The cold, hard wood was grounding. Comforting in a strange way under your fingertips. Flexing closed and open, scraping your nails against it. You couldn't help the shivers that moved in teasing waves across your skin.
Why was it always so cold?
A hand—warm and tender—placed itself between your shoulder blades. Your arms buckled beneath the weight. Not of the hand but of the presence of its owner.
"Let us begin, yes?"
He wasn't talking to you. You were... not of great consideration for conversation. At least for now that was your role. Merely an animal, a pet. Like the other humans.
He talked to you with the same cadence one would to a dog or mouse. Never actually expecting an answer in return. Silence was your grace, your virtue.
The hand on your back moved slowly, deliberately. Tracing your spine with a delicate touch. You shivered. You tried to control your breathing. The doctor did so dislike difficult to handle patients.
Silence. Stillness. Submission.
The hand caressed you, petting an invisible coat before finally it made its way to your rump. A moment passed by. Your uneven breaths echoing in the room.
"Don't be scared. This is a perfectly normal and natural procedure for humans."
His voice coaxed you to trust him. The confidence and knowledge evident in his tone. Years of practice and study weighed his cadence to a comforting octave. It rang in your ears. You breathed out hot air, shaky and heavy.
Cold and hot at the same time, a single thick finger carefully pressed up against your asshole. It lingered there, at the precipice, as though taunting. Teasing you.
Before you could prepare yourself, the finger pushed in and you released the breath you'd been holding. Your gasp was followed by a whimper. The muscles in your arms flexed, trying your best to hold your own weight. You suddenly felt so dizzy. As though sleep were a stranger to you.
Your brows furrowed and you heaved a shaky sigh as the finger dug deeper, caressing your inner walls with the same ease and care that he had trailed his hand along your back with.
It felt... good. It felt good. It was slow, meticulously so. Almost wandering, as though looking for something. And suddenly one became two. And suddenly—
"Fuck!"
He found it.
Your arms trembled and finally gave in. Your chest now lying on the examination table, the wood grating against your heated skin. Your eyes fluttered as you felt the pressure, the shock, run through your nerves.
You thanked whatever monkey was up there in the heavens that the good doctor decided to forgive your momentary forgetfulness of your place. At least verbally. His fingers, however, continued to press up against that something devilish inside you with much vigour. Stroking, caressing, prodding.
You couldn't close your mouth. The waterfall of moans and whines kept it open while you struggled to see from beneath your tear stained lashes. The salt burned your eyes.
It was so good. His fingers felt so good. You could taste it. At the tip of your tongue, in the saliva that pooled at the corners of your mouth, in the tears that ran down your cheeks. You were almost there but it was too much. A long broken whine escaped your throat, an octave higher than what you'd concider dignified.
"Hush, now. You're a big boy. You can handle it."
Surely the doctor knew best but in your pain and pleasure addled mind you were conceived you were an inch away from death itself. The tantalising way he brushed his fingers against your prostate would kill you, you were sure of it.
And then—the cruel bastard that he was—you felt his other hand gently touch your stomach, feeling the flutter of your muscles. It trailed along your abdomen before ever so carefully wrapping itself around your cock. A slow rhythmic pace of stroke after stroke. One deep inside you, another along your throbbing shaft.
This was it. You would die here. You would lose your mind here and now. And it would all be his fault, him and those cruel hands of his.
“Please, please, please, please…"
You weren't even aware you were talking. A chant of forgiveness for your disobedience but you were so close.
All you got in return was a warm, almost mockingly sweet, chuckle. Both of his hands became rougher, deeper, harder. The hand around your cock thumbed at the tip and the one inside you pressed and massaged into you.
You gave one last weak moan as the electric shocks reached an overflow. You spasmed, muscles tensing as your back arched. You pushed and pulled yourself against and away from his fingers. Apart from one and into the other.
A sequence of hoarse gasps and whines left your lungs in ragged breaths as you emptied your balls onto the table. His fingers continued to milk you through your orgasm. And then finally… The fingers retracted themselves, stopping the torturous onslaught of pleasure.
“Everything's working as normal. I'd go as far as to say this examination was a terrific success.”
You heard the scribbling of pen on paper before the world went black and—you assumed—you took your last breath.
