Chapter 2: The examination goes deeper
The silence stretched, thick and sticky as the antiseptic in the air. That pause after his words – "Your choice" – hung between them, loaded. His gloved fingers were still resting lightly near her inner knee, a point of contact that suddenly felt like a brand. The clinical chill of the room seemed to recede, replaced by a low thrumming heat radiating from her core, spreading up her neck, flushing her cheeks. Australia blurred on the ceiling. She couldn’t look at him. Could barely breathe. The sterile paper gown felt like a flimsy shield against the raw intimacy of his observation.
"Why?" His voice was low, softer now, the professional cadence fraying at the edges. It wasn't a demand, more like a rumble of genuine curiosity cutting through the heavy quiet. He hadn't moved the speculum, hadn't resumed the exam. He was just… waiting. Watching her.
The question scraped against her raw nerves. The vulnerability of the position – legs splayed, exposed under the unforgiving light, the cool metal a stark reminder – warred with a sudden, reckless urge to confess. To shatter the suffocating propriety of this room. Jason’s dismissive face flashed in her mind – his bored expression when she’d shyly suggested trying something different after watching that late-night movie, the way he’d just grunted and reached for the lube like it was a chore. The disappointment had been a physical ache, sharp and humiliating.
"For Jason," she whispered, the words tumbling out before she could cage them. Her voice sounded alien, small and choked in the sterile space. She stared fixedly at a chip in the paint on the wall near the sink. "My boyfriend. I… saw it in a movie. How they… touch. How they pamper… there." She couldn't say the words. Cunt. Pussy. Not here. Not to him. "I thought… I shaved… so it would be smooth. So he’d want to… like they did." A shaky breath hitched in her throat. "He doesn’t. Doesn’t even look, really. Just… gets on with it. Like I’m…" Her voice trailed off, the unspoken like I’m nothing special hanging heavy in the air. The longing was a physical pressure in her chest, sharp and desperate. She craved that slow, deliberate touch depicted on screen, the focused attention that transformed the act into something more than friction. She wanted to be seduced. Explored. Worshipped, even.Dr. Rommich didn't speak for a long moment. The only sounds were the faint hum of the lights and the too-loud rasp of her own breathing. She risked a glance down. He wasn't looking at her face. His gaze was fixed between her thighs, on the smooth, bare skin revealed by the speculum. His pale blue eyes, usually so cool and assessing, seemed darker now, intense. The professional detachment had completely evaporated, replaced by a focused, almost predatory stillness. The furrow between his brows had deepened, but it wasn't disapproval. It was something else. Hunger? Calculation? Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum against the paper gown.
His gloved hand moved. Not towards the instruments. Slowly, deliberately, he withdrew the speculum. The cold metal slipped free with a soft, slick sound that made her flinch. He set it aside on the tray with a quiet clink that echoed. He didn’t snap off his gloves. Instead, his bare fingers – she realized with a jolt he must have peeled one glove off silently – touched her inner thigh, just above the knee. The touch was startlingly warm through the thin latex of his remaining glove, a shocking contrast to the chill of the room and the retreating metal. His thumb stroked upwards, a slow, deliberate caress along the sensitive skin, moving higher, skirting the very edge of her exposed flesh.
Susanna gasped, a sharp intake of breath that sounded obscenely loud. Her body arched involuntarily, pressing against his touch. Every nerve ending screamed. It was wrong. Profoundly, terrifyingly wrong. He was her doctor. This was his office. She was half-naked on the exam table. Yet, the warmth of his hand, the focused intensity of his gaze, the sheer attention he was giving her… it was everything she’d craved. Everything Jason denied her. A confusing cocktail of terror and overwhelming arousal flooded her, hot and liquid. She felt slick between her legs, a sudden, undeniable wetness.
"Such smooth skin," he murmured, his voice a rough whisper now, devoid of any pretense of professionalism. His thumb continued its slow, maddening ascent, tracing the crease where her thigh met her body. He was so close. The tip of his thumb brushed the very edge of her labia, the delicate, hairless folds. The touch was feather-light, almost accidental, but it sent an electric jolt straight to her core. She cried out, a soft, strangled sound.
"Sensitive," he observed, his voice thick. His other hand, still gloved, came up, not to restrain, but to gently press her knee further outwards, opening her wider to his gaze, to his touch. He leaned in slightly on the stool, the starched cotton of his shirt brushing against the inside of her other thigh. The scent of him – clean cotton, starch, warm male skin, and the lingering antiseptic – filled her nostrils, dizzying.
He didn’t plunge in. He teased. His ungloved thumb slid lower, tracing the outer lips with agonizing slowness. He explored the shape of her, the smoothness, with a tactile fascination that made her whimper. Each deliberate stroke was a brand. He found her clit, swollen and hard with need, and circled it with the pad of his thumb, applying just enough pressure to make her hips jerk off the table. A low moan escaped her lips, unbidden.
"God…" she breathed, her head thrashing back against the vinyl headrest. Her hands gripped the edges of the table, knuckles white. Shame warred with a raw, clawing need. This was forbidden. Dangerous. He was exploiting her, she knew it. But the sheer intensity of the sensation, the fulfillment of that deep, aching longing to be touched just so, to be the sole focus of such consuming desire… it short-circuited her reason. She was wet, so wet she could feel it, a slick heat pooling.
"Beautiful," he breathed, his eyes fixed on the glistening flesh revealed by his ministrations. His thumb dipped lower, sliding easily through her folds, gathering her wetness. He brought it back up, slicking it over her clit in slow, deliberate circles, the rhythm maddening. "So responsive." His voice was a low growl now, filled with a possessiveness that terrified and thrilled her. "You wanted to be pampered, Susanna? Touched like they do in the movies?"
His words, using her deepest longing against her in this context, were a violation. Yet, her body answered with another surge of wet heat. She could only nod frantically, a desperate, wordless plea. More.
He understood. With a low sound that was almost a groan, he parted her folds with two latex-slick fingers of his gloved hand. The coolness of the material against her burning flesh made her gasp. He didn’t hesitate. His middle finger slid into her, deep and sure, in one smooth thrust that stretched her, filled her. She cried out, her back arching sharply. It was invasive, clinical in its efficiency, yet charged with a raw, illicit hunger. He began to move, a slow, deep fucking motion with his finger, curling it slightly on the withdrawal in a way that made her see stars. His thumb continued its relentless, circling pressure on her clit, a counterpoint rhythm that threatened to unravel her completely.
"Yes," she hissed, the word torn from her. "Like that… please…" The plea was ragged, stripped bare.
He added a second finger, stretching her wider, fucking her deeper with a steady, piston-like rhythm. The wet, obscene sounds filled the tiny room – the slick slide of his fingers inside her, her own ragged gasps, his low, labored breathing. He watched her face now, his own expression tight with a fierce concentration, the lines around his eyes deepened. Sweat beaded on his temple, gleaming under the fluorescent lights. The professional mask was utterly gone, replaced by the stark, primal visage of a man taking what he wanted.
"Come on, Susanna," he commanded, his voice thick and guttural. His thumb pressed harder, circling faster. "Show me. Show me how much you needed this. How much you needed to be touched properly."
The pressure built, coiling tighter and tighter in her belly, a white-hot knot of sensation. His fingers thrust relentlessly, hitting that spot inside her with unerring accuracy, while his thumb worked her clit like a tuning fork. The clinical setting – the steel instruments glinting nearby, the smell of antiseptic, the crinkling paper beneath her – only heightened the debauchery, the sense of crossing a line that could never be uncrossed. She was hurtling towards the edge, suspended between horror and ecstasy, her body no longer her own but his instrument.
She shattered.
A ragged scream tore from her throat, muffled only by the sheer force of the orgasm that slammed through her. Her body convulsed violently on the table, hips bucking wildly against his invading hand, her inner walls clamping down hard on his thrusting fingers in rhythmic, desperate spasms. Stars exploded behind her eyelids, vision blurring into white noise as wave after wave of intense, almost painful pleasure crashed over her. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only ride the violent crest, her cries echoing in the sterile chamber. She felt him holding her there, fingers buried deep, thumb relentless, drawing out every last shuddering pulse until she collapsed, spent and trembling, slick with sweat and her own release, utterly vulnerable on the cold vinyl.
The vinyl felt shockingly cold against her sweat-slicked back as she lay there, lungs burning, muscles still twitching. His fingers slowly withdrew, the loss a sudden, hollow ache that made her whimper. The room tilted; the antiseptic smell was suddenly too sharp, clashing violently with the raw, intimate scent of her own arousal still clinging to his gloves. His breathing was ragged, uneven, a stark counterpoint to the clinical hum of the fluorescent lights overhead.
He didn’t look at her face. His gaze remained fixed between her legs, his expression unreadable – a mask of intense focus etched over something darker, hungrier. The latex of his remaining glove glistened wetly under the bright light. Slowly, deliberately, he peeled that glove off too, letting it fall soundlessly onto the tray beside the discarded speculum. His bare hand hovered, pale and somehow vulnerable looking against the stark white surroundings.
Then he leaned in. Not hesitantly, but with a terrifying certainty that froze the breath in her throat. His head dipped low, the neatly trimmed grey hair at his temples stark against her skin. She felt the warm puff of his exhale against her exposed flesh, a startling intimacy that made her flinch. "Dr. Rom—" she started, the protest dying instantly as his lips touched her.
Warm. Soft. Shockingly intimate. He kissed her there, directly on the smooth, sensitive skin just above where his fingers had been. It wasn’t clinical. It wasn't brief. It was a deep, lingering press of his mouth against her, slow and deliberate. She felt the slight roughness of his stubble against her inner thigh, the astonishing softness of his lips molding against her. A low groan vibrated from his chest, reverberating through her bones. Pleasure, sharp and illicit, sliced through the dazed aftermath of her orgasm, warring with a rising tide of panic. This was different. Profoundly different.
He moved his head slightly, finding the exact center of her wetness with his mouth. His tongue traced a slow, deliberate line upwards through her folds, a warm, wet pressure that stole her breath anew. The sensation was overwhelming, alien, terrifyingly good. It was everything she’d fantasized about, delivered in the most wrong place, by the most wrong person. She cried out, a choked sound, her hands scrabbling against the crinkling paper beneath her.
"Shhh," he murmured against her, his voice muffled, thick with an intimacy that felt suffocating. "Just feel it, Susanna." His tongue circled her clit, lighter than his thumb had been, infinitely more focused. It was an exploration, a claiming. He lapped at her, tasting the remnants of her climax, the slickness she’d produced for him. The wet sounds were obscenely loud in the quiet room. Her hips lifted instinctively towards that warm pressure, seeking more even as her mind screamed stop.
He sucked gently, pulling her swollen flesh into his mouth, and a jolt of pure electricity shot through her. She arched violently, a desperate gasp tearing from her lips. "Oh god…" Her fingers tangled in the paper gown, tearing it slightly. The contrast was dizzying – the sterile chill of the room, the gleaming steel instruments mere inches away, and the hot, wet suction of his mouth performing this most private act. Shame burned her cheeks, a fierce counterpoint to the shocking pleasure coiling low in her belly again.
He seemed utterly lost in it, consumed by the act. One hand came up to hold her hip, his bare fingers digging in slightly, anchoring her, while his mouth worked with a focused intensity that felt predatory and deeply possessive. He alternated between firm sucks and fluttering flicks of his tongue, reading her body's tremors with unnerving accuracy. It was control, absolute and terrifying. He knew precisely how to undo her.
She felt the pressure building again, shockingly fast, a tight coil ready to snap. It wasn't the explosive force of before; this was a deeper, more insistent pull, drawn out by the relentless, intimate attention of his mouth. Tears pricked at her eyes – tears of confusion, of violation, of sheer, overwhelming sensation. Her legs trembled uncontrollably. "Please…" she whimpered, unsure if she was begging for him to stop or begging for release. Her body screamed for the latter.
He answered by intensifying the suction, his tongue pressing harder, faster. The sound he made against her was a low, satisfied hum that vibrated through her core. She felt herself teetering on the edge, the world narrowing to the wet heat of his mouth, the pressure of his hand on her hip, the dizzying scent of sex and antiseptic. Just as the wave began to crest, a sharp, electronic buzz shattered the heavy silence.
The phone. His phone, vibrating insistently on the desk across the room. Dr. Rommich froze. His mouth went utterly still against her. The abrupt cessation was almost painful. He lifted his head slowly, his breath hot and ragged against her wet skin. His eyes, when they finally flicked up to hers, held a dazed, almost feral look, pupils blown wide. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He looked utterly wrecked, his professional facade obliterated.
The buzzing stopped. Then immediately started again, urgent, demanding. He stared at her exposed body for one long, suspended moment, his expression raw and unguarded – a mix of hunger, shock, and dawning horror. He hadn't planned this. He hadn't expected it to go this far. The realization hit her like ice water. He pushed himself back abruptly on the wheeled stool, putting distance between them. His gaze dropped to his lap, then snapped back to her face, a flush creeping up his neck.
"Christ," he breathed, the word barely audible. He grabbed a sterile towel from the tray, wiping his mouth roughly, then scrubbing his bare hand. The action felt violent, dismissive. He wouldn't look at her now. He stood up, his movements stiff, and turned towards the desk, his back to her, shoulders rigid. The buzzing phone felt like an accusation hanging in the air. Susanna lay perfectly still, trembling, exposed, the phantom heat of his mouth still burning on her skin, the cold vinyl beneath her suddenly unbearable. The sanctuary felt like a crime scene.
The sanctuary felt like a crime scene. Rommich’s back remained a rigid wall, his shoulders hunched as he gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles white. The silence pulsed louder than the phone’s abandoned buzz, thick with the raw scents of sex, sweat, and sterile wipes. Susanna shivered violently on the cold vinyl, the paper gown torn where her fingers had clenched, her exposed skin prickling with goosebumps under the fluorescent glare. The phantom heat of his mouth still bloomed on her flesh, a brand contradicting the icy dread coiling in her gut. He’d looked horrified. Guilty. Now, the distance felt like a chasm.
"Dr. Rommich?" Her voice came out cracked, barely a whisper. It scraped her raw throat.
He flinched but didn’t turn. He grabbed another towel, scrubbing his face, his bare forearms, with a violence that felt like self-flagellation. He wouldn’t look at the glistening evidence on the tray – the discarded gloves, the speculum. His breath hitched, a ragged sound in the quiet. The framed diploma on the wall seemed to glare down in judgment.
Susanna pushed herself up on trembling elbows, the paper crinkling obscenely. Her legs felt shaky, weak. The wetness between her thighs was a cold, sticky reminder, but deeper than the shame, deeper than the fear, a desperate, clawing hunger roared back. Jason’s bored indifference. The slow, worshipful touch she’d craved and just received in the most perverse way imaginable. The intense, focused attention that made her feel seen, desired, even in this violation. The orgasm he’d ripped from her was the most potent thing she’d ever felt. She needed him to erase the horrified look. She needed him to finish it. To claim her. Prove she wasn’t just some broken thing he regretted touching.
"Don't stop." The words tumbled out, louder than she intended, echoing strangely. He froze, the towel halfway to his brow.
She swallowed hard, the vinyl cold against her bare ass as she shifted. Her heart hammered against her ribs, threatening to burst. She deliberately spread her knees wider on the padded rests, the air chilling her exposed sex. The movement felt brazen, terrifying. "Please." Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, raw with need. "You can’t… you can’t leave me like this."
He turned slowly. His eyes, when they finally met hers, were dark pools swimming with conflict – the shattered remnants of his professional mask, the lingering heat of lust, and pure, unvarnished panic. Sweat plastered strands of grey hair to his temples. His gaze flickered down her body, lingering on the deliberate openness of her thighs, the slick evidence of his actions glistening under the bright lights. A muscle jumped in his jaw. "Susanna," he rasped, the name sounding bruised. "This… this was…" He trailed off, unable to articulate the enormity of his transgression, the line vaporized.
"It’s what I wanted," she lied, the words tasting metallic. Or was it a lie? The pulsing need between her legs screamed it was true. She needed the oblivion, the confirmation, the final step. She needed him to obliterate the fragile Susanna who still craved her adoptive mother’s approval. "You started it. Finish it." She braced her hands on the rests, lifting her hips slightly off the table in open invitation. The cool air kissed her wet folds. "Fuck me. Please. Right here. Right now. I need you inside me." The vulgarity, the raw plea, hung in the antiseptic air, a direct challenge.
His breath left him in a rush, a low groan that seemed ripped from his chest. The towel fell from his limp hand. The war in his eyes raged for a heartbeat longer – professional annihilation versus the primal pull of the wet, open woman offering herself on his examination table. The animal won. Hunger eclipsed the panic, hardening his features, darkening his gaze to something feral. He took one step towards the table. Then another. His movements were no longer stiff, but predatory, purposeful.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t reach for a glove. His hands, bare now, went to his belt buckle, fingers fumbling only slightly with the clasp in his haste. The metallic clink was obscenely loud. He yanked his belt open, then the button and zip of his trousers, pushing them and his briefs down just enough to free himself. His cock sprang free, thick, heavy, and already rigid, flushed dark and glistening wetly at the tip. Seeing it, real and urgent, made Susanna’s breath catch, a fresh wave of slick heat flooding her. This was happening. She’d begged for it.
He stepped between her splayed legs, the starched cotton of his trousers brushing the insides of her thighs. His smell – starch, warm male skin, antiseptic, and now the musky scent of his arousal – overwhelmed her. He gripped his shaft, the veins standing out on the back of his hand, guiding the swollen, purplish head. He didn’t pause. He didn’t ask. He pressed the broad tip against her soaked entrance, the heat of him a brand. Susanna gasped, arching her back instinctively, offering herself completely. "Yes," she hissed, a desperate plea and command.
He pushed forward. A low, guttural groan tore from him as her tight, wet heat stretched to accommodate him. Susanna cried out, a sound of shock and intense sensation – the sudden, deep invasion a visceral punch after his fingers, his mouth. He was thick, stretching her exquisitely, filling her with a demanding pressure that stole her breath. The cold vinyl beneath her, the steel instruments gleaming nearby, the framed diploma – all faded into a blur. There was only the shocking, solid reality of him buried deep inside her body, the heavy throb of his cock within her tight channel, the wet, slick sound as he pulled back slightly before driving forward again with a rough, claiming thrust that shoved her body up the table. He seated himself to the hilt, his hips grinding against hers, his balls tight against her ass. He was so deep. Her inner muscles clenched involuntarily around the rigid intrusion, a hot, pulsing grip.
"Fuck," he breathed, the word ragged, almost reverent. His hands clamped onto her hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, holding her open, holding her down as he began to move. No finesse now. No lingering worship. Just raw, driving need. He withdrew almost completely, then slammed back in with a force that jolted her entire body, the table creaking under the assault. Again. And again. A relentless, piston-like rhythm that filled the tiny room with the wet slap of skin on skin, his labored grunts, her choked gasps. Each deep, brutal thrust ground the base of his cock against her clit, sending jolts of sharp pleasure-pain radiating through her core. Her breasts bounced with the force, the torn paper gown offering no modesty. She felt speared, owned, the gynecological chair transformed into an instrument of raw fucking. She wrapped her shaking legs around his hips, her heels digging into the hard muscle of his ass, trying to take him deeper, urging him on. "Harder," she begged, the words lost in a moan as he pistoned into her, his cock a relentless, hot thickness splitting her open. "Oh god, yes! Fuck me! Use me!" The obscenities tumbled out, feeding the frenzy, the sheer wrongness of it amplifying the intensity. She was coming again, a harsh, clenching orgasm ripping through her, her inner walls spasming violently around his driving cock as he growled, his thrusts turning even more savage, chasing his own brutal release deep inside the sterile heart of his crumbling sanctuary. He slammed into her one final, jarring time, burying himself to the root, and roared, a raw, animal sound of utter abandonment as he emptied himself, his cock pulsing thick jets of hot cum deep within her clenching cunt. The warmth flooded her, a shocking intimacy, the final irrevocable violation. He collapsed forward, bracing his hands on the table on either side of her, his forehead dropping to her shoulder, his entire body shuddering, spent. The only sounds were their ragged, desperate gasps for air and the faint, accusing hum of the fluorescent lights.