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CALL OF THE DAY: “The doctor is out… WAYYYY out.”

He starts out his calls welcoming me into the gynecologist’s office, his voice so smarmy that it would make me laugh if his words weren’t so well chosen. I mean, he’s almost certainly not thinking about his words consciously—after all, he’s got an erection and he’s calling a phone sex line—but he uses leading questions very well, so that neither of us has to really break out of character.

“Hello, sweetheart, how have you been feeling since the last time your mom brought you in?” (Data points: I should be very young, yet I’ve seen him before.)

– Okay. I still feel tingly and squirmy a lot down there. (Data points: Obviously my ongoing “problem” should be sexy, but I need to describe it in a childish way.)

“Well, have you been using the cream that I prescribed for you?” (Data points: uh-oh, there’s a product here, but I don’t know what the effect is supposed to be.)

– Yes, and it helps, but it never lasts long. (Data points: here I am effectively saying, give me more information please, and you can also ramp up the action.)

“Well, I guess we’re going to have to give you something stronger.” (Data point: things are going to start getting seriously weird after I use this cream.)

And they do, of course. Things do get seriously weird. The caller describes in clinical detail the time-release hormone ovules that will change my endocrinology (yes, he uses that word and doesn’t even stutter) and this other cream that will stimulate breast development and this new experimental ultrasound treatment that will help turn my clit into a fully grown and fully functioning dick. Some of this I can do at home, he says—but I can’t tell my mom!—and some of it I will have to come back to the office for. It should only take a few weeks to see the results, and then I will be formally enrolled in The Experiment.

I fully admire the thorough set-up of this scene, by the way. I’m not enjoying it, because there’s a lot of terminology to keep up with, but the great thing is, because it’s a medical environment, his geeky attention to medical detail is kinda perfect, and my role of a young girl allows me to be confused in parts and ask for clarification.

Of course there are stirrups and lube and strangely sexy examining rooms. There are treatment chambers where I notice other girls and young women, some in patient positions, others in some kind of working capacity. (“Noticing” in phone sex means that the caller mentions them with awkwardly careful nonchalance, and it is on me to ask who they are.) They are all wearing latex outfits, and one of them approaches me to help me into my latex outfit. There is a medical reason for this outfit, says the caller, but his imagination seems to have petered out down this path, and he doesn’t go into detail there.

The further we get into this caller’s sci-fi hermaphroditic experimental fuck-pile fantasy, the more loose edges and loopholes I detect in the narrative. They start racking up pretty quickly in the last three minutes of the 10-minute call, because he’s trying to come, but is obviously surprised when I tell him how much time we have left, e.g. here’s how much time you’ve been wasting on the set-up, bub.

And as far as I can tell, he doesn’t actually make it to coming when we get to the ten-minute mark and I close down the call. I don’t cut him much slack here, either, no extra minute or two the way I might with one of my more rollicking regulars. With this guy, well… I don’t like medical science fiction that much and his patronizing tone has started to grate on my nerves, so I’m happy to end the call with an implacable cheeriness that shifts the blame over to the company rule book.

Even his parting words stay in character, though. “Make sure you come to the patient meeting next week!” he says, exactly as if he’s reminding me to add something to my day planner.

Of course, I say. I can tell that I’m going to need support and lots of training in these new bionic implants.

*****

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