Who likes going to the dentist? Not me, that’s for sure! Little did I know that a simple visit for a teeth cleaning could be so special. My appointment had been scheduled for quite some time, and I had been assured that it was simply a routine visit and the dental hygienist would take proper care of me, and the thorough cleaning wouldn’t take more than an hour.
On the day of my appointment, I went to the dentist’s office. It was owned by a female dentist and her daughter and it was a tiny practice that I had been visiting once a year since I was very young. I heard that the dentist’s daughter was studying to become a dentist herself; in the meantime, she worked with her mother as a hygienist, performing cleanings and preparing the treatment room for her. I knew Veronique; she was about my age, and I saw her often when I went to see her mother for dental appointments. We had also gone to school together since primary school, but we never really became friends. As I recall, she was somewhat reserved and shy, spending most of her time reading alone during recess.
I also remember her being chubby when she was young—and not particularly pretty, with her round glasses and round little-girl face. Even in high school, she didn’t look any better and was a target for teasing; I felt a bit sorry for her and thought it was a shame she was mocked, especially since she was top of the class in every subject except sports. Then, after high school, she most likely went to study elsewhere, and I no longer saw her at her mother’s office during my annual appointments. Until now.
I was sitting in the waiting room, waiting for my turn; I was idly flipping through a magazine to pass the time when a soft, quiet voice called my name. I set the magazine down on the small table, stood up, and looked up to see who had called me. A stunning young woman with a radiant smile and sparkling blue eyes was looking at me patiently, saying, “This way, please.” She wore a white, button-front dentist’s tunic with elbow-length sleeves, a short white skirt, opaque white thigh-high nylons, and high-heeled shoes that matched the rest of her outfit. Her lips were a vivid red, and her eye makeup gave her a mischievous look.
As she walked me to the room, she added, “I’m Veronique, and I’ll be the one performing your cleaning. Please follow me.” Veronique? But how had this dazzling girl changed so much in just a few years—going from not particularly pretty to incredibly attractive and slim? She showed me into the room and said, “Have a seat in the chair; I’ll be with you in just a couple of minutes, while I get everything ready.” As she was getting things ready, I ventured to strike up a conversation. “You’ve changed a lot in a few years!” She smiled but said nothing, continuing to prepare as she arranged instruments on a small trolley. She came toward me with her instruments, sat down on a small stool on wheels, and asked, “Are you sitting comfortably?” I answered in the affirmative. She took a procedure mask, carefully placed it over her mouth and nose, and very gently put on a pair of dark blue nitrile gloves. I found her really sexy and very alluring!
Finally, she said, “We’re going to start. Open your mouth.” She examined my teeth and said, “It won’t take too long; you have practically no tartar. You seem to use dental floss—that’s good!” Then, she began the cleaning process and started to speak. “I remember you from elementary and high school.” She paused briefly as she switched instruments, then continued: “I don’t know if you remember me, but I didn’t have many friends; I was unattractive and a bit overweight, and everyone made fun of me. You were one of the few who didn’t really mock me, and sometimes you would talk to me. I liked it when someone spoke to me without judging or ridiculing me.”
I could do nothing but nod and make sounds, since she was working on my mouth and I couldn’t really speak. She kept talking while she went about her work: “You probably don’t know this, but I’ve always had a soft spot for you; I was attracted to you, but I was far too shy to come and talk to you—let alone admit my feelings!” She started giggling like a little girl, and her eyes narrowed into a slightly mischievous look. I could sense a radiant smile beneath her mask, and honestly, she was making me sweat! And she kept talking without pausing for a single second. “Back then, I dreamed of Prince Charming; I wanted a boyfriend, but I knew all too well that it would be practically impossible. I wasn’t growing up fast enough, and I kept my chubby, girlish figure even after high school. I threw myself into my studies in another city—far from the small hometown where I’d been the chubby little nerd with glasses whom everyone made fun of.”
I didn’t know what to make of what she was telling me, or why she was sharing all that. After all, we had lost touch for a few years, and even though we’d spoken a few times in high school, she wasn’t really one of my friends! She moved closer to me, and I could smell her delightful perfume—she was that close. Then she asked, “What about you? Do you have a girlfriend?” I shook my head to say no; she paused to look at me for a brief moment. Her eyes widened and began to sparkle. Leaning against me to better reach the back of my mouth to clean it, she said, “You know, I thought about you all through high school. I have to admit, once I became a teenager, I had these strange feelings—and they were uncontrollable.” Then, she fell silent.
It was summer, and I was wearing shorts and a T-shirt. The shorts were quite short, leaving my thighs exposed. As she switched instruments, she placed a hand on one of my thighs and gave it a subtle caress. The feel of her gloved hand against my skin sent shivers down my spine, and she noticed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you!” she said. She moved closer, straddling the thigh she had just caressed, and leaned over me to continue her work. I could feel her chest pressed firmly against me through my T-shirt, and then I felt warmth and moisture on my knee. She shifted slightly in her seat and moved closer, until I could feel the heat and dampness again—but this time, right against my thigh. There was no doubt about it: she wasn’t wearing any panties, and she was rubbing her wet pussy against my thigh! She pressed a knee against my crotch; I felt my cock swell, and she noticed it.
She smiled beneath her mask and whispered in my ear: “I discovered the pleasures of masturbation when I was a teenager. And once I discovered those pleasures, I couldn’t do without them. My urges had become uncontrollable. Back then, I had my best orgasms while thinking about you and what you were doing to me in my fantasies.” She pulled back slightly, then said, “The cleanup is finished, but there are still two or three little things left to do.” She set down her instrument, turned toward me, took both my arms, and positioned them parallel to each other on the chair’s armrests. She grabbed the straps and secured my wrists so I couldn’t move. Then, before I could say a word, she picked up a mouth spreader, told me to open wide, and fitted it in place. She forced my jaws so far apart that I couldn’t make anything but ridiculous sounds. Even if I screamed, it would just sound like someone in pain having a tooth pulled.
She got up from the stool, went to a cupboard at the back of the room, opened a door, took something, and came back toward me. She took off her blue gloves, tossed them aside, and I saw what she had retrieved from the cabinet: a pair of long purple nitrile gloves. She pulled them on in front of me with agility, patience, and sensuality, and that was when I saw their length; they reached all the way up to her elbows and fit very snugly. Then she said, “I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long! You know, I never stopped thinking about you and when I saw you in the waiting room, I got wet just thinking back to those wonderful moments of masturbation and the orgasms I had while thinking of you. So, before coming to get you, I took off my panties and quickly hatched a plan in my head.”
Staring intently at me, she put a finger in her mouth and sucked on it languidly, saying, “You know, looking back, being rejected when I was young actually turned out to be a blessing. Not having a boyfriend—or even a girlfriend—helped me grow and discover beautiful things buried deep within me, like these gloves I’m wearing right now. If I hadn’t tried masturbating with surgical gloves stolen from that dentist’s office, I never would have discovered the magnificent pleasures that led to such powerful orgasms.” She stepped toward me and took hold of my head, placing her thumb and index finger on my cheeks and squeezing hard enough that I felt the retractor causing pain in my jaw. She looked me straight in the eyes and said, “I’m going to show you what it’s like to suffer in silence while being aroused and full of desire.”
She settled back onto her small rolling stool and began slowly unbuttoning her blouse. She slipped her hands inside to caress her breasts, then bared them and pinched her nipples hard, letting out a soft cry of pain. She lifted her skirt to show me her beautiful, soaking-wet pussy and lowered a hand to stroke her clitoris. She thrust three fingers of her other hand deep into her mouth while playing even more intensely with her clitoris, which was swollen with desire. Then, she penetrated her pussy with three already-wet fingers. She didn’t hold back; she thrust her fingers in and out with increasing force and speed, all while keeping those same three fingers in her mouth and trying to push them even deeper. She screamed inwardly, stifling the sounds of her pleasure.
Suddenly, she arched her back and let out a hoarse, stifled cry. At the same moment, a jet of incredible intensity spurted from her pussy, followed by a second and a third, splashing onto the floor in a large puddle. Her thighs were dripping, and her pussy was completely soaked. She pulled her fingers out of her pussy and her mouth, stood up, and approached me, still dripping with pleasure. She thrust those three fingers—slick with her juices—into my mouth, which was held open by the spreader, and said in a tone that was honeyed yet cutting: “Now you know what it feels like. I’d dreamed of you and fantasized about you for so long that I hadn’t realized I was hurting myself all that time—and that, ultimately, I don’t like men. I wanted to make one suffer, taking wild pleasure in doing it and climaxing while watching him rendered helpless by his own desire. You were the one it happened to, and it felt so damn good!”
She removed the spreader and undid my restraints, and without further ceremony, she invited me to leave the room and see the receptionist to pay for the cleanup. Veronique felt satisfied, still glistening from the afterglow of her latest solo pleasure—just like when she was younger. She busied herself with cleaning up and moved on. In truth, she had never really cared for men. She didn’t think she was into women, either. Only her solo pleasure mattered, and she found fulfillment in it every single time. Veronique had discovered she was autosexual and had committed to herself by becoming sologamous. Come to think of it, the mere act of looking at herself in the mirror made her wet with desire. She loved making love to herself while wearing gloves; it was the only way she could achieve powerful orgasms. She will remain autosexual for good and live at peace with her orientation.