5. Chapter 5
I'm ten minutes early, and I sit on the edge of the exam table with my heels not quite touching the floor.
When he comes in, he doesn't say hello. He closes the door, turns the lock, and stands there looking at me with his arms crossed over his chest, lab coat straining at the shoulders, and I know that look.
I've seen it four times now. It means he's already decided something.
"On your knees," he says.
I slide off the table. The floor is cold, and my hands shake a little as I kneel in front of him on the tile and look up, and he's so tall from down here that I have to tip my head all the way back to find his face.
He unbuttons the coat. He doesn't rush it.
He folds it over the back of his chair, and then his belt, and then he's in front of me with his cock already heavy and half-hard in his hand, and he strokes it once, twice, watching me watch it.
"You know what to do," he says. "Show me you remember."
I take him in both hands first because I like the weight of him, the heat, the way my fingers don't come close to meeting around him.
Then I put my mouth on the head, and he exhales through his nose, slow, controlled, and his hand comes down on the back of my head, not pushing, just there, a reminder.
I take him deeper. I've gotten better at this over the month—I know to breathe through my nose, to keep my tongue flat, to let him feel my throat when I can manage it—and I can tell he notices because his fingers curl into my hair and his hips start to move, small, shallow rocks, and above me he says, "Good girl. That's it. Look at me while you do it."
So I do. I look up at him with my mouth full and my eyes watering, and he holds my gaze the whole time, pale blue and steady, and something in my chest goes warm and liquid and proud.
He lets me work for a long while. Long enough that my jaw aches and my knees ache and I've stopped thinking about anything except the sound of his breathing changing.
When he finally pulls me off him by the hair, gentle, he's breathing hard and slick to the root, and he says, "Enough. Get on the table. Face down."
His hand leaves my back, and I lay down against the exam table, ass in the air.
The table creaks when he steps closer. Then his bare thighs press against the backs of mine and something heavy and warm settles along the crease of my ass, skin to skin, no latex between us, and I go very still, because I know what that is and I know what it means that there's nothing on it.
I've had it in my mouth. I've felt it against my palm.
It's different now, laid against me like a threat and a question at once.
"Feel that," he says. Not a question. His hand comes down on my lower back, thumb stroking once along the dip of my spine. "That's what's been waiting for you for four weeks."
"I—" My voice comes out, but my words get stuck.
He sounds pleased at me being flustered, which is worse and better than anything. "Then turn your head and look at me, and tell me what you want."
I turn my head on the paper. He's above me, jaw set, stubble dark along it, that pale blue gone, almost navy in this light.
His cock rests against me, thick as my wrist, and I can feel the heat of it through my own skin, the way it jumps when I look at it.
The vein along the underside. The head, darker than the rest, already slick.
I've had three fingers and a toy, and it still doesn't make sense, the arithmetic of it, how that goes inside me.
"Please," I say. "Dr. Ragalski. Please put it in me."
"That's my girl." He pulls back, and I feel the head of him slide down through how wet I am, dragging over my clit, and I jerk, and he laughs low in his chest. "Soaked.
You're dripping down your thighs, Delilah.
Look at the mess you've made of my table.
" He notches himself bare against my entrance and stops. "Breathe in."
I breathe in. He pushes.
The first inch is a ring of fire. My whole body clenches around it, tries to push it out, and he holds there, one hand flat on my back, thumb pressing into the muscle beside my spine, and doesn't move.
Sweat breaks along my hairline. The paper crumples under my fists.
I make a sound I've never made before, something small and animal, and he answers it by pressing his thumb harder into my back, a slow circle, like he's calming a horse.
"There it is," he says. "Don't fight it. You've been training for this for a month. Let me in."
"It's—too—"
"It's not." He withdraws a half inch and pushes back, and the second inch goes easier, the burn spreading wide and hot instead of sharp, and my body—my body does something I didn't tell it to do.
It opens. It gives. The slick sound of it fills the room, and my face burns against the paper.
"Hear that? That's you taking me. Good girl. Keep breathing."
Another inch. Another. He's slow about it, slower than I expected from a man who spanks me until I cry, and every push seats him deeper until I feel him somewhere behind my navel, a pressure that's almost pain and nothing like it, and my hips lift off the table without my permission, chasing it.
He groans when I do that. His hand slides from my back to my hip and grips, fingers digging in, and he drags me back onto him.
"Look at you," he says, and his voice has gone rough at the edges. "Little thing like you. Fucking greedy. You want all of it, don't you? Say it."
"I want all of it."
"Then take it." He drives the last of it home in one long push, and his hips slap against my ass, and I feel the whole length of him inside me, every vein, the head pressed up against something that makes my vision go gray at the corners.
My mouth is open on the paper. I'm not making any sound at all.
He leans over me, chest to my back, and his breath is hot on my ear.
"There. All of him. You feel that, Delilah? You're full of me now."
He starts to move. Slow at first, long pulls almost all the way out and then back in, and each time he bottoms out I make that small animal sound again, and each time he pulls back I feel the drag of him along my walls like he's turning me inside out.
The table squeaks in rhythm. My thighs are shaking, and he notices; of course he notices, and he reaches under me and finds my clit with two fingers and presses, barely moving them, just there, and I come apart so fast I don't even get to warn him.
"That's one," he says, and he doesn't stop, doesn't slow, just fucks me through it while I clench and flutter around him, and his rhythm changes—harder now, deeper, his hips snapping against me with a wet slap each time.
"You're going to do that again. And then I'm going to fill this little pussy up, and you're going to keep every drop of it inside you. "
"Please—" I don't even know what I'm asking for. His name, maybe. "Dr. Ragalski—"
"Say it again." He's breathing hard now, that measured voice finally fraying, and his hand comes down on my ass, once, sharp, and the sting rolls through me and straight into where he's buried. "Say my name while I'm inside you."
"Craig—"
"Again."
"Craig, please, please—"
He comes with my name in his mouth too, low and broken, and I feel it—the throb of him, then the heat of it spilling inside me, bare, no barrier, just him pumping into me and staying there, and he keeps thrusting through it, slow, heavy pushes, making sure it stays, and I come again around him, a long rolling one that leaves me limp and sobbing on the paper.
He stays inside me until he's finished, until his weight settles over my back and his forehead drops to my shoulder blade, and we're both just breathing, the table creaking faintly under us.
Then he pulls out. Slowly, and I feel everything—the drag, the wet rush that follows, thicker than before, the cool air on the mess he's left behind.
He doesn't hand me anything. Doesn't clean me up.
I hear the little snick of the trash lid anyway, out of habit, and when I turn my head, he's still bare, still hard, and he hasn't reached for his lab coat at all.
He looks at me on the table, still bent over, still open, still dripping onto his paper, and something crosses his face that isn't clinical at all.
His hand comes down on my hip, and he turns me—just rolls me over onto my back like I weigh nothing, one palm flat on my stomach, and the paper tears a little under my shoulder, and I don't care.
He picks up my little bag from the counter and throws it in the trash.
Then he's over me, knees between mine, pushing my thighs wide with the flats of his hands.
"You don't need it anymore. Now keep your legs open for me. I'm not done filling you."
He goes back in my sopping wet pushy with one slow push, and I'm so wet and so open that he slides all the way home in a single stroke, and my back arches off the table and my hands find his forearms and hold on.
He doesn't fuck me the way he did before.
This is slower. Deliberate. He watches my face the whole time, my mouth, my eyes, and every time he seats himself, he grinds there and stays a beat too long, and I can feel what he already put in me being pushed deeper, worked into me, and I make a sound that isn't a word.
"That's it," he says, quiet, almost tender. "Take it slow. Let it settle. You're going to keep all of it, Delilah. Every time I fill you, you're going to lie there and let it stay."
I come again with his thumb on my clit and his name in my mouth, and he follows me a minute later, hips stuttering, and I feel the second flood of heat join the first, more than my body knows what to do with, and it runs out of me onto the paper when he finally eases back.
"Don't clean up," he says. "I want you to feel that on your drive home. "