"Yes," you gasp, and the word comes out broken, desperate. "Please—don't stop—more—"
Your hips roll back against his hand, trying to take his fingers deeper, chasing the stretch and the burn and the impossible fullness. You're past shame now, past hesitation. You just need more.
Elliot's laugh is low and dark, pleased. "Greedy," he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice.
He shifts behind you, and you feel the pressure of a fourth finger pressing against your already-stretched hole. The stretch is immediate and intense, teetering on the edge of too much, your body trembling as it tries to accommodate him.
"Breathe," he reminds you, his free hand rubbing soothing circles on your lower back. "You can take it. I know you can."
You try. You drag in air and force yourself to relax, to open, and slowly—so slowly—that fourth finger presses inside. The burn is sharp now, bright and demanding, walking the line between pleasure and pain. Your hole flutters around him, trying to adjust, and every millimeter he presses deeper makes you feel like you're going to split apart.
"Fuck, look at you," Elliot breathes, awed. "Taking four fingers like you were made for it."
He starts to move, shallow thrusts that make you see stars. The stretch is relentless, overwhelming, and when he crooks his fingers to hit that spot inside you, the pleasure slams through you so hard you cry out—loud, too loud, your voice echoing in the small room.
"Ellie—fuck—oh god—"
You're babbling now, incoherent, every thrust of his fingers punching noises out of you that you can't control. Your cock is leaking steadily, untouched and desperate, and you're so close to the edge you can taste it.
Then—a sharp knock on the door.
"Elliot?" Marla's voice cuts through the haze, professional and flat. "Your 2:30 is here."
Everything stops.
Elliot's fingers still inside you, and before you can make a sound his other hand clamps over your mouth, firm and unyielding. You whimper against his palm, the noise muffled, your body still trembling with need.
"Yeah!" Elliot calls back, and his voice is remarkably steady, like he's not currently four fingers deep in your ass. "Be right there!"
There's a pause. You can hear Marla's footsteps retreating, the creak of the floorboards, and then silence.
Elliot's hand stays over your mouth for a long moment, his breath hot against the back of your neck. You can feel his heart pounding where his chest presses against your back, almost as fast as your own.
"Shh," he murmurs against your ear. "I know, I know."
Slowly he starts to withdraw his fingers. The drag of them leaving makes you whimper again, muffled against his palm, and you feel your hole clench desperately, trying to keep him inside. But he's relentless, pulling out with careful precision until you're empty, gaping, your rim twitching and fluttering around nothing.
The loss is devastating.
Elliot finally removes his hand from your mouth, and the first sound you make is a broken whine that makes your face burn with embarrassment. You're panting, sweating, your whole body shaking with frustrated need.
"I know," Elliot says again, softer this time. His hand strokes down your spine, soothing. "Fuck, I know. But I've got another appointment."
You want to scream. You want to beg him to lock the door, to tell Marla to reschedule, to finish what he started. But you can't make your voice work, can only press your forehead against the exam table and try to remember how to breathe.
You hear him moving behind you, the rustle of paper towels being pulled from the dispenser. Then his hands are on you again, gentle now, wiping away the excess lube with careful swipes. The touch is almost clinical, but there's a tenderness to it that makes your chest ache.
"Let's get you cleaned up," he murmurs.
He helps you straighten, his hands steadying you when your legs threaten to give out. Your ass feels empty, obscenely so, still twitching and clenching around nothing. You can feel how open you are, how stretched, and the knowledge that he did that, that he opened you up and then stopped, makes you want to cry.
"Easy," Elliot says, his arm around your waist now, holding you upright. "I've got you."
He helps you dress, his movements efficient but not rushed. Your briefs feel wrong against your sensitive skin, your jeans too tight, and when you try to button them your hands are shaking so badly he has to do it for you.
"Sorry," you mumble, but he shakes his head.
"Don't be."
You glance at him and realize he's still completely naked, seemingly unbothered by the fact that he needs to be presentable in about thirty seconds. His cock has softened slightly, but it's still thick and heavy, and you can see the flush that hasn't quite faded from his chest.
He catches you looking and smirks. "Like what you see?"
You want to say something clever, something that doesn't make you sound as wrecked as you feel, but all that comes out is, "We didn't finish."
"No," he agrees, and his expression softens. "We didn't."
He reaches for his scrubs, pulling them on with practiced ease. The clinical uniform should make him look professional, but somehow it just makes him look more dangerous, like he's hiding what he's capable of under a veneer of respectability.
"We'll finish this later," he says, and it's a promise, not a maybe. "Promise."
He walks you to the door, his hand warm on the small of your back. Before he opens it, he leans in and kisses you quick but thorough, his tongue piercings sliding over your lips. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark.
"Text me when you get home safe," he says.
You nod, not trusting your voice.
He opens the door, and you step out into the hallway on legs that feel like jelly. The fluorescent lights are too bright after the intimacy of the exam room, and you blink against them, trying to orient yourself.
Marla is at the front desk, and when she looks up, her expression is maddeningly knowing. One perfectly penciled eyebrow arches as she takes in your flushed face, your unsteady gait, the way you're walking like every step is a challenge.
"Everything okay?" she asks, and there's definitely amusement in her tone.
"Fine," you manage, your voice rough. "Just... fine."
Her smirk deepens, but she doesn't comment. Just turns back to her computer, her fingers flying over the keys.
You make it to the door somehow, your legs shaky, every step reminding you of how empty you are, how stretched. The bell chimes as you push outside, and the afternoon sun is almost offensive in its normalcy. The world looks exactly the same as it did an hour ago, but you feel fundamentally changed.
Your car is where you left it, and you slide into the driver's seat with a wince. The pressure of sitting makes you acutely aware of your ass—still sensitive, still twitching, still wanting. You can feel the phantom pressure of Elliot's fingers, the stretch, the almost-fullness that got ripped away at the worst possible moment.
You sit there for a long moment, hands on the steering wheel, breathing hard.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You pull it out with shaking hands.
Elliot: Next time, I'm locking the door.
Despite everything—the frustration, the aching need, the way your body is screaming for completion—you smile.
Next time.
You start the car and pull out of the parking lot, driving carefully over every bump and pothole, each one sending a jolt through your oversensitive body. You're already thinking about next time, about what he'll do, how he'll finish what he started.
Your ass clenches involuntarily, empty and wanting, and you have to bite back a groan.
Next time can't come soon enough.
Your hips roll back against his hand, trying to take his fingers deeper, chasing the stretch and the burn and the impossible fullness. You're past shame now, past hesitation. You just need more.
Elliot's laugh is low and dark, pleased. "Greedy," he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice.
He shifts behind you, and you feel the pressure of a fourth finger pressing against your already-stretched hole. The stretch is immediate and intense, teetering on the edge of too much, your body trembling as it tries to accommodate him.
"Breathe," he reminds you, his free hand rubbing soothing circles on your lower back. "You can take it. I know you can."
You try. You drag in air and force yourself to relax, to open, and slowly—so slowly—that fourth finger presses inside. The burn is sharp now, bright and demanding, walking the line between pleasure and pain. Your hole flutters around him, trying to adjust, and every millimeter he presses deeper makes you feel like you're going to split apart.
"Fuck, look at you," Elliot breathes, awed. "Taking four fingers like you were made for it."
He starts to move, shallow thrusts that make you see stars. The stretch is relentless, overwhelming, and when he crooks his fingers to hit that spot inside you, the pleasure slams through you so hard you cry out—loud, too loud, your voice echoing in the small room.
"Ellie—fuck—oh god—"
You're babbling now, incoherent, every thrust of his fingers punching noises out of you that you can't control. Your cock is leaking steadily, untouched and desperate, and you're so close to the edge you can taste it.
Then—a sharp knock on the door.
"Elliot?" Marla's voice cuts through the haze, professional and flat. "Your 2:30 is here."
Everything stops.
Elliot's fingers still inside you, and before you can make a sound his other hand clamps over your mouth, firm and unyielding. You whimper against his palm, the noise muffled, your body still trembling with need.
"Yeah!" Elliot calls back, and his voice is remarkably steady, like he's not currently four fingers deep in your ass. "Be right there!"
There's a pause. You can hear Marla's footsteps retreating, the creak of the floorboards, and then silence.
Elliot's hand stays over your mouth for a long moment, his breath hot against the back of your neck. You can feel his heart pounding where his chest presses against your back, almost as fast as your own.
"Shh," he murmurs against your ear. "I know, I know."
Slowly he starts to withdraw his fingers. The drag of them leaving makes you whimper again, muffled against his palm, and you feel your hole clench desperately, trying to keep him inside. But he's relentless, pulling out with careful precision until you're empty, gaping, your rim twitching and fluttering around nothing.
The loss is devastating.
Elliot finally removes his hand from your mouth, and the first sound you make is a broken whine that makes your face burn with embarrassment. You're panting, sweating, your whole body shaking with frustrated need.
"I know," Elliot says again, softer this time. His hand strokes down your spine, soothing. "Fuck, I know. But I've got another appointment."
You want to scream. You want to beg him to lock the door, to tell Marla to reschedule, to finish what he started. But you can't make your voice work, can only press your forehead against the exam table and try to remember how to breathe.
You hear him moving behind you, the rustle of paper towels being pulled from the dispenser. Then his hands are on you again, gentle now, wiping away the excess lube with careful swipes. The touch is almost clinical, but there's a tenderness to it that makes your chest ache.
"Let's get you cleaned up," he murmurs.
He helps you straighten, his hands steadying you when your legs threaten to give out. Your ass feels empty, obscenely so, still twitching and clenching around nothing. You can feel how open you are, how stretched, and the knowledge that he did that, that he opened you up and then stopped, makes you want to cry.
"Easy," Elliot says, his arm around your waist now, holding you upright. "I've got you."
He helps you dress, his movements efficient but not rushed. Your briefs feel wrong against your sensitive skin, your jeans too tight, and when you try to button them your hands are shaking so badly he has to do it for you.
"Sorry," you mumble, but he shakes his head.
"Don't be."
You glance at him and realize he's still completely naked, seemingly unbothered by the fact that he needs to be presentable in about thirty seconds. His cock has softened slightly, but it's still thick and heavy, and you can see the flush that hasn't quite faded from his chest.
He catches you looking and smirks. "Like what you see?"
You want to say something clever, something that doesn't make you sound as wrecked as you feel, but all that comes out is, "We didn't finish."
"No," he agrees, and his expression softens. "We didn't."
He reaches for his scrubs, pulling them on with practiced ease. The clinical uniform should make him look professional, but somehow it just makes him look more dangerous, like he's hiding what he's capable of under a veneer of respectability.
"We'll finish this later," he says, and it's a promise, not a maybe. "Promise."
He walks you to the door, his hand warm on the small of your back. Before he opens it, he leans in and kisses you quick but thorough, his tongue piercings sliding over your lips. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark.
"Text me when you get home safe," he says.
You nod, not trusting your voice.
He opens the door, and you step out into the hallway on legs that feel like jelly. The fluorescent lights are too bright after the intimacy of the exam room, and you blink against them, trying to orient yourself.
Marla is at the front desk, and when she looks up, her expression is maddeningly knowing. One perfectly penciled eyebrow arches as she takes in your flushed face, your unsteady gait, the way you're walking like every step is a challenge.
"Everything okay?" she asks, and there's definitely amusement in her tone.
"Fine," you manage, your voice rough. "Just... fine."
Her smirk deepens, but she doesn't comment. Just turns back to her computer, her fingers flying over the keys.
You make it to the door somehow, your legs shaky, every step reminding you of how empty you are, how stretched. The bell chimes as you push outside, and the afternoon sun is almost offensive in its normalcy. The world looks exactly the same as it did an hour ago, but you feel fundamentally changed.
Your car is where you left it, and you slide into the driver's seat with a wince. The pressure of sitting makes you acutely aware of your ass—still sensitive, still twitching, still wanting. You can feel the phantom pressure of Elliot's fingers, the stretch, the almost-fullness that got ripped away at the worst possible moment.
You sit there for a long moment, hands on the steering wheel, breathing hard.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You pull it out with shaking hands.
Elliot: Next time, I'm locking the door.
Despite everything—the frustration, the aching need, the way your body is screaming for completion—you smile.
Next time.
You start the car and pull out of the parking lot, driving carefully over every bump and pothole, each one sending a jolt through your oversensitive body. You're already thinking about next time, about what he'll do, how he'll finish what he started.
Your ass clenches involuntarily, empty and wanting, and you have to bite back a groan.
Next time can't come soon enough.