Message-ID: <1472eli$9706161121@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: Path: qz!not-for-mail Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: From: Krieg Lite Subject: The Physicals (Mf+ teen) by Amy and Larry 0/1 A manuscript of this story was found in a bottle floating in the Atlantic off the coast of Newfoundland. It was transcribed verbatim as follows: This story contains an account of sexual play between an adult human male and multiple teenage females and is intended for mature audiences. Others should skip to the next posting in the news group. Anyone reading this document while legally underage will be sent to timeout to the full extent of the law. So there. All standard disclaimers apply. This is a rewrite of an original story by Amy. It is being posted here in this form with her permission -------------------------------------------------- The Physicals by Amy and Larry It had been a long, tough, frustrating job, but I had wrapped it up ahead of schedule and under budget, with a tidy little bonus in my pocket to show for it. It was time for a quiet little evening of getting pleasantly sloshed and listening to some bar music, and I was breaking in a new place. An acquaintance had suggested that I might find Harry's Place to my liking, and so far her suggestion was pretty well on target. It was small, dark, with three guys splitting duties on bass, guitar, piano, drums and sax, and a generally appreciative crowd. The secondary smoke worriers would have collapsed within seconds of walking in the place, but I thought it had atmosphere. The bartender had earned himself an early tip by asking the right question when I sat at the end of the bar and ordered a martini. Or rather by not asking the wrong question. His winning line was "Olive or twist?" which was ok. If he had hit me with the ugly "Vodka or gin?" I would have changed my order to a Wild Turkey and water. A martini is a drink; a vodka martini is a different drink. A bartender that doesn't understand that simple little basic can't be trusted to make either. I had actually been one of the early arrivals, hitting the seat before eight thirty, but the place started filling up pretty quickly. Besides the groups at the tiny tables, there was a couple sitting at the opposite end of the bar from me, and a guy sitting between us with a couple of stools between him and me. As the martinis started to gain momentum the guy and I struck up an off-and-on conversation. Turned out he was a doctor. I thought when he confessed to it, that I was glad that he wasn't my doctor. The idea of a guy I'm trusting with my bod sitting in a gin mill getting plastered wasn't appealing. Then I happened to think that my doctor could well be doing the same thing in a bar somewhere else while we talked and I'd never know about it. That thought somehow struck me as funny, and put me in an even better mood. My new buddy's mood, though, kept getting worse as the night went on. As his words became more slurred they also became more frequent. Turned out his problem was the usual one: sex. "I just can't get my wife to fuck the way I want her to," he confided tactfully. "But Doc," I said, "in your job you see naked women all the time. Doesn't that turn you on and make it better?" He shook his head violently back and forth in denial. Seems his wife was a lovely girl who thought sex was a wonderful thing as long as conditions were just right, which would sometimes happen as much as twice a year. He said that in fact he did have a lot of beautiful patients. Beautiful, sensuous patients. Beautiful, sensuous, wonderful patients who turned him on no end. Who turned him on no end, then sent him home to his wife who turned him on even more, but wouldn't give any up. Which was why he was sitting here packing in the JD Black. "And you know," he went on, "I contribute to the community, and I get screwed there, too. I mean I don't get screwed there, too. Well, you know what I mean. Like tomorrow. You know what I'm going to be doing tomorrow? I, John R. Martin, MD, am going to be giving physical exams to a group of high school students. And you know what that group is? A bunch of cheerleaders. That's right. You got it. The junior varsity cheerleaders over in some noname high school over in Westchester have to have physicals before they can show their twats to their horny fans. And I, John R. Martin, MD, have been selected to perform that onerous task. And after a full day of lusting over teenage ass, I'm going to go home and my lovely wife is going to shoot me down cold." I sat there trying to count how many martinis I had had, and figure whether there was some magic number of martinis that would put the kind of ideas in my head that I was getting. Finally, I said the hell with it. "Doc, we just might be able to do a little business." He looked confused, but interested. Then he said warily, "What kind of business is it that you think we might be able to do?" He looked proud of himself for getting that sentence out without stumbling. "If you had the opportunity to pick a woman to spend a little time with, say a day or two, what would be your dearest dream?" I felt a little proud myself to get that one out, to tell the truth. "I like blonds. Angie's a blond. Angie's my wife, you know. She's blond. And sophisticated, you know. I mean I like sophisticated, not that Angie's sophisticated. Well, she is a little I guess, but I think mainly she's just stuck up. And hard-bodied. I mean I like hard-bodied, not that Angie's hard-bodied, but she is. God is she. She works out and plays tennis and shit, and she has a build. Wish I could use it a little. Anyway, what do you have in mind?" I think that it was starting to dawn on him what I had in mind. "Well, Doc, I've got some friends who might be able to take care of you tonight, and tomorrow for that matter. If you had to, could you convince your wife you might not be able to make it home for a couple of days?" I was watching his eyes, and I was pretty sure I had him. "Hell, yes, I can. She wouldn't give a shit, anyway." I could see the wheels turning, and they were starting to hum nicely. "Tell you what. Let me call a couple of friends, and if I can find somebody to take care of you, I'll do the physicals for you tomorrow." He broke into a broad grin. "Yeah, I bet you would. Really think you could pull it off?" "Yeah, I think I can." Really, I thought I could. I'd done similar things before, and anyway, it was worth a shot. "You game?" "Hell, yes! Why not? Make your damn calls. Let's go for it." I called the bartender over and asked if I could use the phone. He reached beneath the bar and pulled out a phone and plunked it down. "Local only, ok?" It was local. I dialed a number from memory. I didn't know what the doc thought of that, if anything, but I had a memory for numbers I could use for party tricks. A familiar voice answered. "Hey, Holly. Jerry Cohen. You gonna be free for tonight and tomorrow?" "This for you or for a friend, Jer?" "For a friend this time, Holly. Nice guy. On me." "I'd like to, Jer. Really I would, but I'm kinda tied up tonight. Maybe tomorrow?" "Nah, Holly. Gotta be tonight. Don't worry about it. I'll catch ya later, ok?" "Sure, Jer. Great talkin' to ya. Really. Don't be a stranger, ok?" "Hey! You know me! I'll be around." I made a kissing sound in the mouthpiece, pressed the button, waited for another dial tone and pushed numbers again. The phone rang several times this time before I heard another familiar voice. "Hello, Terri. This is Nick Conti. How have you been?" I saw some wrinkles start to appear in the brow of Dr. John R. Martin. "Nicky!!! God, where have you been?" "You know me, Terri. Listen, I got a favor to ask. A friend of mine is looking for a date for tonight and tomorrow. Think you could help him out?" " 'Speak for yourself, John'...Yeah, sure, hon. You know you can always count on me if I'm free. You gonna bring him by or want me to pick him up." I glanced over at the doc, made a quick assessment of his driving ability and put my hand over the phone. "You're not planning on going anywhere special tonight, are you? Why don't we have Terri pick you up and she can bring you back to get your car whenever you're ready." He looked at me curiously and said, "What did you say your name was?" I reached in my pocket and flipped him my card, the one that said Edward A. Miller, Attorney. As he tried to focus on it, I turned back to the phone and told Terri where we were. She said that we should meet her out front since she would never be able to find a parking place, and I agreed. She asked if half an hour was ok, and I said it was. If it was anybody but Terri I would have said that there was no way she would make it in half an hour, but this was Terri. The doc looked up at me, then back at the card. "You're a lawyer?" I could see the wheels turning in a different direction. "Yeah, but not that kind of lawyer," I answered, and winked. He giggled conspiratorially and pitched the card back to me. "Honor among thieves,Ó he said profoundly. I had no idea what he meant, and I doubt if he did either, but as long as he was happy I was happy. He slid over to the stool next to me and pulled out a note pad. "Here's what you have to do tomorrow." As he talked, he made notes, and his handwriting was legible enough that I began to doubt that he was a real doctor. But maybe it was just because he was drunk. He went into great detail about the procedures for the exams, and I had to admit that it looked like he really wanted me to do a good job. I was beginning to respect the guy a little more, but then I decided that I was just drunk, too. I glanced at my watch and motioned toward the door. He tore off the pages from his notebook, folded them over, and stuffed them in my shirt pocket. "One thing, John," I said. "This is on me, but feel free to tip if you think you want to. Terri won't mind either way." He nodded carefully. We stood up and walked to the door silently. As we stepped outside, a powder blue Bimmer pulled up and double-parked right in front of the door. The driver popped open the door and came around the front of the car to greet us. As she cleared the front fender, John mumbled under his breath, "Holy Shit!" I grinned. That was a typical reaction to Terri. She stepped sharply up to us, said "Hi, Nicky," and pulled my head down and let her lips brush my cheek. "Hi, Terri. This is John Martin. John, Terri Anderson." Terri extended her hand, and John nearly collapsed as he shakily took it in his. "Nice to meet you, John. Have you been waiting long?" John earned himself a couple of major points in my eyes when he replied, "All my life, Terri." Not bad for a drunk. Didn't think he had it in him. I glanced over at him, and he looked stone-cold sober. Shock will do that sometimes. Wouldn't last long though. Terri laughed musically and asked if John needed to get anything from his car. He said that as a matter of fact he did, if she didn't mind waiting. He walked just a couple of parking spots away and opened the door on a Pontiac. I didn't think doctors drove Pontiacs. You live, you learn. He fumbled around in the back seat and came back carrying a black bag and a white lab coat. I saw him drop something in his pocket, and figured that it was either recreational or resuscitative. What the hell, he was a doctor. When he came back he handed me the coat and bag and said, "You'll need these. I'll get them back from you in a day or two. Just act like you know what you are doing." Terri watched the exchange with a strange look in her eye, then shrugged her shoulders, shook her head, and whispered, "Nicky, Nicky, Nicky...." Then she put her arm through John's, said "Let's party...," walked him to her car, stuffed him in the passenger's seat, got in herself, and drove smoothly away. I walked off to hail a cab, whistling a happy tune. The next morning, I got up early to make the drive to Westchester by 7:30AM, the time the day's activities were to commence. I pulled up in front of the school, parked my Caddy in a visitor's slot and walked through the front door, carrying the doc's black bag and wearing a white lab coat (not the doc's, though). I told the receptionist that I would like to see the principal and that I would be taking Dr. Martin's place today, and was more than mildly surprised when she said brightly, "Oh, yes. Dr. Martin called earlier to explain that you would be filling in for him, Dr. Miller." Dr. Martin was a surprising guy. I wouldn't have thought that he would be in any shape to make early phone calls. Unfortunately I didn't have any cards with the Edward Miller name that had an "M.D." on them, so I would just have to do without. The receptionist ushered me into the principal's office and told me that he would be with me very shortly. And he was. The principal was a youngish ruddy guy with thinning red hair who looked more like a used car salesman than an academic, but then appearances could be deceiving as I well knew. He made some small talk about how much they appreciated Dr. Martin, and how much they appreciated my being willing to come in on such short notice to fill in. "Can't even get my teachers to do that," he added, and I nodded understandingly. I told him that I had always been involved in sports in high school myself and knew how much it meant to the guys, and that I wouldn't want anybody to miss out on the fun of playing varsity football, just because a doctor couldn't make a schedule. "Yeah, well. Doc Martin got the last of the football team last week. 'Fraid you're gonna have to do the JV cheerleaders this week." He gave me a wink and a nudge, and I gave him a cold stare. I wondered if maybe he wasn't a used car salesman after all. When he got my reaction, he was all business. He picked up a folder from his desk and handed it to me, saying that it had all of the necessary forms, including the applications the girls had filled out, then he escorted me down to an office off the gym where the examinations would take place. He left me there, saying that the girls would be there at eight o'clock, and walked off. I thought that he was more than a little envious. I opened the folder and started going over the list of girls who would be getting examined. There were twelve of them in all. As I started to read the details my erection started to build. Not a good thing, but unavoidable. I'd just have to keep it in check once the girls arrived. For the time being I was just going to enjoy the hard-on. Most of the girls were right around a hundred pounds and from about five even to five three. Their dental records showed that several of them had braces, which for some reason sent a little shiver down my spine. They ranged from fourteen to seventeen, and from Freshman to Junior. The thought of browsing at will among their naked bodies was getting to me already. I went over the list, which seemed to be in just the order the girls had signed up, and had to make a conscious effort not to drool: Amy Gallagher, 16 Ruth Bagby, 17 Sheri Adams, 15 Shelly White, 14 Janice Yarber, 15 Ally Costa, 14 Jenny Tinsley, 16 Susan Kane, 16 Vicki Williams, 16 Michelle Rowe, 17 Shawna Thomas, 15 Elle Michaels, 14 As I glanced through their files, they seemed a nice enough group. All very wholesome. All very delicious, too. Delicious and wholesome, too. Sounded like breakfast cereal. Made me hungry. I quickly glanced over the notes the doc had made for me to confirm that I knew the agenda. I did. The girls' coach would put them through some standard stretching and warmup drills, then the tests would begin. I would check pulse and heartbeat after ten minutes of strenuous aerobics, then again after a one-mile run. (Timing would be a factor there, I would have to stagger the girls' start times for the aerobics, then hope that they didn't cluster up too much during the run.) Once the preliminaries were out of the way, we would get down to the good stuff. I would give each girl a very much hands-on physical examination. By the time I had gone over the notes, I could see the girls gathering in the gym through the large observation window in the office. I moved back to the inner office where I would actually do the physicals and checked over the equipment. It was shabby but serviceable. I went back to the outer office where I could see and be seen and pretended to look through their files again. A couple of minutes before eight a fifty-ish woman in a sweat suit appeared in the gym and began talking to the girls. I guessed that she was their coach. I guessed wrong. I walked out of the office and up to the woman in sweats, stuck out my hand and said, "Miss Collins?" I figured that doctors didn't have to bother with petty etiquette rules. There was a chorus of giggles from the girls that the woman ignored as she shook my hand and replied, "No, I'm Laura Jackson, the basketball coach. Miss Collins should be here shortly. I just stopped by to chat with the girls; I keep trying to steal them for my team." There were more giggles. About this time a door at the far end of the gym opened and another woman in sweats walked in. If this one was Miss Collins, I might take up cheerleading myself. She glided up to me, thrust out her right hand and said, "I'm Sue Collins. You must be Dr. Miller." I took her hand, and used all the self-control I could muster to give it a businesslike shake. "Yes," I said, "Very nice to meet you." I had never been more sincere in my life. She was a peaches-and-cream redhead with emerald green eyes and a tidy body whose perfection couldn{t be masked by the sweat suit. I started to wonder if there shouldn{t be a rule that the coaches had to pass physicals, too. There was a sly twinkle in her eye that made me think that she knew the effect she was having on me, and I had the feeling that the lady could probably handle herself rather well. Sue told me that she would take about thirty minutes to let the girls warm up (I was thinking of her as ÒSueÓ already) and that she hoped I didn{t mind waiting. ÒThey should have told you to be here at eight-thirty, and you wouldn{t have had to wait,Ó she said in a tone that told me she had very little use for people who would make such a mistake. ÒThat{s all right,Ó I said. ÒReally it is. There{s not much I{d be doing between eight and eight-thirty anyway, you know.Ó ÒNevertheless. At any rate, you{re here now, and you{ll have to wait. I have to make sure they don{t pull anything. Despite what you might think about cheerleaders, these girls are really athletes, and good ones at that. I think I have them all in pretty good shape, but don{t try and do anybody any favors by letting them slip through without meeting standards. I don{t want them getting hurt.Ó ÒI{ll show no mercy,Ó I assured her. She had taken on a rather serious look during her previous speech, and she nodded seriously in acknowledgment of my promise. Then, as though someone had flipped a switch, she broke into a bright smile, said ÒThanks!Ó, turned to the girls and started whipping them into shape. She was half drill-sergeant, half animal trainer, and all business. And she knew her business, too. The girls were in a variety of outfits: some in cutoffs, some in spandex, some in a mixture, and a couple were even in their uniforms. Sue may have been trying to get the girls warmed up, but she was succeeding in warming me up pretty well, too. The young bodies bounced and vibrated and stretched and sweated and I tried to keep my admiration concealed as I continued to shuffle through the papers. Sue called her charges by name as she led them through their paces, and I started trying to match the names on my list to the faces on the girls. There was an absolutely stunning blonde wearing tight black shorts and a black bikini top who turned out to be the Amy Gallagher at the top of the list. She was sixteen according to the chart, but I could have dressed her up and passed her for twenty-four at any club in town. She appeared to be the natural leader of the group as well, though technically the seventeen year old Ruth Bagby was the head cheerleader. One of the younger girls, Ally Costa, was wearing an allÐspandex outfit that made her look like she had violet skin; I made a mental note that she would be the first one in the back room. As the warmups continued, I put the rest of the girls in order, saving the delicious Amy Gallagher for last -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ .../assm/faq.html> /