Doctors Orders: Part 3

I returned the following Tuesday at the same late hour.

The clinic was even quieter than before. Only the security lights in the hallway and the soft glow under Dr. Harlan’s door remained. The receptionist had already gone home. He had told me to come straight back when I checked in by text.

I stepped into the exam room and closed the door. No gown waited on the table this time. The paper cover had been replaced with a full fitted sheet again. I stripped completely—blouse, bra, skirt, panties—folded everything on the chair, and sat on the edge of the table naked. The air-conditioned coolness tightened my nipples and raised faint goosebumps along my arms.

I didn’t have to wait long.

Dr. Harlan entered, locked the door behind him, and paused when he saw me. His eyes moved over my bare body in one slow, thorough pass. Approval settled in his expression, quiet and dark.

“You followed instructions,” he said.

“You said the gown got in the way.”

“It does.” He set his tablet down without looking at it and washed his hands. When he turned back to me he didn’t bother with gloves. “Lie back. Knees bent. Feet on the table.”

I obeyed. The position left me fully open to him. He stepped between my legs, rested both hands on my inner thighs, and pushed them wider. Cool air brushed over wet skin. I had been ready since I left my apartment.

He didn’t start with fingers this time.

He lowered his head and put his mouth on me.

The first long stroke of his tongue pulled a broken sound from my throat. He licked through my folds with deliberate, practiced pressure, circling my clit before sucking it between his lips. My hips jerked. He pinned them down with one forearm and kept going—slow, thorough, clinical in his precision even while he ate me like he had been thinking about it all week.

“Stay still,” he murmured against me. “I’m assessing sensitivity.”

I tried. My thighs trembled anyway. He slid two fingers inside while his mouth worked my clit, curling them against the front wall in the same exact rhythm he had used before. The dual sensation built fast and heavy. I fisted the sheet and bit my lip to stay quiet.

He brought me right to the edge and held me there, adjusting the pressure every time my breathing changed. When I started to shake he pulled his mouth away and looked up the length of my body, lips shiny, eyes dark.

“Not yet.”

I made a helpless sound of protest. He ignored it, straightened, and unbuckled his belt with one hand. The sound of the zipper followed. He freed his cock—thick, already hard, the head flushed and wet at the tip—and stroked it once while he looked at me spread open on the table.

“This is the next part of the exam,” he said quietly. “Tell me to stop if you need to.”

“Don’t stop.”

He lined himself up and pushed in with one steady thrust.

The stretch forced the air from my lungs. He filled me completely, sinking in until his hips pressed against mine. For a moment he stayed still, letting me feel every inch, both of us breathing hard in the quiet room. Then he started to move.

Deep, measured strokes that made the table creak faintly. One hand stayed on my hip, holding me in place. The other braced beside my shoulder. He watched my face the entire time, expression focused, almost intent, as if he were cataloguing every reaction.

“You’re tighter than last week,” he said, voice rough around the edges. “Still soaked. Still responsive.”

I could only nod. The angle was perfect. Every thrust dragged against the sensitive spot inside me until my vision started to blur. He kept the pace controlled—neither rushed nor gentle—fucking me with the same precise attention he gave everything else.

When he reached between us and rubbed my clit with his thumb, my back arched off the table.

“Please—”

“Come.”

The permission shattered me. I came hard, thighs clamping around his waist, a muffled cry escaping against the side of my hand. He thrust through it without slowing, drawing the pulses out until I was shaking and oversensitive underneath him.

Only then did his control slip.

He gripped both hips, lifted me slightly for a deeper angle, and fucked me harder—short, powerful strokes that pushed me up the table. The wet sound of it filled the exam room. His jaw tightened. A low groan left him as he buried himself to the hilt and came, flooding me in thick, hot pulses. I felt every one of them. The sensation set off another smaller wave that left me limp against the sheet.

We stayed joined for several long seconds. The only sounds were our breathing and the distant hum of the building’s air system. Eventually he pulled out. I felt the slow slide of his come leaving me and dripping onto the sheet between my legs. He watched it for a moment, expression dark with satisfaction, before stepping back and fixing his clothes.

He washed his hands again, thorough and calm, then turned to look at me still sprawled naked and used on the table.

“The clinic is becoming limiting,” he said. His voice had returned to its even register, but his eyes remained heated. “Next week I’ll come to you instead. House call. Same time. Text me the address.”

My pulse, still unsteady, kicked harder at the words.

“All right.”

“Leave yourself unlocked. I don’t want to wait in a hallway.” He picked up his tablet, made a brief note, and moved to the door. “And Ms. Cole—don’t clean up until you get home. I want you to feel it the entire way back.”

He unlocked the door and paused once more.

“Same instructions as before. No underwear when I arrive. I’ll handle the rest.”

Then he left.

I sat up slowly on the stained sheet, thighs slick, body aching in the best way, and already began composing the text with my address while the evidence of what he had just done to me continued to leak out of me onto the exam table.

Next week he would come to me.

And there would be no pretense of an exam left at all.