Chapter 9 Doctor’s Hands #3
Amir’s gloved hand settled on my lower back, thumb stroking lazy, calming circles. “Still alright?” he murmured, voice pitched so only I could hear.
“Yeah,” I gasped. The truth of it was more complicated—humiliation and relief, pleasure and panic all tangled up in my pulse.
He rotated the probe with practiced care, testing, checking, reading every twitch and gasp with a doctor’s patience and a man’s intuition.
The sensations built—fullness, pressure, the inescapable throb of my cock straining down between my legs, leaving a slick, humiliating mess I couldn’t hope to hide.
The probe slipped free, leaving me empty and shaking, every nerve raw. My cock still hung hard and heavy, thick with need and humiliation, a string of pre-come dangling toward the paper below. There was no hiding it, not with Amir kneeling behind me, not with my whole body bared and open.
He didn’t look away. A gloved hand reached forward, steady and professional, closing around the base of my cock—measuring, weighing, checking for the irregularities I knew he’d been trained to find.
His grip was firmer than I expected, fingers wrapping all the way around my girth, thumb pressing into the underside, searching for any swelling or lumps.
“Any tenderness here?” Amir’s voice was steady but softer than before, breath fanning across the small of my back.
A sharp gasp left me as his touch slid up my shaft, squeezing gently. “No—just sensitive,” I admitted, the answer trembling on my tongue.
He stroked from base to tip, slow, methodical, fingers feeling every ridge, every vein, every inch that pulsed hot and needy under his hand. His gloved thumb swept over the swollen head, spreading the leaking pre-come, making me twitch helplessly.
“Still no pain?” His tone was lower now, intimate, more than just clinical concern.
A strangled moan escaped before I could stifle it. “Just…too much,” I breathed, shame and need tangling so tightly I could barely think.
The exam should have ended, but his hand lingered, grip tightening just slightly.
For a long moment, the only sounds were my breath, ragged and uneven, and the soft squelch of his gloved palm working over my cock.
Each movement was careful, professional—but the longer it went, the harder it was to believe either of us could call this only medicine.
“Feels…good,” I admitted, unable to keep my hips from rocking into his fist.
A beat passed. The only sounds were the wet squelch of Amir’s glove and the uneven, ragged pattern of my breath.
My cock pulsed in his grip, a sticky thread of pre-come drooling down to the paper sheet with each shallow rock of my hips.
My thighs trembled, straining for more friction, more pressure, desperate for relief or release—anything that would break the suspended ache stretched between us.
Amir’s touch stayed firm, thumb circling the leaking head, his other hand settling on my hip, holding me steady as if to say not yet.
Heat rolled over my skin, humiliation and want burning side by side, my body betraying me with every twitch and throb.
His gaze tracked every shiver, every flicker of pleasure and pain that crossed my face, eyes dark with focus and something unspoken.
“Sensitive?” he murmured again, but the words no longer belonged only to the doctor. His grip shifted, just a little tighter, milking another droplet from the tip. “You’re still leaking. That’s normal. It can happen after a prostate exam, especially if the patient’s…tense.”
My heart hammered, shame and longing tangled together, but I didn’t move away. “Not…tense,” I managed, barely above a whisper. “Not really.”
A faint smile ghosted across his mouth—a careful test, a subtle invitation. “Then I should stop,” he said, but his hand didn’t leave me, not yet. Instead, he pressed the pad of his thumb under the head, slow and deliberate, watching the way my cock jumped in his grip.
I shuddered, hips pressing helplessly into his fist. The line between necessary and wanted blurred with every stroke, every measured squeeze. My whole body was a live wire, strung out between agony and need, desperate for the permission to want, to let go.
“You can tell me if you want this to stop,” Amir said, his voice still low, still calm, but edged now with something softer, deeper. “Or if you want more.”
The shame in my throat twisted, making words impossible. My answer was in the way I arched my back, the way my body rocked into his touch, the broken sound that escaped my lips—please.
His gloved hand stroked again, this time slower, more deliberate, thumb smearing pre-come around the swollen head. My cock jerked, another pulse of slick leaking onto his palm. Each careful motion drew a new shiver, a new gasp, every inch of me exposed and wanting.
Amir’s other hand traced up my spine, fingers splayed over the bruised line of my back. He leaned in, his breath warm at my ear. “Tell me what you need, Sebastian. I won’t take anything you don’t offer.”
My lips parted, a prayer caught between guilt and need. “Just…don’t let go.”
He squeezed, just enough to make me whimper. “Not letting go,” he promised, voice raw. “Not unless you say.”
The next stroke was firmer, his hand working up and down my shaft in slow, controlled movements.
The paper beneath me crinkled as my arms shook, every muscle trembling with the effort to stay grounded.
I pressed my forehead to my wrist, hiding from the world, from myself, from how much I wanted to come undone right here—safe in his hands, ruined by his care.
A shudder wracked my body, the kind that starts deep in the marrow and shakes everything loose. The soft squelch of Amir’s hand working me—slow, relentless—filled the air. Each stroke dragged me further from shame and closer to the edge of something I couldn’t name, something dangerous and holy.
Warm breath ghosted over the small of my back, followed by a lingering pause—a decision being made, a boundary willingly crossed.
The pressure of Amir’s hand eased from my cock, leaving me aching and empty, hips rolling back, wordless plea spilling from my lips.
My heart stuttered, caught between relief and longing.
Something in the room shifted. The sterile quiet of the clinic gave way to something darker, thicker, thrumming with intent.
Gloved fingers traced down the curve of my ass, lingering in the slick at my entrance.
Lubricant and spit made everything slippery, a mess I’d never been allowed to be, not in daylight, not with anyone but him.
The sound of gloves being stripped away, the faintest snap, then skin—bare and fever-hot—brushing my thigh. Amir’s voice rumbled low, barely more than a growl, right at the hollow of my spine. “Let me taste you. Let me have it. Say yes, Sebastian.”
A sob escaped me, desperate and raw. My ass arched higher, legs spreading wider on the crinkled exam paper. “Yes. Please. Don’t stop.”
Hands parted me, strong and reverent, thumbs dragging me open.
Cool air licked at exposed skin, then the shocking heat of his mouth—lips pressed to my rim, tongue slick and insistent, tracing lazy, possessive circles around the tender muscle.
I jerked, thighs flexing, a startled, needy whimper ripped from my throat.
Long, slow licks—flat and broad at first, savoring, almost teasing.
Amir feasted with an obscene patience, savoring every reaction, every involuntary shiver, every tremor in my thighs.
The grip on my hips was iron, holding me open, holding me safe.
Each pass of his tongue coaxed me wider, softer, his breath fanning over spit-slick skin.
He mouthed at me, worshipping the mess, swallowing the shame, tongue dipping just inside, then retreating, making me beg for more.
My hands clawed at the paper, at nothing, helpless to do anything but take it.
The world tunneled to that single, searing point where pleasure and humiliation met—where Amir devoured me like I was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.
Saliva dripped down the back of my thigh, mingling with the lube. Each flick of his tongue sent heat surging up my spine, flooding my brain with white noise and want. My cock throbbed, drooling freely onto the paper below, every pulse of pleasure met with a fresh rush of slick.
Fingers pressed at my rim, not entering yet—just teasing, coaxing, smearing spit around the tight muscle.
The edge of a fingernail scraped gently, making me gasp.
My whole body strained back, hungry for more.
Amir’s mouth closed over me again, sucking, tongue stabbing deeper, the pressure building, building.
“God, you taste so fucking good,” Amir groaned, voice hoarse, words muffled against my flesh. “I could eat you for hours. Let me take my time. Let me make you forget everything but my tongue.”
The words sank in, electric and humiliating, making me tremble harder. My hips rolled, searching for more contact, more pressure. His tongue plunged inside, slow and relentless, fucking me with slick, careful strokes, every withdrawal making me ache, every push making me whimper.
A finger joined his mouth, slow and gentle, easing inside with a twist, spreading the muscle wide, opening me further.
The intrusion burned and soothed all at once, the ache giving way to a fullness that made my eyes sting.
Amir worked me open, tongue and finger in concert—one worshipping, one demanding.
The rhythm built, pleasure blurring into pain and back again.
A second finger pressed in beside the first, twisting, scissoring, spreading me wider. His tongue slicked around them, spit pooling, my body shuddering with each careful stretch. The urge to push back, to ride his hand and mouth, warred with the urge to collapse, to let him do anything he wanted.