His Tiny Patient's Stretching Treatment

1. Chapter 1

The paper gown crinkles every time I breathe.

That's the only sound in here besides the hum of the fluorescent light and the little air vent clicking somewhere above the exam table.

I've been sitting on this vinyl for eleven minutes.

I counted. The cold seeps up through the gown, through my underwear, right into my spine, and I keep pressing my thighs together like that'll fix it.

The door opens without a knock.

Dr. Craig Ragalski fills the frame. White coat, sleeves pushed to the elbows, forearms thick and veined. He's taller than I ever imagined, and pale blue eyes land on me and stay there. He doesn't smile.

"You asked to see me."

"Yes." My voice comes out smaller than I planned. I bite my lip. "I—thank you for fitting me in."

He shuts the door behind him. The latch clicks. He pulls the rolling stool from under the counter and sits, and even sitting, he's taller than my knees. "Scoot down. Heels in the stirrups."

"Already?"

"You came here for an exam, Delilah. That's what we do." He snaps a glove onto his right hand — one clean sound, latex against skin. "Scoot."

I slide down the table. The vinyl squeaks under me, and my face burns. My heels find the cold metal of the stirrups, and my knees fall open and I feel the air hit me, cool and clinical, right through the thin cotton of my underwear. He watches me settle. He doesn't look away.

"Underwear off. Hand them to me."

I hook my thumbs in the waistband and peel them down my thighs, my hips lifting off the table to get them past my ass.

They're damp in the middle. I know he can see it when I hold them out.

He takes them, folds them once, and sets them on the counter behind him, right side up, like a piece of evidence he intends to keep.

"Feet back in the stirrups. Wider."

I do it. The gown pools at my waist. I am completely open to him now, and there is nothing between my skin and the room but the hum of the light.

He rolls forward. His stool bumps the table. One gloved finger parts me — just one, just the tip, sliding through the wet seam of me and stopping at my entrance. My whole body jerks.

"Easy." His voice is low and even, like he's reading a chart. "Let's see what we're working with."

He presses in. One finger, and it's a stretch — a real one, the kind that makes my breath catch and my hands grip the edge of the table. He goes slow. He goes all the way to the second knuckle and stops there, and I feel my cunt clench around him, tight and involuntary, trying to push him out.

"Hm." He twists his wrist a fraction, testing. "You're not just tight. You're small. This is the smallest I've felt in a long time."

The words land somewhere low in my stomach and stay there. I don't know why they make me wetter. They do. I feel it, the slick spreading around his finger, and I know he feels it too because he goes still for a second, watching my face.

"That's why you're here," he says. Not a question.

"Yes." My voice cracks. "I—I can't take anything. My boyfriend, he—it doesn't fit. It hurts. I want—" I stop. My lip is between my teeth again.

"Say it."

"I want to be stretched. I want to take it."

He looks at me for a long moment. Then he pulls his finger out, slowly, and I feel every inch of it leaving. He holds the glove up to the light, and it's shiny with me, wet to the base.

"You want to be stretched," he repeats. "Then we start with one finger, and you take it like a good girl, and we don't move up until you can.

" He pushes back in — same finger, same slow slide, deeper this time, curling up against the front wall of me and finding the spot that makes my hips lift off the table without permission. "There. Feel that?"

"Yes—"

"Good. Now you're going to stay open for me and let me work.

And when I tell you to take it, you take it.

" He pulls back to the first knuckle and presses in again, and this time I don't fight it.

I let him in. His free hand comes down flat on my lower belly, palm hot through the gown, holding me still against the table while he fucks me with one finger, slow and deep and deliberate, and I hear myself make a sound I've never made in a doctor's office before.

He doesn't speed up. That's the thing that undoes me — he keeps the same slow, deliberate rhythm, one finger sinking to the knuckle and dragging back out, and my hips start chasing it without asking me first. The table creaks under my ass every time I rock up to meet him.

I can hear how wet I am. There's no hiding the sound his finger makes going in and out of me.

"You hear that?" His voice is flat, clinical, like he's pointing out a lab result. "That's you. That's what a tight little pussy sounds like when it finally gets what it wants."

"I—" The word breaks in half. His palm is still flat on my belly, holding me down, and I can't decide if I want to push into it or grind away from it.

"Don't talk. Take it." He twists his wrist and curls the finger up, and my back comes off the table.

The spot he finds — I didn't know it was there, not like this, not at this angle, and every pass over it makes my thighs try to snap shut around his arm.

He doesn't let them. He just keeps his hand where it is and works me, slow and even, like he's got all afternoon.

Then his thumb moves.

It slides up through the slick and finds my clit, and presses — not gentle, not teasing, just a flat, heavy weight right where I'm most sensitive. My whole body jolts, and I make a sound that isn't a word. He huffs out through his nose, almost a laugh.

"There she is."

He sets up a rhythm with it. Finger in, thumb circling, finger out, thumb pressing down hard enough that my vision goes soft at the edges. My hands are white-knuckled on the edge of the table, and I'm making these little broken noises on every exhale, and I can't stop, and I don't want to.

"How does it feel," he says, "having a man's hands on you and not having to ask him to go slow?"

"Good—" I gasp it. "It feels good, it feels—"

"I know it does." He presses his thumb flat and holds it there while his finger curls again, deep, and something tight and bright starts winding up low in my belly. "You've been clenching around one finger for five minutes, Delilah. You want to come on it, don't you? Say it."

"Yes. Yes, I want to—"

"Then come." His voice barely changes. "Good girl. Come on my finger."

It hits me like a slap. My cunt clamps down hard around him and my hips jerk up off the table, and he doesn't stop — he keeps the finger buried and the thumb working, riding me through it while I shake and whine and grab at his forearm with both hands like I'm drowning.

The slick runs down between my cheeks and onto the vinyl.

He watches my face the whole time. I can feel him watching.

When my body finally goes slack, he pulls out slowly, and I feel every knuckle leave me one at a time. He holds the glove up again. It's dripping.

"One finger," he says, and peels the glove off with a snap. "That's your baseline. Next time we try two."