Chapter 4: The CEO's Exam
The phone kept ringing.
Marcus stood frozen, the echo of Lisa’s departure still vibrating in the air, the taste of her and himself a sour film in his mouth. On the twelfth ring, he moved, pulling up his scrubs with stiff fingers before lifting the receiver.
“Dr. Vance’s office.”
“Marcus. It’s Mary.” The voice was clipped, efficient, devoid of the playful mischief of Lisa or the breathy intensity of Evelyn. It was the voice that ran board meetings. “Judith gave me your number. She said your… examinations were thorough.”
He closed his eyes. Of course. The pipeline was open, a secret family conduit.
“Aunt Mary. I… what can I do for you?”
“I require an appointment. A wellness exam. It’s been too long.” She stated it as a fact, not a request. “My schedule is impossible. I can be there tomorrow at six a.m. Sharp. Do not be late.”
“Six a.m. The clinic isn’t formally open until—”
“Six a.m., Marcus. I have a seven-thirty board presentation. Will you be prepared or not?”
He saw no exit. “I’ll be here.”
The line went dead.
He arrived at five-thirty, the dawn a faint gray smear behind the peach curtains. He turned on the brass lamp, its light falling on the exam chair. He did not clean it. The faint, haunting imprints of his family seemed part of its fabric now.
At exactly one minute to six, the front door opened and closed. He heard the decisive click of heels on tile, then silence. He waited in the exam room, his heart a dull thud.
The door opened. Mary stood there, already removing her tailored navy blazer. She was forty-seven, her blonde hair in a severe, perfect bob. Her face was handsome, with sharp cheekbones and eyes the color of flint. She looked like a statue that had decided to walk.
“Good, you’re here,” she said. She draped her blazer over the chair by the door, then reached for the hem of her cream silk shell. In one fluid motion, she pulled it over her head. She wore no bra. Her breasts were smaller than her sisters’, high and firm with pale pink nipples. She unzipped her pencil skirt, let it pool at her feet, and stepped out. She was naked except for her stockings, held up by a garter belt of black lace that looked wildly out of place against her austere demeanor. A neat, trimmed strip of blonde hair adorned her vulva.
“I assume we can dispense with the gown,” she said, her voice cool. She walked to the exam table and sat on the edge, then swung her legs up and placed her feet in the stirrups without instruction. She lay back, staring at the ceiling. “Proceed.”
Marcus felt like he was in a surreal play. He washed his hands. The silence was absolute, heavy with her impatience.
“Gloves?” he asked, the ritual question now a hollow formality.
“Unnecessary. My time is limited. Begin.”
He approached. In the lamplight, her body was a study in controlled power—toned abdomen, strong thighs. He performed the breast exam, his bare fingers brushing over cool, firm flesh. She did not react. He moved to the pelvic exam. Her vulva was clean, neat. He pressed gently to part her. She was dry.
“Speculum?” he asked.
“If it’s required.”
It was. He used it, the cold metal causing her to inhale sharply—the first crack in her composure. He took the pap smear, his movements clinical, precise. He was determined to be professional, to rebel against the spiral he was in. He would treat her like any other patient.
When he was done, he removed the speculum. “Everything appears perfectly healthy, Mary.”
“Good.” She didn’t move from the position. “Now, I have a specific concern. A recurring tension. In the perianal region. I find it… bothersome before high-stress meetings.”
He stared at her. Her face was impassive.
“I’d like you to examine it. Manually.”
The air left the room. This was the turn. He knew it. The clinical facade crumbled like old plaster.
“It would require a digital rectal exam,” he said, his voice flat.
“Then perform one. Use lubrication.”
His hands shook as he squirted the clear gel onto his fingers. He positioned himself between her spread legs, the intimate view of her sex and the tight pucker of her asshole beneath now a command, not an accident.
“You may need to relax,” he murmured.
“Just do your job, Marcus.”
He pressed the tip of his gel-slicked index finger against her anus. It was tightly closed. He applied steady pressure. With a soft, yielding gasp from her, his finger slipped past the resistant ring of muscle and into the hot, clenching channel inside.
She let out a long, controlled breath. “Yes. There. That is the area.”
He moved his finger gently, feeling the internal structures. It was a medical act. It was also deeply, profoundly obscene.
“It feels normal,” he managed to say.
“Deeper.”
He pushed his finger in to the knuckle. She arched her back slightly, a faint flush rising on her chest.
“Now,” she said, her voice dropping to a husky register he hadn’t heard before. “Use your mouth.”
His head snapped up. Her flinty eyes were locked on his, filled with absolute authority.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Lick it. My asshole is tense. Your tongue will provide relief. This is a treatment. Now.”
The order brooked no refusal. It transformed the act from stolen passion to compelled service. A dark, compliant part of him stirred. He withdrew his finger.
He lowered his head between her thighs, past her neat vagina, to the small, pink hole he had just penetrated. He leaned in and swiped his tongue, flat and firm, across it.
Mary jolted. “Oh. Yes.”
He did it again, circling the tight rim, tasting the sterile gel and the essential, musky truth of her. He pressed the tip of his tongue against it, probing. He felt it yield, just slightly. He pushed his tongue inside, as far as he could.
“Fuck,” she hissed, her hands gripping the edges of the table. “Deeper. Harder.”
He ate her ass with a frantic dedication, fucking her with his tongue, lashing and probing. He gripped her hips, holding her open. She began to rock against his face, her cool composure shattering into quiet, urgent grunts. One of her hands left the table and fisted in his hair, pulling him harder into her.
“Enough,” she gasped suddenly. “Now I want your cock. In there. I want you to fuck the tension out of me.”
He stood, his pants already open, his erection straining. He was slick with her saliva and the gel. He positioned himself at her entrance, the head of his cock nudging against her impossibly tight rear hole.
“Do it,” she commanded, her eyes blazing. “Don’t be gentle.”
He pushed. The resistance was fierce, a gripping, burning ring of muscle that fought his intrusion. He leaned his weight into it, and with a low, pained groan from her, his crown popped past the sphincter. She cried out, a short, sharp sound, and then he was sinking into a devastating, snug heat.
“God… yes,” she choked. “Fill it.”
He sheathed himself fully, buried in her ass. He paused, shuddering at the tight, vice-like grip. Then he pulled back and slammed home.
“Yes! Harder! Fucking punish it!” she yelled, her boardroom veneer utterly gone.
He fucked her with a punishing, rhythmic force, the exam table screeching across the floor. Each thrust was a brutal conquest of that clenching tightness. She met him thrust for thrust, her legs hooked over his shoulders, her stockings brushing his ears. Her face was a mask of strained, exquisite pleasure.
“I’m going to come,” he grunted, the coil tightening beyond bearing.
“Not yet.” She pushed him off with surprising strength. “Again. From behind. I want to feel it differently.”
She rolled over, onto her knees, presenting her ass to him. The sight was devastating: her perfect, pale cheeks parted, her reddened, used hole glistening, the black lace of her garters stark against her skin. He pushed back in, one hand tangling in her blonde bob, the other gripping her hip. This angle was deeper, more animal. The slapping sounds were louder, wetter.
“You’re my nephew,” she moaned, pushing back onto him, her voice ragged with filth. “You’re my sister’s boy, and you’re wrecking my ass. Fucking wreck it!”
He lost all control, pounding into her, the room filled with their gasps and the smell of sweat and sex. Her cries were muffled as she pressed her face into the leather, biting it. The pressure in his balls burst.
“I’m coming!” he roared.
“Do it! Fill my ass! Mark it!”
With a final, shuddering thrust, he erupted. Jet after hot jet of cum pumped deep into her rectum, a violating, claiming rush. He held himself there, pulsing, as she clenched around him, milking him dry.
He collapsed beside her on the table, spent. For a moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing.
Then Mary moved. She sat up, swinging her legs off the table. A trickle of white fluid seeped from her anus and down her inner thigh. She glanced at it, then at him, with detached curiosity, as if assessing a minor spillage. Without a word, she fetched a tissue from the box on the counter and wiped herself clean.
She dressed with the same methodical precision with which she had undressed. Silk shell, pencil skirt, blazer. She smoothed her hair. She looked at her watch.
“The examination was satisfactory, Doctor,” she said, her voice restored to its corporate chill. “You may send the bill to my office.”
She turned and walked out, her heels clicking decisively toward the door, toward her seven-thirty board meeting. The door closed softly behind her.
Marcus lay on the ruined exam table, in the cool, dawn light, the scent of her and his own depravity thick in the air. The clinic was no longer a sanctuary. It was a confessional where only sins were spoken, and every penance was a deeper damnation. Outside, the city was waking up. Inside, he was buried alive.