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bottle with a surging sound. He then rearranged his clothes and brought me the specimen
which I took (marveling at the warmth of the glass: we are furnaces inside!) and carefully
placed on it a white sticker inscribed with his name. The entire affair was conducted without a
false note.
"Now then we'll just do a drawing of the spine. Loosen your belt and lie face down on
the table."
For the first time he seemed aware that history might repeat itself. He stalled. "Maybe
we better wait till I see the doctor."
"Rusty," I was patient but firm. "I'm just following doctor's orders and you are going
to follow my orders, or else. Is that understood?"
"Well, yes, but...
"There are no 'buts' for someone on probation."
"Yes, ma'am!" He got the point. Quickly he undid the belt buckle; then he unfastened
the catch to his trousers and, holding them firmly in place, lay face-down on the table. It was a
delicious sight, that slender muscular body stretched full length as sacrifice to some cruel
goddess. His arms were at his sides, and I noticed with some amusement that he was pressing
the palms hard against the table, instinctively repeating his earlier performance.
I covered his back with a large sheet of paper. Then with an eyebrow pencil, I slowly
traced the spine's course from the nape of the neck to the line of his trousers.
"This is going very, very well." I sounded to my own ears exactly like Laraine Day, an
all-time favorite.
"It sort of tickles," came a muffled voice. Triceps muscles writhed beneath silk-
smooth skin.
 "Are you ticklish?" This suddenly opened an unexpected vista. Fortunately my
program was so designed as to include an occasional inspired improvisation.
"Well, no, not really..."
But I had already taken one large sweaty foot in hand (again marveling at the body
heat through the thin sock) and delicately tickled the base of the toes. The effect was electric.
The whole body gave a sudden twitch. With a powerful reflex, he kicked the foot from my
hand, exclaiming "Cut that out!" in a masterful voice, so entirely had he forgotten his place.
I was mild. "Do that again, Rusty, and I will punish you."
"I'm sorry, Miss Myra." He was conciliatory. He looked at me over his shoulder (the
tracing paper had fallen to the floor). "I guess I'm more ticklish than I thought."
"Apparently. Or perhaps I hurt you. You don't have athlete's foot, do you?"
"Oh, no. No. Not for a long time... in the summer, sometimes..."
"We'll just take a look." With some difficulty, I slipped off the damp socks. If I were a
foot-fetishist like poor Myron, I would have been in seventh heaven. As it was, what excited
me was his profound embarrassment, for he has the American male's horror of smelling bad.
Actually, he was relatively odorless. "You must have just had a shower," I said.
He buried his face in the table. "Yeah... just now." Carefully I examined each toe,
holding it tight as though I feared that, at any moment, one of the little piggies might decide to
run all the way home. But except for a certain rigidity of the body, he did not show, in any
way, distress; not even when I examined each pink toe.
"Good," I said, putting the foot down. "You're learning control. Ticklishness is a sign
of sexual fear, did you know that?"
A faint "no" from the head of the table.
"That's why I was so surprised at the way you reacted when I touched your foot. From
what you said at the Cock and Bull I couldn't imagine you ever being tense with a woman."
"I guess you sort of took me by surprise," was the best that he could think to say. In his
present position, he obviously did not want to be reminded of his usual cockiness.
"I'm sorry," I said, deftly sliding his trousers down to his knees.
As I had anticipated, he gave a slight gasp but made no move other than to grip with
both hands the sides of the trousers in an effort to keep at least his front decently covered.
On the table before me, like some cannibal banquet, the famous buttocks curved
beneath frayed Jockey shorts. Below the elastic, two round holes, like eyes, revealed fair skin.
Teasingly, I put my finger in one of the holes. He winced at the touch. "Doesn't Mary-Ann
ever mend your clothes?"
"She... can't... sew..." He sounded as if he had been running hard, and could not get his
breath. But at least he had steeled himself for my next move.
The total unveiling of the buttocks was accomplished in an absolute, almost religious,
silence. They were glorious. Under the direct overhead light, I was able to appreciate physical
details that I had missed in the office. A tiny dark mole on one cheek. An angry red pimple
just inside the crack where a hair had grown in upon itself. The iridescent quality of the skin
which was covered with the most delicate pale peach fuzz, visible only in a strong light and
glittering now with new sweat. I could smell his fear. It was intoxicating.
 I also noted that although I had pulled the Jockey shorts down to the thighs in the
back, he had craftily contrived to hold them up in front, and so his honor, he believed, was
only half lost.
Intimately I passed my hand over the hard buttocks, firmly locked to all intruders, and
remarked, according to plan, "You aren't feverish, are you?"
"No... I'm O.K...." The voice was barely audible. With my free hand I felt his brow; it
was bathed in perspiration.
"You are hot. We'd better take your temperature. Besides, they want it for the chart."
As I went over to the surgical table and prepared the thermometer, he watched me
dully, like a trapped animal. Then I returned to my quarry and, putting one hand on each
cheek at the exact point where buttock joins thigh, I said, "Relax now."
He raised up on his arms and looked around at me, eyes suddenly bright with alarm.
"What?"
"I've got to take your temperature, Rusty."
"But... there?" His voice broke like a teenage boy's.
"Of course. Now then...
"But why can't you use the other kind, you know, in the mouth..." With the back of my
left hand, I struck him hard across the bottom. He gasped, pulled back.
"There is more where that came from," I said coldly, noting with pleasure a certain
darkening of skin where the blood had been brought to the surface by the force of my blow.
"Yes, ma'am." Defeated, the head returned to its position on the table and once again I
put my hands on those firm cheeks.
"Now," I said, "relax the muscle." I could feel beneath my fingers the muscles slowly,
reluctantly go slack.
I confess I was now trembling with excitement. Gently, carefully I pushed the cheeks
apart until everything--secret sphincter and all--was revealed.
Normally at moments of great victory, there is a sense of letdown. But not in this case.
For one thing I had half feared to find him not clean--unlike so many anal erotics I am not at
all attracted by fecal matter, quite the reverse in fact. Yet had he not been tidy, his humiliation [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]