A grumpy no-nonsense doctor!

"Eek! Sorry." You mumble awkwardly as you come to a clumsy stop just centimetres from touching him. Looking up, you see a man dressed head-to-toe in doctor's scrubs, including surgical cap and mask. Through his spectacles you can see his green eyes narrowing as he looks up and down at you. You can't see his mouth but you imagine it has a frown of disdain on it. And why wouldn't it, considering what an outrageous get-up you've got on.

"And you are?" He demands, his gloved hands flicking through a clipboard as he speaks.

"Wise O- oh, err, Hoot Girl." You say sheepishly. "And you are?"

"Ah yes, Hoot Girl." He takes a pen from a trouser pocket, clicks it open, and makes some marks on the page he has open on his clipboard. "Perfect, you're right on time. I'm your doctor. If you come with me, we can begin your check-up immediately." Without waiting for your approval, he takes one of your hands and begins to lead you outside. The latex glove makes this gesture feel cold and clinical rather than helpful or amicable.

"Doctor? Check-up? Wait, why are we-" You take a deep breath as you step out into the open air at the front of the main League of Propriety building. A single pathway cuts through a large lawn, leading to an even larger tarmacked area where several hundred vehicles could easily park at the same time. Stepping outside whilst wearing your new costume was going to be a big moment for you, a significant moment where you committed to letting the public see you like this. But being half-dragged out by the doctor has meant that instead of a painful moment filled with hesitation, it was instead like ripping off a band-aid - brutal but mercifully quick. And now you're being led down the path and towards the car park, and dozens of League staff and passersby have already seen you outside in this ridiculous state of undress, not giving you time to linger and ruminate on each one. A deliveryman, a policeman, a young couple out for a stroll, a short pale woman who looks like she's going to a funeral, and a man in a trench-coat and wide-brimmed hat who looks like a stereotypical private investigator or spy. If you had dragged your heels down the path at your own pace, you'd have been **** to meet each one's gaze and die of shame all over again. But you're being sped down to the car park so quickly that there's no time to properly pay attention to any of them. You should probably be thanking the doctor for his inadvertent help, but he doesn't seem to be the listening type.

Still, when he begins to lead you towards what's essentially a mid-range RV, you have to cough loudly and challenge him.

"Just where do you think you're taking me?!" You demand of your new doctor.

"Building's fucked, if you hadn't noticed." The doctor grunts. "Over half the departments are using these things for now, until we can get something a little more permanent."

That makes sense. Still, you wrinkle your nose at the idea of being alone with a strange man in his Recreational Vehicle. Fortunately for you, you've never been afraid of speaking your mind, so you don't really care how awkward it makes the atmosphere when you bring up your issue.

"I'm not sure it feels very appropriate for me to be joining you along in this thing, Mr..." You begin, before you are interrupted.

"It's 'Doctor' to you. And don't worry, we're not going to be alone. The League is kind enough to allow our med students to come and observe during routine clinics such as this. Of course, you can opt-out, but I will have to inform the higher-ups if you do. Shall we?" He gestures to the door of the RV. You slump your shoulders, dismayed. You can't afford to piss off the only people who are able to authorise changes to your name and outfit at the moment. It would appear it's time to find out just how much weight you've gained in front of a room full of people your age.

Oh God.

It's even worse than you thought. Six medical students turn to eye you up as you walk in, all dressed up and masked just like their boss, but it's clear from their faces that every single one of them is male. You don't have a single ovary-owning ally in the room. Moreover it's the medical device in the centre of the room that really tightens your chest: that's not a normal hospital bed, that's a gynecologist's chair. Suddenly you wish it was just going to be the two of you after all. But just as you start to get cold feet, and consider stepping outside and telling your doctor that you're not comfortable with including six extra strangers in whatever's about to happen, he's there behind you, ushering you up and inside, and closing the door behind him.

"This is-" That's as far as you get before he once again interrupts you mid-sentence.

"all entirely clinical and professional." He says. "You can trust me, I'm your doctor."

Whether or not he is your doctor is not what was playing on your mind. What is making you feel anxious is the apparent intimate nature of this check-up and the size and gender of the audience. And yet you do find his words reassuring. You just need to keep reminding yourself of them. These young men are all on the noble and important path of becoming clinical physicians and they will see countless naked bodies before they retire, and have probably seen their fair share already. You have nothing to be ashamed of.

"If you wouldn't mind removing your clothes." Your doctor says in a calm voice.

It's still not easy to push your self-consciousness to the side, not to mention how weird this all feels. You hesitate.

"Is that really necessary?" You ask quietly. You already know the answer, but you feel better for asking.

"Absolutely. This is a full body examination to determine that you're fit for duty."

There's an uncomfortable silence as all seven men's stares bore into your body expectantly. You look from each man to the next. One has an unfortunate wart on his nose, and another has a tattoo of the outline of a star around one eye, but apart from that there's no features for you to even focus on to take your mind off what's been asked of you, and what it means.

As your anxiety grows, so does your need to lighten the mood with a joke. "I guess it's your lucky day. Not every man gets to see Hoot Girl's Hooters." You reason that being the first person to use that predicable pun gives you some power over it, and will make it feel less degrading if and when people try to use it against you. You direct your quip to the students, trying to keep your voice from shaking too much. One chuckles, but one of the guys to his side elbows him in the ribs to remind him to be more professional. He coughs into his mask and straights up. "Sorry." He mutters.

"Is there a problem?" Your doctor asks impatiently. Your hair stands on end and for a moment you feel like a disobedient child being chided. If anyone in this room is showing a lack of professionalism, it's you.

"No sir." You begin to pull at the lace holding your skimpy top together at the front. This isn't a big deal. You try to tell yourself. I'm pretty much naked already. The lace slips open with ease and the top immediately falls open, exposing the entirety of your bountiful breasts to more men in an instant than have ever seen them before in your life. Your mood sense kicks in, and you can feel the growing arousal in the room. You wish you could say you weren't used to this, but you somewhat are. Men get turned on very easily, you've learned, especially when a particularly in-shape young woman is in their eye-line. It's not their fault, you know, but it's still a sensation you have yet to get fully comfortable sensing. What you have grown good at, though, is not visibly reacting to it. Still, it makes the next part of your disrobing duties all the more difficult, to know that these virile onlookers are stirring in their loins as they gaze upon your flesh. You begin to subtly send out a counter-mood, which should help by dampening their arousal a little bit, but compared to the sight of your gorgeous brown curves in all their splendour, it's almost certainly a losing battle. You can only slowly influence people's moods over time, not completely alter their natural course. Preventing these men from feeling horny at the sight of your perfect rack is about as possible as using your hand to change the course of a river.

Shimmying your tight microshots-plus-stockings down your hips and legs takes longer than you'd like, and requires you to bend over a little to reach your ankles. By the time you've finished, the six men in front of you have had ample time to take in your unsupported udders as they swing in front of you, and the doctor behind you has, well, he's seen everything. And then you stand upright again, now naked except your mask, your unshaved loins completely undefended. Full frontal nudity. You put your hands on your hips and fight the urge to timidly cover your intimate parts with your arms and hands, as the arousal in the room continues to grow. More than one man is **** to awkwardly adjust his scrubs in the thigh area. No, there's no use fighting this level of sexual heat. You're going to have to lean into it and play it off for laughs, or the tension will drive you insane.

"Two hooters, one tooter." You wink and point to your behind with a playful finger. That gets audible guffaws from three of the six students, and you reckon the others are smiling behind their marks too.

"Yes, yes, very clever. Now please step up on the scales, young Miss." The doctor says, still with the same deadpan expression.

"It's Missus, actually." You say with an air of offence as you allow yourself to be weighed. You're glad to be able to get a one-up on this stuck-up doctor with a terrible bed manner.

"Oh, really!" The doctor raises his clipboard and makes another mark with his pen. "So, you're not a virgin then?"

You wince, annoyed that he's so easily managed to skip admitting fault and transition into asking you intimate details.

"Are these questions really necessary?!" You can't help but ask.

"Calm down, sugar," he begins, igniting a spark of Feminist anger inside you, "I'm your doctor, not a journalist." He finishes. Ugh, he does have a point. You feel yourself cool off, and quickly try to find a way of answering his question that feels less like the Spanish Inquisition and more like locker-room banter.

"Where do owls go on honeymoon?" You ask with a smirk. "Their love nest!" You hold up two finger guns and fire them repeatedly. A couple of sharp exhales through the nose from the line of students, but the doctor is like a brick wall. You get nothing out of him. All he does, is very visibly make a 'tick' sign on his sheet.

"And how many sexual partners have you had overall?" He continues unabated.

"J-just the one!" You blurt out, both surprised at the question but proud of your answer.

"And are you on birth control?"

"No, we always used condoms, but I don't see how this is relevant to-"

"I'm the medical professional, I'll decide what's relevant thank you very much." The doctor says with increased intensity, making another mark on the paper. Your shoulders drop further. He's right, after all. He's in charge, and he knows what's important to ask and what's not.

"Do you masturbate?" As soon as the question is asked, the arousal in the room starts to grow another notch.

"No!" You lie on instinct. "Okay, yes." You correct yourself. Wait, why did you do that? You could have probably gotten away with that lie. Maybe.

"How often?"

Once again you find yourself blurting out the truth before your mind can think up the correct believable lie. All this dense sexual energy in the cramped space of the RV is distracting the part of your brain that would, well, think twice about sharing the nitty gritty details of your personal life to a room of strangers. "Sometimes twice a day? It really depends-"

"Two times... Every single day." The doctor interrupts, slowly speaks the words out loud as he writes.

"Wait, that's not-" you attempt to clarify but he's already moving on.

"Let's address the elephant in the room. Your weight." And then after a moment he adds "...Pun not intended." That hits you like a tonne of bricks. You still look absolutely stunning of course, like women with a tiny bit of chub often do, but there's no denying that you're pretty much the only heroine you've seen today with anything other than a perfectly toned tummy.

"Polly had a few too many crackers on her flight over here, I guess." You try to hide how much the doctor bringing up your weight has affected you, but your awkward use of a parrot pun despite your owl-based secret identity likely gives away the slight short-circuit that your brain is currently experiencing.

"You understand the issue, don't you? We need to know that you're combat ready." He sounds very serious now. "Or haven't you heard what happens to little sluts that get in over their heads in Acropolis."

Did he just call me a slut? You think to yourself in a daze. But you're too **** for this line of questioning to be over. You'd prefer that he went back to the sex stuff.

"Sir yes Sir. I'm ready, Sir. I can take whatever these villains can throw at me." You put your hands behind your back, adopting a formal military stance, but you can't help but notice how this also arches your back, pushing your chest forward and further emphasising them.

"Is. That. So." The doctor says slowly. It almost sounds like he's amused. "We'd better check if my assessment is the same. Get in the chair."

Not even a 'please'. You stand still and consider rebuking him.

"I'm a fully licensed gynecologist." He says calmly, anticipating your nerves. "Your sexual health is just as important as everything else. Even more important, some might say, considering that you supes are so often borderline indestructible on the outside."

Despite a small **** voice in the back of your head, you relent and get up on the chair. You place your legs in the stirrups, which are currently in a lowered position. Within moments you are surrounded on all sides by seven medical masks. And then up come your feet and down goes your head as the chair is reclined into the examination position. This is really happening. You're on full display to an entire room of strangers. They can see your pussy, and they can even see your butthole. You thank the stars that you carefully shave yourself down there, despite never having anticipated that a scenario like this might unfold. You feel light-headed and a bit giddy. Is that the self-consciousness and shame, or just a result of the overpowering musk of arousal in this cramped RV? Or perhaps it's the fact that your doctor is currently applying lubricant to two of his fingers. Yeah, it's probably that one.

"This might feel a little cold."