Chapter 9: The Deeper Examination
The silence that followed was of a completely different kind, a different quality altogether. It wasn’t the sterile silence of the examination room from before, but a thick, viscous hush, heavy with the scent of sweat and spent passion. Dr. Taylor stood between my thighs, breathing heavily, and looked at my rounded belly, at my boobs, and then he smiled as he looked into my eyes. His gaze was warm and loving. His cock was still inside my warm, wet, living cave.
My gynecologist was panting like the old man he was. I was panting too, but more like the fucked, pregnant woman I was. The exam room itself was now completely silent, except for a faint humming sound that I couldn’t place. My heart was pounding loudly in my chest, pumping blood through every cell of my satisfied body. I felt flooded with happiness hormones and wished at that moment that this brief moment would never end. In the silence, I thought I could hear his heart beating too.
His thick cock inside me pulsed in powerful rhythms. For a moment, I thought our sexual encounter had overwhelmed him and he was about to have a heart attack. Dr. Taylor’s face was dark red from the exertion, but he looked very happy and satisfied. Yes, he must have enjoyed fucking my pregnant belly as well. Only slowly did his flesh go limp inside me. His penis did soften and was no longer that hard, powerful erection from before, yet it didn’t get very small. Even in that flaccid state, his manhood could still fill me. Dr. Taylor was the first to move, slowly pulling his soldier out of me with a final sigh. It was a slowness that was tender and mindful, as if two lovers didn’t quite want to part.
The emptiness his penis left inside me wasn’t a shock, nor a cold, vulnerable pain. It was more like a slow farewell—goodbye. What I still felt, was his warm release. His sticky, thick fluid. Driven by a deep longing, I loved that feeling, yet at the same time I had this very strange urge to know what it would taste like. Salty, like a gynecologist? What does a gynecologist taste like? My mind had a brief defensive reaction to shake off the thought. "Let's get over with it", I whispered silently to myself. My mind was like a whirlwind and now I needed to focus again.
I could feel the warm vinyl of the chair beneath me. I enjoyed lying here in this almost horizontal position, with my legs resting on the leg rest above me. I couldn’t sit up easily. Especially not because of my rounded belly. But could I just stay lying here, I thought to myself. This gynecological chair was so incredibly comfortable. And now the black upholstery beneath me was wet with my sweat.
My husband Jason had joked about this chair, saying it would be great for having sex. Yes, my love, I thought to myself, that was brilliant, but it did not happened with you. The thought of not having experienced that with Jason, even though he surely would have wanted to but couldn’t have, sent an electrifying shiver down my spine.
I looked at Dr. Taylor, his white coat open and his pants down, which he was just pulling up. I caught one last glimpse of his penis, its white, soft pubic hair bearing traces of my wetness. Despite his age, this phallus of masculinity seemed almost graceful, which probably had a lot to do with its size. I thought with a certain sadness that this experience, seeing it and feeling it inside me, was likely a once-in-a-lifetime thing. I wasn’t aware at the time that that wouldn’t be the case. I probably wouldn’t have wanted it as much then as I did in that moment.
Once Dr. Taylor had pulled up his pants, tucked his manhood inside, and zipped them up, he helped me by using the remote control to adjust the gynecological chair to a more upright position. As he did so, he lowered the leg rests, moving me from a position that might seem undignified to other women (but not to me) to one that didn’t feel quite so helpless.
“Take your time. There is no hurry." My limbs felt boneless, alien. Pushing myself upright on the chair, despite that the backrest was in the upright position, was a monumental effort. The cool air of the room kissed my damp skin, raising gooseflesh.
Still, of course, I needed a little help from him to get down from the gynecological chair given my circumstances. Dr. Taylor first helped me lift my legs off the leg rest. He did this in an extremely loving, goosebump-inducing, gentle, and tender manner. At the same time, his touch and the way he helped were completely professional, like someone whose job is practically a calling. His hands glided over the sensitive skin of my thighs. The entire experience of this examination was completely fulfilling, and not just the act itself, which I do enjoy, but this was something different. Even the aftermath was pure erotic.
I sat up straight, and he helped me get off the chair. Then I stood before him, naked and fucked. My breasts were still moving up and down because I was still out of breath, even though I’d really just been lying on my back for him. My sweat was beading on my skin and running down in little rivulets. And I felt something else flowing. A little further down and out of me. It flowed in a kind of tickling feeling over my labia and down my thigh. I clenched my vagina so that not everything would drip onto the floor right away. It feels embarrassing his juice is leaking out of me - dripping. Later, in the bathroom, I would release it.
As I stood there naked before him, I pulled him closer to me by his lab coat. We gazed deeply into each other’s eyes. His expression was almost like that of an old uncle with a mischievous, triumphant smile. We both wanted to kiss, and we kissed passionately. He cupped my face in his old hands, and I felt them differently than before. I felt the age of his hands, but also the softness that had once been so familiar. He must take special care of his hands somehow, I thought. My gynecologist was wonderfully tender.
I opened my mouth slightly as our lips touched again. The movement was calm, barely perceptibly controlled, more like a mutual attunement. His lower lip rested briefly between mine, then the angle shifted. Our breathing was still uneven, warm, and close together. I felt the moisture of his lips, then the gentle pressure as the contact deepened. Our tongues touched briefly, withdrew, found each other again. It wasn’t a hasty search, more like a repeated, slow exploration. Our tongues danced a sensual waltz, but it was a slow waltz.The kiss remained close enough to seem controlled, yet open enough to allow for these fluid transitions. The pressure varied minimally; sometimes it was just the weight of his lips, then it was a slight yielding on my part. There was no clear beginning and no abrupt end to the movement. There was only this steady, calm intertwining of our lips, breath, and brief touches that broke apart and repeated.
His hands came loose during the kiss and began to caress my boobs. It was almost as if he wanted to weigh, examine, and gently massage each one individually. Then his hands moved down to my hips, and he pulled me close as if he were my husband; for that one moment, it could have been true, but I didn’t want to follow that path of thoughts. I wanted to consciously remember that, as a doctor, he had sexually satisfied me, his patient, and that I, as his patient with a religious-moral worldview, had broken my marriage vows.
His white coat, which I had clutched so desperately, showed no wrinkle, no trace of our congress. “You may dress, Sarah,” he said, his voice once more calm, professional, yet enriched with a new, undeniable warmth. He did not turn around and didn't grant me a semblance of privacy. He wanted to enjoy looking at me, to gaze at me as if I were a work of art. I didn’t care. On the contrary, I liked that Dr. Taylor, who, despite our sex, was still a stranger, was looking at me. In his eyes, I saw the ambivalence between the professionalism of a gynecologist with a penchant for art and something deeply animalistic. Being so naked in front of him almost made me horny again.
I pushed the feeling down, a low simmer beneath my skin, and turned toward the small chair where my clothes were folded. My maternity dress, a soft blue cotton, looked innocent lying there. I picked up my panties first, the black lace feeling absurdly delicate in my hands.
I stepped into them slowly, careful of my balance, and pulled them up my thighs. The lace pressed against my swollen labia, a faint dampness already seeping through. I clenched my inner muscles tightly, a firm, internal squeeze, holding his warm spend inside me as I smoothed the fabric over my skin. The sensation was a secret, a filthy reminder pressing against me with every subtle movement.
“Your seminal fluid is quite substantial, Doctor,” I said, my tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. I reached for my bra, my fingers fumbling slightly with the clasp behind my back. “I can feel the volume. It’s… a significant deposit.”
He chuckled softly, a dry, pleasant sound as he adjusted his own shirt, tucking it back into his trousers. “A healthy yield,” he agreed, his eyes following my every motion. “Vital for the therapeutic process. Speaking of which, Sarah, your pelvic floor responsiveness is remarkable, but the underlying musculoskeletal stress is evident.”
I pulled the dress over my head, the fabric whispering down over my body, concealing the evidence. “My back aches constantly,” I admitted, my voice muffered for a moment before my head emerged. “And my hips feel… loose. Unstable.”
“Precisely,” he said, moving to his desk and making a note in my file. “We need a series of dedicated sessions. Support for the musculoskeletal system. Regular, hands-on manipulation to alleviate that tension and prepare your frame for delivery.” He looked up, his gaze intent. “It requires frequent, prolonged contact. Would you be amenable to coming back? Coming again and again?”
The question hung there, loaded. I smoothed the dress over my belly. “How frequent?”
“Twice, perhaps three times a week,” he said, coming around the desk. He stood close again, the scent of him and me mingling on his white coat. “We must also monitor cervical length vigilantly. Vaginal measurement of the cervix is critical to detect any risk of premature dilation.” His hand hovered near my lower abdomen. “We need to ensure it remains long and closed, but soft. Pliable. That requires… attentive, internal assessment.”
My breath hitched. “Internal assessment,” I repeated.
“Manual assessment,” he clarified, his voice low. “Repeatedly. To track any changes. Then there’s the injection and infusion therapy. Your body needs specific hydration, nutrients delivered directly to optimize the uterine environment.” His finger traced a line down my covered arm. “And special immunization therapy. Direct administration of important vaccines and fluids for the pregnant woman. It’s a holistic regimen.”
“It sounds… intensive,” I whispered, the clinical terms wrapping around the raw, throbbing memory of his cock.
“It is,” he said. “It’s what you need. Do you want it? To keep coming?”
I looked at my reflection in the dark screen of a monitor on the wall, seeing a pregnant woman in a blue dress, her hair slightly tangled, her lips still swollen. I saw the ghost of the woman who had been screaming on the chair minutes before. “Yes,” I said, the word final and absolute. “I need it. I’ll schedule the appointments with Agnes on my way out.”
“Good,” he said, a satisfied smile touching his lips. He placed a paternal kiss on my forehead. “We’ll take excellent care of you, Sarah. You’re in the right hands.”
I collected my purse, the ordinary weight of it an anchor to a world outside this room. I gave him one last look, a slow, silent acknowledgment of what had transpired and what was now planned, before I turned the knob. The door opened with a soft click, releasing me from the saturated air of the exam room into the cooler, quieter hum of the clinic’s reception area.
My legs felt unstable, not from the pregnancy but from the deep, residual trembling in my muscles. A slick warmth traced a path down my inner thigh, a slow leak of his fluids held back only by the frail barrier of my lace panties. I adjusted my dress, the fabric clinging slightly to the dampness.
Agnes was at the reception desk, her blonde head bent over something. The clicking of a keyboard stopped the instant the door shut behind me. She looked up, her blue-gray eyes widening for a fraction of a second before a warm, professional smile spread across her pretty face. It didn’t reach her eyes. “All finished, Sarah?” she asked, her voice bright.
“Yes,” I said, my own voice sounding hollow and far away. I walked toward the desk, my shoes whispering on the polished floor. Her gaze tracked me, and I saw a faint pinkness bloom high on her fair cheeks. She shifted in her chair, turning her body slightly as if to block my view of the desk’s lower monitors. It was a subtle, protective gesture. My mind, still fuzzy with endorphins and guilt, barely registered it.
“Everything go okay?” Agnes asked. She folded her hands on the desk blotter, her knuckles white.
“It was… comprehensive,” I answered, the clinical euphemism tasting like ash. A wave of dizziness hit me, a cocktail of physical exertion and moral vertigo. I gripped the edge of the counter. I had broken my marriage. The thought landed with the weight of a stone in my gut. Jason could never, ever find out. “The doctor outlined a treatment plan. He said I should schedule appointments with you.”
“Of course,” Agnes said, her smile softening into something that looked like genuine sympathy. She tapped at her keyboard, her eyes flicking to a main screen I couldn’t see. “Let’s get you set up. He’s very hands-on with his special cases. It’s a lot of work, but so worth it.”
Her phrasing snagged in my mind. Special cases. Hands-on. Were all his treatments so thorough? Did all his patients leave with a different kind of wetness between their legs? I pushed the questions down, focusing on the practical. “He mentioned twice, maybe three times a week. For musculoskeletal support, cervical checks, the… the infusions.”
“Mhmm,” Agnes hummed, her fingers flying. “We’ll get you on the books. It’s quite the commitment. You have to be dedicated.” She looked up at me, her gaze sharp and assessing. “You seem like the dedicated type. Willing to do what it takes to feel better.”
The conversation felt like we were speaking two different languages layered over the same words. I just nodded, my mind already racing ahead to the lies I’d have to tell Jason. The money. The time. The utter betrayal. “Whatever the doctor thinks is best,” I heard myself say.
“He knows best,” Agnes agreed, her tone breezy. She leaned in a little, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Ah, Dr. Taylor’s special. It really is… transformative.” The way she said ‘special’ curled around the word, imbuing it with a meaning I almost grasped before it slipped away. She turned in her swivel chair toward a small printer that whirred to life behind her.
She turned in her swivel chair toward a small printer that whirred to life behind her. As she leaned forward to collect the pages, the V-neck of her soft pink scrubs gaped open.
I could see right down into Agnes’s cleavage. The skin there was pale and smooth, a stark contrast to the crisp fabric. Her breasts were full and rounded, pushed together by what looked like a simple cotton bra, the tops of her areolas just a soft shadow in the dim light of the reception area. They were beautiful in a wholesome, effortless way. A strange, detached fascination held me. I wondered if Dr. Taylor’s hands had weighed them, if his mouth had—
“Here we are,” Agnes said brightly, straightening up and turning back with a smile, a sheaf of paper in her hand. She tapped the pages into alignment on the desk. “I’ve got you down for tomorrow at ten, then Thursday at two, and we’ll keep that pattern for the next thirty days.”
The sudden interruption of her voice shattered my trance. I blinked, pulling my gaze up to her face. A flush of heat prickled across my own cheeks. “Oh. Okay. Thank you.”
Agnes’s smile didn’t waver; she seemed utterly unperturbed, handing the schedule across the desk. I reached for it, my movements stiff. In that brief, awkward moment of my distraction, the internal clamp I’d been maintaining deep within my pelvis loosened.
I forgot to keep my vagina closed.
A sudden, warm gush flooded my already damp lace underwear. It was a distinct feeling, a thick, fluid release of pressure, followed by an immediate, embarrassing trickle down the inside of my thigh. Dr. Taylor’s semen, held inside me since he’d pulled out, was now flowing freely into the fabric of my panties, a secret warming and spreading against my skin.
I felt almost frozen inside. My hand, now holding the appointment schedule, trembled slightly. The physical sensation was grotesquely intimate, a vile counterpoint to the sterile conversation. “That’s… perfect,” I managed to say, my voice tight.
“Great,” Agnes said, her tone final. She stood, a clear signal our transaction was complete. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Sarah. Take care.”
“You too. Goodbye.” The words were automatic. I turned and walked toward the clinic’s exit, my steps measured, my back straight.
With every step, I felt Dr. Taylor’s fluid spreading further. The warm wetness seeped from the soaked center of my underwear, creating a wider, cooling patch against my skin. It traced a slow path along my inner thighs, a sticky, drying testament. The click of my shoes on the linoleum echoed, each footfall a quiet announcement of what was leaking out of me. I pushed through the heavy glass door into the muted hallway, then toward the stairwell.
When I went downstairs, my dearest husband, Jason, was already at the door to pick me up. He opened the door, took me in his arms, and we kissed. “I missed you. I love you more than anything,” he said tenderly. I replied honestly that I loved him more than anything, too. I couldn’t bring myself to say that I’d missed him. In a way, I had, but it would have been far from a good idea if he’d been there during the “exam,” when Dr. Taylor was thrusting his cock deep inside me. At that moment, I hadn’t actually missed Jason, and I was glad he wasn’t there so I could enjoy the forbidden. But yes, I loved my husband more than anything, even though the sex I’d just had with my gynecologist was the best thing I didn’t want to miss out on. Jason smiled wearily but sincerely. My heart tugged at me after all.
He took my hand, and we walked slowly to the car. It was wonderful how Jason took care of me. I felt safe. But with every step, I could feel my doctor’s semen between my thighs. It was getting stickier as it began to dry. I’d have to make sure to wash my clothes quickly once we got back to Daryl’s house.
We reached the car in the large parking lot with its many shrubs and trees, which, however, were not yet green in mid-March. I had only seen this before on TV or internet or in pictures, but never in person. Such seasonal fluctuations, when plants lose their green color because of the cold and not because they wither in the heat and dryness.
“How did it go?” Jason asked me. He had already asked while we were walking to the car, but I hadn't responded because I was still lost in thought, focusing on my crotch or rather, what was between my legs and worried about what was dripping into my panties.
“It was good,” I said, aiming for normalcy as I opened the passenger door. “Thorough. He wants to see me a lot, though. Like, a couple times a week.” I settled into the seat, the movement causing another subtle, warm shift between my legs.
“Wow, that often?” Jason started the car, the engine rumbling to life. “Must be standard for high-risk or something. Whatever you need, love. We’ll make it work.”
“Yeah,” I said, staring out the window as Port Townsend’s fog-draped streets slid by. “Whatever I need.” My mind was elsewhere, replaying the cold probe, the heat of his mouth, the punishing fullness, the whispered justifications that now felt like lies. I felt the dried tension of his spend on my thighs, a crusting map of my infidelity.
My mind was elsewhere, but I talked to Jason and Jason to me as usual. He chatted about the grocery list, about a funny email from work, about maybe finding a permanent rental next month. I nodded, I made small sounds of agreement, I asked a question about our dinner. My voice was a separate instrument, playing a familiar tune while the symphony inside me roared with shame and a dark, thrilling horror.