Times Up. The room is dim. Expensive furniture reduced to shapes in the darkness. The only sound besides your own breathing is a quiet hum from a digital timer mounted on the opposite wall. Red numerals glow in the gloom: 00:59:57.
Just under one hour.
"You're awake." The voice comes from somewhere near the door. You crane your neck, wrists already testing the leather restraints, and watch him step into the faint light. You don't know his face. But you recognize the way his eyes move over your body. Roaming. An inventory assessment.
He's carrying things. Metal glints.
"The rules are simple," he says, approaching the bed. His footsteps are unhurried. "When the timer hits zero, I undo the restraints. The door opens. You leave." He pauses at the edge of the mattress, looking down at you. "One small addition."
Cold metal touches your nipple. You gasp as he fastens the clamp, the bite sharp and immediate, radiating heat straight down to your core. The second clamp follows. You arch involuntarily, straining against the leather.
He produces a vibrator. Sleek. Expensive looking. You watch him lower it between your legs, watch the silicone part your folds and settle against your clit. He turns it on.
"Every time you cum, an hour gets added to the clock."
You look at the timer. You look at yourself. Spread open, clamped, vibrating.
One hour. You can do one hour. You just have to not cum.
He steps back. Settles into a chair at the side of the bed and watches.
You try to focus on the numbers. Try to think about other things. Work emails. Grocery lists. The pattern of shadows on the ceiling.
But the clamps send sharp little signals with every breath. The vibrator hums against flesh that's growing wetter by the minute. You clench your jaw. Breathe through your nose. Don't cum. Don't cum.
He hasn't moved. He's just watching.
Your hips twitch. You didn't tell them to. The pressure is building low in your belly, a warmth that spreads and tightens simultaneously. You're wet enough now that the vibrator glides, hits new angles.
You bite your lip until you taste blood.
The numbers blur. 00:47:23. You've been holding on for twelve minutes. It feels like hours. Your thighs are trembling. Your breath comes in sharp little gasps you can't control.
He knows. You can see it in his stillness. The way he's leaned forward slightly. Waiting.
"No," you whisper. To yourself. To your body. To the orgasm building like a wave you can't outswim.
It hits you anyway. Your back arches off the bed, a sound tears out of your throat that you don't recognize, and you're cumming so hard your vision goes white at the edges. It rolls through you in pulses, each one a betrayal, each one exquisite.
When you can see again, you look at the clock.
01:46:12
"Impressive effort," he says. He's standing now, holding a remote. "Let's try a different setting."
The vibration changes. Pulsing now. It mimics something. A heartbeat. A thrust. Your overstimulated clit throbs in response, too sensitive, too raw, and somehow already building again.
"No... please.." you gasp out, the words weak.
"Please what?" He moves closer. His fingers trail along your inner thigh, impossibly light. "Please make you cum again?" He dips a finger into the wetness pooling between your legs, holds it up so you can see. "You're dripping. Your body knows what it wants."
You shake your head. But your hips are rocking against the vibrator, tiny movements you can't seem to stop.
This time when you cum, you're crying. Tears streaming down your temples into your hair. The clock resets: 02:38:47.
He fucks you for the first time somewhere around hour four.
Slow, at first. Long strokes that let you feel every inch, that build friction to an unbearable degree while the vibrator keeps humming against your clit. You cum on his cock within minutes. The clock adds another hour. He doesn't stop. Doesn't even pause.
He switches to something harder. Brutal. Each thrust punches the air out of your lungs, drives you up the bed until the restraints catch. You cum again. You can't help it. Your body has stopped consulting you. It just responds. Takes. Shatters.
He introduces other things. Hot wax pooling in the hollow of your throat, dripping down between your breasts. Ice traced along your inner thighs until you're shivering and burning at once. His mouth on your cunt, tongue flicking precisely where the vibrator has made you most sensitive, most ruined.
He talks through it the whole way. That's probably the worst part. "You get wetter when you're scared." "That's three in a row. You're getting efficient." "We have so much time now."
The clock climbs. Six hours. Eight. Twelve. You stop being able to track it. The numbers lose meaning. Everything loses meaning except the next wave, the next peak, the next hour added to your sentence.
Somewhere in the blur, you realize you've stopped wanting it to end.
The thought surfaces between orgasms, when you're floating in that shattered space where language doesn't quite work. You should want to escape. You remember wanting that, vaguely, like a dream you had as a child. But the wanting has curdled into something else.
He slows down. You're not sure when. The frantic edge bleeds away, replaced by something almost gentle. The vibrator stops. He removes the clamps. Your nipples throb with the renewed blood flow, a pain that registers as pleasure now. Everything registers as pleasure now.
You blink at the clock. 00:06:43.
Six minutes. After everything. How?
He's undoing the restraints. Your wrists fall free. Your ankles. You can move. You can leave.
The thought sends ice through your veins.
Leave? Leave this room? Leave him? Go back to a world where no one touches you like this, where you're responsible for your own orgasms, where pleasure is something you have to chase instead of something that hunts you down and devours you?
The silence of outside presses against the walls. Empty. Ordinary. Unbearable.
He steps back. Gestures toward the door. "It's almost time."
Your hand moves own between your legs, finding your clit, swollen and slick and excruciatingly sensitive. You rub with clumsy desperation, chasing the build.
"Don't," you hear yourself say. Begging. Sobbing. "Don't make me leave. Please. I need to cum. I need more time."
He goes still. Watching you fuck yourself on his bed, desperate to add another hour to your captivity. The pressure is building fast, your ruined body trained now, eager.
"Let me stay. I'll be good. I'll cum as many times as you want. Just don't make me go."
Four minutes on the clock.
Your fingers work faster. You're so close. So close to another hour in this room, in this darkness, in this endless cycle of being broken and put back together wrong.
summary: struggling to conceive, you visit a specialist recommended by a handful of women in the community. you were warned that he has some outlandish methods, but he’d go to any length for patient satisfaction.
warnings: brief mentions of infertility, non-consent / dubious consent, drugging, allusions to reader cheating, breeding, humiliation, unprotected sex, reader is strapped in by lithotomy stirrups
word count: 1.6k
authors note: heyyyy … how y’all doin’ … it's @caskethrill
you were another number on the board. twenty-nine, to be exact. exhaustion was thick and heavy in doctor jack abbott’s bones, and the exhilaration of saving lives had simmered down to obligation. his diagnoses grew more robotic by the hour— eleven of twelve. he hoped you would be his last patient of the evening.
you were already prepped by the nurses— stripped down into a hospital gown and poked and prodded and scanned. the lithotomy stirrups forced your legs open, angled just above your head. the straps were tight and biting into the soft fat of your calves. this wasn’t typically how you greeted people— slick cunt first, beet-red face second.
you should be used to this; the sterile, antiseptic air that made your nostrils burn. the mundane monitors that added another block onto your building tower of anticipation with every rhythmic beep. the paper sheet crinkled underneath your weight every time you nervously shifted, and the stark white ceiling was starting to get old after twenty minutes of staring.
he’d waltzed into the room without the slightest glance in your direction, introduced himself in a monotone manner, and showed more interest in the chart than your naked bottom half. maybe this is why he was the best. maybe this is why everyone in your support group recommended him with an all-too-eager grin on their face. he was there to yield results, not to ask about your afternoon plans while he fished around in your insides.
“you’re not able to conceive?”
a question that never stopped nagging at you, but from the handsome doctor with salt-and-pepper hair and a clinical timbre to his voice, it felt condescending— like you were doing something wrong. like you hadn’t tried basal body temperature charting or went two years without a sip of wine. like you showed up here with your legs spread open for him for fun.
“afraid not.” your chest was practically heaving with each breath. you loathed this part—knowing that with every question you answered, you got closer to being split open and observed by a new stranger. it was a discomfort that seeped into your bones.
he was positioned over the computer, long and thick fingers hovering just above the keyboard. the stubble on his perfectly crafted jaw and the furrow of his brow was illuminated by the light of the screen. he’d started to wrinkle, but it complemented the ruggedness of his appearance. his astute gaze shifted from whatever notes he was studying on your chart, to your lily-livered gaze and finally to the glistening mound between your thighs.
“let’s take a look, yeah?” jack initiated, pulling on his second glove with a sudden snap. the wheels of his stool dragged across the floor, positioning himself between your legs. you were avoiding his eyes like a guilty dog— quick to toss your head back, face hot and heart thumping in your ears as you awaited the inevitable.
jack didn’t need the frigid gel to ease you open. in fact, you were practically soaking the sheet beneath you. “lubricant slows down sperm,” he mentioned rather clinically when he breached your entrance— joint by joint, until you felt his knuckle flat against your mound. you were tortured by the squelch of his touch, gloves enhancing the wet sound of being stretched. His digits were hefty, just rough enough to make you squirm. “did’ya know that?”
you shook your head, eyes screwed shut now. the pout on your lips was almost too minuscule to see, but jack’s entire job was to observe. “no… of course you didn’t. lucky girl, though. young enough that you don’t need that stuff.”
your stomach twisted and tightened in unfamiliar ways— dread? arousal? you wondered why it mattered how it would take to your womb if this was just an exam, but the thought was replaced with mind-numbing pleasure when he scissored a second finger inside, curling the tips just enough to brush your cervix. you’d done this enough to know the procedure. the speculum and scope were splayed out by a nurse at her bedside but they went unused. maybe he was… old-fashioned? maybe that’s why he was the best? you didn’t have the wherewithal to ask. the room was starting to spin, and the tips of your toes were tingling. you reckoned that the benzodiazepine that you’d taken in preparation for this appointment had started to kick in.
“mucus is healthy,” abbott observed aloud, thriving off of the humiliation that washed over you in intensifying waves. your doctor was diagnosing you as wet. the words hung in the air like a taunt, accompanied by the continued lewd sounds that further proved his analysis.
“are you ovulating?” his tone was too casual and clinical for a man knuckle deep in your pussy. you squeaked out a meek “yes”, and jack’s hum seemed pleased. he soothed his fingers along that achy spot inside of you, and you inhaled.
“no abnormalities,” jack murmured, more to himself when he got a glimpse at your face— lips parted, cheek pressed flush to the exam table like you either couldn’t wait for this to be over or you didn’t want him to stop. perhaps both. however, he was the doctor and he knew what was best. you were pliant enough to leave it at that.
“everything is fine on your end…” jack added, feigning confusion when his fingers started to pump at an agonizingly slow pace. “maybe your husband is shooting blanks. why don’t we see?”
your eyes were wet when they finally opened, bottom lip trembling in trepidation. you clenched at the indication, anticipation blooming in the depths of your gut. you couldn’t possibly believe that he meant what you both feared and hoped for until his spare hand made quick work of untying his scrubs. he kicked the stool out from under himself, standing to tug the navy fabric down to his mid-thighs with his boxers. he had a sinister smile on his face when he spoke the words “don’t move”; like he knew something you didn’t. like you had overlooked the suspiciously high dosage of the benzodiazepine the nurse fed you earlier; you made for the perfect victim with your trusting nature. you didn’t have a choice now— your brain was blanketed by something fuzzy and warm, limbs twitching until they were practically immobile.
you hadn’t realized just how much you’d been enjoying the stretch of his fingers until it was gone. you were stunned into silence when he propped your hips up with slick, gloved hands. he nudged his tip against your weeping hole, and pushed. he invaded you inch by inch, penetrating just deep enough to align with your cervix.
as he began to thrust, latex-covered thumbs brushed over the peaks of your nipples that were perked up from the cool hospital air. they hadn’t gone unnoticed through the thin material of your gown. you mewled.
jack hunched over then, rutting into you like a dog in heat. “husband not fucking you good enough, huh? had to come get fucked by a real man, is that it?” his lips brushed the shell of your ear, scrub top pushing your gown further up, bunching at your ribs until he shoved his freezing gloved hands under and squeezed. “didn’t even need the gel, pretty girl. that’s how badly you needed it… fuckin’ soaked.”
jack didn’t ignore the way your gaze glossed over, endeared by the few fat stray tears that slipped down your face. “this is what you’re made for, hm? gotta be useful somehow, right?” it was hard to miss the way you clawed at the table beneath you, leaving crescent-shaped marks in the leather. he was right; you'd felt that your worth relied on what came next. you weren’t putting up a fight, and surely it wasn’t just the sedative. they were to render you almost helpless with poor coordination, not completely with paralysis.
“you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” his tone was accusatory, filling you with unbearable humiliation until you felt the slap of his balls against your ass. “yeah? like gettin’ raped by your doctor? such a sick little patient, aren’t you?”
“should have you locked up in one of those padded cells so i can come and play with you whenever i want, baby.” the soft cries that you started to blubber only spurred him on, his hips meeting yours in a bruising smack. his lips were still inches from your ear, voice turning into more of a growl with each word. “check up on you as that stomach and those tits start to swell… up until you have that baby of mine.”
he tweaked your nipples again. your head was thick with desire, unable to think outside of how good it felt. how you couldn’t control the way your back arched into his greedy touch. submission wasn’t a choice you had the luxury of, and his words were laced with faux pity. “s’okay. i’m almost done.”
then, his hips stuttered, bullying the heft of his cock in until his groin was flush to yours. he let out a gutteral moan. his balls tightened when his spend spurted out and into your womb. it was hot and thick— fed to you and forced further into your uterus in a handful of weak thrusts, painting your insides and filling you with warmth. your toes curled, instinctively bending at the knees and fighting the buckle around your ankles. the drowsiness made it a pathetic attempt to pull him in— stop him from pulling out. instead, you planted your feet into the stirrups and let out a pathetic whine. your eyes were half-lidded. jack knew you were long gone.
“i’ll be back in a couple of hours to try this again, yeah? we’ll keep going until it sticks.”
cum was leaking out of your hole, down your thighs and the crack of your ass until it soaked through the paper under your ass. the last thing you remember hearing before you were sucked under was “don’t worry, you’ll get that baby in you.”
number twenty nine ఌ — struggling to conceive, you visit a specialist recommended by a handful of women in the community. you were warned that he has some outlandish methods, but he’d go to any length for patient satisfaction.
pixelskylines
2087
izzy806
theartofmadeline
kaledo-art
discoholicmusic
origamiaround
