Chapter 4: The Doctor's Visit
The morning arrived with a gray, bleached light that seeped through the curtains like water through gauze. Lena woke to the sound of John's shower running, the pipes groaning in the walls, and she lay still for a moment, her hand resting on her flat stomach. Three days had passed since he had first filled her with the promise of a child, and already she found herself touching the spot, as if she could feel something taking root there.
She rose and padded to the bathroom, her bare feet cold against the tile. In the mirror, her reflection stared back at her—soft brown eyes, lips still swollen from the night before, the crack in the glass splitting her face in two. She ran a hand over her smooth mound, checking the skin for any hint of stubble, and found it silken, perfect. She had shaved again that morning, before John woke, standing over the sink with the razor and the foam, her motions precise and almost meditative.
John emerged from the shower, steam curling around him, a towel slung low on his hips. He watched her for a moment as she stood at the mirror, his eyes traveling down her body with the same possessive hunger he always wore.
"We're going to the clinic today," he said. "I made an appointment. Fertility check, to make sure everything's in working order."
She turned to look at him, her heart giving a small, nervous flutter. "A clinic?"
"Just a checkup," he said, stepping closer and cupping her chin in his hand. "I want to make sure that womb of yours is ready. I don't want to waste any time."
She nodded, her throat dry. "Okay."
His thumb brushed across her lower lip. "Good girl."
The drive to the clinic was quiet, the morning traffic sparse. Lena sat in the passenger seat, her hands folded in her lap, watching the suburban streets give way to a commercial strip of strip malls and gas stations. The clinic was a squat, beige building set back from the road, its sign faded and unassuming. It did not look like a place where futures were determined. It looked like a place where insurance forms went to die.
Inside, the air was cold and heavy with the smell of antiseptic and recycled air. A receptionist with tired eyes and a monotone voice checked them in, her gaze flickering briefly between Lena and John before returning to her computer screen.
"Dr. Ellison will see you shortly," she said. "You can have a seat."
They sat in a row of plastic chairs, the only other patient a middle-aged woman with a magazine she wasn't reading. John kept his hand on Lena's thigh, his thumb tracing lazy circles through the fabric of her dress. She wore a light floral print, something he had picked out for her, and the hem rode up as she crossed her legs, exposing a strip of bare, smooth thigh.
"Don't be nervous," John murmured, leaning close. "It's just a formality. We'll be out in an hour, and then I'm going to take you home and fuck you in the car before we even pull into the driveway."
She felt heat rise to her cheeks, and she kept her eyes fixed on the floor. "Yes, John."
A door opened, and a tall woman in a white coat stepped out, a clipboard in her hand. "Lena Hart?" she called, her voice brisk.
Lena stood, her legs feeling weak, and followed the doctor into a narrow corridor lined with exam rooms. John walked behind her, his hand resting at the small of her back, a constant pressure that both steadied and claimed her.
The examination room was small and windowless, lit by a single fluorescent fixture that buzzed like an insect trapped in a jar. In the center sat the examination table, upholstered in cool white vinyl, its stirrups rising like chrome talons from the end. A metal tray beside it held an array of instruments she tried not to look too closely at.
Dr. Ellison was a woman in her fifties, with gray-streaked hair pulled back in a tight bun and a face that gave away nothing. She gestured to the table. "Go ahead and undress from the waist down, then lie back with your feet in the stirrups."
Lena hesitated, her eyes darting to John. He gave her a nod, his expression unreadable, and she reached for the hem of her dress. She pulled it up over her hips, then slid her panties down her legs, feeling the cool air against her bare skin. She climbed onto the table, the vinyl cold and slick against her thighs, and positioned herself as instructed, her knees falling open.
Dr. Ellison pulled on a pair of gloves, the latex snapping against her wrists. She picked up a metal instrument—the speculum—and approached the table.
"This will be cold," she said, her voice flat.
Lena felt the metal press against her, then slide inside, spreading her open with a mechanical click. She gasped, her hands gripping the edges of the table, and closed her eyes. The sensation was invasive, deeply clinical, nothing like the way John touched her. It was a violation without pleasure, a probe into the deepest part of her.
"Relax," Dr. Ellison said. "Just breathe."
John stepped closer, his hand landing on her thigh, his fingers pressing into the smooth skin. "You're doing fine," he said, his voice low and warm. "Just a little longer."
The doctor peered between her legs, adjusting the speculum, and Lena felt a strange, distant pressure as the instrument tilted. "Everything looks healthy," Dr. Ellison said. "The cervix is positioned well, no signs of abnormality. Is this your first pregnancy?"
"Yes," Lena whispered.
The doctor nodded, withdrawing the speculum with a slick, metallic sound. She removed her gloves and tossed them in a waste bin, then turned to her desk and made some notes on a clipboard.
"Your womb is in excellent condition," she said. "I see no reason why you wouldn't conceive without difficulty. You might want to track your ovulation cycle, but given the frequency you'll likely be trying, I'd say your chances are very good."
John's smile was slow and satisfied. He reached down and pulled Lena upright, her legs still spread, the table slick beneath her. "Thank you, Doctor," he said, his hand moving from her thigh to rest possessively on her bare hip.
"Of course. We'll send a summary to your primary care physician. You can get dressed whenever you're ready."
The doctor turned and left the room, the door clicking shut behind her.
Lena went to reach for her panties, but John stopped her, his hand closing around her wrist. "Not yet," he said, his voice dropping to a murmur. "The doctor said everything looks healthy. She said your womb is ready."
Lena's heart hammered. "John—"
He pushed her back onto the table, her legs still in the stirrups, spread wide and vulnerable. "I want to make sure we take advantage of that."
Before she could respond, he pressed two fingers inside her, burying them to the knuckle in one smooth, deliberate thrust. She cried out, her back arching, her hands flying to grip the vinyl beneath her.
"Feel that?" he said, his fingers curling inside her. "Feel how loose you are after that speculum? I'm going to fill you right back up."
He pumped his fingers into her, slow and deep, his thumb finding her clit and pressing hard. She moaned, her head falling back, her hips bucking against his hand. She couldn't help it—her body responded to him like a lock to a key, surrendering all resistance.
"You like that, don't you?" he murmured. "Getting fucked on an exam table. You like knowing someone could walk in and see you like this."
"Yes," she sobbed. "God, yes."
"Filthy little slut," he said, but his voice was thick with approval. He pulled his fingers out and brought them to her mouth, coating her lips with her own slickness. "Taste yourself."
She opened her mouth and took his fingers, sucking them clean, her eyes locked on his. He watched her with a dark, possessive hunger, his pupils blown wide.
"Get dressed," he said, pulling his hand away. "We're leaving."
She fumbled with her panties, her legs still shaking, and pulled her dress back down over her hips. John led her out of the room, his hand at her back, guiding her past the reception desk and through the waiting room. She kept her eyes down, feeling the heat in her cheeks, the slickness between her thighs.
They stepped out into the parking lot, the morning sun harsh and bright after the dim, sterile interior of the clinic. The car sat in the near-empty lot, a silver sedan that gleamed in the light. John opened the passenger door, but instead of letting her get in, he pushed the seat forward, exposing the back seat.
"Bend over," he said.
Lena's breath caught. "Here? Someone could see—"
"I said bend over."
She obeyed, her hands gripping the seat in front of her as she bent over, her ass raised, her dress riding up to expose the bare, smooth skin of her thighs. John undid his belt, the metal clinking, and she heard the rustle of his trousers.
Then he was behind her, his hands spreading her cheeks, and she felt the blunt head of his cock pressing against her slick, ready entrance.
"No condom," he said, his voice a growl. "I'm going to fill you right here, right now."
He thrust inside her with a single, brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt. She cried out, her nails scrabbling against the upholstery, and he began to pound into her, fast and hard, the car rocking with the force of him.
"This is what you were made for," he said, his hand coming down on her ass with a sharp slap. "This cunt, this womb—all of it exists to take my seed."
"Yes," she gasped, the word torn from her. "Fuck, yes."
He drove into her with a rhythm that was relentless, punishing, the sound of their bodies slapping together echoing across the empty lot. She felt herself spiraling, her orgasm building, and she allowed it to crash over her with a scream, her inner walls clamping down around him.
He followed her over the edge, his hips slamming against her as he came with a guttural roar, flooding her with the hot, thick proof of his claim. He stayed inside her for a long moment, his breath ragged, his forehead pressed to her back.
"Now we go home," he said, pulling out slowly. She felt his seed leaking from her, trickling down her inner thigh. "And we do this again. And again. Until it takes."
She straightened up, her legs trembling, and pulled her dress down, feeling his warmth still inside her. She climbed into the passenger seat, her body sore and achingly full, and let her head fall back against the headrest.
John got in beside her and started the engine. He reached over and placed his hand on her stomach, his thumb tracing a slow circle over her navel.
"By this time next year," he said, "you'll be holding our baby." He smiled, a rare, genuine expression that softened the hard lines of his face. "And we'll have a family."
Lena looked down at his hand on her stomach, feeling the warmth of him through the fabric of her dress. She thought of the clinic, the doctor's words, the cold metal speculum, and the heat of John filling her afterward.
A family. His child growing inside her.
She put her hand over his and squeezed. "Yes," she said, her voice quiet but certain. "We will."
The car pulled out of the lot, leaving the clinic behind, and Lena felt the road open beneath them like a promise waiting to be kept.