Inspired by the work of @resus-girl-2 , whose posts helped shape the tone and premise of this story.
The building didn’t look like a clinic from the street. No waiting-room posters with smiling lungs and pastel heart diagrams. No sign, no hours, no promise of legitimacy. Just a clean brass number on an unmarked door and the kind of quiet that felt curated, as if sound itself had been asked to behave.
She paused with her hand on the handle anyway, letting the last second stretch. This had been deliberate. The profile. The negotiation. The careful exchange of boundaries and safewords. The shared understanding that tonight was fiction, structured and contained, but immersive enough to feel dangerous if she let herself believe in it too much.
A lock clicked from the inside.
He didn’t look theatrical. No exaggerated authority, no costume-shop props. Dark trousers. A pale button-down with the sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. A real stethoscope resting at his collarbone, the kind that wasn’t purchased for atmosphere. He looked competent. Composed.
“Miss?” he prompted, voice warm but measured.
She gave her first name only, as they’d agreed.
“Right on time,” he said, stepping aside.
Inside, the suite was small but meticulously arranged. An exam table with crisp paper. A countertop lined with neatly organized instruments. A blood pressure cuff coiled with quiet precision. A folded gown placed at the edge of the table like an invitation that didn’t pretend to be innocent.
The lighting was soft, but not dim. Clinical enough to make exposure feel intentional, not romantic. It sharpened everything: the clean surfaces, the faint antiseptic scent, the awareness of her own pulse.
He closed the door behind her. Unlocked.
Before she could decide whether that mattered, his tone shifted, subtle but unmistakable.
“Before we begin,” he said, “you’re in control. You can stop at any time. Safeword pauses the scene immediately. Understood?”
Her pulse was already climbing. She wondered if he could hear it without the stethoscope, whether he could read it in her throat the way it flickered there.
He indicated the chair with a small nod. “Have a seat.”
She sat. He took the chair across from her, not crowding, and clicked his pen, settling into the crisp cadence of someone who knew how to wear professionalism like armor.
“So,” he asked, “what brings you in today?”
She held his gaze longer than necessary. “It’s… embarrassing.”
His expression softened with practiced patience. “You’d be surprised.”
“My heart,” she said. “It skips. Loses rhythm.”
She let the silence stretch on purpose, tasting the edge of it. Then she gave him the line they had built this whole scenario around.
His pen stilled for half a second. Not shock. Interest.
He repeated it neutrally, as if it belonged in a textbook. “Palpitations associated with sexual climax. How long has this been happening?”
He asked the standard questions and she answered them cleanly: chest pain, fainting, medications. Each answer felt like a brick in a wall they were building together, a structure strong enough to hold what they both wanted without collapsing into chaos.
Then he set the pen down.
“I’ll start with a basic exam,” he said. “Heart and lungs first. I’ll need you to undress to your underwear and put on the gown. Opening in the back. There’s a screen.”
He said it plainly. No flourish.
Behind the folding screen, she moved with slow care, buying herself seconds. Blouse, skirt, folded neatly. Bra and panties left in place as instructed. The vulnerability pressed against her skin more than the cool air did. The gown was thin cotton, impersonal in a way that made the moment feel sharper rather than safer.
When she stepped out, his gaze didn’t roam.
“Good,” he said quietly. “Up on the table.”
The paper crinkled as she climbed up and sat at the edge. He wheeled his stool closer, warming the stethoscope between his palms before placing it against her collarbone through the thin fabric.
“Cold,” he murmured anyway.
She inhaled sharply as metal met skin.
She obeyed. The gown pulled lightly across her chest.
He moved methodically. Upper lobes. Lower. Around her back. Each placement precise. Each pause long enough to make her aware of how close he was, how his focus narrowed until the rest of the room felt like it vanished.
Her breathing changed. He noticed immediately.
“Heart rate’s elevated,” he observed.
“Is that bad?” she asked, trying for steadiness.
The word landed heavier than it should have.
He straightened slightly, the stethoscope lowering from his hands like a curtain falling. “For an EKG, I’ll need better access,” he said, tone clinical again. “I’m going to lower the gown and place electrodes on your chest and sides. I’ll have to remove your bra. Is that okay?”
He untied the back gently, easing the fabric down with efficient restraint. The gown pooled loosely at her waist. He removed her bra in a swift, practiced motion that was almost too careful, as if he understood that slowness would read as indulgence and speed would read as entitlement. He chose the only middle ground that felt like consent: competence.
She obeyed. Adhesive pads pressed cool against her ribs. Near her sternum. Along her side. His fingers were steady, impersonal in technique but warm, and that contrast made her throat tighten.
Wires followed, thin and orderly. He attached them with quiet focus, eyes flicking between her skin and the monitor.
She did. The machine came alive in soft green light.
Her heart betrayed her immediately.
He studied the tracing and let the smallest pause gather, the kind of pause that made anticipation feel like pressure.
“Anxiety?” he asked mildly.
“Excitement,” she corrected.
A flicker in his eyes, quick as an EKG spike. “We’ll document both.”
He rolled closer, still watching the line. “Now,” he said, voice lowering slightly, “to reproduce the symptom.”
Her pulse jumped at the phrasing alone, as if her body liked being spoken to like a case study.
“I need explicit consent to proceed with stimulation as part of this scene,” he said.
He didn’t rush into it. He framed it, the way a good clinician frames a procedure, and the way a good dominant frames a boundary. He offered the choice anyway, because power without choice would have turned the room sour.
“Do you want to touch yourself while I monitor,” he asked, “or do you want me to maintain control?”
The question tightened something in her chest.
He positioned himself beside the table, one hand braced lightly near her hip, not possessive, simply grounding. He narrated the next steps like a procedure, but his calm voice carried a quiet edge that made her skin feel too awake.
“I’m going to move the gown higher,” he said. “So you’re not fighting fabric.”
The cotton slid upward to her thighs while he kept her covered above the waist. The restraint was intentional, almost cruel in its gentleness. The slow reveal of skin felt louder than anything explicit could have been.
His palm settled at her knee first.
“Breathe,” he instructed.
She tried. The attempt didn’t last.
His hand moved gradually upward, never abrupt, never crude. Measured. Deliberate. Building in small, controlled changes, as if he were turning a dial one click at a time and listening for the response. The attention was almost clinical in its thoroughness, but the goal was not hidden. He was watching what she did when she was pushed, how quickly her composure thinned into honesty.
On the monitor, her heart climbed in tidy increments.
“One-ten,” he murmured.
“You’re enjoying this,” she accused softly, breath already uneven.
“I’m collecting data.”
He adjusted pressure, adjusted pace, never rushing her. He held her at the edge longer than felt fair, coaxing her up in slow steps instead of letting her tumble. Every time her body tried to chase the sensation, he steadied her with a quiet reminder, keeping the tracing clean, keeping her caught between wanting and obeying.
The EKG line became its own kind of narration. A steady climb. A tightening rhythm. The machine turning her into proof.
“One-twenty,” he noted, as if pleased by the number and not by the way she shivered when he said it.
When he asked what she felt, her answer came out like a confession. Heat. Pressure. An unbearable awareness of being watched by something that couldn’t be charmed or lied to.
He didn’t devour her with his eyes. That was the unsettling part. He was studying her response, tracking the moment her breath fractured, the moment her body began to move without permission from her pride.
Then the monitor shifted.
“There,” he said quietly. “Rhythm change.”
She felt it too, a flutter beneath her ribs, brief but unmistakable. A small betrayal that made her go still.
He didn’t rush her. He paced her. Increased intensity in careful increments. Adjusted tempo with scientific calm.
When her hips tried to move, he stopped her with a soft warning, voice low but absolute.
“Hold still. Clean tracing.”
The authority went straight through her.
The crest hit her like a sudden wave, not described in mechanics but in aftermath: her breath breaking, her fingers curling into the paper, her face turning helplessly honest. The monitor scrambled. A skipped beat, then two in quick succession, then a shaky return toward something steadier.
He stayed calm, voice grounding.
She trembled through the aftershock, eyes unfocused. He watched the line smooth out as if he could will it into obedience.
“There’s your arrhythmia,” he said softly.
She managed a weak laugh. “Diagnosis?”
“Highly responsive to controlled stimulus.”
He capped his pen with a click that sounded too final in a room like this. “Observation.”
“Replication,” he added. “One data point isn’t sufficient.”
She looked at him through heavy lashes, still flushed, still caught. “You just want to do it again.”
“I want reliable results.”
Consent was checked again. Clear. Steady.
The second round built faster, not because he rushed, but because her body remembered. Her heart climbed sooner. The tracing tightened. The flutter arrived again, stronger this time, and instead of resolving, it lingered, the line wobbling in a way that didn’t feel playful anymore.
His expression changed first. The calm didn’t vanish, but it sharpened into something real.
“Stay with me,” he said, voice suddenly edged with command.
Her smile faltered. “Doctor?”
The rhythm didn’t settle.
The playful atmosphere evaporated so quickly it felt like someone had turned off the oxygen in the room. His hands moved with urgency now, the “procedure” snapping out of fantasy and into triage. He stopped the scene with a single sentence that carried no negotiation.
He checked her, quick and efficient, eyes flicking from her face to the monitor. “Any dizziness? Chest pain?”
“My chest…” she started, and the words thinned into breath.
The monitor spiraled. The line became chaos.
Silence, except for the machine’s merciless tone.
He moved without hesitation.
He lowered the table. He began compressions with brutal steadiness, not performative, not hesitant. No theatrics, just work, his breath controlled while hers was gone. He cleared space, prepared the shock, did what had to be done with efficient precision.
Her body jolted. The monitor flared, then slipped again into refusal.
He didn’t plead. He worked.
Time fractured into effort and denial, the room reduced to a loop of motion and assessment and the awful, stubborn insistence of the flat line.
“Come back,” he muttered, no longer performing for anyone, voice rough around the edges. “Not like this.”
And then, finally, the screen flickered.
He froze only long enough to confirm it, then leaned in as if he could pull her back with proximity alone.
“There you are,” he breathed.
Her eyelids fluttered. Air scraped back into her lungs like it hurt to exist again. He stayed close, one hand braced at her shoulder as if anchoring her to gravity.
“What happened?” she whispered, voice raw and small.
“You lost rhythm,” he said evenly. “You’re back.”
Her fingers found his wrist and held on, tight. Like she didn’t trust the world not to take her again.
“You didn’t panic,” she said, and it sounded like disbelief.
“I did,” he answered quietly. “Just not outwardly.”
The room felt altered now, charged differently. The props were the same, the table was the same, but the fantasy had been burned thin enough to show the structure underneath: consequence. Fear. Relief so sharp it almost felt like anger.
He brushed hair back from her forehead, gentler than before, and his voice, when it came, was not dominance. It was truth.
“You could have died,” he said.
“No.” His gaze held hers. A pause heavy with what almost was. “Don’t scare me like that again.”
Her hand tightened around his. “I’m here.”
He studied her face as if memorizing proof of life, as if he needed to know every detail of her being awake.
Then he leaned in and kissed her.
Not hungry. Not theatrical. Urgent in its relief. A kiss that tasted like survival more than desire, fear threaded through it like a wire.
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