Doctors Orders: Part 2

I booked the extended consult for the following Tuesday at 6:45 p.m.

The clinic was quieter at that hour. Most of the staff had already left. The receptionist gave me a polite smile, confirmed the appointment under Dr. Harlan’s name, and told me to take a seat in the same exam room as before. The door closed behind me with a soft click that felt different this time.

I changed into the gown and sat on the edge of the table. No paper sheet underneath today—someone had prepared the room with a full fitted cover. The small change made my pulse pick up. I left my clothes folded on the chair and waited.

Dr. Harlan entered six minutes later. He locked the door behind him. The sound of the bolt sliding home was quiet and unmistakable. He didn’t comment on it. He simply set his tablet down, washed his hands, and turned to face me.

“Ms. Cole. You decided on the more thorough exam.”

“Yes.”

“Good.” His eyes moved over me in the gown—the open back, the bare legs, the way the fabric gaped slightly at the chest. “Lie back. Same as last time. Legs relaxed.”

I lay back. The table was slightly inclined. He stepped between my knees, closer than necessary for a standard abdominal check, and rested both hands on my lower thighs just above the knees. The contact was warm and steady. My skin prickled under his palms.

“Last week your body reacted to ordinary touch,” he said. His voice stayed low and even, the same clinical tone he used for blood pressure readings. “Today we’re going to see how far that reaction goes. You can stop me at any point. Clear?”

“Clear.”

He nodded once and pushed the gown up to my waist in one smooth motion. The cool air of the room hit my bare cunt. I hadn’t worn underwear under the gown. His gaze dropped and stayed there for a long second. I was already glistening. There was no way to hide it.

“You’re wet before I’ve done anything,” he observed.

Heat flooded my face. “I know.”

“Don’t apologize.” He placed one hand flat on my lower abdomen, the same place that had made me jump last week, and applied gentle pressure. “This is useful information. It tells me your nerves are sensitive and your arousal threshold is low in this environment. That’s relevant.”

His other hand slid higher along my inner thigh, stopping just short of where I needed it. My hips shifted without permission. He noticed and pressed down more firmly on my stomach, pinning me lightly to the table.

“Stay still. I’m going to examine you properly.”

Two fingers stroked through my folds, slow and deliberate, spreading the wetness. A soft, involuntary sound left my throat. He watched my face while he did it, expression calm, almost focused, as if he were taking notes behind his eyes. Then those two fingers pushed inside me.

The stretch was sudden and clinical and so good my back arched. He worked them in and out with precise, measured strokes, curling against the front wall until my thighs started to tremble. His thumb found my clit and rested there without moving, just applying steady pressure while his fingers kept fucking into me.

“Heart rate’s elevated again,” he said quietly. “Breathing’s changed. You’re close already.”

I nodded, unable to form words. The wet sound of his fingers moving inside me filled the small room. He kept the rhythm exact—neither faster nor slower—until the tension coiled so tight I thought I might break. Then he stopped completely, fingers still buried, thumb still pressing.

I made a broken noise of protest.

“Not yet,” he said. “I need to check something else first.”

He withdrew his hand. I watched, dazed, as he reached for a pair of gloves from the dispenser, pulled them on with a snap, and coated two fingers with lubricant from a small packet. The sight of him preparing should have felt medical. It only made the ache between my legs worse.

“Turn onto your side. Facing the wall. Knees bent.”

I obeyed. The gown tangled around my waist. He stepped behind me, one hand steadying my hip, and pressed a slick finger against my ass. The pressure was firm and patient. When the tight ring of muscle gave, he slid the finger in to the first knuckle, then deeper, working me open with the same methodical care he had given my cunt.

A helpless sound escaped me. The dual sensation of being empty where I wanted him and filled where I hadn’t expected it made my head spin. He added a second finger after a minute, stretching me slowly, scissoring gently while his other hand reached around and found my clit again.

“Still with me?” he asked, voice low near my ear.

“Yes.”

“Good. I’m going to bring you off like this. You don’t come until I say. Understood?”

“Yes.”

He worked both hands in a steady, relentless rhythm—fingers deep in my ass, others circling my clit with exact pressure. The pleasure built differently this time, heavier, more overwhelming. My body shook. I bit down on my own wrist to stay quiet. The exam room door was locked, but the rest of the clinic wasn’t completely empty.

“Please,” I whispered.

“Not yet.”

He kept me there on the edge for what felt like minutes, adjusting the angle or the speed every time I got too close. Sweat dampened the back of my neck. My thighs were slick. When he finally spoke again, the word was quiet and absolute.

“Now.”

I came hard, muffling the cry against my arm, body clamping down around his fingers in strong pulses. He worked me through it without stopping, drawing the orgasm out until I was trembling and oversensitive and half-wrecked on the table.

Only then did he ease his fingers free. I heard the snap of the gloves coming off. When I managed to look over my shoulder he was washing his hands at the sink, back to me, posture perfectly composed.

He dried them, turned, and regarded me still lying on my side with the gown hiked up and my body marked by the flush of release.

“The exam is complete,” he said. His voice had returned to its usual calm register, but his eyes were darker. “You respond extremely well to controlled stimulation. That gives us options for future visits.”

I pushed myself up on unsteady arms. “Future visits?”

“If you’d like.” He picked up the tablet and made a short note. “Same time next week is open. We can continue the assessment. Or, if you prefer, I can make a house call. Some patients find the clinic environment limiting once the preliminary work is done.”

The words house call sent a fresh, weak pulse through my spent body.

“I’ll… think about it.”

“Do.” He moved to the door and unlocked it with the same quiet precision he did everything else. “Get dressed, Ms. Cole. Drink some water before you leave. Your blood pressure will need a minute to settle.”

He paused with his hand on the handle and looked back at me once more.

“Next time,” he said, “you can skip the gown entirely. It only gets in the way.”

Then he left, closing the door behind him.

I sat on the edge of the exam table for a long time, legs still shaking, the evidence of what he had done to me cooling on my thighs, already knowing I would take the next appointment.

And that it would not be in this room.