THE PRIVATE PARTY

4

It is unlikely that they will want to be you in this undignified position. Unless some of them, like you, have uncontrolled dreams about being in an undignified position.

            There is the sound of gushing water behind you, as one of your attendants has turned on the shower. You notice that your chair is positioned over a tile floor with a drain in it. So you may get wet. You stiffen at this idea.

            The Doctor is at one side of you now, the nurse on the other. Their latex-gloved hands begin caressing you. They part your gown so you are gleaming, naked and puffy, under the hot lights. The doctor gently pulls on your nipples so they stiffen. You glance at his face: you can't make out his expression under his mask. They are both being quite silent. He catches your eye and winks at you.

            The nurse has brought a flexible shower head over to the front of the chair. The water rushes around their feet. She is testing the temperature on her bare arm, like a hairdresser about to give you a shampoo.

            She directs the spray to your neck first, so that the water sluices down your front. It is warm, bath-like. You feel for a second like a plant being watered. As soon as you are soaked, you relax a little. The warm water splashes over your thighs, between your legs, it pools at your crotch on the vinyl of the chair. The anxious sweat that was under your arms is gone. You are glistening in the rushing stream.   

            The nurse plays the pulsing jet over your body, slowly now. The needles of water are insistent. She holds them over your nipples until the pressure is mildly irritating, then down your belly to your groin.

            You try to close your legs against the disturbing, tickling pressure, but your ankles are held fast by leather straps. She holds it for a long time over your groin, waiting for you to show a response, so long that you worry for the paying audience members; it must be so boring. But this is an artistic crowd, or must be, rich at least, given how much they must be paying for this, and to admit boredom might be to admit tastelessness. Perhaps it is all just the most boring kind of performance art; perhaps you will sit here being watered all night.

            But the pressure is beginning to be more than tickling; there is a warmth in your groin now, and in your belly, a fullness. Your back is arching and your muscles are slowly stiffening.

            "Good," murmurs the Doctor to your ear. "Very good."

            The nurse is holding one of your nipples now, as she sprays, just lightly, between finger and thumb. You are starting to breathe a little faster.

            You close your eyes, let your head slip back, try to imagine you are alone in the bath. And just as you feel the warmth metamorphose into something a little more insistent, something swelling, the nurse stops the flow.

            Now the Doctor and the Nurse kneel beside you. The Doctor is massaging the fingertip of one of his gloved hands with the other; it is shiny with gel. As the Nurse pulls on your nipples, he parts the lips of your sex. He is spreading the lips as wide as they can go for the audience, and there is an undeniable pleasure in being so parted, in knowing that there is no part of you that can remain hidden; they are seeing your redness, your shine.

            He pushes one finger into your vagina, and then another, gently. He withdraws them and massages your clit. Then he delves in again. Each time he goes a little deeper. His slipery latex fingers don't feel like fingers; they feel distant.

            This penetration is too medical to be exciting in itself. It is the exposure that arouses you, the knowledge that the audience is with you, wondering what you are feeling, wondering if you are enjoying it, perhaps a little worried for you, perhaps a little hostile. It is all about you, on that stage, the story is all you.