Examined, Opened, and Filled #2
“You must be—” He flicked over me before he paused, as though searching for the right words. “—my daughter’s roommate. I’m Dr. Stephens. David.”
I opened my mouth but my tongue felt like a foreign object.
“She’s shy,” Nora supplied, mercifully. “Also dying of embarrassment. Be gentle, Dad.”
“I’ll do my best.” A crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Room three. I’ll give you a few minutes to get settled.”
He turned and disappeared through the sliding door, and only then did I realize I’d been holding my breath.
Nora’s dad was fucking hot. And in approximately two minutes, he was going to be looking at my pussy. The clipboard creaked in my grip.
Nora patted my shoulder. “Told you,” she whispered. “Just another Tuesday.”
It didn’t feel like it. It felt like the beginning of something I didn’t have a name for yet.
I stared at the same line on the clipboard for what felt like the hundredth time, pretending to read while my thoughts wandered somewhere else entirely.
A voice pulled me out of my haze.
“Mary, please come in.”
I looked up to find Dr. Stephens standing in the doorway, one hand holding it open. His frame seemed to fill the entrance, making the space around him feel instantly smaller.
I gave Nora what I hoped was a sufficiently desperate look, but she only clutched my elbow and steered me toward the door.
“Go get ’em, tiger,” she whispered.
I shot her a final betrayed look before going in.
As I crossed the threshold, I felt Dr. Stephens’s gaze settle on me. It followed my every step without a hint of hurry. There was something almost predatory in the way he watched me, not crude or obvious, just an unnerving confidence that made me suddenly conscious of how I carried myself.
I kept my eyes down as I stepped fully inside, painfully aware of his presence behind me.
The room was smaller than I’d expected, intimate in a way that felt almost dangerous.
Pale blue walls closed in around a narrow sink, its chrome faucet gleaming, while a rolling tray stood nearby, its instruments concealed beneath a sterile drape.
And in the center of it all was the examination bed, upholstered in black leather, with polished metal stirrups catching the light at the foot.
Under the harsh cone of the overhead lamp, the whole thing looked less like a piece of ordinary medical equipment and more like something you’d find in a sex dungeon.
I remain frozen, staring at a poster of the female reproductive system on the wall. Warm breathing grazed the back of my neck, stirring the fine hairs there. Dr. Stephens was standing close enough that I could inhale his musk, and something darker underneath, something that made my mouth dry.
“First time getting checked up?” He exhaled through his nose.
“Yeah. I’m sorry, but I’m kinda lost on what to do.” I let out a laugh that sounds like a dying teakettle.
Dr. Stephens placed both hands on my shoulders.
Oh.
His palms were stiff, commanding, and rough, guiding me toward the bed. “Please,” he said, his voice dropping half an octave. “Sit right here.”
I turned and lowered myself onto the edge, my fingers gripping the sides. The leather was cold to the touch, offering little comfort as I tried to find an angle that didn’t feel unnatural. Even the slightest shift made the bed groan, the sound cutting through the quiet like a siren.
Dr. Stephens glanced down at the chart before looking back at me.
“So,” he said. “Nora tells me you’ve been experiencing some persistent itching.”
“Yes,” I said quietly.
“Since yesterday?”
I nodded. “It started yesterday morning. It’s gotten worse since then.”
His expression softened. “I imagine that’s been pretty miserable,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’m going to take good care of you.”
Something about the certainty in his voice sent a jolt through me. I swallowed hard. No. I felt it before I could stop it, a rush of heat pooling where his fingers would be in seconds. I squeezed my cunt shut, like that could somehow reverse it.
“So here’s what’s going to happen.” His voice took on a cadence, dripping with the kind of authority that made my stomach flip even more. “I’m going to need you to remove your underwear completely.”
“Completely?” My face combusts.
“Completely.” He tilts his head. “I need full visual access, and I need you to be able to spread your legs without restriction. Can you do that for me?”
Can you do that for me? As if I’m the one doing him a favor, performing this mortifying striptease in a room that reeks of industrial bleach and raw pheromones.
“Sure,” I squeak.
“I’ll step out for a moment. There’s a paper sheet on the counter. You can drape it over your lap if it makes you more comfortable.” His eyes crinkled. “But I’ll need it off once we begin.”
The click of the latch left me alone with the silence. I stared at the tray. For some reason, the few seconds of privacy didn’t make me feel better. They gave me just enough time to imagine what was coming next.
I reached for the button of my jeans. My fingers fumbled once before I managed to undo it.
The zipper sounded ridiculously loud as I pushed my denims down and stepped out of them, painfully aware of how vulnerable I already felt.
My underwear came next. I folded it quickly and set it aside, grabbing the drape and pulling it over my lap.
It offered almost no protection, doing little to ease the tense anticipation of his examination.
A few quiet knocks echoed through the door.
“Come in.” I catch myself. “I’m—uh, done changing.”
Dr. Stephens steps back in, his gaze dropping immediately to my bare legs I’d pressed together so tightly they’re probably fused.
“Good,” he murmurs, and I can’t tell if he means my compliance or the view. He pulls on a fresh pair of latex gloves, the elastic snapping on his wrists. “Now, I need you to lie back.”
I eased myself farther, lowering my head onto the thin pillow as I stared up at the surgical light. It was brutally bright, a hot white circle that made me feel as though I were suddenly on display beneath a spotlight.
“Scoot down, please,” he said.
I looked toward him. He was at the foot of the bed, waiting patiently.
“All the way to me. I need you close enough to examine you comfortably.”
My stomach tightened. The sheet bunched beneath me, its brittle crinkle following my movement.
“Perfect,” he said, the word feeling like a caress. “I’m going to help you into the stirrups.”
I barely had time to process the words before his gloved hand closed around my right ankle.
The touch itself was clinical, nothing more than a doctor positioning his patient, but my brain had apparently forgotten how to behave.
He lifted my leg with practiced care, supporting it as he guided my foot into the cold metal.
My knee fell outward, leaving me feeling painfully exposed.
I fixed my eyes on the ceiling and tried not to think about how obscene the position felt.
He repeated the process with my left leg, adjusting it carefully before securing my foot in place. By the time he finished, I was positioned exactly where I needed to be. Still, my instinct was to pull my legs together.
“Okay,” he breathed. “I’m going to move the sheet aside now.”
He wasn’t looking at my face. He stayed fixed on the thin sheet as if whatever was hidden beneath it had become the only thing that mattered. I squeezed my eyes shut the second his hand touched the edge of the paper. I couldn’t watch.
He peeled it back carefully, sliding down my stomach, over my hips, then lower. It tickled faintly as it moved, until finally, it was gone.
A blast from the air conditioner swept over me, brushing directly over my moist folds. That was when it truly sank in. Everything I had kept hidden my entire life was right there in front of him. And Dr. Stephens was staring straight at it.
“Comfortable?” His voice doesn’t change, but his eyes did all the work, scanning me thoroughly, lingering like he’s memorizing the contours of my pussy.
“Kinda nervous,” I whispered, but nervous didn’t come close to describing what I was feeling.
“Try to relax.”
His hands came to rest on my inner thighs, the gloves toasted from his body heat.
He didn’t touch me where I was already aching, not yet.
Instead, he pressed outward with even pressure, opening me by degrees.
The stretch pulled tighter, looser as my labia slid apart in soft ripples that massaged directly over my clit.
“I’m going to start with the exterior first.”
I froze, my nerves on fire as my thoughts race out of control. I hadn’t anticipated this intensity. Each subtle adjustment of his grip brings his thumbs closer to my center, latex dragging against the sensitive edges of my cunt. Being this bare before him leaves no room for restraint.
“Any pain with urination?” he asked, gliding through my outer folds with practiced precision to examine my urethra.
“No,” I gasp. “No pain, just the itch.”
“Any recent changes in soap? A new detergent?”
“I tried a new detergent last week.”
He went very still, finger resting. “Any history of yeast infections? Bacterial vaginosis?”
“No. This is my first… everything. First infection, first appointment, first time in stirrups.” I let out an awkward giggle.
He hums, remaining serious while I lose my mind.
“Is the itching localized?” His voice was perfectly even. “Targeted to one specific area, or spread everywhere?”
“Um… It moves around? Sometimes it’s… inside. Sometimes it’s…” I swallow hard as his fingers graze the left side of my clit, making my hips twitch involuntarily. “Sometimes it’s right where you’re touching.”
“Right here?” He pressed a fraction harder.
“Yes—” The whisper slipped out suspiciously like a moan, and I bit my lip until it hurt.
“Let’s test this to be certain.” He pushed down in steady pulses, compressing my clit while raw electricity shoots straight through my lower belly.
“Still feel the itch?”
“Mhm, mhm.”
This man is quite literally pressing my button.