Examination by a proctologist

Vera and I are in our early thirties. We've been married for six years. She had two men before me, and I had a few women. Our marriage is like a well-oiled machine: sometimes it creaks, but overall it's a joy. We try not to stagnate in bed: toys, role-playing, light BDSM. But there's one taboo that Vera guards with the tenacity of a border guard. Her ass. More precisely, the entrance to it. My finger—go ahead. My tongue—for God's sake. But my dick—no way. "It's all tight down there, I'm scared, it hurts, let's not do it now." I didn't push. I waited. Sometimes we fantasized out loud before bed: I'd whisper to her how hot it would be if a third person, experienced and patient, took her there for the first time. She'd blush, giggle excitedly, and quickly come from these conversations. But it never went beyond fantasies. And then there was the district clinic and an appointment with a proctologist. Vera had been experiencing discomfort for a couple of months—nothing serious, the hemorrhoids weren't falling out, but there was a tugging and itching sensation. A family friend, a veteran surgeon, said, "Let her see Kuzmin at the 24th Clinic. He's an old cynic, but he knows his stuff. Better safe than sorry." Vera made an appointment. They gave her an appointment for Tuesday, lunchtime. I couldn't drive her because I was swamped at work. "I'll get there myself, I'm not a little girl," she said dismissively. In the morning, I put on my summer dress with a zip-up front—a modest, just above the knee, beige one. Underneath, I wore white lace panties and a bra without padding, so I wouldn't sweat in the heat. I wore flat sandals. My hair was in a bun. I looked like a teacher training college graduate. The clinic was a shambles. The corridor was narrow, the paint was bubbling, and it smelled of bleach and old filing cabinets. The proctology office was in a dead-end street on the second floor, next to the X-ray department. There was no line. Vera knocked, and a thin man in his late fifties with glasses on the tip of his nose opened the door—Kuzmin. Behind him, she spotted three more people in the office. Young, wearing short white coats over their civilian clothes. Interns from the department. Kuzmin muttered, "Come on in, these are students. Do you mind?" Vera wanted to protest, but he had already slammed the door. — Undress behind the screen. Take off everything below the waist, including your underwear. Lie on your left side, pull your legs up to your chest. And relax. I'll let you know when to leave. The screen—a rag on a frame—hides almost nothing. Vera pulled off her panties and carefully hung them on a hook. She hiked her dress up to her waist. She lay down on the couch, facing the wall. It was cold. Her heart was pounding. She felt ashamed. And—she surprised herself—a little damp between her legs. Fear, combined with the feeling of being vulnerable to these unknown men, flipped some ancient switch inside her. Kuzmin emerged from behind the screen and invited the interns in. There were three of them. A tall, blond man with broad shoulders—Zhenya. A stocky man with oriental eyes—Timur. And a skinny, red-haired guy with glasses—Pasha. They surrounded the couch, carefully feigning professional interest. "Gentlemen, we have a thirty-one-year-old woman before us. She complains of itching in the anorectal area," Kuzmin said, pulling on his glove with a wet click. "We'll begin with an external examination. Note the absence of external nodes. I'm spreading the buttocks. See? The anus is closed, there's no hyperemia, and no signs of fissures." Vera lay with her face buried in the oilcloth pillow, feeling four pairs of eyes boring into her most shameful spot. The old man spread her buttocks. Silence fell over the office, only the sound of sparrows squawking somewhere outside the window. "Now for a digital examination," Kuzmin announced. "We lubricate it with Vaseline and insert the index finger. Slowly. Using circular motions. We're assessing the sphincter tone. Can you feel it, patient? Is it painful? No? Excellent. The sphincter is pliable and elastic. Gentlemen, come closer and take a look." He pulled his finger out and dipped it in again. Vera's breathing quickened. Her insides throbbed. She prayed the interns wouldn't notice the shiny trail creeping up her inner thigh. "Zhenya, would you like to try it?" Kuzmin suggested casually. "Put on a glove. One finger is enough. Assess the tone. And don't be afraid, our patient is calm, right?" Vera didn't answer. She simply spread her legs slightly—either instinctively or already surrendering to the situation. Zhenya put on a glove and squeezed out some Vaseline. His finger was longer and thicker than Kuzmin's. He entered carefully but deeply. He twisted it. He bent it slightly inside. Vera let out a soft sob. — Good. Now, Timur. Assess the condition of the mucous membrane. Timur worked silently. His short, strong fingers moved inside her with the methodical precision of a masseur. He pressed lightly on the anterior wall of her rectum, where the vagina was visible through the septum. Vera bit her lip. Her clitoris ached so intensely she could no longer ignore it. - Pasha, now it's your turn. The red-haired, bespectacled man was visibly nervous. His finger trembled as he entered. But it was this hesitant tenderness that finally finished Vera off. She made a sound—not a groan, but not a sigh either. Something in between. The three young men froze. Kuzmin cleared his throat. — Patient, are you okay? “Yes,” Vera’s voice trailed off. “It’s just... hot.” — We'll open the window now. In the meantime, let's continue. Let's move on to the anoscopy. The tube, please. Then things accelerated. Kuzmin inserted a cold metal tube, illuminated it with a flashlight, and let the interns take turns peering inside. Vera felt like an exhibit, disassembled into parts—and this humiliation made her arousal snowball. When the procedure was officially over, Kuzmin removed his gloves and said: "I don't see anything abnormal. The itching is most likely a stress response. Take some motherwort and avoid spicy foods. Get dressed. Interns, thank you all, you're free. Come back in fifteen minutes—we'll discuss it." The students went out into the hallway. Vera sat down on the couch. Her legs felt wobbly. Kuzmin filled out the chart without looking at her. “Doctor...” she called quietly. - Mm? — Can I have some... water? He turned, saw her face—flushed, her gaze unfocused—and understood everything. The old cynic chuckled into his mustache. — Get it from the water cooler. It's behind the door on the left. And this... My interns are smart. And they won't chatter. If you need to discuss anything else, they're in the hallway. Vera pulled up her panties and straightened her dress. She walked out of the office on wobbly legs. In the hallway, three interns were drinking water and discussing some academic nonsense. They fell silent when they saw her. She stopped in front of them. "Guys..." She licked her dry lips. "Can I... ask you something? Just not here." The staff room at the end of the hallway was empty. It contained a sofa, a table, a changing screen, and a sink. Four people entered and closed the door to mop. “I’ve never…” Vera began, then stopped. “Well, I’ve never had sex from behind. Really. My husband’s been asking for a long time, and I’m afraid. But after what you just did… I realized that I can. That I want to. And if one of you… Or all of you… I don’t know how to say it.” Zhenya, the blond, took off his glasses and began slowly unbuckling his belt. Timur silently came up behind her and placed his hands on her waist. Pasha, the redhead, was still nervous, but noticeably more animated. “We understand,” Zhenya said. “You liked it. And you want to try it. We’ll help. Just go slowly. Okay?” Vera nodded. She remembers what happened next in fragments. How they pulled her dress over her head. How Pasha kissed her neck and kneaded her breasts through her bra while Timur pulled her panties down. How Zhenya pulled a condom from his backpack and rolled it over his erection—large, curved, terrifying. How Timur lay down on the sofa and sat her on top, facing him, and entered her vagina—wet, hot, responsive. And while she rode him, Pasha positioned himself behind her, lubricated her anus with the same Vaseline from his robe pocket, entered first with his finger, then with the head, and she froze—not from pain, but from the incredible, tearing sensation of fullness on both sides. "Quiet, quiet," Zhenya whispered in her ear, standing next to her and guiding his cock into her parted mouth. "That's it. Relax. You're doing great." They moved inside her simultaneously: Timur from below, deep in her vagina; Pasha from behind, slowly, stretching her tight ass centimeter by centimeter; Zhenya from in front, sliding across her tongue and palate. Vera had never experienced anything like this. Three male bodies, three rhythms, three points of fulfillment. Orgasm washed over her in waves—first from her anus, where each of Pasha's thrusts sent electricity through her lower back; then from her clitoris, which Timur rubbed with his finger as Pasha's penis penetrated her rectal-vaginal septum; then from her throat, when Zhenya came in her mouth, and she greedily swallowed it all. The interns took turns. Timur gave up his place below to Pasha. Pasha gave up his place behind to Zhenya. Vera was turned around, positioned doggy style, and taken in turns, then together. Her ass, spread and lubricated, no longer resisted—she begged. By the end, Vera simply lay on the couch like a star, allowing three pairs of hands to stroke, knead, and penetrate her. She didn't think about the number of orgasms—she'd lost count right at the start. The guys finished one by one: some on her stomach, some in her mouth, some on her breasts. Then—a silent cleanup. Wet wipes from the first aid kit. An open window. The smell of Vaseline, sex, and hospital bleach gradually faded. "You should take a shower," Timur said, adjusting his robe. "There's a staff room at the end of the hall. I'll show you there." Vera nodded. She didn't have the strength to speak. Only her trembling legs, the sweat beading on her eyes, and a deep, animalistic satisfaction. That evening, I met her after work. She was sitting on a bench near the clinic, smoking—even though she'd quit three years ago. I got out of the car and approached her. — So what? What did the doctor say? She looked up at me. Tired. Happy. Confused. "He said I was perfectly healthy. And that I needed to relax. And not be afraid to try new things." - And that's it? “Not everything,” she stubbed out her cigarette. “Let’s go home. I’ll tell you on the way. And... Anyway, you can try it tonight. Fuck me in the ass. I’m ready.” I opened the car door. The interior smelled of her perfume, cigarettes, and something like a hospital. At home we fucked until the morning. And you know – she gives it to me in the ass now. Without fear. Without pain. With pleasure. And sometimes, when I enter her there, she closes her eyes and smiles. I don’t ask why. I feel good as is. Naturally, we no longer went to Polyclinic No. 24. But Vera now goes to her annual medical checkups with particular enthusiasm.