3. The Chair
They fucked her until the chair walked.
Hydraulics complaining, a cheap medical groan.
Paper in shreds under the shaved pink. Diane’s pumps hanging off her heels, ripped tan hose a wreck at her knees, navy skirt rolled into a belt that didn’t cover anything.
Blouse open. Pearls ticking. The trainee in her cunt spanked her hip each time she moaned — a sharp crack on church-committee skin, red rising through what was left of the mesh.
She jerked and laughed around the cock in her mouth and pulled off long enough to tell him to do it again.
“Harder. He never. He asks if I’m comfortable. He checks a box. Spank the patient. I hiked it. I asked for the check. Don’t you get polite now.”
He spanked her again.
The sound hit the cracked door. The other trainee held her tidy knot — listing now — and used her throat until her eyes watered and spit ran onto the speculum tray in a shining string.
They switched without talking, like a chart passing hands: the thicker one out of her mouth and into her cunt in one wet seat, the one who’d eaten her taking her throat, tasting her on himself.
Diane moaned at the trade. Another spank on the other hip.
Red matching red. The chair ticked toward the cabinet, paper screaming.
Footsteps in the hall.
Squeak. Pause. A shadow in the crack.
Nobody pulled out. Diane looked at that crack with a cock on her tongue and spread her knees wider so the clean-shaven pink would be the first thing anyone saw if the pause became a hand on the knob. Hale. A nurse. She didn’t cover her tits. She didn’t reach for the gown.
The pause moved on.
Squeak fading. Phone ringing somewhere else.
Diane came on the second cock with a spank still ringing in the room, shaved and clutching, a wet slap the shredded paper kept.
She shook, moaned, drooled, and did not ask anyone to stop.
Room 3 kept walking. The chart on the counter stayed a lie.
Hale was still out there with a reason that wasn’t a reason, and the trainees were still in her like the routine had never existed.
They turned her over the chair.
Ass up. Chest on shredded crinkle paper.
Shaved pink shining under the overhead, spanked hips already red, ripped hose a tan ring around her knees and the pumps.
One trainee stepped in behind and pushed into her in one wet seat; the other came around to her face and put himself on her tongue.
Diane took both. She moaned into the speculum tray, pearls ticking the metal.
Each stroke earned a spank — sharp, church-committee skin going hotter, the sound slapping the cracked door.
She backed onto it. Ass rolling. Filthy.
Greedy. A modest skirt still bunched at her waist like it had a job.
“Don’t stop if he comes,” she got out, sloppy. “Let him see. I hiked it. I pulled you out. This is my appointment. He said it wasn’t necessary. It is. My husband checks a box. You spank me when I moan.”
Another pause at the crack.
Longer this time. Breathing in the hall that might have been Hale’s, might have been a nurse, might have been nobody.
The trainee behind her didn’t pull out. He spanked her harder so the sound would carry through the six inches, a report.
Diane looked at the door upside down, spit hanging off her lip, and spread her knees on the chair pedals so the clean-shaven pink would be the first thing on the chart if someone finally pushed.
The pause broke.
Footsteps went away again. Squeak fading. Diane came on the cock in her cunt, muffled around the other, shaking, pink clutching, a wet tick running down her inner thigh onto the paper and the hose. She laughed into it, wrecked, and didn’t ask for the gown.
They didn’t give her a break.
They switched ends over the chair like passing a file.
New cock in her mouth tasting like her. New cock in her cunt, stretching the same swollen pink.
Red on both hips now. The gown on the hook watched like a coward.
Room 3 smelled like sex and alcohol wipes and a woman who had stopped being routine the second she glanced at a bulge and hiked her own navy skirt.
Hale was still a rumor with a clipboard. The trainees were still the exam.
The chair was against the cabinet.
Hydraulics dead. Paper gone, shredded under her tits and the speculum tray.
Diane still folded over it — spanked and dripping, clean-shaven pink used and shining, navy skirt a useless belt, ripped hose a tan cuff at her knees.
They had her in a rhythm that didn’t care about charts: one trainee buried in her cunt, short wet strokes that made her drip off the chair edge; the other in her throat, holding the listing knot; a spank when she moaned; a moan when she was spanked.
Red on both hips, matching, church-committee skin that had never been hit in a parsonage bed.
She pulled off the cock in her mouth long enough to tell them to keep going.
“Don’t you dare stop. Hale can write it up. My husband checks a box and asks if I’m comfortable. I hiked my own skirt. This is the check. Spank me and fill it.”
They filled it.
Another spank. Another sloppy moan. She came again, smaller, meaner, pink clutching the trainee behind her, spit hanging off her lip onto the tray. They didn’t pull out for that either. The gown on the hook looked like a joke. The cracked door looked like an invitation she’d written with her knees.
The squeak came back.
Linoleum. Soft soles. A clipboard tick.
Stopped.
The crack widened by inches. Light from the hall cut across her red ass and the wet place a trainee was still moving in.
Neither of them pulled out. Diane looked at the opening upside down — cock shining on her tongue, tits hanging over the beige cups, pearls ticking — and she spread her knees on the chair pedals on purpose so whoever it was would get the whole appointment in one look: pink, used, spanked,
a modest woman ruined on official paper.
A chart appeared in the gap.
White coat. Hale’s shoes. The same voice that had said *that’s not necessary* sitting somewhere in his throat and not coming out yet.
He did not speak.
He did not close the door.
Room 3 waited with two trainees still in his patient.