"I can take more," you say, and your voice is steadier than you expected. Needy, yes, but sure. "Give it to me."
You push back onto his fingers, taking them deeper, and when you manage to look over your shoulder at him, you hold his gaze. Trusting. Wanting.
Elliot's eyes darken, pupils blown so wide there's barely any color left. His tongue piercing flashes as he wets his lips, and you see the moment something shifts in his expression—heat mixing with something that might be pride.
"Yeah?" His voice is rough, wrecked. "You sure?"
You nod, not breaking eye contact. "I'm sure."
"Fuck," he breathes, and it sounds like a prayer.
He adds more lube. You hear the bottle snap open again, feel the cool slick as he works it around his fingers, around your stretched rim. Then there's new pressure, a fourth finger pressing against you, and you force yourself to breathe through it, to relax and open instead of tensing up.
"That's it," Elliot murmurs, his voice dropping into that low, steady cadence that grounds you. "Just like that. Open up for me."
The burn sharpens as he works that fourth finger in, slow circles that gradually widen the stretch. It's intense, teetering on the edge of too much, but you breathe through it the way he taught you, focusing on the warmth of his other hand on your lower back, the steadiness of his voice.
"You're doing so good," he says, and the praise makes something in your chest loosen even as your body tightens around him. "So fucking good."
The stretch increases incrementally, his fingers working together now, opening you wider. You can feel every millimeter, every adjustment, and when he angles just right to hit that spot inside you, the burn sweetens into something that makes you gasp.
"There it is," Elliot says, sounding satisfied. "Feel that? You're opening up so perfect for me."
He keeps going, patient and relentless, until all four fingers are buried inside you. The fullness is overwhelming, your body stretched around him in a way that makes you feel split open, vulnerable, utterly his.
Then he presses deeper, and you feel it. His knuckles, the widest point of his hand, pressing against your rim.
"Oh fuck," you gasp, your hands flying to grip the edge of the exam table. "Ellie—"
"I know," he soothes. "Almost there. You're taking it so good."
His other hand leaves your back, reaching around to find your cock. He wraps his fingers around you, stroking in rhythm with the pressure of his knuckles, and the dual sensation makes your vision blur. You're leaking steadily into his fist, desperate and aching, and every stroke sends another wave of pleasure through your overstimulated body.
"Just a little more," Elliot murmurs. "Relax for me. Let me in."
You try. God, you try. You force yourself to breathe, to relax, to surrender to the impossible stretch. His knuckles press harder, the pressure intense and unrelenting, and then—
Pop.
His knuckles slip past your rim, and suddenly his whole hand is inside you.
Your vision whites out. The stretch is impossible, overwhelming, filling you so completely you can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but feel. A strangled moan tears from your throat, too loud, echoing in the small room.
Elliot's hand immediately leaves your cock and clamps over your mouth, firm and unyielding. His palm muffles the sounds you're making, whimpers, gasps and elated moans.
"Shh," he breathes against the back of your neck, his own breathing ragged. "Can't have you screaming. Gotta be quiet for me."
You nod frantically against his palm, but you can't stop the noises. His hand is inside you. His whole fucking hand and the fullness is indescribable. You can feel every finger, every knuckle, the width of his palm stretching you open from the inside.
Then he moves.
Just a slight shift, his fist adjusting inside you, and the sensation punches another muffled cry from your throat. Your hole clenches around his wrist, trying to adjust, trying to accommodate the impossible intrusion.
"Fuck, look at you," Elliot groans, his voice wrecked. "Taking my whole fist. You're so fucking perfect."
He starts to move for real. Slow, carefully pistoning his fist. Sliding it in and out just slightly. Not pulling out, just shifting, and every movement sends shockwaves through your body. Your hole grips his wrist on every inward thrust, releasing reluctantly when he pulls back, and the obscene squelch of lube fills the room.
"That's it," he murmurs against your ear, his hand still firm over your mouth. "Just feel it. Feel how full you are."
You're making continuous noise now, muffled whimpers and moans that his palm barely contains. Your cock is untouched and leaking onto the table, your whole body trembling with the intensity of it. You've never felt anything like this. You’re so full, so stretched, and so utterly possessed.
Elliot's breathing is ragged against your neck, and you can feel how turned on he is. There’s tension in his body, the way his cock is thick and hard where it presses against your thigh. He's as affected by this as you are, watching you take his fist, feeling your body surrender to him.
"You feel that?" he asks, his voice rough. "You feel how you're gripping me? Your body doesn't want to let me go."
He's right. Every time he shifts, your hole clenches down, trying to keep him inside, and the stretch is so intense it borders on pain but doesn't quite cross that line. It's just… everything. Overwhelming and perfect and too much and not enough all at once.
He pushes deeper, past his wrist now, his forearm sliding into you inch by impossible inch. Your vision goes white again, your body arching, and the sound you make against his palm is somewhere between a sob and a moan.
"Think you can take more?" he whispers, and you feel his lips curve into a smile against your skin.
You nod frantically against his palm, beyond words, beyond thought. You need more, all of it, everything he'll give you.
"That's my good boy," Elliot murmurs, and the praise combined with the stretch makes something in you break open. "Gonna give you everything."
He pushes deeper.
Past his wrist now, his forearm sliding into you with agonizing slowness. You can feel every inch—the shift from wrist to forearm, the way your hole has to stretch even wider to accommodate the increasing girth. Your body is trembling, caught between the impossibility of it and the desperate need for more.
The room is filled with a symphony of sounds. There’s the obscene squelch of lube, your muffled moans against Elliot's palm, and his ragged breathing hot against your neck. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, clinical and uncaring, but you're beyond noticing. There's only the stretch, the fullness, the relentless pressure as he works his arm deeper.
"Fuck," Elliot breathes, and his voice is wrecked, awed. "You're taking my whole fucking arm—god, look at you."
You can't look. You can't do anything but feel. Your hole is spasming around his forearm, trembling and clenching, trying to adjust to the impossible intrusion. Every breath makes you more aware of how full you are, how stretched, how completely he's inside you.
He shifts, angling differently, and his fist presses against something deep inside you that makes your entire body convulse. The sound you make is inhuman, and his hand tightens over your mouth, muffling it.
"Shh, I know, I know," he soothes, but there's strain in his voice too. "So fucking deep. Can you feel that? Can you feel how deep I am?"
You nod frantically, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. Not from pain—it's beyond pain now, into something else entirely. Something that makes your untouched cock leak steadily, creating a puddle on the exam table beneath you.
Elliot starts to move for real then, slow, deep thrusts of his arm, pulling back just slightly before pressing forward again. Each movement sends shockwaves through your entire body. Your hole grips his forearm desperately, the rim stretched impossibly wide around him, and every thrust makes you more aware of just how much of him is inside you.
"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice rough with arousal. "Taking it so perfect. Never seen anything so fucking hot."
You're making continuous noise against his palm now. Whimpers, sobs, and sounds you've never made before. Your body is wound so tight you think you might shatter, pleasure building and building with nowhere to go. Your cock is throbbing, leaking, desperate for touch, but you can't reach it, can't do anything but take what Elliot's giving you.
He pushes deeper still, and you feel it. The crook of his elbow is pressing against your rim. He's past his forearm now, so deep inside you that you can't tell where you end and he begins. Your hole is stretched to its absolute limit, trembling and spasming around his arm, and the fullness is so intense you can barely breathe.
"Oh god," Elliot groans, and you feel him shudder against your back. "You're taking my whole fucking arm. Fuck, fuck—"
His hand finally leaves your mouth, and the first sound you make is a broken sob that echoes in the small room. Words try to form but they come out incoherent, just desperate syllables that communicate need more than language ever could.
"I know," Elliot says again, and his free hand slides down your body, reaching for your cock. But then he pauses, his fingers hovering just above your shaft. "No—fuck, I need—"
His hand leaves you entirely, and you hear the slick sound of him gripping his own cock. You manage to turn your head enough to see him over your shoulder. His face is flushed, his eyes are black with need, and his hand is wrapped around his thick cock as he strokes himself.
"Can't—" he gasps, his arm still buried inside you, his fist moving in slow, deep thrusts. "Can't wait. You're so fucking perfect, taking my arm like this. Gonna make me come just watching you."
The knowledge that he's this affected, that watching you take his arm is enough to make him lose control, sends a fresh wave of arousal through you. Your cock throbs, untouched and desperate, and you can feel your orgasm building at the base of your spine.
"Ellie," you gasp, "I'm—I can't—"
"Come," he orders, his voice rough. "Come for me. Want to feel you come on my arm."
His fist shifts inside you, pressing against that spot deep inside, and it's like a switch flipping. Your orgasm hits sudden and violent, your entire body convulsing as pleasure rips through you. Your cock jerks, untouched, and you watch through blurred vision as cum shoots across the room, hitting the wall in thick spurts.
Your hole clenches down around Elliot's arm, spasming and gripping so tight it must be painful, but he just groans, his hand moving faster on his own cock.
"Fuck, yes, just like that—" He's stroking fast now, his breathing ragged, and you feel his body go rigid against your back. "Gonna—fuck—"
He comes with a strangled groan, hot spurts painting your thigh, your ass, the exam table. His arm is still buried inside you, and you can feel every twitch of his body as he rides out his orgasm, his cock pulsing in his fist.
For a long moment, there's nothing but harsh breathing and the hum of the ventilation system. You're collapsed on the exam table, utterly spent, your body still trembling with aftershocks. Elliot is pressed against your back, his forehead resting between your shoulder blades, his arm still deep inside you.
"Holy fuck," he finally breathes.
You can't respond. Words are beyond you. You just lie there, feeling impossibly full, impossibly used, impossibly satisfied.
Slowly, Elliot begins to withdraw. His fist slides back through you, and the drag of it makes you whimper. Your hole clenches instinctively, trying to keep him inside, but he's relentless, pulling out inch by inch until just his hand remains. Then his knuckles, the widest point, and you gasp as they pop free.
Finally, his fingers. When they slip out, you feel the sudden, devastating emptiness. Your hole is gaping, twitching, clenching around nothing. You can feel how open you are, how stretched, and the knowledge makes you shudder.
The fluorescent lights are too bright. Your breathing is too loud. Everything feels too much and not enough all at once.
"You good?" Elliot's voice cuts through the haze, and there's genuine concern in it.
You nod, but you can't make words work yet. Can't do anything but lie there and try to remember how your body is supposed to function.
You hear him moving behind you and then the sound of water running, paper towels being pulled from the dispenser. His hands are suddenly on you again, gentle now, wiping away the lube and cum 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 sit up, his hands steady when yours shake. Your legs are useless, trembling so badly you're not sure you can stand, and when you try your knees nearly buckle. Elliot catches you, his arm around your waist, holding you upright.
"Easy," he says, and there's that professional competence again, but softer now. "I've got you."
He helps you dress, his movements efficient but not rushed. Your briefs feel wrong against your oversensitive skin, your jeans too tight, and when you finally get them buttoned you can't help but wince. Everything feels different. Your body, the room, the space between you and him are changed.
The professional distance is returning, you can feel it, but it's not cold like before. It's just boundaries settling back into place. The acknowledgment that this was a moment, not a forever.
"Can you walk?" he asks, and you nod even though you're not entirely sure.
He walks you through the clinic, his hand on your lower back, steadying you. When you reach the lobby, Marla looks up from her desk and her nose wrinkles.
"Jesus Christ," she says, her tone flat. "Smells like straight up ass in here."
You freeze, mortification flooding through you, but Elliot just laughs. A real, genuine laugh that breaks the tension.
"Yeah, probably should've opened a window," he says, completely unbothered. Then, louder, "Hey, can someone from kennel check on the patients in Exam Two? Make sure they're not stressed."
A voice from the back calls out an affirmative, and you catch yourself smiling despite everything. The absurdity of it—the clinical concern for the animals after what just happened—makes something in your chest loosen.
Elliot walks you outside, into the afternoon sun. Your car is right there, waiting, and when you reach it he opens the driver's side door for you.
"Careful," he says as you slide into the seat.
You wince as you sit, the pressure sending a jolt through your oversensitive ass. Your hole is still twitching, still aching with that strange empty-full feeling, and you know you're going to feel this for days.
Elliot leans through the open window, his arms folded on the door frame. Up close, you can see the flush still hasn't entirely faded from his cheeks, the way his hair is still mussed from your hands.
He leans in and kisses you. It’s soft, almost chaste, his tongue piercings sliding gently over your bottom lip. When he pulls back, his eyes are warm.
"Let's do this again sometime," he says, and it's not a question.
You nod, not trusting your voice.
He straightens up, stepping back from the car, and you watch as he turns and walks back toward the clinic. He glances over his shoulder once, catches you looking, and smirks.
You sit there for a long moment after he disappears inside. Your hole is throbbing, sensitive, satisfied in a way you've never experienced. Your body feels used and cherished all at once.
Finally, you start the engine. You catch a glimpse of Elliot through the clinic window as you put the car in reverse. He's talking to Marla, gesturing with his hands, looking completely normal. Like he didn't just have his entire arm inside you twenty minutes ago.
A smile tugs at your lips.
You drive home carefully, wincing at every speed bump, every pothole. Your phone buzzes in the cup holder, and at a red light you glance at it.
Elliot: Made it home yet? You better be taking it easy.
You type back with shaking hands: Almost there. Feeling it.
His response comes immediately: Good. You should.
Another buzz: Same time next week?
You're still smiling when you pull into your apartment complex, your hole still throbbing with the memory of him, your body marked in ways only you can feel.
You push back onto his fingers, taking them deeper, and when you manage to look over your shoulder at him, you hold his gaze. Trusting. Wanting.
Elliot's eyes darken, pupils blown so wide there's barely any color left. His tongue piercing flashes as he wets his lips, and you see the moment something shifts in his expression—heat mixing with something that might be pride.
"Yeah?" His voice is rough, wrecked. "You sure?"
You nod, not breaking eye contact. "I'm sure."
"Fuck," he breathes, and it sounds like a prayer.
He adds more lube. You hear the bottle snap open again, feel the cool slick as he works it around his fingers, around your stretched rim. Then there's new pressure, a fourth finger pressing against you, and you force yourself to breathe through it, to relax and open instead of tensing up.
"That's it," Elliot murmurs, his voice dropping into that low, steady cadence that grounds you. "Just like that. Open up for me."
The burn sharpens as he works that fourth finger in, slow circles that gradually widen the stretch. It's intense, teetering on the edge of too much, but you breathe through it the way he taught you, focusing on the warmth of his other hand on your lower back, the steadiness of his voice.
"You're doing so good," he says, and the praise makes something in your chest loosen even as your body tightens around him. "So fucking good."
The stretch increases incrementally, his fingers working together now, opening you wider. You can feel every millimeter, every adjustment, and when he angles just right to hit that spot inside you, the burn sweetens into something that makes you gasp.
"There it is," Elliot says, sounding satisfied. "Feel that? You're opening up so perfect for me."
He keeps going, patient and relentless, until all four fingers are buried inside you. The fullness is overwhelming, your body stretched around him in a way that makes you feel split open, vulnerable, utterly his.
Then he presses deeper, and you feel it. His knuckles, the widest point of his hand, pressing against your rim.
"Oh fuck," you gasp, your hands flying to grip the edge of the exam table. "Ellie—"
"I know," he soothes. "Almost there. You're taking it so good."
His other hand leaves your back, reaching around to find your cock. He wraps his fingers around you, stroking in rhythm with the pressure of his knuckles, and the dual sensation makes your vision blur. You're leaking steadily into his fist, desperate and aching, and every stroke sends another wave of pleasure through your overstimulated body.
"Just a little more," Elliot murmurs. "Relax for me. Let me in."
You try. God, you try. You force yourself to breathe, to relax, to surrender to the impossible stretch. His knuckles press harder, the pressure intense and unrelenting, and then—
Pop.
His knuckles slip past your rim, and suddenly his whole hand is inside you.
Your vision whites out. The stretch is impossible, overwhelming, filling you so completely you can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but feel. A strangled moan tears from your throat, too loud, echoing in the small room.
Elliot's hand immediately leaves your cock and clamps over your mouth, firm and unyielding. His palm muffles the sounds you're making, whimpers, gasps and elated moans.
"Shh," he breathes against the back of your neck, his own breathing ragged. "Can't have you screaming. Gotta be quiet for me."
You nod frantically against his palm, but you can't stop the noises. His hand is inside you. His whole fucking hand and the fullness is indescribable. You can feel every finger, every knuckle, the width of his palm stretching you open from the inside.
Then he moves.
Just a slight shift, his fist adjusting inside you, and the sensation punches another muffled cry from your throat. Your hole clenches around his wrist, trying to adjust, trying to accommodate the impossible intrusion.
"Fuck, look at you," Elliot groans, his voice wrecked. "Taking my whole fist. You're so fucking perfect."
He starts to move for real. Slow, carefully pistoning his fist. Sliding it in and out just slightly. Not pulling out, just shifting, and every movement sends shockwaves through your body. Your hole grips his wrist on every inward thrust, releasing reluctantly when he pulls back, and the obscene squelch of lube fills the room.
"That's it," he murmurs against your ear, his hand still firm over your mouth. "Just feel it. Feel how full you are."
You're making continuous noise now, muffled whimpers and moans that his palm barely contains. Your cock is untouched and leaking onto the table, your whole body trembling with the intensity of it. You've never felt anything like this. You’re so full, so stretched, and so utterly possessed.
Elliot's breathing is ragged against your neck, and you can feel how turned on he is. There’s tension in his body, the way his cock is thick and hard where it presses against your thigh. He's as affected by this as you are, watching you take his fist, feeling your body surrender to him.
"You feel that?" he asks, his voice rough. "You feel how you're gripping me? Your body doesn't want to let me go."
He's right. Every time he shifts, your hole clenches down, trying to keep him inside, and the stretch is so intense it borders on pain but doesn't quite cross that line. It's just… everything. Overwhelming and perfect and too much and not enough all at once.
He pushes deeper, past his wrist now, his forearm sliding into you inch by impossible inch. Your vision goes white again, your body arching, and the sound you make against his palm is somewhere between a sob and a moan.
"Think you can take more?" he whispers, and you feel his lips curve into a smile against your skin.
You nod frantically against his palm, beyond words, beyond thought. You need more, all of it, everything he'll give you.
"That's my good boy," Elliot murmurs, and the praise combined with the stretch makes something in you break open. "Gonna give you everything."
He pushes deeper.
Past his wrist now, his forearm sliding into you with agonizing slowness. You can feel every inch—the shift from wrist to forearm, the way your hole has to stretch even wider to accommodate the increasing girth. Your body is trembling, caught between the impossibility of it and the desperate need for more.
The room is filled with a symphony of sounds. There’s the obscene squelch of lube, your muffled moans against Elliot's palm, and his ragged breathing hot against your neck. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, clinical and uncaring, but you're beyond noticing. There's only the stretch, the fullness, the relentless pressure as he works his arm deeper.
"Fuck," Elliot breathes, and his voice is wrecked, awed. "You're taking my whole fucking arm—god, look at you."
You can't look. You can't do anything but feel. Your hole is spasming around his forearm, trembling and clenching, trying to adjust to the impossible intrusion. Every breath makes you more aware of how full you are, how stretched, how completely he's inside you.
He shifts, angling differently, and his fist presses against something deep inside you that makes your entire body convulse. The sound you make is inhuman, and his hand tightens over your mouth, muffling it.
"Shh, I know, I know," he soothes, but there's strain in his voice too. "So fucking deep. Can you feel that? Can you feel how deep I am?"
You nod frantically, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. Not from pain—it's beyond pain now, into something else entirely. Something that makes your untouched cock leak steadily, creating a puddle on the exam table beneath you.
Elliot starts to move for real then, slow, deep thrusts of his arm, pulling back just slightly before pressing forward again. Each movement sends shockwaves through your entire body. Your hole grips his forearm desperately, the rim stretched impossibly wide around him, and every thrust makes you more aware of just how much of him is inside you.
"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice rough with arousal. "Taking it so perfect. Never seen anything so fucking hot."
You're making continuous noise against his palm now. Whimpers, sobs, and sounds you've never made before. Your body is wound so tight you think you might shatter, pleasure building and building with nowhere to go. Your cock is throbbing, leaking, desperate for touch, but you can't reach it, can't do anything but take what Elliot's giving you.
He pushes deeper still, and you feel it. The crook of his elbow is pressing against your rim. He's past his forearm now, so deep inside you that you can't tell where you end and he begins. Your hole is stretched to its absolute limit, trembling and spasming around his arm, and the fullness is so intense you can barely breathe.
"Oh god," Elliot groans, and you feel him shudder against your back. "You're taking my whole fucking arm. Fuck, fuck—"
His hand finally leaves your mouth, and the first sound you make is a broken sob that echoes in the small room. Words try to form but they come out incoherent, just desperate syllables that communicate need more than language ever could.
"I know," Elliot says again, and his free hand slides down your body, reaching for your cock. But then he pauses, his fingers hovering just above your shaft. "No—fuck, I need—"
His hand leaves you entirely, and you hear the slick sound of him gripping his own cock. You manage to turn your head enough to see him over your shoulder. His face is flushed, his eyes are black with need, and his hand is wrapped around his thick cock as he strokes himself.
"Can't—" he gasps, his arm still buried inside you, his fist moving in slow, deep thrusts. "Can't wait. You're so fucking perfect, taking my arm like this. Gonna make me come just watching you."
The knowledge that he's this affected, that watching you take his arm is enough to make him lose control, sends a fresh wave of arousal through you. Your cock throbs, untouched and desperate, and you can feel your orgasm building at the base of your spine.
"Ellie," you gasp, "I'm—I can't—"
"Come," he orders, his voice rough. "Come for me. Want to feel you come on my arm."
His fist shifts inside you, pressing against that spot deep inside, and it's like a switch flipping. Your orgasm hits sudden and violent, your entire body convulsing as pleasure rips through you. Your cock jerks, untouched, and you watch through blurred vision as cum shoots across the room, hitting the wall in thick spurts.
Your hole clenches down around Elliot's arm, spasming and gripping so tight it must be painful, but he just groans, his hand moving faster on his own cock.
"Fuck, yes, just like that—" He's stroking fast now, his breathing ragged, and you feel his body go rigid against your back. "Gonna—fuck—"
He comes with a strangled groan, hot spurts painting your thigh, your ass, the exam table. His arm is still buried inside you, and you can feel every twitch of his body as he rides out his orgasm, his cock pulsing in his fist.
For a long moment, there's nothing but harsh breathing and the hum of the ventilation system. You're collapsed on the exam table, utterly spent, your body still trembling with aftershocks. Elliot is pressed against your back, his forehead resting between your shoulder blades, his arm still deep inside you.
"Holy fuck," he finally breathes.
You can't respond. Words are beyond you. You just lie there, feeling impossibly full, impossibly used, impossibly satisfied.
Slowly, Elliot begins to withdraw. His fist slides back through you, and the drag of it makes you whimper. Your hole clenches instinctively, trying to keep him inside, but he's relentless, pulling out inch by inch until just his hand remains. Then his knuckles, the widest point, and you gasp as they pop free.
Finally, his fingers. When they slip out, you feel the sudden, devastating emptiness. Your hole is gaping, twitching, clenching around nothing. You can feel how open you are, how stretched, and the knowledge makes you shudder.
The fluorescent lights are too bright. Your breathing is too loud. Everything feels too much and not enough all at once.
"You good?" Elliot's voice cuts through the haze, and there's genuine concern in it.
You nod, but you can't make words work yet. Can't do anything but lie there and try to remember how your body is supposed to function.
You hear him moving behind you and then the sound of water running, paper towels being pulled from the dispenser. His hands are suddenly on you again, gentle now, wiping away the lube and cum 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 sit up, his hands steady when yours shake. Your legs are useless, trembling so badly you're not sure you can stand, and when you try your knees nearly buckle. Elliot catches you, his arm around your waist, holding you upright.
"Easy," he says, and there's that professional competence again, but softer now. "I've got you."
He helps you dress, his movements efficient but not rushed. Your briefs feel wrong against your oversensitive skin, your jeans too tight, and when you finally get them buttoned you can't help but wince. Everything feels different. Your body, the room, the space between you and him are changed.
The professional distance is returning, you can feel it, but it's not cold like before. It's just boundaries settling back into place. The acknowledgment that this was a moment, not a forever.
"Can you walk?" he asks, and you nod even though you're not entirely sure.
He walks you through the clinic, his hand on your lower back, steadying you. When you reach the lobby, Marla looks up from her desk and her nose wrinkles.
"Jesus Christ," she says, her tone flat. "Smells like straight up ass in here."
You freeze, mortification flooding through you, but Elliot just laughs. A real, genuine laugh that breaks the tension.
"Yeah, probably should've opened a window," he says, completely unbothered. Then, louder, "Hey, can someone from kennel check on the patients in Exam Two? Make sure they're not stressed."
A voice from the back calls out an affirmative, and you catch yourself smiling despite everything. The absurdity of it—the clinical concern for the animals after what just happened—makes something in your chest loosen.
Elliot walks you outside, into the afternoon sun. Your car is right there, waiting, and when you reach it he opens the driver's side door for you.
"Careful," he says as you slide into the seat.
You wince as you sit, the pressure sending a jolt through your oversensitive ass. Your hole is still twitching, still aching with that strange empty-full feeling, and you know you're going to feel this for days.
Elliot leans through the open window, his arms folded on the door frame. Up close, you can see the flush still hasn't entirely faded from his cheeks, the way his hair is still mussed from your hands.
He leans in and kisses you. It’s soft, almost chaste, his tongue piercings sliding gently over your bottom lip. When he pulls back, his eyes are warm.
"Let's do this again sometime," he says, and it's not a question.
You nod, not trusting your voice.
He straightens up, stepping back from the car, and you watch as he turns and walks back toward the clinic. He glances over his shoulder once, catches you looking, and smirks.
You sit there for a long moment after he disappears inside. Your hole is throbbing, sensitive, satisfied in a way you've never experienced. Your body feels used and cherished all at once.
Finally, you start the engine. You catch a glimpse of Elliot through the clinic window as you put the car in reverse. He's talking to Marla, gesturing with his hands, looking completely normal. Like he didn't just have his entire arm inside you twenty minutes ago.
A smile tugs at your lips.
You drive home carefully, wincing at every speed bump, every pothole. Your phone buzzes in the cup holder, and at a red light you glance at it.
Elliot: Made it home yet? You better be taking it easy.
You type back with shaking hands: Almost there. Feeling it.
His response comes immediately: Good. You should.
Another buzz: Same time next week?
You're still smiling when you pull into your apartment complex, your hole still throbbing with the memory of him, your body marked in ways only you can feel.