Page 7 of Innocence Tamed
I tried to follow her instructions, focusing on my breathing as her finger slowly pressed inside me. The sensation was terribly odd—uncomfortable, invasive, and yet, to my profound mortification, also not entirely unpleasant. I felt my face flush even hotter as my body betrayed me once again, a soft involuntary moan escaping my lips.
“The sensor indicates increased arousal,” Nurse Georges observed clinically. “That’s good. Many young women find anal stimulation quite pleasurable once they become accustomed to it—especially girls as submissive as you are.”
Her finger withdrew, and I heard the snap of her changing gloves. The momentary relief was short-lived as I felt the cold metal of another speculum pressing against my rear opening.
“This will be uncomfortable,” she warned, though her tone held no particular sympathy. “Try to relax.”
The pressure was more intense this time, a stretching sensation that bordered on pain as the speculum slowly opened inside me. I bit my lip hard to keep from crying out, my fingers clutching at the edges of the examination table.
“Very good,” Nurse Georges murmured after what felt like an eternity. “Your rectal tissues appear healthy and normal. No abnormalities.”
I heard another click and knew she had taken another photograph, though mercifully she didn’t show me this one.
“The speculum is coming out now,” she announced. “Bear down gently.”
I followed her instructions, feeling the metal device slide out of me. Its removal left me feeling strangely empty and exposed. Ilay there, breathing heavily, trying to process the humiliation I’d just endured. But Nurse Georges wasn’t finished with me yet.
“Based on my examination,” she said, making notes on her tablet, “your anal passage is quite tight. This is to be expected, of course, but you should know that initial anal penetration will be quite uncomfortable for you.”
I stared at the ceiling, wishing I could disappear. How had my life come to this point? Just yesterday I’d been a respected intern at an international energy program. Now I was naked on an examination table while a clinical-voiced nurse discussed my anal passage as casually as if she were talking about my dental health.
“Regular training with an anal plug will help prepare you,” she continued, her tone neutral. “Your sponsor will expect you to welcome his penis there. Preparation can make the experience more comfortable for you—and more pleasurable for your sponsor.”
I swallowed hard, not trusting myself to speak. The thought of being penetrated there by a man—by a stranger—made my stomach clench with anxiety.
“I’ll send you home with a set of anal plugs and detailed instructions on how to prepare your bottom for your sponsor’s enjoyment,” Nurse Georges said, as if she were telling me she’d be prescribing vitamins. “The training regimen is quite straightforward. You’ll start with the smallest size and gradually work your way up as your body adjusts.”
She moved around the examination room, opening drawers and collecting items I couldn’t see from my position. The casual way she discussed these intimate matters made them seem almostnormal, as if every young woman naturally prepared her body for a stranger’s sexual use.
“Now,” she said, returning to stand between my still-spread legs, “we have one final assessment to complete. To ensure that Selecta Arrangements can match you properly with a compatible sponsor, I need to observe your masturbation technique.”
I jerked upright onto my elbows, my eyes wide with shock. “What?” I gasped, certain I’d misheard her.
“Your masturbation technique,” she repeated calmly. “How you bring yourself to orgasm. This information is essential for the algorithm.”
“I-I can’t,” I stammered, shaking my head. “Not… not with someone watching. That’s private.”
Nurse Georges sighed, that same impatient sound she’d made earlier when I’d asked for a gown. “MademoiselleCampbell,” she said, her tone cooling several degrees, “nothing about your sexuality will be private once you enter an arrangement. Your sponsor will have the right to observe and direct all aspects of your sexual response.”
She checked something on her tablet. “Furthermore, refusal to complete this assessment will disqualify you from the First Intimacy Premium Program.”
I stared at her in disbelief, my mind racing. Every instinct screamed at me to grab my clothes and run, to escape this ‘medical’ humiliation. But then what?
Thirty days until deportation. No job. No money. No future.
“I…” My voice cracked. I gulped and tried again. “I usually… I don’t usually do it like this.”
“How do you usually do it?” Nurse Georges asked, her tone unchanged.
My face burned so hot I thought I might combust. “I usually lie on my front,” I admitted in a whisper so quiet I could barely hear it myself.
To my surprise, Nurse Georges simply nodded. “Very well. Let me help you out of the stirrups.”
Her hands felt impersonal as she lifted my feet from the cold metal supports. I felt a wave of relief wash over me—not because this would be any less mortifying, but because at least I wouldn’t have to look at her while I did it.
“You may position yourself as you prefer,” she instructed, stepping back slightly.
With trembling limbs, I turned over onto my knees, facing away from her. The paper covering the examination table crinkled loudly beneath me, the sound seemingly amplified in the quiet room. I positioned myself on all fours, then slowly lowered my upper body until my burning cheek pressed against the cool paper. This position—rear elevated, face down—felt even more exposed than before, but at least I didn’t have to see her watching me.
