Ship of Remorse

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

“Remove all your clothing, please. Place everything in this box. When I come back I expect to see you sitting in the chair facing the desk, back straight, thighs spread, hands behind your head. Be a good girl for us.”

The removal of clothing should have been easier for a girl desiring to work as a topless dancer. But the way the nurse spoke concerned me. She had an authoritative demeanor, pleasant but firm, leaving no question as to who was in charge. And I was to sit with my legs open...?

The large blond woman arose to leave the examination room. The froufrou of her starched white uniform punctuated the heavy thuds made by her drab rubber soled shoes. Her blond hair was pulled straight back in a bun and was mostly covered by her cap. Everything she wore, including her dour look, disguised the fact that this mature, well-built woman was handsome. Was it deliberate? Since becoming a teenager, my feminine side told me to make every effort to look pretty. To attract boys, even those with uncontrollable phalli. To draw attention. To gather compliments like a numismatologist collects coins. And this nurse seemed to make every effort to appear otherwise.

Large, brightly lit, the room was sizable but austere. A table with obligatory stirrups and adjoining white metal cabinets evidenced its use for medical purposes. The Steelcase desk with manila folders neatly piled in the front left corner reminded me of the office of my high school guidance counselor.

My age and my vulnerable condition mandated immediate compliance despite my reservations. I was stepping out of my shoes before the nurse shut the door behind her.

I remember laughing at myself. Twice I had danced about, once completely naked, for the club manager, somehow summoning the pluck to let the lecher gaze at this shy farm girl’s shapely body.

‘Do it for the dough,’ I kept telling myself as he sat behind his desk wearing a confident smirk. The motivation of staving pending starvation does wonders for the development of courage, I concluded. For me it was like jumping from a burning building. Somehow, despite the thought of a long fall, the spirit chooses to avoid flame and smoke and instead endure the possibility of broken limb.

And so in the manager’s office, I had jumped. And once again on this peculiar ship with the commanding nurse, I took a leap, humbly tossing all I wore into the flimsy cardboard box.

When finished, I straddled the straight-backed, wooden chair, thrusting my knees awkwardly off the front corners. As I placed my hands behind my head, I felt the cool air of the room wafting about my genitalia. My n*****s responded to the temperature and turned to pencil points. The demanded position caused my outer labia to spread obscenely. And worse, as I dutifully held myself open with my spine rigid as a post, I detected my own feminine fragrance. For some reason I was aroused.

The wait seemed interminable. Being stripped naked and required to sit in such an awkward manner added to the discomfort of the pause. Then I glanced up and saw an opaque plastic dome in the middle of the ceiling. Infrequent shopping trips to New York’s department stores told me the dome covered a video surveillance camera, such devices being labeled by law in public areas.

And then my reaction became even more curious. I felt the building moisture between my thighs turn to absolute wetness with rivulets beginning to flow to my inner labia. I tightened my pelvic muscles but knew that it was a matter of time before the viscous fluid flowed down my upper thighs and a small gooey puddle would begin to form in the middle of the chair seat.

With my increasing consternation, my thoughts turned from the video camera and the possibility of being filmed to forestalling the potential of embarrassing myself. A box of tissues sat on a nearby cabinet. I quickly arose, snagged the offered Kleenex and returned to my seat. There, I wiped away much of the evidence of my arousal. With my movement a new source of concern arose. The room filled with the fragrance of my femininity and before I could confront that hurdle and dispose of the extremely damp tissue, the door opened.

Two nurses entered. The dour one just looked at me, picked up the box with my clothing and left. The second nurse introduced herself.

“Good afternoon, Alexi. I am Nurse Stolgren. We prefer that our girls remain obedient and follow the rules.”

She extended her hand. I had no choice but deliver the wet tissue, after which I resumed sitting as instructed. Nurse Stolgren put the tissue in her pocket and sat behind the desk facing me.

“I handle the psychological evaluations here. With the tissue and my odoriferous surroundings, some of my questions have already been answered.”

She paused and stared straight at me with an impressive air of authority and superiority. There I sat, naked, the n*****s of my swollen breasts seeming to stare back, my v****a dripping, and my overwhelming scent exposing a proclivity I didn’t know I had.

Nurse Stolgren was also blond with a white uniform disguising a well-shaped form. The hair bun, seemingly the standard hair style among nurses, projected a sternness which was offset by beautiful blue eyes and a practiced smile, obviously intended to put nude, spread and aroused patients at ease.

It did not. And her reference to the evidence of my excitement served to stimulate more juices.

“We don’t take in every girl who says she’s pregnant. But the receptionist said you worked at a strip club. Tell me about it. Please remain in the required position while you speak.”

So. She was establishing her authority. Easy to do with the nude and pregnant teenager. But I suppose the clinic occasionally came across the more belligerent type from time to time. The expecting girl who thinks the world owes her.

I spoke as directed. She interjected with an occasional question and eventually the interlocution glided to my childhood. My father’s early death. Mom’s remarrying the evil stepfather. My shyness with boys. The romp in the barn.

‘June, you say, Alexi? And there has been no other interaction with males?”

I nodded and found it a strange way to ask about s*x. Nurse Stolgren wrote on her pad and the questioning progressed to my ‘escape’ from the farm and employment at the club.

“So, Alexi. You enjoy parading about without benefit of clothing.”

Her phraseology was again curious. I was about to object and state that I needed the money. That it was the highest paying job that an unskilled teen could find. But then I remembered the two auditions in the manager’s office. The strange enjoyment. How flushed I became. The moist panties after the first try. My eagerness to strip again, despite my inner belief that the fat, the bald and the perverted would always find some reason to deny my request. Deny, that is, only after an unwarranted interval of pirouetting, shaking and, worst of all, bending in his private office.

And so I meekly nodded. Yes, I guess I was some kind of exhibitionist. Farm girls from Iowa don’t have many opportunities to uncover such propensities. After all, Mom was an inappropriate observer, stepfather would hit me, and the cows could have cared less. So the desire to exhibit my young charms was something ‘uncovered’ rather late in life, at least I thought so at the time.

Nurse Stolgren wrote again on the pad.

The interview continued for another thirty minutes. Nurse Stolgren came to learn just about everything there was to know about my young life. That Mom knew I was in New York but had no street address or phone number for me. That stepfather was abusive to me and therefore I didn’t want him to know where I was. That I had told the fat, the bald, and the perverted I would need some time off. That what little I owned was in the cheap, run down west side hotel.

In divulging the last piece of information, Nurse Stolgren raised her finger for me to pause, wrote hurriedly then tore off the bottom portion of the page. Her hand moved under the desk and she spoke.

“You’ll need to sign some papers.”

I reached forward, took the offered pen and signed. Had I read the papers and not liked what I saw, could I really have changed my mind? That was my reasoning at the time.

“Now, keep your hands on the back of your head and move to the examination table please, Alexi. Dr. Helga will see you soon. Be obedient.”

She wrote some more than placed her notes and the signed papers in a manila folder. As I stepped to the table the door opened and a young nurse entered. Nurse Stolgren handed her the torn off sheet.

“Get this to Carl, immediately.”

She turned to me.

“I want you on the examining table. Feet in the stirrups, Alexi. Spread nice and wide for me.”

I complied and was chagrined to hear a whirring noise from the plastic dome on the ceiling. Obviously the camera was mounted on a motor. Its only reason for moving could be to better focus on me.

Nurse Stolgren noted my observation and my discomfort and smiled. As she departed she retrieved the tissue from her pocket, waved it before me with an irritating look of smugness then held it to her nose as she stepped through the doorway.