Sexually Abused by a Doctor – My Story (Part 6)

Sexually Abused by a Doctor – My Story (Part 6)


Hi, CSAS here. Well, I finally got to
this point. I’ve set the scene, so to speak, with the previous five videos. If
you have not heard those videos, I strongly urge you to select the playlist
in the description below or click on the tiny button with the “i” which is in the
top right of your computer monitor’s screen. Just moments ago I checked my old
school reports. The only way I can accurately date this. We are talking
about events over 40 years ago. Worse, I can’t even name one specific date or
give the graphic details of one horrible event. Simply because there were so many
events, tens of them, that memories have merged together and generalities, as they
apply across multiple doctor’s visits, are mostly what remains. There are some
fleeting and very specific moments I can recall so all is not lost to the ravages
of time. And the fact that the visits followed the same pattern does help
somewhat. This video represents my best shot to date of remembering and
recording what happened. Heck, a few years ago I tried to report my sexual abuse to
the police. I winged it totally. At least the record of my police statement should
record that I stated I could “look up” my old school reports as that would help
but sadly I suspect I might contradict that report a bit here. Primarily to do
with the date range. I recall stating the abuse happened when
I was in year 9 “approximately”. Close, but no cigar. This time around I know I am
spot on. I recall my science teacher at the time, Lynne Christensen. We had a
school excursion to the Port Kembla steelworks and an assignment had to be
handed in to her. Problem was, I made the excursion but the assignment was unable
to be completed on time dude my contracting pneumonia. I recall
trying to complete some of it from my hospital bed. I looked at my old school
report. I was in year seven at the time. Not year nine. I would have been 12
turning 13 soon, in 1974. I was hospitalized at the St. George Hospital
that year. I’d been diagnosed with pneumonia and had already been sick at
home for some time. Being fairly new to the Kogarah area, and the old family doctor
having been located far away at Oyster Bay, mum had fairly randomly taken me to
a doctor at the bottom of Bay’s Street, Brighton-Le-Sands. A second visit, after
test results had returned, confirmed I should be rushed to St. George Hospital.
I hated my time there in the Children’s annex. tThe only good food was this pea
soup and a French onion style soup. Everything else was inedible. This
matronly lady would come around some mornings and I was required to strip off
and be bathed by her in the nearby shower room. God it was creepy. Each time
I scurried to the room, locked myself in and showered myself, thank you very much.
I could not stand the thought of her touching me or even seeing me. I would
surely get an erection and I would just die from embarrassment. She’d be so angry
with me for already having showered. I was the oldest boy there too. Call it my
spidey-sense but she creeped me out! All told, the time off school, then hospital
stay, and then the convalescence was about six weeks. Upon return to school, I
was soon hospitalised with pneumonia again. You can imagine that my mother was
really worried. A memory is my walking in the street towards the wooden Children’s
Annex in Belgrave Street wearing my old Kogarah Primary School jumper. It would
have still fit me in 1974. Anyhow, this doctor was visiting patients in the
pediatric ward. He asked me if it was okay if students could join in. I said
“sure”. He proceeded with the typical laying on of hands tapping me here and
there. Interestingly, he lifted up the elastic of my pyjama pants to have a
peek “down there”. He asked in front of the students
if he could have a look “there”. I mumbled an “okay”. He lifted up my undies elastic
and had a peek. He smiled and that was the end of that. The students did not
react. I was frightened. What use was that for his diagnosis? I was already afraid
that he was one of those men who liked to play with boys. On another visit my
mother was there when he passed through and was checking the clipboards at the
foot of the beds. Whether before or after the previously-mentioned visit I do not
recall. The upshot was that my mother was impressed with his thoroughness and
interest in me and she ensured that after I was discharged I would visit the
doctor again at the hospital’s outpatients clinic. I’d be pulled out of
school for the afternoon and we’d attend the clinic at the hospital. When
my turn came I’d be ushered from the communal waiting area into a small booth
with my mother. The doctor would appear, and after talking to my mother, he would
invite her to sit in the waiting area. The doctor asked me to strip down to my
undies and lay on the bed. He would tap my upper torso each time while I sat on
the bed. I’d then lay down and he’d press my abdomen then my lower abdomen. It is
from here that things escalated, but slowly. He’d always asked if it was okay if
he lifted the elastic of my undies. I suppose that counts as informed consent.
I always managed to mumble a yes or give a nod. Never once was I enthusiastically
saying “yeah”. I was always fearful. Every single time. I instinctively knew that
something was wrong. Between visits this escalated from a a long look to a finger
poke to lifting up my penis to flexing it a bit. He always had this flushed
smile. It was so sick, it was creepy. One day he asked me to slide my undies down
a little. I did, just a little. No “more!” I was told. His behaviour already made me
feel uncomfortable. Eventually I learned the very precise amount I should
lower my undies. Any less and he’d momentarily get annoyed, although the
flushed, sickly smile would soon return. What had began ‘as lifting up my undies
elastic and having a bit of a poke and pull, eventually progressed with my flaccid
dick being in his hands getting stretched and twisted for some time. A
defining characteristic was the gracefulness of his hands. He was so soft
and gentle. He had such a feminine touch. I need to describe the room. The public
area was roughly square, a single doorway for entrance and exit. In the centre of
this large room were seats arranged in rows, this was the waiting area. At one
end of the room were desks. Surrounding the central waiting area on two or three
sides were a series of booths with doors. A perimeter corridor stretched behind
the booths against the wall. This provided a means for staff to access the
booths but not via the public area. They pull aside a curtain, rather than a door,
if they wanted to access from the other end of the booth. On several occasions
the doctor was startled while examining me. Another doctor or nurse would for
whatever reason have opened the curtain. On the last such occasion he
appeared annoyed. I recalled the doctor telling me that he had to be “careful” and
that “there’s no privacy here”. As always, when he was done playing with me, I would
be told to put my clothes on and he’d call mum in. This time, having just had a
lady see him with his hand “down there” on me, he asked if he could see me at his
private practice. Mum readily agreed. She was thrilled the doctor was showing
great interest in me. I don’t recall the exact words used except we “won’t be so
rushed”. I did not want to hear that! You see, I was so very very worried I would
get an erection. So the hospital visits became house visits. Mum was already sold
on the doctor and spoke of him glowingly at home. When mum was happy, I was happy. We
had such a really great family life at home,
provided mum was happy. I was told I had to listen to the doctor and that I was
very lucky to have a doctor who was finally interested in me, finally someone
who can “put some weight on” me. I was a really skinny kid back then and had been
sickly including seriously so up until then,
so with a kidney operation in third class and later two successive bouts of
pneumonia I needed building up with lots of high
fat and high protein foods apparently. The doctor had registered himself as
having a twin interest in paediatrics and dietary needs. Perfect for me! His surgery,
which doubled as his house, was right near a golf course. His dear old mum with
her purple frizzy do would handle payments and bookings. She had a little
desk facing the front door. We’d be told wait in the waiting room to her right. To
her left was [sic] frosted glass double doors leading to a private area in the house.
Behind her was the doctor’s room. Once in the room the doctor would discuss my
progress with my mother. This invariably hinged around my weight,
the actual purpose of the visit. The two adults would chat about my weight and
the food I had eaten the past fortnight and there be a suggestion put forward. From
time to time I’d be invited to give a short answer to a question. I’d always
look at my mum first before answering. Didn’t want to get off side with her. The
doctor had become a God in my household, the single authoritative and trusted
source of justification of my eating regime. “Because doctor X says so!” whenever
I rebelled against the food. Mum and I had many battles at home over some of
the not-so-nice things I was made to eat. While talking to my mother the silver
and black haired doctor with a chubby face would lean back and hold his pen
with both hands horizontally in front of his face. He’d rotate the pen somewhat.
That was his habit. My mother would be asked to leave so he could examine me.
I’d be told to strip off to my undies and he’d weigh me. I’d then climb up onto
the examination bed. He’d tap my chest front and back and I’d lay down.
He’d presses his fingers into my abdomen, proceeding lower and lower. This
was the same every time. Over the course of a long time the chat about my diet
seemed to shorten and the examinations lasted longer. He’d ask me to lower my
undies. If I didn’t lower them enough he’d ask me to lower them some more. Yeah,
many times I tested him with that one! Futile in hindsight. Worth noting was
that the optimal level to lower had previously been to my scrotum presumably
so he could quickly pull up the elastic if interrupted at the hospital, as it
happened a few times. Now the undies had to be about three inches lower or more.
It is here where, over time, things escalated. I’m talking about the
examination of my dick. Back at the hospital it had begun with a peak and a
leering smile back at me, then a touch, a longer touch, a gentle tug, a tug and a twist,
a closer inspection with head well forward. Some kneading and extending. His
behaviour already was concerning back at the hospital. I was already very
uncomfortable. I didn’t want one of the nurses to see me and what would I do if
I got hard! I’d die on the spot! At his home now he
continued the thorough examination down below.
It seemed he left no stone unturned. In hindsight I should have vocalised my
concerns. “Why does this part need such a thorough examination, much more than the
sum of all the other parts of my body? Hmm?” And “if you think something is wrong or
you just don’t know, shouldn’t I be referred to a urologist?” I don’t know how
long this went on but one day he asked if I ever “got bigger” I don’t recall the
exact words, nor my reply. It was so long ago. I seem to be able, in a general
way, to recall the events marking an escalation. Now, a couple of memories, not
necessarily in timeline order. On one occasion he asked if I “masturbated?”
Heck, I did not know how to handle that question. Yup! Sure did! I loved it, but I
was embarrassed to say anything, so I said “no”. On another occasion he asked if
I ever woke up with a “milky discharge”. Bloody oath I did. It was so
unpredictable and it made me smelly and sticky, I hated it. But again, I lied and
said “no”. Please understand. I was just a kid in an adult’s world. How could I
handle this? I was all alone. I was confused too. I was certain
something was wrong here but I couldn’t risk making mum angry. The
doctor was godlike at home. After one of these awkward questions, I recall the
doctor telling me he’d do “something more” next time. A fortnight later, the usual
stuff, but on this occasion the doctor reached for a tube with blue markings
above his corner washbasin. He squeezed some clear gel into his right hand. I
don’t recall the exact words but it was to the effect he wanted to see if he could
make me hard. Also he was concerned that my dick functioned normally. I
recall regretting my lies previously. Excuse me doctor are you a urologist? But
I digress. At the time I thought this was medical justification. I blamed myself
for this having escalated so far. I tried to juggle letting him get away with as
little as possible, to keep the peace at home, and now I was in a real pickle. He
asked if it was okay. i meekly nodded yes. That old consent chestnut. I’d made up
my mind that I’d probably get hard but I must not come. It would be so
embarrassing and he would win. That’s right, I knew this was wrong. I felt
unable to tell him to stop, but it was in my power to stop him from winning. I
recall the expression on his face was flushed and smiling. All while his
expert hand kneaded my dick. Hey doctor you’re forgetting to look serious
and professional! The first such lubed session was relatively brief. Yeah, I
eventually got hard no matter how I mentally fought it. The second session
he placed the tube on the bed. It had the markings “KY”. After some
number of visits he added to his routine by tearing off some paper
towel and placing it over my navel. As he fondled me with his distinct style, I
stared at the air vents in the top corner of the room. Each vent was in a
lattice of approximately five by eight. I imagined that it was a mini chessboard. I
focused intently upon doing knight moves over and over again. I fought so hard not
to come. To my credit perhaps, after years of this, I never once came. Heck, there
were some close calls let me tell you! On some occasions he asked me to
lay on my side facing the wall. He’d insert a finger in my anus and
thrust gently, and occasionally poke around. His stated intention was very
clear. The finger was inserted in my anus to help me to come. He did explain the
prostate and that touching it might make me come. Each time he
warned me I’d probably ejaculate. I never did. On these occasions
I could sense his frustration. One thing that would help was in the time
preceding the visit I would masturbate if I was at home. I felt this slowed me
down somewhat for the “second coming”. I had to be very careful though to avoid a
friction burn as any mark would betray that I indeed did masturbate.
I also squeezed all the fluid out and later went to the toilet to ensure all
the evidence of my ejaculation had been cleared. And that dear listeners, is that!
On some occasions I was saved by his mother knocking on the door and
basically giving him a hurry up. Other times he was rushed and the tempo of the
masturbation session reflected that. When I was going to enter year eleven or
twelve, I forget which, I managed to convince my mum that I no longer
wanted to visit the doctor as it was distracting from my studies. She bought
that and so the masturbation sessions ended. From year seven through to year
ten and maybe into year 11. Most fortnights, with an occasional missed
visit for holidays etc. So why didn’t I just stop it? Easy now in
hindsight. But please think. Back then I was a timid boy who had to
keep his mother happy at all costs. The doctor had promised to put weight on
me and make me strong and healthy and my mother seemed captivated by this. And I
was confused too. I was drawn to anything related to sex. I knew that what was
happening was wrong. But I felt drawn to it too. The total number
of masturbation sessions I do not know. There were just
so many. Now, there are 26 fortnights in a year, but let’s allow generous time
off and reduce it to just 15 visits. And over four years that would be 60 times,
conservatively speaking. A few more things The most profound lasting image
of all this is the flushed leering smile of the doctor as he fondled my lubed
dick. The man is sick. Another is the masturbation technique. I want to keep
this clean so all I can really say is that I’m pretty sure most boys
know how to get the job done and most girls can pretty much look
at a lubed dick, look at their hands and immediately work out the most effective
way to get the job done. These days just watch some porn. Very simple education.
Well, the doctor never did that! Everything except get a firm grip and
let it rip. If he had wanted me to come the quickest most efficient way possible
then it was all wrong. Let’s be clear, doesn’t take much to get a teenage boy
off, surely. Instead, there was tons of creative fondling as though he was
artistically building up slowly to a crescendo. Thus I never once came. How’s
that possible for a normal teenage boy? Well as I have said, he got it all wrong.
He built up and built up and it was oh so close, but he failed at the end.
Another point is his hands. Oh so soft. It was like he was
afraid to hurt me. It felt feminine or graceful as his hand
danced around my dick. It was weird! And don’t forget my steely determination
that the sick bastard would not win. He wanted me to come and I wouldn’t. Over
the years my concentration has let me down a lot like when I was playing chess
at the Chess Club as an adult. I’d do well, then a really dumb move. But this
situation I was fighting. The stakes were high. He wanted me to come and I could do
nothing except fight with my mind against it. I steeled myself to focus on
the air vents one knight’s move after another. As my knight danced around the
restricted board that was the air vent grid, I blocked out the good feelings. I
desperately did not want to give him the satisfaction of me coming into his paper
towel. I knew that this was all wrong and this was my way of fighting back without
making my crazy mother angry. And, as he was digitally penetrating me, well all
I’ll say is that his focus seemed to be on slowly thrusting rather than quickly
locating my prostate and massaging the prostate. Thrusting was more important
for him while his free hand masturbated me. He said that it would help me
to come. But he got it all wrong. Not only was he weird, was he incompetent
also? Note that the objective was always to help me to come and not to see if my
prostate had a problem. Another thing was he liked to talk about things such as a
hotel he bought in the city and this rock group he seemed to know, “Hush” it
might have been, and a geography teacher at my school who was one of his patients
and who was my teacher in year 10 and some students from my school too. Heck,
that teacher was unmarried, older than the doctor and liked to address the boys
as “lovely boy”. The teacher mentioned we had a “mutual
friend” one day. I looked puzzled. The teacher said “our doctor friend”. That
creeped me out. The teacher wrote twice on my reports that I was “likable”. Yuck!
My final thought. A lingering doubt. What if the doctor had deliberately prolonged
the masturbation sessions. The smile on his face certainly was that of immense
enjoyment. I guess I’ll never know! And now next time. I’d planned this series up
to this stage. I have more ideas coming, including my attempt to report the
doctor to the police. But something has suddenly come up in my life with regards
to Joko. I strongly suggest you listen to the previous episodes if you do not
know who Joko is. So Joko, my pedophile best friend. And I think he’s
about to be in the news again. I have to be a bit mysterious as I want to avoid
legal problems for the next several days. Thank you very much for listening. This
is CSAS over and out for now and I’ll talk to you again real soon.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *