Chapter 6: Underdressed and Overdressed
Her consciousness swam back through a thick syrup of sensation, each pulse between her legs a dull, brutal echo. “Look at the monitor, Moira.” His voice was close, uncomfortably casual, as his fist remained buried to the wrist inside her spent cunt. Her eyes, blurry and unfocused, drifted to the ultrasound screen where the grainy, black-and-white shape of his clenched hand was visibly distending her from within. “Remarkable compliance,” he noted, slowly rotating his wrist, the motion making her gasp as his knuckles ground against sensitized, inner walls. He began a slow withdrawal, the stretched, burning passage clinging to him, each ridge and finger a specific, agonizing farewell.
“Now, we correct the pelvic tilt observed last session.” The head of the examination table ratcheted down with a sharp, mechanical clunk, lowering her hips, raising her spread knees toward the ceiling. Before she could process the new exposure, he was positioned at the edge of the table, his other hand guiding his cock, thick and flushed, to her slick, gaping entrance. “This will require deep, focused penetration.” He didn’t push; he let his weight fall forward, and the broad crown of him split her open with a single, sinking drive that punched the air from her lungs. He filled the shocking, fist-shaped void with a burning, living pressure, his pubic bone meeting her tender flesh with a final, definitive impact.
“Fuck.” The word leaked from her, hoarse and shattered. He remained still, fully impaling her, letting her cunt acclimate to the new, solid intrusion. “Complete anterior contact achieved,” he murmured, more to himself, before pulling back until just the tip remained and then spearing back in with a ruthless, piston-like rhythm. Each thrust was a calculated, full-depth invasion, the wet, slapping sounds of their connection obscene in the sterile quiet. Her body, overstimulated and raw, began to ratchet toward a terrifying new peak, a coil of pure animal response tightening in her gut independent of her shattered mind.
She came again, silently, a seizure of tight, fluttering spasms that milked his driving length. “Good,” he grunted, his own rhythm fracturing, and she felt the hot, sudden flood of his release painting her cramping, violated depths.
He remained buried inside her, his weight a solid, claiming warmth as his come leaked from her around the softening connection. His breath was hot against her ear, his lips brushing the damp tendrils of her hair. "You took that beautifully," he whispered, the words a low, intimate rasp that vibrated through her skull. "Your cervix accepted every millimeter. A perfect, compliant instrument."
He slid out of her slowly, and she felt the empty, used ache of her own body, a hollow channel brimming with his release. He pressed two fingers back into her sloppy cunt, gathering a mix of their fluids, and she flinched at the renewed contact. "Such a fertile response," he mused, showing her his glistening fingers before wiping them on a towel. "The data from today will be invaluable."
He moved to a sink, the casual sound of running water a grotesque counterpoint to the throbbing between her legs. Moira stared at the ceiling, the surgical lamp now just a blinding white sun, her body a landscape of brutalized nerves. "Can you sit up?" he asked, his voice returning to its normal, calm tenor as he dried his hands. She pushed herself up on trembling elbows, the stockings on her legs torn, her sweater damp with sweat.
He handed her a wad of sanitary wipes, his expression one of detached assessment. "Clean yourself up," he said, turning to make a note on a chart. The clinical instruction, after what he'd just whispered, after what he'd just done, fractured something final inside her. She wiped at the sticky mess on her thighs, each pass a mechanical echo of his earlier, methodical violations.
He watched her, his eyes cataloging the shudder of her hands, the gooseflesh on her arms. "Your baseline tolerance is increasing," he stated, placing the chart down. "We'll advance the parameters next week." He didn't ask if she would return. He simply began dismantling the speaker setup, the promise of future measurement hanging in the air, thicker than the scent of sex.
He simply began dismantling the speaker setup, the promise of future measurement hanging in the air, thicker than the scent of sex.
The following Thursday, she wore the stockings as instructed, the fine nylon whisper against her thighs a constant, teasing reminder, and the oversized cream sweater swallowed her frame, the wool soft and concealing. The room was different, warmer, the harsh surgical lamp off, only the soft blue ambient glow reflecting off the steel and vinyl. Dr. Ashton—Thomas—stood waiting, already naked, his body lean and quietly powerful in the diffused light, and the sheer normality of his nudity, the absence of his clinical armor, stole her breath more effectively than any command.
“On the bed, Moira,” he said, his voice low, not gentle but somehow open. “On your hands and knees.” She obeyed, the plush, textured fabric of the birth bed cradle soft against her palms and shins, the position vulnerable yet strangely private. He moved behind her, his hands, warm and unhurried, smoothing the sweater up over her back, bunching it around her shoulders, exposing the curve of her spine, the swell of her ass, the dark tops of the stockings.
His touch then was a shocking contrast, not a violation but an exploration. One broad hand splayed on the small of her back, a point of anchoring heat, while the other slid slowly down the cleft of her ass, fingertips tracing the damp seam of her through the nylon. “You’re already wet,” he observed, a hint of warm approval in his tone, his finger pushing deliberately against the soaked fabric, feeling it give, feeling her give. He hooked his fingers in the material and tore it, a deliberate, slow rip that parted the stockings and exposed her swollen, slick cunt to the cool air.
“Just this,” he murmured, his own breathing deeper now, and she felt the blunt, solid heat of his erection not pushing for entry, but resting heavily against her torn stocking and trembling thigh. He reached around her hip, his fingers finding her clit with unerring accuracy, and began to rub, not with clinical roughness, but with a slow, luxurious, filthy friction that made her sob into the bed. “That’s it,” he whispered into her ear, his body a shelter around hers, his other hand moving to cup and knead her breast through the soft wool. “Let it happen. Just feel it.”
His fingers worked her with a devastating, intimate knowledge, circling and pressing, his thumb sliding down to gather her wetness and spread it back up, the sounds obscenely loud in the quiet room. The orgasm built not as a seismic rupture, but as a deep, rising tide, pulling from her core, stretching her nerves with a sweet, unbearable tension. “Come on, Moira,” he urged, his voice a raw, private rasp against her neck, and she broke with a low, guttural cry, her cunt pulsing wildly around nothing, her body shaking as he coaxed every last shudder from her with his relentless, gentle hand.
He held her through the aftershocks, his forehead damp against her sweater-clad shoulder, his own breath ragged. In the silence, she felt more exposed than she ever had with the cold glass inside her or the electricity on her skin. This, this quiet unraveling, was the most precise measurement he had ever taken.