I hate how much I need these appointments.
Every single week I’m back in that freezing cold doctor’s office, shivering as he locks the door behind me with a calm click. “Strip. Everything off,” he orders without even looking up from his chart. The room is always ice-cold, my nipples hardening instantly the second the air hits my skin. I fold my clothes neatly on the chair like he expects, then stand there naked and exposed while he circles me slowly.
He starts with my breasts. Rough, gloved hands grope and squeeze them, lifting and pressing, pinching my sensitive nipples until I whimper. “Still too sensitive here,” he mutters clinically, twisting one harder just to watch me squirm. He comments on my weight, my posture, how soft my belly is, slapping my abdomen lightly to watch it jiggle. Every little flaw is noted out loud in that detached, professional tone that makes me feel like a piece of meat being examined.
Then comes the worst part.
He guides me onto the table, forces my legs up into the cold metal stirrups, spreading me obscenely wide. Thick leather restraints buckle tightly around my wrists and thighs, pinning me completely. I can’t close my legs. I can’t even shift away. I’m completely helpless, cunt on full display under the harsh lights.
The doctor sits between my spread legs and begins the pelvic exam. His gloved fingers probe roughly around my entrance, spreading my lips apart without any gentleness. He slides two thick fingers deep inside me, scissoring and stretching me open while he measures and inspects. The speculum comes next — ice-cold metal that he forces into my tight hole without warming it. He cranks it open wide, stretching my walls painfully as he shines a light inside me, commenting on how wet I’m already getting.
“Patient is exhibiting clear signs of arousal again,” he says flatly, like I’m not even there.
His fingers find my swollen clit and start rubbing — firm, clinical, merciless circles. No matter how much I struggle against the restraints or beg him to stop, he doesn’t. He just keeps rubbing faster, occasionally slapping my exposed cunt when I squirm too much. The wet, filthy sounds of his gloved fingers pumping in and out of my dripping pussy echo in the quiet room. He adds a third finger, stretching me brutally while his thumb grinds hard on my clit until my thighs are shaking uncontrollably.
I fight it. I really do. But I always end up cumming hard around his fingers like a pathetic, restrained little slut — walls clenching and gushing all over his hand while he watches with cold professional interest.
By the time he’s done, I’m a dripping, trembling mess. He finally removes the speculum and restraints, hands me a single thin wipe like it’s nothing, and says, “Clean yourself up. Same time next week.”
I know I should stop going. But I’ll be back. Naked. Shivering. Restrained. Until he finally says I’m “cured”… even though we both know I never will be.
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