Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
"He tells her he needs to do a routine examination and she says okay even though her heart is pounding. He sits on the rolling stool and positions himself between her legs and she's trying to think about anything else—grocery lists, work deadlines, anything—but then he touches her inner thigh to adjust her position and her mind just… goes."
The pen taps against the folder. Click. Click. Click.
"She starts imagining that he's not just doing a medical exam, that he's… studying her. That every touch is deliberate. That he's cataloging her responses. She fantasizes that he notices when she gets wet, when her breathing changes, when her thighs tremble slightly."
My voice is shaking now. I can hear it, that quiver that betrays exactly how mortified I am.
"Go on."
"He—he picks up a pen. A blue Bic pen just like—" I can't finish. Can't say 'just like the one you're holding' because that makes this too real, collapses the distance between fiction and whatever the fuck is happening to me right now.
Master taps the pen against my inner thigh. Not hard. Just enough pressure to make me flinch.
"Just like this one?"
"Yes, Master."
"Continue."
I'm going to die. Actually die. My heart will give out from pure shame and they'll find my body on this exam table and the autopsy report will list cause of death as 'humiliation-induced cardiac arrest.'
"In the fantasy, Dr. Bennett runs the pen along her inner thigh. Traces patterns with it. Circles higher and higher until he's almost touching her pussy but not quite. And Mara is losing her mind because it's just a pen, it's just a cheap plastic pen, but the way he's using it—the clinical precision, the detachment, like this is all part of the examination—makes it unbearable."
My breath is coming faster. I can feel my pulse throbbing between my legs, that treacherous wetness starting to gather again.
"He asks her questions while he does this. Medical questions. Is she sexually active? Does she experience pain during intercourse? Does she achieve orgasm regularly? And she has to answer while he's dragging this pen across her skin, getting closer to where she's aching, where she desperately needs to be touched."
Master sits down on a rolling stool. Wheels between my legs, smiles at me under the mask. Then the pen in his hand moves. Trails along my left inner thigh, mimicking the scene I'm describing. My hips jerk involuntarily.
"What happens next?"
"He—" My voice breaks completely. "He tells her he needs to check her sensitivity. That it's a standard part of the exam. He takes the pen and he—he touches it to her clit. Just barely. Just the rounded tip of the pen pressed against her and she nearly comes right then because it's so wrong, because this isn't what pens are for, because she's in a doctor's office with her legs spread and this man is touching her with office supplies and—"
"And?"
"And she's so wet. So fucking wet that the pen slides easily, that when he starts circling her clit with it she can hear the obscene wet sounds her pussy is making, can feel herself soaking the paper on the exam table."
The pen touches my clit.
I gasp—a sharp, desperate sound that echoes in the clinical space.
"He makes notes," I continue, my voice barely above a whisper now. "In her fantasy, he's writing on the clipboard with one hand while using the pen on her clit with the other. Notes about her arousal levels, her responsiveness, the way her hips lift seeking more pressure. And the fact that he's documenting this, that he's treating her orgasm like data to be recorded, makes it even more intense."
The pen circles. Slow. Methodical. Exactly as I wrote it.
"She tries to stay quiet but she can't. Little whimpering sounds escape and he tells her that vocalization is normal, that she shouldn't suppress her natural responses, that he needs accurate data. And that permission to make noise, to stop holding back, destroys her last bit of control."
I'm panting now. Can't help it. The pen is still moving, still circling, the cheap plastic slick with my arousal.
"He asks her to describe what she's feeling. Forces her to put words to it while he's touching her. She has to say things like 'pressure on my clitoris' and 'vaginal lubrication' and 'muscle contractions' because he wants clinical terminology, wants her to narrate her own humiliation in medical language."
"Very good," Master murmurs. "And then?"
"Then he tells her he needs an internal measurement. He caps the pen and—and he pushes it inside her. Just slides it in while she's still throbbing from the clitoral stimulation. The pen is smooth and hard and nothing like a cock or a dildo, and that wrongness makes her clench around it."
The pen at my clit disappears. I hear the click of the cap.
Oh fuck. Oh no. He wouldn't—