Chapter 3: The Aftercare
The two weeks passed in a blur of routine and quiet desperation. Moira moved through her days—writing, errands, the mundanity of life—but every moment was haunted by the memory of sterile blue light and the feeling of being dismantled. The hunger he’d identified didn’t subside; it festered, a low-grade fever beneath her skin. She found herself staring at the calendar, counting down, her body thrumming with a treacherous anticipation. The towel from that day, stained and secret, remained balled in the bottom of her hamper, a dark totem she couldn’t bring herself to wash.
She called the clinic on the morning of the eleventh day. “I’m experiencing… a significant increase in pelvic tension,” she told the receptionist, her voice astonishingly even. “I was hoping Dr. Ashton could fit me in sooner.”
The appointment was secured for that afternoon at 4:30 PM, the end of the clinic day. Her mouth went dry when she heard the time.
This time, the waiting room was empty. The silence felt heavy, expectant. Nurse Clara emerged, her smile warm as ever. “Moira! Good to see you. The doctor’s running a bit behind. Why don’t you come back and get settled?”
Her kindness was a jarring contrast to the memories clawing at Moira’s mind. Clara led her to the same exam room. The continent stain was still there on the ceiling.
“Go ahead and get undressed, just from the waist down today,” Clara said, her tone breezy. “The doctor will be with you shortly.” She paused at the door, her hand on the knob. “He mentioned you were responding very well to the new… therapy protocol. That’s wonderful.” Her eyes, a friendly hazel, held Moira’s for a beat too long. There was a knowing glint in them, a subtle shift that made the air in the room change.
Alone, Moira undressed, folding her slacks and underwear with numb precision. The paper sheet felt colder this time. She didn’t get up on the table. She stood, shivering slightly in the climate-controlled air.
The door opened not ten minutes later. It was Nurse Clara who entered, alone, closing the door softly behind her. She had shed her white lab coat. She wore just her blue scrubs, the top two buttons undone.
“He’s finishing up some notes,” Clara said, leaning back against the counter. Her gaze travelled over Moira’s bare legs, the thatch of red curls, her tense posture. “He asked me to come in and… assess your current state of tension. Preliminary evaluation.”
Moira’s breath caught. “You?”
“Mm-hmm.” Clara pushed off the counter and took two slow steps forward. The efficient, warm nurse was still there, but layered over with something else—a calm, predatory assurance. “I’m a part of your treatment team, Moira. We work very closely together.” She stopped within arm’s reach. “He told me how beautifully you opened up for him. How you took his fist.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur. “I wanted to see that for myself.”
Before Moira could process the words, Clara’s hands were on her hips, turning her gently but firmly to face the exam table. “Bend over. Hands on the table.”
The command, delivered in that same soothing, melodic voice, was irresistible. Moira bent, the edge of the table digging into her lower abdomen, her bare backside exposed to the cool air and Clara’s evaluating gaze.
“Good,” Clara breathed. Her fingers traced the line of Moira’s spine, then slid down, parting her cheeks with a clinical thoroughness that was somehow more intimate than anything Dr. Ashton had done. A thumb rubbed over her back entrance, then lower, through her folds, which were already slick. “Oh, yes. Very responsive. You are tense, aren’t you? Wound up like a little spring.”
Moira moaned, her forehead resting on her arms. The shame was there, but it was drowned out by a flood of sheer, desperate need.
Clara’s touch disappeared. There was a rustle of clothing, then the sound of a lubricant pump. Cool, slick fingers returned, one pressing slowly, insistently into her cunt. “He stretched you so well,” Clara mused, her finger delving deep, curling. “But you’ve clenched right back up, haven’t you? All that progress, wasted.” A second finger joined the first, stretching her. “We can’t have that.”
Then Clara knelt.
The first swipe of her tongue was a lightning bolt. It wasn’t tentative or exploratory; it was a broad, flat, demanding lick from her perineum all the way up to her clit, which she circled with firm, practiced pressure. Moira jolted, a sharp cry escaping her.
“Shhh,” Clara murmured against her flesh, her breath hot. “Just relax into it. Let me take the edge off before he gets here.”
Her mouth was relentless. She feasted on Moira with a focused, hungry expertise, her tongue spearing into her opening, lapping up her arousal, then zeroing in on her clit with a suction that made Moira’s knees buckle. One of Clara’s hands gripped Moira’s hip, holding her in place, while the other hand continued to work two, then three fingers inside her, pumping in a steady rhythm that matched the circles of her tongue.
“You taste so good,” Clara groaned, the vibration against Moira’s sensitive flesh wrenching another sob from her throat. “No wonder he’s so obsessed. This sweet, desperate little cunt.”
The dual sensation was overwhelming—the deep, stretching penetration of Clara’s fingers and the flickering, suctioning point of her mouth. Moira felt the orgasm building like a storm surge, terrifying and inevitable. She was panting, whimpering, her knuckles white where she gripped the table.
The door opened.
Moira froze, but Clara didn’t stop. If anything, her tongue worked faster, more frantically.
“I see you’ve begun the assessment,” Dr. Ashton’s voice came, calm and observational. The door clicked shut. His footsteps approached.
“She’s incredibly responsive, Doctor,” Clara said, pulling her mouth away with a wet pop. Her fingers kept pumping. “But the myofascial tension is definitely recurring. The tissue is seizing up right around my fingers.”
“We’ll need a more aggressive approach today, then.” He moved into Moira’s limited field of vision. He was still in his white coat, his stethoscope draped around his neck. He looked down at where Clara’s hand disappeared into Moira’s body, his expression one of professional interest. “Move your mouth back to the clitoris, Nurse. Maintain consistent stimulation. I’ll handle the deep tissue.”
Clara obeyed instantly, her mouth sealing over Moira’s clit again with a hungry moan.
Dr. Ashton rolled up his sleeves. He lubed his hand generously, then placed his palm against Moira’s entrance, alongside Clara’s pumping fingers. With a slow, steady pressure, he began to push. Not just fingers. His whole hand.
The stretch was instantly brutal. Clara’s fingers were still inside her, and now the broad heel of his hand was forcing its way in, spreading her wider than she thought possible. A ragged scream tore from Moira’s throat, muffled by her own arm.
“Breathe, Moira,” Dr. Ashton said, his voice low and steady by her ear as his hand slid deeper, his knuckles catching, then pushing past her resistance with a soft, wet pop. “You’ve done this before. Your body remembers how to take it.” His hand was now buried inside her alongside Clara’s fingers, a crushing, impossible fullness. Clara’s tongue was a maddening counterpoint on her clit.
“That’s it,” Clara purred, her voice thick. “Feel her cunt, Doctor. It’s fluttering like a heartbeat. It’s trying to milk us both.”
He began to move his hand, a slow, torturous fucking motion, his broad palm and fingers a solid mass rearranging her insides. Clara’s fingers moved in tandem with his thrusts, creating a devastating, overlapping rhythm. Clara’s suction on her clit intensified.
The pleasure was a white-hot wire, stretched to breaking. The pain of the stretch fused with it, became inseparable from it. Moira was sobbing, drooling onto the paper-covered table, her body a writhing, captive vessel for their use.
“Such a good girl,” Dr. Ashton growled, his composure slipping. “Taking two of us at once. Let me feel that tight little cunt squeeze my hand when you come. Squeeze us both.”
His command, the filthy praise, the sheer degradation of being filled and used by two people in this clinical space, shattered her. The orgasm erupted, a cataclysm that felt like it was tearing her in two. Her cunt convulsed violently around the invasive mass of their combined hands, a series of brutal, gripping spasms that made Clara cry out against her, “Yes! Oh fuck, she’s clamping down so hard!”
Dr. Ashton fucked her through it with slow, deep, grinding pushes of his hand, prolonging the agony and the ecstasy until she was a shuddering wreck. Only then did he slowly withdraw, his hand sliding out with a slick, obscene sound. Clara followed suit, giving Moira’s clit one last, tender kiss before standing.
Moira collapsed forward, her strength gone, held up only by her arms on the table. She felt gaping, empty, devastated.
“Excellent compliance,” Dr. Ashton said, his breath slightly uneven. He was wiping his hand on a towel. Clara was doing the same, a faint, satisfied smile on her swollen lips.
“Now,” he said, his voice returning to its full, authoritative calm. “For the main course. Nurse, prepare the patient.”
Clara’s hands were on her again, gentle but firm, guiding her up onto the table, onto her back. Her legs were placed in the stirrups without ceremony. Clara then produced the leather cuffs from a drawer. Without a word, she secured Moira’s wrists and ankles once more, spreading her open and helpless under the lights.
Dr. Ashton stood between her legs, unbuckling his belt, his eyes dark and fixed on her ravished sex. Clara stood at his side, one hand stroking Moira’s trembling inner thigh.
“The treatment requires complete saturation,” Dr. Ashton stated, as if dictating notes. “Dual stimulation has proven effective. You will be penetrated vaginally and anally simultaneously to achieve full pelvic release.”
Moira’s eyes flew open, a new fear cutting through the haze.
Clara leaned close, her lips brushing Moira’s ear. Her breath smelled of Moira’s own arousal. “It’s okay,” she whispered, but it was not comforting. It was a taunt. “I’ll be gentle. Just relax.” She held up a thick, black silicone butt plug, its base flared, glistening with lube.
Dr. Ashton positioned himself at her entrance, his cock, thick and urgent, nudging against her wet, stretched folds. He nodded to Clara.
The pressure at her other hole was blunt, insistent. Clara worked the plug slowly, patiently, as Dr. Ashton pushed the head of his cock into Moira’s cunt. The dual invasion was a sensation beyond any she had imagined—a shocking, full feeling of being stuffed at both ends. She choked on a gasp.
“Synchronize with me, Nurse,” Dr. Ashton instructed, his voice tight.
On his count, they pushed in together.
Moira screamed. The plug seated itself fully inside her, a burning, profound stretch, at the exact moment Dr. Ashton sheathed himself to the hilt in her cunt. She was impaled, split open, utterly filled. The feeling was one of absolute violation, of being used as nothing more than a vessel for their combined will.
Clara’s hand remained on the base of the plug, applying a subtle, twisting pressure. Dr. Ashton began to move, dragging his cock out almost all the way before slamming back in, each thrust jostling the plug inside her, creating a torturous, echoing friction in both channels.
“Look at her take it,” Clara breathed, her eyes wide with voyeuristic pleasure. “So full.”
Dr. Ashton set a brutal, pounding rhythm. The table shook. Moira’s world narrowed to the slam of his hips, the burn of the plug, the creak of leather restraints, and their voices.
“Your body is ours now, Moira,” Dr. Ashton grunted, his professional facade utterly gone, replaced by a raw, dominating hunger. “This is your only purpose. To be filled. To be used. To come on our command.”
“Come for us, sweetheart,” Clara urged, her fingers teasing Moira’s clit in frantic circles, syncing with Dr. Ashton’s thrusts.
The overload was absolute. The pain, the fullness, the filthy words, the complete surrender—it coalesced into a peak so intense it felt like a form of annihilation. Her third orgasm of the afternoon ripped through her with silent, seismic violence, her body seizing around the twin invasions, her vision tunneling to black.
As she convulsed, Dr. Ashton swore, his thrusts becoming jagged, erratic. With a final, deep drive, he emptied himself inside her, his release hot and spurting. He held himself there, pulsing, as Clara, watching his face, gave the plug a final, vicious twist.
They stayed like that for a long moment, a tableau of depravity. Then, with careful, almost reverential motions, they withdrew. The plug slid out with a soft pop. He pulled out, leaving her feeling cavernous and dripping.
No one spoke. Clara efficiently cleaned her up with warm cloths, her touch now solely professional. Dr. Ashton straightened his clothes, becoming the doctor once more. He looked down at Moira, her eyes glazed, her body limp in the restraints.
“Your pelvic tension is significantly improved,” he said softly, unlocking her cuffs. “But maintenance is key. We’ll need to see you weekly. Nurse Clara will schedule it on your way out.”
He left the room. Clara helped her dress, her hands steady. As Moira fumbled with her buttons, Clara leaned in, her voice a whisper.
“He’s booked you for next Thursday at six. The last appointment.” She paused, her eyes locking with Moira’s. “I’ll be here too. We have something special planned. A more… comprehensive evaluation.”
She handed Moira her bag. The walk to the car was a dream. The sky outside was darkening. As she drove away, the emptiness inside her wasn’t a void anymore. It was a waiting. A hunger, named and scheduled, counting down the days until it would be fed again.