2. Chapter 2
Two weeks. That's how long he made me wait.
I spent both of them thinking about it. About the wet paper under my thighs, about the sound his glove made when it snapped off his wrist. About next time we try two, said the way he'd say take this twice daily — like my body was a dosage he intended to adjust.
Now I'm standing in the doorway of exam room three with my coat still buttoned and my pulse in my throat, and he's leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed, lab coat straining at the shoulders, watching me the way he watched the glove drip.
"You're early."
"I know." I bite my lip. "I couldn't — I've been thinking about it all week."
"Good." He pushes off the counter. "Strip. Everything. Fold it on the chair this time."
I do it with my back to him, which is stupid, because he's seen all of it and worse.
But the folding takes me longer than it should.
Bra. Panties. The little stack on the seat, neat, like I'm a good student.
When I turn around, he hasn't moved. Just his eyes, traveling down me slowly, and the room is cold enough that my nipples are already hard before he's touched anything.
"On the table. Hands and knees."
"I thought —"
"I know what you thought." He crosses to the drawer and pulls out a glove, and the snap of it against his wrist goes straight down between my legs.
"You thought you'd lie on your back and count the ceiling tiles while I opened you up.
That's not how a stretch works. A stretch has to be loaded, or it doesn't take. Hands and knees, Delilah."
I climb up. The paper crinkles and tears under my knees, and the vinyl is cold on my shins, and my whole body is already shaking — not from nerves. From the position. From how much of me is on display with my ass in the air and my tits hanging underneath me, heavy and swinging with every breath.
His hand lands flat on the small of my back. Just there. Just holding.
"Arch."
I arch. My spine dips, my ass tips up, and I hear him exhale through his nose — a slow, satisfied sound, the sound of a man who has been right about something.
"Look at that." His fingers walk down my spine, one vertebra at a time, unhurried, until they reach the wet heat between my legs.
He doesn't go in. He just drags two fingertips through it, up and back, spreading me open with the flat of his hand so the cold air hits me everywhere at once.
"You're already soaked. Did you touch yourself this week? "
"No."
"Liar."
"I — twice. I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry." His thumb presses flat against my clit and holds there, no motion, just pressure, and my whole body lurches forward like I've been shocked.
"You're supposed to think about it. You're supposed to be hungry by the time you get here.
That's the point. Now — one finger first. Same as last time.
Just to remind you what you're working with. "
He pushes in, and there's no resistance at all, not after two weeks of waiting, and the sound I make is not a dignified sound. It's a wet, grateful little noise that I hear come out of my own mouth and immediately want to take back.
"There she is." He curls it, finds the spot, and my elbows buckle. "That's one. Feel how easy that is now? Two weeks ago you were gripping me like a fist. Now you're swallowing it. That's progress, sweetheart. Say thank you."
"Thank you."
"Good girl." The finger slides out and two press back in against the same place, just pressing, not entering, and the stretch of it makes my eyes water.
"Now. Two's going to feel like a lot. I want you to breathe out when I push, and I want you to keep your ass up even when it burns. If you drop, I stop. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, Dr. Ragalski."
"That's my girl." And he pushes.
The burn is immediate and enormous — two of his fingers are not twice one; it's a different animal entirely, thick and blunt and stretching me in a direction I didn't know I had.
My jaw locks. My knees slide an inch. He pulls back just enough to keep me from clenching down and pushes again, deeper, and this time his other hand comes around under me and takes a full handful of my tit, squeezing, thumb scraping the nipple hard enough to make me gasp.
"Breathe out." I do. "Again." I do, and on the second breath he sinks both fingers to the last knuckle, and I feel my own slick running down his wrist. "There.
Look at that. Two fingers buried in this little cunt and she's not even crying yet.
You're doing so good for me. Do you know how good you're doing? "
"I — ah —"
"You're taking it like you were built for it.
" He starts to move them, slow and deep, and every stroke drags over that spot and then leaves it, over and over, and his hand on my tit is pulling me back onto his fingers like he's fucking me onto them.
"That's it. Rock back. Use them. This is your stretch, Delilah, not mine — you want to take your boyfriend's cock, you work for it. Show me how bad you want it."
So I do. I push back onto his hand, and the wet sound is obscene in the little room, and he spanks me — open palm, right across the ass, hard enough that the crack echoes off the cabinets and I yelp and clench down around his fingers so tight he groans.
"There's that grip." Another spank, same cheek, and the heat blooms under his hand.
"That's what I want. Squeeze them. Squeeze them like you're going to milk my cock with them, because that's what's coming.
Three fingers next. Then the toy. Then me.
And when I finally put my cock in this pussy, you're going to take every inch of it, aren't you? "
"Yes — yes —"
"Say it. Tell me what you're going to take."
"Your cock." My voice is wrecked. "All of it. Every inch. Please."
"Filthy little thing." He curls both fingers hard and holds, grinding, and the pressure in my belly goes white-hot and tight. "Come on my fingers again. Right now. I want to feel it."
And I do — I come with my face down against the paper and my ass up in the air and his name on my tongue, my cunt clamping down around his two fingers so hard I can feel the ridges of his knuckles, and he doesn't slow down; he fucks me through every second of it, muttering good girl, good fucking girl, that's it, soak my hand until I finally collapse forward onto my forearms, panting, dripping onto the vinyl.
He pulls out slowly. I hear the glove snap off.
"Two fingers," he says. "With room to spare."
I turn my head enough to see him. He's holding up his bare hand, wet to the wrist, and he looks at me over it with those pale blue eyes and something that is not quite a smile.
"Same time next week. And Delilah — bring a toy that’s the same size as your boyfriend's penis. We want to work up to his, before you take mine."