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You have been staring at a diagram of a vulva for so long that your eyes feel like they are starting to glaze over. Why is he even making you learn this? It is not as if you are going to be dealing with vulvas when you are doing experiments. It is so stupid. You bury your face in the desk for a moment, letting out a quiet groan before you slowly peel your head back up and glare at the diagram again.
Your gaze lingers on it and a thought worms its way into your head. You wonder if using yours would make it any easier. You glance around the room. The examination table sits in the middle. That is when you make up your mind.
You start hunting for a mirror, searching through the organised mess of the room until you finally find a small one. You drag the rolling tray over and set the mirror down on it, then you place the textbook beside it leaving it open on the vulva page.
You decide you should probably change into a gown. You can’t exactly do this sort of thing in your lab coat and trousers without it being awkward. At the very least, you would like to preserve some dignity. You dig out a patient gown and slip into it, twisting awkwardly to tie it at the back. If someone walks in, you at least do not want your ass hanging out.
You pull down your underwear and place them on the tray. Then you adjust the examination table, placing it into a sitting position and climb up onto it. You reach up and grip the articulated lamp, pulling it down until the white bulb hovers just above your pelvis.
The mirror takes longer than it should to sort. You set it between your thighs, angled upward, and shift it. Too far left. Too far up. You nudge it. Now the reflection catches the inside of your thigh but not the centre. Another adjustment. Your breath comes shorter. Finally, the glass gives you exactly what you want: a clear, illuminated view of your own vulva, pink and unfamiliar.
You glance at the heavy anatomy book open beside you on the table. Your hand moves down your stomach. The muscles there tighten involuntarily under your own touch. "Mons pubis," you whisper as your fingers find the soft mound of flesh above your pubic bone. Just fatty tissue. You press down slightly, feeling the give of it, and your breathing turns shallow. Nervousness buzzes in your chest, but your hand keeps moving.
"Labia majora." Your fingertips trace the outer lips. You take each side gently between your thumb and forefinger, squeezing with a pressure that's more curious than anything else.
Then you part the folds. The cooler air of the room meets the hidden skin beneath, and you watch it happen in the mirror the slow reveal of structures you've only ever seen illustrated in cross-section. It looks, you think, almost strange. "Labia minora."
You run a fingertip along the inner lips, tracing their edge from bottom to top. The skin here is different- thinner, more sensitive. You stare at your vaginal opening, the way it seems to clench at nothing, and just above it, the smaller, tighter opening of your urethra.
Your finger moves higher. The clitoral hood sits at the apex, a small fold of skin. You pull it back carefully, and there it is. The glans of your clitoris, pearl-slick and smaller than you expected. You know, theoretically, that this structure exists for pleasure. That its only purpose is sensation. You curiously press your finger against it. Hard.
Your head snaps back, mouth opening on a sound you don't release. The sensitivity is staggering- a bright, electric jolt that shoots from that single point outward, through your pelvis and up your spine. Your thighs try to close of their own accord. You force them open again, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling.
The door swings open. "Did I leave my notes in here?" The voice is casual. Completely, horrifyingly casual. Your head whips toward the door, and there he is. Dottore. He stands in the doorway, one hand still on the handle. He stills staring at the scene: you, on the examination table, legs spread, lamp angled down, mirror positioned between your thighs, finger still on your own body.
You yank your hand away. Your knees snap together, nearly knocking the mirror to the floor. You catch it just in time, clutching it against your stomach like a shield.
"Can you not do this sort of thing in your bedroom?" He folds his arms across his chest. His voice is maddeningly even. "This is an examination room. Not your masturbation studio."
"I SWEAR IT'S NOT LIKE THAT!" The words tear out of you. "I'M STUDYING!" He doesn't move. "Uh huh. Well, I'm sorry to have disturbed you. I'll look for my notes once you've... finished." You lunge for the textbook, grabbing it and holding it up like evidence before a judge. "Here! Look!" "Ah, yes. The cheating method. I see now." He takes one step into the room, shutting the door behind him. "It does get good results. I should know. I used to dissect myself." You stare at him. You give him a worried look, and the silence stretches into something uncomfortable. An awkward staring contest.
"You know you could have asked me," he says. "I would be happy to help you, learn."
"Sorry." Your voice comes out smaller now. "I just kind of decided to do this. I should've come and got you." He walks towards you, crossing the room in quick deliberate strides. "That's not what I meant."
"I am happy to teach you." He says it simply, without inflection. "You are my star pupil after all. I want you to be the best you can be. That is all." Heat floods your cheeks. You feel it spread down your neck, down onto your chest.
"Oh, and no wonder you're struggling with this anatomy so much." Dottore's voice drops into something almost mocking, almost tender. "Poor thing." The embarrassment sharpens. Your throat tightens.
"Well then." He straightens and turns toward the door, lifting a hand in a dismissive wave. "I'll leave you to continue with your study session. Let me know when you're-" a pause, “finished."
"Wait." The word is out before you can stop it. He turns back. "You're a good teacher. I always learn a lot more from you than on my own." The smile that spreads across his face is slow and knowing. "What do you want me to do?" He takes a step back toward you. "Touch you?" Another step. "Or watch you touch yourself?" Your eyes widen. The truth of it sits heavy in your chest- you've always been drawn to him. And the idea of his hands on you, clinical and attentive.
"I want you to do it." Your voice steadies. "To me." His smile doesn't waver. "I'll be gentle, don't you worry. I'll talk you through everything, and you can tell me to stop if it's too much. This will be a very beneficial lesson for you.” You nod. “I will get set up,” he says.
You sit there on the medical chair, your body tense and your thoughts fixed on what is about to happen. He starts by washing his hands, then moves around the room gathering the equipment with practised efficiency. You watch as he takes items from the cupboards. “Can you lift that tray off the table?” he asks. You do it without questioning, leaving the rolling table bare.
Only then does he come over and place a new tray down. You glance nervously at the equipment on it: his gloves, a full bottle of lubricant, a swab, some paper towels and a speculum. That unsettles you most of all. You have never inserted anything before. You have always been too focused on your studies, and you have never had any desire to, and now he is going to insert that.
He takes the old tray from you. “Can I not keep the textbook?” You ask. “Why would you need it? I am helping you after all.” With that, he turns away and sets your tray down on the side. You catch sight of his head facing down it’s then that you realise your underwear is on that tray still. “Glad to see you made yourself comfortable. You even slipped into a nice gown.” You stay silent unsure what to say.
He reaches into a cupboard, retrieves something, and comes back to the table. Bending down in front of you, you hear a click, then another, and then he lifts up two stirrups. “During this I want you to remain as still as you can. Do you think you can do that for me?” “I will try,” you say. “I could always just restrain you like I do with my test subjects so please do try.” He smiles then, suddenly, as though the idea pleases him. “That’s your prerogative though.” You stay silent, weighing it.
He walks to the sink again. The faucet hisses on, and you watch him lather his hands with same surgical precision- fingertips to wrists, each nail scrubbed individually. He dries them on a cloth folded beside the basin, holding his hands up like a surgeon about to enter an operating theatre.
Then he reaches for the white latex gloves.
The snap of the first glove against his wrist makes you jump. He works his fingers into the second one, stretching the latex, and you remember the sterile technique lesson. How many gloves you went through that afternoon, how he stood behind you and guided through the motion until you stopped contaminating the field. Now those same gloved hands are about to touch your most intimate area.
"Put your legs in the stirrups." You flush. The embarrassment burns across your cheeks, down your neck, but you lift your legs, one at a time, settling your calves into the padded metal rests. He reaches past you and adjusts the lamp, angling it down until the light pools directly onto your vulva. A satisfied sound hums in his throat.
You have never felt so displayed. The position pushes your pelvis forward, opening you completely. You wonder if he likes how it looks. The thought twists in your stomach nervousness laced with something sharper. What if he's disgusted by it?
"I'm going to put your mirror back," he says. "I need you to tell me when you can see it and how to adjust it." "Okay." You watch in the small glass as his gloved fingers grip the mirror. He moves it slowly, incrementally, watching your face for cues. The reflection shifts too high, now catching the lamp's glare then dips until you see yourself. Your labia, parted. The deeper pink of your inner folds. "There." "Excellent. I want you to see exactly where I’m touching.”
"We will start external and move internal. If you want me to stop, tell me. If you want to ask a question, just ask. With all that in mind, can I begin?" "Yes, Dottore." His hands move toward you. One palm presses down on your pubic bone firm, grounding, a steady weight that anchors you to the table. The other hovers just above your mons.
"I will keep one hand here." He taps the bone lightly. "Now." His index finger descends, tracing the soft mound of your mons pubis. "What is this?" "Mons pubis." Your voice comes out steadier than you expected. "Very good. What is it for?" "Cushioning. And protection." "See, you do know it."
His fingers glide outward, tracing the curve of your outer lips. The latex drags with just enough friction to make you aware of every millimetre of contact. He frames your labia majora between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing gently. "And these?" "Labia majora." You swallow. "They protect the structures inside." "Good girl." The words hit you somewhere low and deep. Your hips stiffen, and at the exact same moment his finger moves inward brushing the edge of your inner lip and you flinch, a full-body jerk.
He removes his hand immediately. "Are you okay?" You nod, breathing hard. "I'm fine. Sorry." "It's fine." His voice doesn't waver. "Can you still see in the mirror?" You look down. The mirror has shifted your movement must have nudged it and now it shows only the inside of your thigh. "No. It's moved."
A muscle tightens along his jaw. Irritation, barely perceptible, but you catch it. Still, he reaches for the mirror and adjusts it again, tilting the glass again. "If only we had a bigger mirror," he murmurs.
You hesitate but decide to just speak “you can just restrain me." The words hang in the air. His head tilts, “are you certain you want that?" You think about it. About how the restraints would feel. About being held open, immobile, unable to flinch away from whatever he does next. About what it might be like to truly have no escape.
"Maybe it'll be good to know what our experiments experience." "Perhaps." He doesn't look away from you. "If that's what you want, then fine. I will apply the restraints. Just get yourself comfortable, you will be remaining in that position for the duration of this." You nod and wriggle slightly, settling deeper into the table's padding. Your heart is beating hard enough that you can feel it in your throat.
He moves behind the table and retrieves the restraints leather straps with metal buckles.
The first strap goes across your stomach. He pulls it snug, not tight enough to restrict your breathing, but enough that you feel the pressure of the leather against your gown. His fingers work the buckle with practiced efficiency, clicking it into place.
Next, the stirrups. He secures a strap around each leg. Your legs are spread and locked. No closing them now, no protective flinch, no modesty.
Then your thighs. The straps cinch around the muscle, holding your legs apart and open. Your lower half is completely immobilised. You test the restraints instinctively your muscles twitch, but the leather holds firm. He doesn't stop there. A strap across your shoulders, pressing you back against the bed. Then he takes your arms, one at a time, positioning them at your sides and securing your wrists.
"There we are." He steps back, surveying his work. "Give me a wriggle, then." You try. The humiliation of it prickles across your skin you are spread open, your most private parts on full display, and you cannot move. Your legs can't close. Your arms can't cover yourself. The leather forces you into this position and holds you there, immobile, entirely at his mercy. He smiles. The expression is small, almost private. Satisfied.
"They aren't painful, are they?" You shake your head. "No. It feels fine." "Good. Let us continue, then. Tell me when you can see the mirror." He adjusts it again, slower this time, deliberate. The glass tilts, and you catch a glimpse of yourself, pinned open under the bright lamp. You are grateful for the coverage of the patient gown. At least you can have some dignity still.
"There." He stops. His hand retreats from the mirror. "Now." His gloved hands return to you. One palm rests on your pubic bone again. The latex is cool against your skin. "We will continue where we left off." You watch in the mirror as his other hand moves.
One gloved finger descends toward your labia, and the moment it makes contact that feather-light drag of latex along the inner lip you flinch. The restraints catch you, leather creaking, holding you open and immobile.
"And what might this be called?" "Labia minora." Your voice comes out breathier than you intend. "They protect the openings of the vagina and urethra." His smile spreads slowly, the fine lines at the corners of his mouth deepening. "I think you know more than you think."
Then his finger begins to move. He strokes upward along your inner lip, tracing its edge from base to apex with a pressure that's just barely there. Your muscles tense in sequence: first your thighs, straining uselessly against the leather straps; then your stomach, contracting beneath the restraint that pins your waist; then your hands, curling into fists at your sides. He stops just short of your clitoral hood. His finger hovers there for one heartbeat, and then glides back down, retreating the way it came.
A sound escapes you something between a sigh and a frustrated exhale. He ignores it completely. Instead, his thumbs hook into your labia and part them wider. The mirror shows you everything. "What is this?" His finger taps once, gently, against the upper opening. "That's my urethral opening." You have to concentrate to form the words. "It's how urine is expelled." He nods, academic and approving, and moves lower.
His finger circles the entrance of your vagina now, tracing its rim of muscle without pushing inside. The touch makes your hips strain forward, chasing the pressure, but the restraints hold you flat. "That's my vaginal opening. It leads to my vagina."
"And below it is your hymen." His voice drops, becoming something almost private. He presses against the thin membrane with the pad of his finger, stroking it in a slow circle. "Nice to see my assumption was correct." Heat floods your face. You know exactly what he means. The embarrassment prickles across your cheeks and down your neck, but beneath it, something else stirs. Something that doesn't mind being examined this closely. No lies, he can probably see that you are excited.
"Well." He withdraws his hands. "I think that's everything external." He says it with a smile. "But, my clitoris." The words tumble out before you can stop them. "Oh, how silly of me. Of course. It's this, isn't it?" He holds his finger directly above your clitoral hood not touching, just hovering.
"What is the purpose of this structure?" You swallow hard. "The hood protects it. The clitoris itself has a huge number of nerves and is used for sexual pleasure."
"See? Very clever." He withdraws his hand. "Now, let’s discuss the internals."
You whine. The sound comes from somewhere deep in your throat, involuntary and embarrassing. He pauses. Tilts his head.
"Is something the matter?" You stay silent. What are you supposed to say? That your clitoris is throbbing? That you can see it in the mirror- swollen.
He leans closer. "Oh, I see. You want me to touch it." It's not a question. But your silence answers it anyway. "But that wouldn't be very appropriate now, would it?" His voice has taken on that almost-mocking, almost-tender quality. "You just said it's used for sexual pleasure. And I'm only helping you study."
You whine again, higher this time, your hips shifting against the restraints with a useless, humiliating squirm. "Dottore." His name comes out ragged. "Please. Examine it." "Examine it?" "It hurts." The lie is transparent. You both know it. Your clitoris isn't hurting- it's aching, throbbing, desperate in a way that feels almost like pain. He knows. His smirk tells you he knows exactly what you're doing, and he's going to let you do it anyway.
"Oh, no. Well, I can't have my favourite student in pain now, can I?" You watch his gloved hand reach for the rolling table, watch him select the bottle of lubricant. The cap clicking open. The gel is clear and thick as it ribbons onto his fingers, and he rubs it between his thumb and forefinger, spreading it evenly across the latex. His fingers move back to hover above it. "You just let me know how it feels."
Two fingers land on either side of your clitoral hood and pull it back, stretching the skin taut, exposing the glans completely to the warm lamplight. You see it in the mirror. The small pearl visibly throbbing. The sight alone makes your stomach tighten.
Then his other hand moves. His index finger descends and lands directly on your clitoris with a pressure that is not gentle. It is firm. Deliberate.
Your whole body jerks. The restraints catch you leather biting into your wrists, your thighs, your stomach and hold you flat against the table as sensation detonates from that single point of contact. It's too much. It's not enough. It's bright and electric and your mouth opens on a sound you don't recognise, a broken little whimper that fills the quiet room.
"Oh, I can see you are in a lot of pain." His voice is silk. "Well, I know just the thing." He begins to rub. His finger moves in circles tight, relentless circles that grind the pad of his fingertip directly against the exposed glans. There is no build-up. No gentle introduction. Just immediate, overwhelming friction that sends shockwaves through your pelvis and up your spine.
Your vision blurs at the edges. Your head falls back against the table. "Ah-ah." His free hand leaves your hood and grips your chin, forcing your head forward. "Watch." You force your eyes open. Force them down. The mirror shows you everything: his hand working between your legs, your clitoris slick and swollen under his fingertip, your inner thighs trembling against the restraints. The circles don't slow. They don't change rhythm. They are mechanical in their precision, as though he has calculated exactly the pressure and speed required to dismantle you.
All you can do is whimper and struggle.
Your hips try to buck, but the strap across your stomach pins you. Your thighs try to close, but the leather around them holds. You are completely at his mercy, spread open and immobilised, and he is touching you with the same clinical focus he brings to every procedure watching your face, cataloguing your responses, adjusting his technique based on the sounds you make.
"Fascinating," he murmurs. His finger doesn't stop. "The clitoris has more than ten thousand nerve endings. More than the entire glans of the penis. Did you know that?" You try to answer. What comes out is a moan. "I'll take that as a no."
He increases the pressure slightly just enough that your vision whites out for a half-second. "What you're experiencing right now is vasocongestion. Blood pooling in the erectile tissue. The same mechanism that causes penile erection, but in your case, entirely internal." His finger circles faster. "Well. Mostly internal."
You are climbing something now. You can feel it building a pressure low in your pelvis, coiling tighter with every circle of his fingertip. Your breathing has gone ragged. The restraints creak with every useless struggle. In the mirror, you watch your own body strain toward something it can't name.
His finger presses harder.
"I can tell it's very sensitive. The tissue is engorged. The colour has deepened. And you're producing an extraordinary amount of natural lubricant. In fact, the examination table is quite wet beneath you." Your hips roll uselessly. The restraints creak.
Your hands are clenching. Unclenching. The leather cuffs creak with every spasm. "Good girl," he murmurs. "That's it. Let me hear you." The glide of his finger is obscenely smooth. The lubricant has mingled with your own arousal, and every rotation produces a wet, subtle sound that the mirror lets you see as well as hear. You watch his fingertip circle your clit and you watch your own body respond.
"Have you ever had an orgasm before?" The question lands like a stone in still water. You try to answer. Your throat produces something that sounds vaguely like a negative a grunt, a whimper, a syllable that might have been "no." His finger never stops.
"I thought not." The hand on your pubic bone shifts, and now his thumb pulls the hood back even further, exposing you completely. The circles slow to a pace that borders on cruelty. "Which means this will be a first."
"The physiology is fairly straightforward. Stimulation of the clitoris triggers a cascade of neurological and vascular responses." His voice has dropped to something close to a purr. "And then there's the subjective experience. The part that can't be measured. The part they can't put in textbooks."
He leans closer. "I'm going to show you that part now." The pressure increases. "Just relax into it. Your body knows what to do even if your mind doesn't." His finger traces another circle, and another, each one a copy of the last, relentless and precise. "Come on. Be a good girl." The word hits you somewhere behind the navel. "And cum for me."
The circles continue. Your body is a wire pulled taut, a bowstring drawn back to the point of breaking, and his finger is the arrowhead pressing into the single most sensitive point of your entire nervous system. The pleasure is no longer local. It radiates upward from your crotch, a warmth that spreads through your pelvis, your abdomen, your chest. Your spine begins to tingle. The room's edges go soft.
"Look at the mirror," he commands. "Don't you dare look away." You watch his finger circle your clit. "There it is," he murmurs. "You're right at the threshold."
Suddenly a lightness blooms in your centre. It starts exactly where his finger touches you and it spreads like ink in water, warm and bright and terrifying in its intensity. Your breathing has gone ragged. Your hands are fists. The restraints groan as your body begins to thrash without your permission.
"That's it." His circles never falter. Never change.
Then everything goes white. The orgasm doesn't build. It detonates. One moment you're there, strapped to the chair, watching his finger circle your clit- and the next moment you're somewhere else entirely, somewhere made of pure sensation, somewhere where your body is a conduit for something too vast to name. A sound tears from your throat that you don't recognise as your own.
And through all of it, his finger keeps circling. Riding you through it. Drawing it out. Extracting every last spasm and shudder from your helpless body until you collapse with a sob.
Silence.
Your chest heaves. The mirror shows you the aftermath your vulva flushed deep pink, your clit still visibly pulsing under his unmoving finger, your thighs slick with lubricant and arousal.
His finger lifts from your clit. The absence is a small grief. Your hips twitch upward, chasing the contact, and the restraints catch you with an indifferent creak.
"There you are." He straightens, drawing his hand back. "What a good girl. Hopefully that examination alleviated some of your pain." The mockery in the word pain is so gentle it almost sounds like tenderness.
"But we haven't finished studying yet." His hand descends again not to your clit this time. Lower. Two gloved fingers trace a path from your clitoral hood downward, following the seam of your inner labia, trailing through the slick that your orgasm left behind. The touch is feather-light, exploratory.
"What will I be inserting my fingers into?" The question hangs in the air. Your brain is still fogged. Still swimming in the aftermath. Words feel like objects you've forgotten how to use, shapes that don't quite fit in your mouth. His fingers pause at your vaginal opening. They rest there, motionless, the tips just barely pressed against the entrance.
"I'm talking to you." The change in his voice is subtle. Still calm. But there's an edge now, a blade wrapped in velvet. "Come now. What is it?" You swallow. Your voice comes out scraped raw. "My vagina." A breath. "Then there's the cervix. It acts as a barrier to my uterus." The words tumble out in a rush.
"What a smart girl." His other hand reaches for the lubricant again. You watch him pour it onto his fingers. He rubs them together, spreading the gel. "I'm going to insert my fingers."
Your eyes drop to the mirror. You watch his middle finger press against your opening. Your body offers no resistance. After the orgasm, after the relentless circling, you're beyond wet- you're drenched, gaped slightly from the aftershocks that still ripple through your pelvic floor.
The finger slides in. To his knuckles where he’s forced to stop because there’s simply no further to go. Your head drops back against the chair. The sound you make is not a word. It's a long, ragged exhale, the kind of breath you'd release after holding it underwater for too long. The feeling of being filled even by just one finger is a different category of sensation. Less electric than his touch on your clit, but somehow more consuming.
"Good," he murmurs. "Very good. You're taking it beautifully." Then the second finger joins the first. The stretch is minimal but noticeable. Your inner walls clench involuntarily, gripping the intrusion, and you watch in the mirror as his two fingers disappear into you. The image is obscene. His gloved hand, your pink flesh, the way your body seems to pull him deeper. "Now." His fingers begin to move. Not thrusting, exploring. They slide along your anterior wall, pressing experimentally, mapping the terrain.
"Let's continue the lesson." The pads of his fingers drag across a spot that makes your vision flicker. "Do you know what this is?" He presses again. Same spot. Same electric jolt that makes your hips jerk against the restraints. You shake your head. Words are gone again. "This is the internal portion of your clitoris." His voice takes on that familiar teacher cadence. "The external glans is only the visible structure. The organ itself extends deep into the pelvic tissue. What I'm touching now is commonly called the G-spot. It's where the internal root of the clitoris wraps around the urethral sponge."
He curls his fingers. The pressure is sudden and specific; a hook pressed directly against that cluster of nerves. The moan that tears out of you is loud enough to echo off the acoustic tiles. "Ah ah." His other hand- the one still pressed to your pubic bone- taps a rhythm against your skin. "Keep your eyes on the material. I'm still teaching."
You force your eyes open. Force your head to look. The mirror shows you his fingers buried in you, shows the subtle curl of his knuckles beneath the latex, shows the way your inner muscles flutter around the intrusion. "There we are. Attention back on the material." He holds the pressure. Doesn’t move. Just keeps his fingers curling against that spot whilst your body writhes and your breath comes in hiccupping gasps. The sensation doesn’t diminish. Not one bit.
His fingers slide deeper. The movement is slow, deliberate, a continuation of his internal cartography. They glide past the G-spot, following the roof of your vagina, pressing gently as they go. The sensation shifts from electric to something deeper, more diffuse a pressure that feels less like pleasure and more like presence.
Then his fingertips press into something firm. Your gasp is involuntary. Sharp. Your abdominal muscles contract. "And that," he says, "is your cervix." His fingers trace the shape of it the small, round protrusion, the slightly dimpled centre. The touch is clinical. Detached. He might as well be palpating a lymph node.
“It is slightly firmer than the vaginal walls. The opening is closed, as it should be. During ovulation it softens and opens slightly to allow the passage of sperm. May I ask when your last period was?”
The question is so absurd that your brain stutters. You’re spread open on an examination chair after he gave you your first orgasm. You give him a look. “So I’m allowed to have my fingers inside you, but knowing the date of your last period is too far?” His tone is dry. Almost amused. You sigh. The calendar in your head is blurry. It’s hard to focus on dates when someone’s fingertips are pressed against your cervix. “About a week ago.” “I’ll have to report to Delta that he was correct, then.” You can’t even address what he means.
A pause. “Fascinating.” His voice drops slightly, losing some of its clinical edge. “You’re remarkably responsive.” He pulls his fingers back. Just slightly. Just enough to find another spot along the roof, higher than the first. The pads of his fingers drag across it.
The sensation hits you like a wave of heat. It’s not localised the way the G-spot was. It’s diffuse, a throb of pleasure that spreads outward from the point of contact and doesn’t stop spreading. Your thighs tremble. Your hands grip the armrests. “And there is your A-spot.”
He applies pressure. “Also known as the deep spot. Located just anterior to the cervix. Some women find stimulation here more intense than clitoral stimulation.”
His fingers press and hold. The pressure is steady, unrelenting, a sustained contact that makes your vision swim at the edges. “Are you one of those women?”
The word “I” forms in your throat. Then “don’t.” Then “know.” None of them connect. Your mouth is open. Sound is happening a low, continuous note that you can feel vibrating in your chest. But it’s not language. It’s not even close to language.
“Let’s find out, then.” His fingers begin to move.
Not circles this time. Not the patient, circling torture he used on your clit. A drag the pads of his fingers catching against the A-spot, then sliding past it, then finding it again. Back and forth. A rhythm that doesn’t change, doesn’t falter.
The feeling from before returns. The same one that built and built until you shattered. It starts exactly where his fingers touch you and it spreads outward up through your belly, down your thighs, a warmth that pools in your lower back and tingles at the base of your spine. Your breathing goes ragged. The sound of it fills the room. Your hands grip the armrests. The leather cuffs creak.
“Interesting. This didn’t take as long, and you are already bordering on another orgasm.” His fingers keep dragging. The rhythm doesn’t change. It’s almost hypnotic, the steady back-and-forth of his touch, the way it catches that spot every single time without fail. He’s not guessing. He’s found it, and he’s not losing it.
“I could bring you there. Right now. Keep this rhythm and watch you tip over the edge. Would you like that?” The word yes detonates in your brain but never reaches your tongue. It’s too far. The distance between your mind and your mouth has become vast, an ocean of sensation that swallows language whole. Your mouth is open. Sound is happening. None of it is a word.
"Perhaps. But first-“ he withdraws his fingers completely. The emptiness is a violation. Your body clenches around nothing, and the sound you make is a sob.
"I think you're ready." He turns to the metal rolling table. Your eyes follow him, blurred with frustration and unshed tears. You watch him select an instrument the speculum. Stainless steel. Two blades that curve together like a duck's bill. The sight of it sends a bolt of something complicated through your chest. He notices your expression. "It's all right." His voice gentles. "If it hurts too much, tell me." He coats the blades with lubricant, spreading it with his gloved fingers until the steel gleams.
"Ready?" You offer a small nod. The cool metal of the speculum touches your opening. A shock runs through you cold, so cold, a temperature your body wasn’t prepared for. Your inner flesh, still warm and swollen from his fingers, recoils from the chill. Your eyes squeeze shut. Your jaw clenches so tight your teeth ache. "Breathe," he says.
The speculum slides in. The sensation is not pain. Not exactly. It's a fullness that borders on too-much, a pressure that makes you acutely aware of every inch of your vaginal canal. The metal is smooth and unforgiving where his fingers were warm and yielding. It doesn't adapt to you. You adapt to it.
"Good. That's it. Almost done with the insertion."
The speculum settles inside you, and you force your eyes open again. Force your gaze back to the mirror. The sight is surreal the handles of the instrument protruding from your body, Dottore's gloved hand steadying them, your vagina stretched around the metal blades.
"Now I'll begin opening it. This will be uncomfortable. Just try to breathe." He turns a screw. The blades separate. The sensation is one you have no framework for. A spreading pressure, a slow dilation, the feeling of your vaginal walls being held apart by something cold and clinical. Your jaw clenches. Your fingers curl into fists. The leather cuffs groan. You always imagined that this sort of exam would happen after you lost your virginity not before. It hurts you so much the speculum just forces you open in the most unnatural way.
"Breathe," he reminds you. He turns the screw again. Another millimetre. Another increment of pressure that makes you whimper through gritted teeth. "There. That should be sufficient." He leans slightly closer, peering into the speculum, and you watch his masked face study you from the inside. The examination light glints off the metal.
"Looks healthy." His voice is matter of fact. "The cervix is pink. No lesions. No inflammation. Very normal for this stage of your cycle. Though there’s a small amount of fluid present. What a messy girl.” He reaches for a swab a long cotton-tipped wand sealed in sterile packaging. He tears it open.
"Routine Pap smear," he explains, though you haven't asked. "I'll just collect a sample of cells.” You wonder, distantly, why you’re now receiving medical care. After everything. Now this. Your first pap smear.
The swab disappears into the speculum. You can't see what he's doing the angle is wrong, the mirror doesn't show the interior but you feel it. The tip brushes against your cervix with a sensation that is not quite pain and not quite pleasure. A strange, deep tickle that makes your hips try to shift.
He withdraws it, and you watch him transfer the sample to a glass tube, the cap clicks shut. "Can you see your cervix?" You shake your head. He adjusts the angle of the speculum. The slight pull downward sends a bolt of discomfort through you not sharp, but insistent, a pressure that borders on ache.
"Keep looking." You keep looking. Something pink and round swims into view in the depths of the mirror, reflected by the examination light. Your cervix. Your actual cervix, visible through the speculum, a part of your body you've never seen before and never even imagined seeing. "There you are." He says holding still clearly recognising your facial expression of recognition.
"Well we are now done with this training session." He begins to close the speculum, turning the screw in reverse, and the release of pressure is its own kind of relief. The emptiness returns. But it’s different this time. Less acute. Your body has been stretched and examined. And is now almost empty against "Unless you want to go over glands." "Dottore." "Yes?" "I want to cum again." Silence. The mask hides his eyes, but his smile widens.
"How do you want to cum?" The mirror still shows you everything the unscrewed speculum still inside you, your body still open, your face still flushed. But the words are clear now. You know exactly what you want.
"I want you to teach me about penises." The smile becomes a smirk. "Of course." He quickly slides the speculum out the rest of the way. He tosses it onto the metal tray with a clatter that makes you flinch.
Then he reaches for the mirror. His gloved hand plucks it from its stand and sets it aside, out of your field of vision.
He's already reaching for the table's controls. A hydraulic noise. Then the back of the examination chair begins to lower, and you go with it tilting backward until you're almost flat, staring up at the ceiling tiles. This new angle means you can't see him. Not without straining your neck, lifting your head, fighting the position he's put you in.
All you can do is listen. "The penis,” he says, “is the external male reproductive organ. It is composed of three cylindrical bodies of erectile tissue: two corpora cavernosa and one corpus spongiosum, which surrounds the urethra. When aroused, these tissues become engorged with blood, producing an erection.” The mechanical sound of a buckle. A zipper. Fabric shifting. "But you don't want a lecture, do you."
You lift your head and see it his penis is thick. At its tip a pearl of white fluid has gathered. It trembles there, threatening to spill. You watch, transfixed, as another bead joins it.
His gloved hand suddenly wraps around the shaft. He strokes his length, and the sight of it makes something clench low in your belly. He’s spreading the mix of lubricant and your own arousal all over his lengthy shaft. Your head drops back against the table.
"You want a demonstration." And then something warm and blunt presses against your inner thigh. The pressure moves. Slides along your thigh, leaving a trail of heat.
“Are you certain you want this?” “Yes!” The word bursts out of you, louder than you intended, raw at the edges. You lift your head again, because you need him to see your face when you say this, need him to know. “I want this. I really want this. Please.”
His hand stills on his cock. “When I do this,” he says, and now the teacherly tone is back but it’s layered over something darker, something that makes your pulse hammer in your throat, “I expect loyalty from you. You are mine.” “I’m already loyal, doctor. I came to the laboratory for you. Please. Please. Take me.”
He moves and you feel the blunt pressure of him pressing against your entrance, just resting there, not pushing. Just present. The weight of it steals your breath. “This will most likely hurt. But you are as ready as you will ever be.” His voice is quieter now. Almost gentle. “Just breathe.” You suck in air.
But he doesn’t give you time to tense up. One sharp, decisive thrust and he’s inside you burying himself to the hilt in a single motion that shoves the air from your lungs in a strangled gasp. If you weren’t restrained, you would have launched off the table. Your back arches. Your thighs strain against the stirrups. The leather cuffs dig into your wrists as your body tries to curl inward, tries to escape the overwhelming sensation, tries to do anything except lie here and feel this. But there’s nowhere to go.
The fullness is staggering. A completeness so absolute it borders on pain, a pressure that seems to reach up into your throat and press against the back of your tongue. He’s thick enough that you feel every inch of the stretch, every ridge and vein of him pressed against your inner walls. The lubricant eases the way but doesn’t diminish the sheer presence of him, the way he seems to occupy space inside you that you didn’t even know existed. You didn’t know anything could feel like this. You didn’t know that this was even something you could feel.
The lubricant eases the way but doesn’t diminish the sheer presence of him, the way he seems to occupy space inside you that you didn’t know existed. He doesn’t move. Just stays there, buried deep, letting you adjust. “I’ve dreamed of this,” he says. His voice has gone rough at the edges, the clinical veneer cracking just slightly. “Never imagined it would happen with you strapped to a table and me teaching you about vulvas. But it allowed me to feel this. This incredible, tight cunt.” A tiny shift of his hips. Barely a thrust. Just enough to remind you that he’s there, that he’s inside you, that this is real. A whimper escapes you. It’s the only response you can manage. Your internal muscles flutter around him involuntarily, and you feel his cock twitch in response.
“Do you feel ready to have me thrust?” You nod frantically. “Yes.” He starts small. Shallow little movements, barely more than rocking just enough to let you feel the slide of him, the drag of skin against slick skin. Your body slowly unclenches. The initial shock fades into something else, something warmer. The stretch begins to feel less like intrusion and more like being filled, like being completed in a way you didn’t know you were incomplete.
He must sense the change the way your breathing steadies, the way your muscles soften around him Because his thrusts begin to deepen. Longer strokes now. Pulling out until you feel almost empty, almost bereft, and then sliding back in with a deliberate slowness that makes you acutely aware of every inch. The head of his cock drags against something inside you some spot you didn’t know existed until this moment and a sound escapes your throat. “Oh,” you breathe, and the sound is entirely involuntary.
Then he speeds up. The pace becomes something else entirely no longer careful, no longer measured. His hips snap against yours with a rhythm that rattles the instrument tray on its stand. Each thrust pushes a sound out of you, small gasps and moans that you can’t contain no matter how hard you try. The restraints creak as your body pulls against them.
“Oh, is my good girl enjoying this?” You nod, but he wants words. His rhythm falters for just a moment a tiny warning. “Yesss,” you gasp. “Yes, doctor.” “Good.” He picks up the pace again. Faster than before. Harder. The sensation is relentless, each thrust driving you up the table until the leather straps catch you and hold you in place. Your consciousness feels like it’s trying to float out of your body, trying to detach from the overwhelming physical reality of what’s happening to you, and then another thrust drags you back down into yourself.
Back into him.
The room swims around you. The fluorescent lights blur into streaks of white. Everything narrows to the point of contact between your bodies, the place where he enters you, the rhythm of his cock sliding in and out and in and out.
Then his finger finds your clit. The touch is electric a direct line from that small, swollen nub to every nerve ending in your body. He draws slow circles around it, matching the rhythm of his thrusts, and the dual sensation is too much. You’re still sensitive from the orgasm he gave you earlier.
Now every touch is amplified tenfold. You scream. There’s no other word for the sound that comes out of you. Dottore’s rhythm doesn’t falter. If anything, your cry seems to spur him on. His finger presses harder against your clit, circles tightening, and you can feel him watching your face studying your reactions with that same clinical intensity he brings to everything.
“Oh, you are so sensitive.” His voice is thick with satisfaction. “You truly are perfect.” A pause. A particularly deep thrust that makes your vision go white at the edges. “And I’m going to fill this vagina.” The words hit you somewhere deep. Your internal muscles clench around him involuntarily, and you hear his breath catch the first crack in his composure you’ve witnessed all night.
“Good girl.” The words are strained now. His thrusts are losing their rhythm, becoming erratic. “Oh, I can feel you tightening around me.” His finger circles faster. His hips snap harder. The instrument tray rattles. Your restraints creak. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re aware that you’re making sounds broken, desperate sounds but you can’t hear them over the roar of blood in your ears.
“Come on.” His voice is a growl now. Nothing clinical about it. “Be a good girl and cum. Cum for your doctor, your teacher.”
The command undoes you. It doesn’t build like the last one. There’s no gradual climb, no warning tremors. One moment you’re hovering on the edge, every muscle taut, every nerve screaming and the next you’re shattering. Falling apart around him with a force that whites out your vision. Your body convulses. Your hips buck against the restraints. The sound that tears from your throat barely human.
It’s more than the first one. Bigger. Deeper. It seems to originate from somewhere beyond your body, somewhere primal and wordless. You’re dimly aware of the mess you’re making the slickness coating your thighs, the wet sounds filling the room but you can’t bring yourself to care.
His finger stays on your clit, relentless circles even as you shudder and twitch with oversensitivity. His cock keeps driving into you, riding out your orgasm, drawing it out until you’re not sure where one ends and the next begins. Each thrust sends another aftershock rippling through you. Each circle of his finger pulls another broken sound from your throat.
“That’s it.” His voice is wrecked. Absolutely wrecked. The clinical veneer is gone completely now, stripped away by the same force that’s stripped away everything else. “Let go. Let me feel you.” You can’t do anything else. Your body isn’t yours anymore. It belongs to the orgasm, to the relentless pulse of pleasure that keeps cresting and receding and cresting again. Your thighs tremble in the stirrups. Your fingers are numb, the leather cuffs cutting off circulation, but you don’t care. All you care about is him. His voice in your ear. His finger on your clit. His cock driving into you with a rhythm that’s lost all pre-tense of control.
And then you feel it the sudden pulse of his cock inside you, the hot rush of fluid flooding deep. He groans, a deep sound that seems torn from somewhere in his chest. His hips press flush against yours, grinding into you as he empties himself. You can feel each pulse, each spurt of fluid, each involuntary twitch of his cock as he comes inside you.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. You lie there, panting, staring at the ceiling. Your body feels like it’s made of warm honey. Your mind is somewhere else entirely floating pleasantly in a space beyond language, beyond thought. Between your legs, you can feel him still buried inside you, still twitching with the aftershocks of his own release.
“Extraordinary.” His voice is rough now, breathless in a way you’ve never heard before. The word is barely a whisper. He says it like you’re a specimen he’s just discovered, a new species he never expected to find. His thumb traces the curve of your hip. He’s still inside you. You can feel him softening, feel the wetness beginning to leak out around him, feel the pleasant ache between your thighs that you know will linger for days. Your body feels heavy. Boneless. Like you’ve been taken apart and put back together in a slightly different configuration.
“Did I-“ Your voice comes out as a croak. You clear your throat and try again. “Did I do well, doctor?” He leans down, his face hovering inches above yours. “You exceeded every expectation. I never would have thought a virgin could be so exemplary.” His breath ghosts across your lips. “Every hypothesis. Every prediction. Every scenario I imagined.” A pause. His hips shift, just slightly, and you both feel the oversensitivity the way your body clenches around him involuntarily, the way he hisses through his teeth.
“You are mine now.” The possessiveness in his voice makes your stomach flip. He said it before, but it’s different now. Before, it was a condition. A requirement. Now it’s a fact. As undeniable as the table beneath you and the restraints around your wrists and the wetness dripping down your thighs. “I know,” you whisper. “I was already yours.” He stares at your face. Looking for something hesitation, maybe. Doubt. The urge to take it back. He won’t find it. Because even after two orgasms and the most intense experience of your life. You want more. You want him to stay inside you forever. You want him to never stop touching you, never stop looking at you like you’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.
He pulls out slowly an exquisite, dragging sensation that makes you gasp one last time. Almost immediately, you feel his seed begin to seep out of you, warm and thick, spilling onto the examination table beneath your hips. The sensation is strange and intimate, and you shiver as it trickles down.
“I can’t wait to do this to you again.” The clinical edge is slowly seeping back into his voice, but beneath it you can still hear something satisfied and possessive. “The fun we will have.” You hear him arranging his clothing the rustle of fabric, the slide of his zipper. Then footsteps, and the sound of a cabinet opening. When he returns, you feel the cool touch of a wipe. The clinical care of it should feel cold, but instead it feels tender. Real.
The wipe is quickly discarded once he’s satisfied. And you hear the snap of latex gloves being removed. “Come on.” His face appears above you, blocking out the fluorescent lights. “It’s getting late. I think we should go to bed.” His hands move to the restraints. His fingers work at the leather, loosening the buckles, and one by one your body is freed. Circulation rushing back after straining against them for so long.
You finally draw your legs free of the stirrups. The gown settles back over your privates, and for a moment you simply stay where you are, breathing through the strange drag of it all. When you push yourself upright, the room tilts sharply. The spin comes fast and sudden, a brief wash of dizziness that makes the white walls blur at the edges before everything steadies again. You swallow and brace yourself, testing the floor with the intention of standing, but before your feet can even meet it, he is there.
He lifts you with practised ease, one arm sliding beneath your knees and the other settling firmly around your back.
“I can walk,” you protest, though the words come out thin and faint, lacking any real strength. Even to your own ears, it sounds feeble.
“Nonsense.” His answer is calm, assured, almost amused. He is already carrying you towards the door, his pace unhurried and unbothered, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. The corridor beyond waits in dim silence, dark and hushed, lined with closed doors that seem to recede into shadow.
“I couldn’t let my favourite patient get lost now, could I?” His arms tighten around you, just slightly, a quiet gesture that feels more possessive than necessary. “Especially after her first treatment.”
Behind you, the examination room door swings shut with a muted click. You lean more fully into the warmth of his chest, letting the steady rise and fall of him anchor you.
He carries you, and you feel that brief flicker of confusion when he passes the turn to your room. Then it clicks. He is taking you to his bedroom. With one arm still around you, he unlocks the door as though you weigh nothing at all. You have never been in his room before. It is spotless, almost unnervingly so. Quite plain, too. Sparse, really, with hardly anything to soften the neat, controlled air of it.
He carries you through to the bathroom and sets you gently on a stool. “How about we get you ready for bed?” He asks.
Then he reaches beneath the sink and takes out a packaged toothbrush, before squeezing on the toothpaste and placing it neatly within your reach. You move to take it from him. “Not tonight, my patient. I will look after you. Now open up.”
You hesitate, but you do as he says and he begins brushing your teeth himself, though it feels less like care than inspection. His attention is sharp and deliberate, every movement measured, as though he is studying the shape of your mouth whilst he works. His masked face is fixed on your face as much as your teeth, watching the small reactions that flicker across it. Then he presses the spot at the back of your mouth and you gag, your eyes stinging almost at once. His face stays expressionless, as if he likes seeing the expression he has pulled from you, likes the raw vulnerability in your eyes when you cannot quite hide it. “Apologises, I just wanted to see.” You give him an annoyed look. He pulls the toothbrush away and gestures to the sink. “Just spit in the sink. Do whatever else you need to. I’ll just get ready for bed as well.” You quickly rise and spit out the toothpaste, trying to steady yourself as you do.
You decide to use the toilet, wipe, and notice a little blood. That is when you realise you left your underwear in the examination room. In fact, nothing at all has been properly tidied away. “Dottore,” you say. He looks over “some blood afterwards is normal. Same with some discomfort,” he says matter-of-factly.
“No, not that. I don’t have any underwear.” “I can let you borrow some of mine.” “Uh-“ “They will be clean, obviously.” He heads out and returns with a white pair of boxers. You hesitate, then pull them on. “We didn’t even clean up.” “No one uses that examination room anyways. And who cares if the other segments learn about what we did? Besides, I do not intend on keeping it a secret.” His tone is calm, almost casual.
“Because you are perfect for all I have planned. You are mine now, I will take excellent care of you.” You turn your face away, though a pleased smile still lingers on your lips. There is something deeply satisfying in the certainty of his voice. Dottore begins to remove his clothes, and though you try not to stare, your gaze flicks back again before you can stop yourself. You catch sight of the scars crossing his body, old marks laid over pale skin, rough evidence of a history you do not know in full. Then he slips on fresh underwear and draws a robe around himself, the movement neat and unhurried. He smirks, clearly noticing where your attention has gone.
“Come along then.” His hand settles at you with quiet authority as he guides you towards the bed. The mattress dips beneath your weight as he pushes you down into it, firm but not rough, and then, to your surprise, he removes his mask. The sight makes you stare in open shock. Yes, you have seen the other segments’ eyes before, but never anyone older than Delta, the twenty-five-year-old one. Never this. Never the full measure of him. For a beat, your mind seems to catch and stall, taken aback by the reality of what he is allowing you to see.
He pays your gawking no mind. “You did so well for me tonight. I could not be more proud of you.” His voice softens at the end, and before you can keep staring, he folds you into his arms and draws you against his chest. It is clear he does not want you looking any longer, not when he has decided the moment should belong to something gentler. His hold is steady and enclosing, warm in a way that makes your body ease despite itself.
You curl closer into him and he keeps you near, one hand resting with quiet possessiveness as though he means to keep you there indefinitely. The room feels softer now, dimmer around the edges, and the tension in your body begins to ebb under the strength of his embrace. “Good girl, just rest now. You’ve earned it.”
That is enough to let your eyes drift shut. His chest rises beneath your cheek. His arms stay around you. And as the warmth of him and the weight of the night finally draw you under, you sink into sleep without resistance.