Melanie Anderson had been taken to hospital with blood poisoning. It took a while to establish the cause.

Peter Persimmon arrived at the entrance to the school, and announced his presence to the receptionist. She asked him to wait. Miss Blantaire appeared a minute later, took a sharp intake of breath, shrugged and ushered him into her office.

“Good Morning, Doctor Persimmon. I wonder, where is Dr Haines? She usually deals with the girls’ problems.”

Peter explained that Dr Haines was on holiday, in Greece. He forbore to say that she was on a Club-Libra holiday; the lesbian holiday company that had managed to create a slightly more restrained, but similarly sex-orientated, vacation experience for ‘women who prefer women’ to Club 18-30. One other difference was that Club-Libra was not ageist. At that precise moment, the fifty five year old (though looking ten years younger) Patricia Haines was oiling the back of a twenty five year old with whom she had spent a very active night. One of the benefits of sleeping with a doctor was that they knew exactly where every part of the anatomy was; and Patricia had managed to entice fully eight orgasms from the tired younger woman with massages, inside and out, vaginal and anal, digital and oscular. Going to bed with Patricia was an erotic journey of delights that few lesbian lovers ever forgot. That she emulated many a male lothario with her love-em and leave-em attitude meant that her particular skills were spread around a wider group than would be the case with a more faithful partner. She insisted on getting reciprocation, of course; she loved having fingers inserted in her lower orifices at the same time, whilst a tongue explored her mouth. She wasn’t averse to reversing that position either; and the girl she had been with last night had only been persuaded to provide the anal rimming, whilst her previously anal-exploring finger was now sucked by the older woman, because of the explosive climax she had just received, and the promise of more to come.

All of the above is entirely incidental to this story, but it does explain why Dr Haines was willing; keen, in fact, to provide the medical care for the girls at the private school on the outskirts of the town. It also raises a question as to whether Miss Blantaire (who had similar preferences to Dr Haines, but was much, much, more discreet) was right to prefer a woman doctor to the male who had appeared. Not that Patricia Haines ever took advantage of her patients, she was too professional for that (as was Miss Blantaire), but the occasional breast examination, or period problems, provided ample opportunities for legitimate intimate examinations that she might re-enact in her mind, when alone in her bed later. Miss Blantaire enjoyed watching the ‘gals’ playing hockey or netball in their short, bouncy, skirts; an innocent enough pleasure if you discounted the alternate activity running through her brain.

So, sitting in her office, she had a young, painfully young, male doctor. Peter was young enough to have found the need to carry his certificate with him, to prove he was qualified. The last time proof had been required was with old Mrs Grumble – Mrs Gamble was her real name, but the doctors all called her Mrs Grumble. “How are you today?” “Oh, mustn’t grumble” she would answer, and then proceed to do precisely that. He had seen her because Dr Keen had been called out urgently, so he had gone to Mrs Gamble’s house and had to show her his certificate before she would let him treat her piles. The fact that she had constant indigestive gas did not help. He was a professional in his treatment of her and of her son. Ronald Gamble was eighteen stone, of a similar unpleasant nature to his mother, and lived alone. He had not seen his mother in three months. “We don’t live in each other’s pockets.” “No, Ron, but you do live in the same street! She could do with some help.” He had flatulence too, but he also had ‘needs’ and that was how his cock got wedged in the pipe of the vacuum cleaner. But Peter helped lubricate it out, treated the abrasions, and never once laughed ... until he got back to his car. He promised to be, and was, the soul of discretion and never mentioned it, even anonymously, at the Friday evening ‘stupid patient stories’ session in The Bull.

So he wasn’t a bad choice for replacement for Dr Haines. Perhaps one of the other doctors would have volunteered if they had known what was coming, but they just assumed it was another case of a girl with a cracked toenail, or Barbara Dixon’s (the art teacher) alcohol dependency again. Peter was designated ‘junior doctor for all the crap’, so he was sent.

“What seems to be the trouble?” Dr Persimmon asked, having, for the second time that week, shown his certificate (‘perhaps I should grow a beard’ he thought).

“Well doctor,” Miss Blantaire started, “it is a little delicate.” She explained that Melanie Anderson was in hospital with blood poisoning. She explained that the cause was an unsanitary body piercing. Piercings were not allowed, no jewellery was. Several of the girls realised that jewellery and piercings could only be actively banned when they were visible. Belly button piercings had come first; the school had turned a blind eye to that small usurpation of the rules. “I blame myself, we should have stamped on it.” ‘that would have been rather rough’ thought Peter, with an inner smile. There then followed nipple rings; and then “A bar between that most intimate of areas. Oh, must I explain?”

“I think it would be wise, to leave nothing misunderstood.”

“Their labia, Dr Persimmon, there has come a fashion to have a small bar put through both labia, connecting them. Or, at least, that was the case with Melanie. She mentioned, in her delirium, that other girls had done the same. I asked the girls concerned to come forward, so they could be checked for sepsis, if that is the correct term? No matter. None came. So I have had to demand all the over-sixteens are checked. Under sixteens are illegal. I mean cannot be legally pierced without parental consent. Of course some silly girls will still do ears, but not, I think, other places.”

“I see, umm, can I ask a question? How did you know about the nipple rings?” He’d just been told that all the girls would have their pubic region checked, and he wanted to know about this? He really was a professional.

“Pure chance, I’m afraid. We give the girls a level of responsibility, which some, sadly, abuse. One was seen constantly rubbing her ... her chest. It transpired that when the nurse was summoned to check, the right nipple was septic. We treated that with TCP and it cleared up wonderfully.”

“Could the nurse not inspect this other area?”

“I hardly think putting TCP on a girl’s intimate region bears thinking about.”

“Haha, no, perhaps not. Well, I had better telephone the surgery.” She raised her eyebrows. “To tell them I will not be available for further calls for some time. How many girls are we talking about?”

“Well, I am talking about thirty three girls in senior school.”

He rang to say he would be delayed, explaining, in the broadest terms, the need to examine thirty three girls. “Do you need a second doctor to help?” Asked a helpful receptionist at the clinic.

“Oh, no, but I won’t be available for other call-outs today, I think.”

Miss Blantaire, who was standing nearby, mumbled under her breath “Calls-out, surely.” but she was tactful enough not to say anything. Louder she said. “I have arranged for the nurse to be present, I hope you understand the necessity.”

“Oh, ah, yes, absolutely.” He hadn’t actually thought about it, but had no problem with the notion; it made sense that the school would wish to protect itself; and he should have thought about protecting himself too.

The senior school was called to the hall for an ‘unusual meeting’ - the term used for emergency assemblies in Davidna Crockett School. “Girls.” said Miss Blantaire “As you know, I asked for volunteers to own up on their honour to having had the disgusting piercing that we know has caused Miss Anderson such distress. None came forward. As I explained to you, last week, I therefore have no option but to ask a medical person to examine each and every one of you to ascertain that you are not, similarly, likely to succumb to the malaise that has afflicted Melanie.

Nurse and I concur that the likelihood of early blood poisoning may be hard to diagnose, and a doctor should be asked to help in this matter.

Doctor Blaine is unavailable this week, so, may I introduce Dr Persimmon?” There was a satisfactory sharp intake of breath from the girls as they realised that the young man, surely not much older than they were, would be examining their most intimate regions. Miss Blantaire smiled inwardly. She had thought of postponing the examination until Dr Blaine returned, she had thought of requesting a female doctor, or even just an older, male. But had dismissed these with the thought that ‘they had brought it on themselves’. Anyway, she was partly convinced that Miss Blaine enjoyed fondling the girls, for all that she was professional in her approach. She knew the nurse did. It took one to know one, as she said to herself. Also, an older man might get a thrill too, so why not him? She recognised that some might, theoretically, get pleasure from being felt by this rather good looking doctor; but since she had no concept of why a man should be pleasurable to a woman, she did not find herself persuaded to avoid on that score. “We shall call you in eleven batches of three to attend sick bay.” She had thought five a better number, but her mathematical mind rebelled at 6 groups of five with three left over, so eleven groups of three it was.

Miss Blantaire was very good at maths; in fact, she had started a PhD until an unfortunate liaison with one of the cleaning women in St Johns had misdirected her. The kindly bursar had suggested a teacher training course, but maths was still her first love, and maths pupils her favourites. She was a good organiser and leader; but a little unworldly, else she would have realised the turmoil she had just caused in the young ladies’ breasts. “Dismissed then. Off you go gals.” she said gaily, and wished, for the nineteenth time, that she could think of a cast iron reason to be present at the examinations. She knew she really could not; the nurse would preserve propriety, the doctor was a qualified man who had the perfect ‘right’ to delve into women’s bodies. There was no good reason for a senior member of staff to be present as well. Unless ... unless the nurse was called away for some reason; but any reason she could think of – a broken arm or a nosebleed or some such minor emergency – would naturally suggest asking the doctor to look too, since he was present. She sighed as she walked back to her office, and spent the day imagining the girls naked in the sick room.

The girls had been allowed half an hour to group themselves into threes. It was a small concession to the notion that senior girls were sensible, practical and nearly ready to face the world outside; a notion contradicted by the fact that several had had labial and nipple piercings performed, and at least two had gone septic.

“Ah, Mr ... I mean Dr Persimmon; one point, could you check their upper body for piercings as well? As I may have mentioned, there was a girl recently who had a, umm, nipple piercing, which, umm, was septic and red.” More red than would be normal, Miss Blantaire wanted to say, but that would seem to suggest that she knew how red a sixteen year old nipple should be.

“Yes, certainly. I should say that I will not be reporting who has or has not had such piercings. My role is a medical one. It is, of course, up to Nurse Ratchett to decide whether she reports on who has broken school rules or not.” he replied.

“Yes, yes, understood.” she envied his ability to treat this as a purely medical problem. She knew she would not be able to. She suspected that Nurse Nicola Ratchett would not be able to, either.

The first three girls, all eighteen, waited outside the sick room. In accordance with some sense of responsibility and honour, the head girl and two deputy head girls had decided that they should be first. They weren’t sure how this would work. “Come in, come in.” said Dr Persimmon, attempting something between setting their minds at rest with joviality, and acting in a bland professional way. The three trooped in, were they to be treated together? This would aid a sense of camaraderie, but would also expose themselves to each other in an unpleasant manner.

“So, very good. I understand you have opted to go first in the spirit of leadership? Very commendable, though it isn’t my place to say that.” said Dr Persimmon, still trying to maintain professional detachment. “Nurse Nicola will show you what to do.” This was his first mistake, using her first name reduced the distance between doctor and patient. Nicola Ratchett smiled and showed the girls the three areas, separated by screens.

“This first screen is for each of you to undress. Please, if you have piercings, do not attempt to remove them now. The doctor will still see the holes, I mean the holes of the piercings.” Of course, the girls thought, what other holes could she mean? Then it dawned on them. “There is no need to hide the actual decoration now, and you may damage yourself if you rush.

Undress to your underclothes, then take yourself and your clothes into the next area, which is where Dr Persimmon and I will be.

The last area is for dressing, of course.”

Head Girl, Veronica Mingle-Martin looked at the other two, and moved behind the screen to remove her Airtex top, pleated skirt, stockings (the school offered the option of knee length white socks, all the girls over fifteen opted for stockings, usually hold-ups these days, though one or two enjoyed the salacious feeling of clips holding their black silk stockings up) and shoes. Carefully folding her clothes, she edged out into the narrow gap between the first two sets of screens. The two girls watched; this would be them soon. One of them was realising that she might be the only girl still wearing school approved knickers. “Come in, come in. Monica? Sorry, Veronica. Can I call you Veronica rather than Miss Mingle-Martin, or maybe you prefer Ms? Well, put your clothes there, on the chair. Yes, no need for you to sit down.

As you can see, we have an examination couch, but you can stand, if you prefer. Could you remove your brassiere first please?”

Veronica took off her bra; she didn’t like to think about this, but it was the first time she had taken her bra off for a man. Her boyfriend just, kind of, fumbled up under her bra cups to squeeze her breasts, not very pleasantly; or, once, up her back in an attempt to unclip it. He had failed completely and she had been so annoyed at his pathetic attempts to get her naked that she hadn’t helped at all. She had still let him pull her pants down, she liked that bit. Now she was taking her bra off for this really rather handsome doctor. She might find herself fantasizing about him being overcome with lust for her at seeing her delicious large fun bags. She winced. “Sorry, are my hands cold?” said Dr Persimmon.

“No, I was just thinking what my boyfriend called them, I...” she tailed off, why tell him?

“Do you feel your breasts for lumps regularly? I see you have no piercings, which is good.”

“I don’t usually, and no, no piercings. Horrible idea.”

“Let me show you how, give me your hand.” He led her hand across her breast, pressing with sufficient firmness for her to feel the underlying tissue. “You need to do this once a month, it’s important. Any lumps, go to your GP, or come to the nurse. Nicola, why isn’t this taught to the girls? In the absence of their mother, it is important.”

“Ha! My mother would never show me this; she’d rather eat cat sick!”

“urrgh!”

“Sorry, it’s a saying in our family, it means -”

“Yes! I get the meaning, very clear. Nicola?”

The nurse looked down at her feet. “We don’t have any Personal Hygiene lessons, I did suggest we should, but Mrs Dragonet – the deputy head – said it was a disgusting idea to teach unmarried girls about sex and periods and things like what you are doing now. I knew she was wrong, but there was nothing I could do.”

“I understand. I’ll have a word with Miss Blantaire. So, understand how to do it? You try on your own now.”

From beyond the partition, a girl’s voice piped up. “Will you show us too, please?” and the other girl echoed the “Please.”

“Of course, it would be easier with all three together, we’ll have another look at the end. Now, Miss ... I mean Veronica, perhaps you’d like to stop stroking your breasts? I’m sure it is nice, but that lightly is more for pleasure than practicality. And it’s time to check the other place. I can see there are no belly button holes, how about down below?”

“I feel embarrassed to take them off. If you won’t trust me that I have no piercings, would you pull them down and look yourself?” the girl replied. He could almost hear the breath holding beyond the partition. Truth was, he had forgotten the other girls as he had talked to Veronica, he might have suggested one at a time if he had known that breast examination and training was involved.

“No, I don’t think so. Nurse? Would you?” Nicola couldn’t believe her luck, she had dreamt, literally, of undressing several of these girls. She swallowed hard, and pulled the girl’s pants down to her ankles. Which might not have been strictly necessary to check for a pierced genital, but it gave her quite a thrill to feel her hands on the girls flanks. If she had had a penis, it would be rock solid by now; as Peter Persimmon’s was. He knew this was a risk. He was seated at crotch height, looking directly into a slim brunette’s neatly trimmed pubic zone. He had just finished showing her how to feel her breasts, with practical demonstration. All the actions were, professionally, entirely justified, but he was a man, a heterosexual man, with a girl friend away for a week visiting family. He had avoided porn on his computer, he had even avoided watching The Graduate on TV. In common parlance he was ready to blow; he just needed the trigger, and a naked, beautiful girl, with thirty two more on a promise to similarly show him their all, was more than enough to make his trousers tent alarmingly.

Both the women looked down and realised exactly what they were looking at. Nicola Ratchett thought ‘Oh that is so disgusting! His big hairy cock and balls just under that thin covering of cloth; why do women tolerate it?’ Veronica Mingle-Martin, beautiful, cerebral, Oxbridge certainty, thought ‘Oh that is amazing! His big hairy cock and balls just waiting to pound me. If only Nurse Ratchett wasn’t here.’ She thought this, but she knew it wasn’t true, she was too discerning for that. She wasn’t some easy lay, except where her boyfriend was concerned; somehow she could never quite say no to his pawing, clumsy, technique. Still, she enjoyed the sense of being assessed by this man; and the reaction she had caused in him. As promised, she had no vaginal jewellery; he opened her gently to ensure there was nothing inside, and no sign of any problems. Since she was naked in front of him, he reasoned that he might as well make a cursory assessment of her. There was no discharge, no warts, no lesions. Despite his extremely poor sexual technique, or because of it, her boyfriend was faithful, so she had never had to get checked out for STDs. She was invited to pull up her pants and wait in the next area. The nurse moved three chairs in to the area, guessing that this would be a likely scenario for the next three, and the next, and the next.

Mandy Macaroni was next; MM, as she was universally known. Possibly better than if she had been christened Isobel Amanda, as her grandmother had suggested. The great IAM, she would have been. She had undressed a while ago, the idea being to have one undressing, one dressing, and one being assessed, as the nurse had explained. It wasn’t working like that. MM came in with a little shiver. “Cold? Yes, perhaps we could turn that blower fire on?” said Peter, he was becoming more and more their friend, and less and less their disinterested doctor.

She peeled off her bra, but it was actually unnecessary; the nipple rings were quite visible through the material. Still, Peter stood and gently lifted each nipple to assess any reddening. There appeared to be none; if his erection had started to lessen at all, it quickly hardened again as he felt her nipples between his fingers. “Aren’t you worried that if you breast feed, the milk will leak out sideways?”

“I’m not letting some little squealer suck on me, thank you. I had a bottle, and so will any child of mine.” The doctor in him bemoaned the way the natural function of the breasts, as milk machines for a young human, had been subverted to fashion. Unfortunately, that made him think of this eighteen year old being full of milk and him pulling on her tits to squirt milk into his mouth. Oddly, Nurse Ratchett was thinking very similar thoughts.

The nurse brought them back to the present. “I will have to report them, you know that? Unless, of course, you left here without any nipple rings?” She looked at the girl, and smiled benignly on the outside, and leeringly on the inside, when Mandy nodded her agreement to the nurse manhandling her breasts and removing the rings, everso gently. Peter would have loved to have helped, but that would potentially overstep the mark, so he allowed himself to watch the show as the young nurse put her head perilously close to the breast to see how to remove the metal. A centimetre more and she could have that naked nipple lovingly in her mouth; but she resisted. There was plenty yet to come, she was sure.

Then the nearly indiscrete panties were pulled down. The small amount of lace fabric at the front barely concealed the strong red slit at the apex of her legs, and the tiny triangle at the back certainly lost the fight to cover her perfectly rounded bottom. She had taken exercises last summer to achieve this arse, and kept the exercises up so she would be beach ready, even at Easter, if the opportunity arose. Nicola engineered to remove these pants from the back, and for two pins she would have prized those lovely solid hemispheres apart to see the rear end in more detail. There was no metal in Mandy’s vaginal entrance either. She had been psyching herself up to have it done, but she still had a way to go to expose her delicate flaps of skin and allow what she thought was probably a stapler to decorate them. She had been thinking of a ring on both sides, rather than a bar between them. She was glad that she had hesitated. Once more, there was nothing untoward to see.

Terry knew that she would be found out. She would have been a walking scrapyard if she could have her way – and would do so when she left. She had pierced ears, which she kept open by wearing studs all night in bed, and she had two nipple rings (one vertical, one horizontal) on each; her belly button sported a large ring of some brassy metal (“they said it was gold plated”) which was turning green, and her vaginal opening had a small chain across it. It was meant to symbolise ‘no entry’; but it simply got wet with wee every time she went for a piss, and so she had to keep washing to stay uninfected. She had done a good job of staving off some infection or other, but it was probably only a matter of time. She turned down the opportunity not to be reported if she removed all the ironmongery, rationalising that she would get caught at some point anyway. That was up to the nurse.

Theresa McCabe was from a good Catholic family and had been to a good Catholic school, until she accused the priest of looking up her skirt. The priest was defrocked a year later when he was found in bed with a pupil by the housekeeper. But Terry was regarded as a troublemaker and wasn’t invited back. She was still rebelling.

The genitals looked rather red, but perhaps not inflamed. Doctor Persimmon produced a tube of salve and advised her to put some on every night; she looked nonplussed and so he squeezed some on two fingers and applied it for her; resulting in her knees buckling at the feeling. She happily used the ointment every night, after that. It was partly a barrier cream, and partly antiseptic, and wholly erotic to be ordered by the doctor to masturbate every night. It was also an excellent excuse. She did however stop wearing the chain – Nurse Ratchett checked a week later and used that as an excuse to perform some intimate fingering ‘to be sure all was right inside’.

She moved into the ‘dressing area’ and the three girls looked at Dr Persimmon; they were starting to think he might be more fun that Dr Blaine, even if a little more embarrassing. Nurse Ratchett stood at the back. Peter Persimmon thought of asking the nurse to act as a model for the demonstration, but something in his head said ‘no’, she wouldn’t be keen. Should he ask her to demonstrate to the girls? Again, this thing in his head saying ‘no’. So he needed to do it, even with his prick being hard as a rock. He had adjusted himself, so at least it wasn’t pointing out in an obvious manner. It made sense to show each girl with her own hands, and so he held each girl’s right hand and encouraged her to massage her breast, looking for lumps. He avoided, as far as possible, touching their mammaries, but couldn’t help noticing in fact, what he knew in theory; that girl’s breasts were all different sizes and shapes, and even differed left to right on the same girl. His brain screamed that his mouth longed to suck them, but his brain also told him he’d be struck off, so he stayed calm on the outside; calm and professional, and sensible. Finally, he encouraged them to practice on each other too, so they could check each other if necessary. Was that strictly required? Was Nicola breathing heavier? He knew he was. “Time’s up! Get dressed. I’ve got lots more girls to look at. Nicola, I wonder if I might have a cup of coffee?” he needed a drink; really, he was sure he needed some brandy, but a cup of strong coffee would have to do.

“So, how do you think that went? Okay?” he asked the nurse, suddenly losing confidence that his approach was the right one.

“I think it went well Dr Persimmon.”

“Peter, please.”

“Peter. Yes, I think it was good. I’m glad you got them checking their boo- their breasts. I’ve been wanting to get that on the curriculum. That and other things like safe sex. Boys have it easy, no offence; but it’s still the girl who pays the price for a one night stand in the pub car park.”

“Surely these girls aren’t like that? Aren’t they all on the pill?”

“Half of these girls are still virgins! You’ll realise as we get through the others; some are very innocent; innocent and protected in cotton wool at home. And I think we just maintain that. That’s why the school doesn’t rock the boat, I think. They don’t want girls writing home that they’ve just learnt about sex. No, I mean, they know about sex; but what about girls who prefer girls? What about understanding the wider aspects of sex – you know what they might want to allow and what they might not? What about the problem’s of freer sex, STIs and the like?”

“Isn’t this the perfect environment to experiment with that? Lesbian exploration, I mean, not the other things you mentioned.”

“Yes! But they have to do that. Experiment, I mean. They should have some ideas on what may be okay.

But first things first; at least you can use your professional status to make sure they know how to check themselves.” then she added quietly “Even if you need a dose of bromine.”

He reddened, “You noticed? Sorry, perhaps someone else would be better.”

“I can’t say I blame you, they were very pretty, weren’t they? Dr Blaine liked treating them too, if you catch my meaning.” He did, they nodded to each other. Least said, the better.

The next group were a bunch of giggly sixteen year olds. Everything was a cause of laughter. Some of this was to hide their concern at exposing their developing bodies; small breasts and narrow hips suited their slimness and still girlish faces. Soon they would not need to wear padded bras to emphasise their busts; soon their swaying walk would cause male eyes to follow them; but at the moment they were still nearly girls rather than almost women. Still, they followed fashion, both national and local. And the local fashion was for bucking the rules with illegal piercings. When told of the added rule, they looked surprised. They would learn to stroke their breasts? Why would the look for lumps in their tits? One asked.

“Well, you can’t start too early, and your, err, tits, will get bigger and more squishy. You need to start the habit of checking them regularly.

But, first we look for infection around the ironmongery you girls seem to think is sexy for no apparent reason.”

The first girl was led to the disrobing screens, and soon after walked into the examination booth in her pants. She had her hands over her boobs, she had finally decided that it was not something to laugh at, exposing yourself to a man; even if he was a doctor.

“Oh, please!” Nurse Ratchett said, brusquely, “You can’t tell me this is the first time those pimples have been out in public.” Which seemed rude and demeaning, but she figured that Andrea Whittam-Smith deserved a bit of taking down; she could be spitefully rude when it suited her, which was most of the time to girls who weren’t as slim as she was. “Hands down, come on, Dr Persimmon has seen pre-pubescent jugs before.” He stifled a smile, she really could be very cutting. Andrea removed her hands, and showed two nipples with white gold anchors attached.