Addicted Angel in the Hospital Bed

My name was Lindsey Hawthorn, and I had struggled with this compulsion for as long as I could remember.

Everyone always thought I was a good, quiet girl, but only I knew the truth—the intense, almost unbearable craving I had for men. Just the sight of a strong, muscular man was enough to make me weak.

By the time I reached college, this need had completely spiraled out of control. Sometimes, even the slightest friction while walking would trigger an overwhelming release. People would stare, probably thinking I had wet myself.

This compulsion was seriously affecting my daily life. I confided in my professor about my struggles, and he suggested that I see a doctor.

That day, I went to the women's clinic. After checking in, I lay on the examination table, staring at the empty room. The faint scent of male hormones lingered in the air.

The itch started again. Between my legs, it felt like ants crawling inside, and my mind was flooded with thoughts of men.

It was unbearable.

With no one around, I couldn't resist slipping my hand beneath my skirt.

I knew I was beautiful, with a body that had developed in all the right ways. My legs were long and slender, and my curves—especially my chest—strained against my clothes even while I lay down. It was cruel, being given this body and then cursed with this humiliating, unrelenting desire.

At that moment, the door to the room opened. A doctor in a white coat stepped inside. His head was lowered, and I couldn't make out his face.

I yanked my hand back. It was still coated with sticky residue. The thought of someone discovering my condition made me flush with embarrassment.

Even in front of him, I couldn't release the shame.

"Lie on your stomach and lift your hips. I need to check you," the doctor instructed.

I turned over and positioned myself face down, lifting my hips as high as I could. The posture made me feel utterly exposed. I had never done anything like this in front of a man.

I was already damp between my legs. To my embarrassment, the doctor grabbed my pants and pulled them down.

Instantly, my pale, round buttocks were revealed.

"You're really going to take off my pants?" I asked in a small, papery whisper.

The doctor chuckled. "How else am I supposed to examine you?"

"B-but…" I stammered.

Being completely exposed gave me goosebumps. The compulsion surged violently, sending a deep, uncontrollable itch through me. I was terrified I might lose control.

I finally felt a little reassured. After all, the doctor was just doing his job—it was probably me being too sensitive. I clenched my resolve, lifted my hips high, and let him examine me, trying to ignore the sharp, gnawing itch.

The next moment, his rough hands pressed against my firm, rounded buttocks. He wasn't wearing gloves.

Normally, doctors wear gloves when examining patients. His warm, rough hands on me made it almost impossible to hold back.

My body itched fiercely, as if a volcano had ignited inside me, searing through my insides.

"Doctor, why aren't you wearing gloves?" I murmured.

"This way, I can examine you better and help you heal," he replied.

For the sake of recovery, I reluctantly let him continue. If I could just hold out a little longer, I would be free.

I bit my lip, trying to control the burning itch deep in my body.

However, the way he touched me felt wrong. It didn't feel like a real examination. It felt off, almost violating.

His rough palms kneaded my skin in slow, controlled circles, sending a shameful shiver through me.

A soft, involuntary moan escaped my lips as the fire inside me raged hotter.

And still, it wasn't enough. He squeezed harder, kneading the flesh of my buttocks like clay.

He couldn't help but murmur in approval. "It's so soft and smooth."

In an instant, I felt my entire body go limp, overcome by a strange, tingling weakness. My hips lifted higher on their own, and before I could stop it, a warm rush escaped me.

How was this supposed to be healing me? It only made the ache worse.

"Doctor, this feels so strange. It's like you're simply touching me," I murmured.

He paused, then responded smoothly, "This is the initial phase of treatment. I am drawing the desire from deep within you. Only after it has been completely released can we truly begin to cure you."

As strange as his words sounded, he was a doctor after all, so I had no choice but to trust him for now. Then, he crooked one finger and slowly traced it along the cleft of my rear.

A jolt of electricity shot up from the base of my spine, sending waves of tingling, aching sensation through my entire back.

The next second, his finger reached my…