes off at the clinic to release of eh — tensions, to use the gym, and to shower.”
In the treatment room, looking down at Cindy’s bare back as she crouched on her hands and knees on the table, I commented “`non — surgical temporary sterilization, hmm, why don’t you just call it pussification?” I lifted one of Cindy’s arms and then the other to sweep the hospital gown away, leaving her naked in my presence for the first time. My hands had migrated toward the base of the spinal column. I was now manipulating the muscles of her butt.
“Pussification!” Cindy turned her head to look at me beaming with a big smile. “In medical school, we learn how to express simple concepts in the most opaque manner. The medical term might be an anti — androgenal agent designed to produce male infertility on a temporary basis.”
Sighing with relief at the release of taut muscles in her butt, Cindy mumbled about the relief of stress.
“And were you able to come up with a medical therapy?” I continued chatting.
“The risks of chemical castration,” Cindy murmured, “brittle bones, fractures, arterial disease, and cardiac complications are too great and the benefits of lower ejaculate too insignificant to warrant use.”
“So, chemical castration is ineffective?” I asked.
“Only excising both testes permanently renders the man incapable of impregnating a female,” Cindy advised, “temporary removal, storage, and replacement through micro — surgery is not cost-effective.”
As Cindy lectured, I reached for the depilatory cream. Placing my left hand to press down on her lower spine, I reached under Cindy’s pelvis to spread the defoliant between her legs across her lower abdomen in an arc sweeping through her mound and the crease between her vaginal lips. As the cream vaporized pubes, Cindy cooed. “I never expected that this would be so relaxing on such a trying day.”
Taking a deep breath, Cindy continued her explanation of rejecting an anti — androidal medication, “The expedient of enforced chastity through application of an inexpensive device which prevents erection, ejaculation and penetration is far more effective form of –.”
Gently whacking Cindy on the butt, I suggested, “Pussification.”
My wise — crack made Cindy laugh so hard that tears welled in her bright blue eyes. “I needed that,” Cindy acknowledged, “on a day that went so bad on which I had to make a hard choice.”
Meeting Dr Velour poolside, she commented on my bikini bottoms, “I see your menstrual cycle has resumed. I have been concerned that women you use that implant which stays the cycle might find difficulty when it returns.”
“No worse than my pussified husband suffers,” I sighed, “With both on the rag, hopefully we won’t kill each other.”
“It’s hard on the guy whose dick is locked down in the sling–during first few days,” Gloria told the naked women assembled on stage. But in Surrogate’s pool, it’s the most effective form of birth control. At first, the guy is crotchety, irritable and bad — tempered. Once the guy gets in the routine of visiting the clinic to be hitched to a post for a mechanical release, the nastiness goes away.”
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