You hear the snap of a bottle opening, the slick sound of lube being squeezed out, and your whole body goes tight with anticipation. Elliot's hand smooths over your ass, squeezing once, appreciating, before his thumb drags down the crack, slow and deliberate, pressing against your hole but not breaching.
"Fuck, look at you," he breathes. "So ready for it."
You are. God, you are. Your cock is leaking onto the exam table, your thighs are shaking, and every nerve in your body is screaming for him to touch you, fill you, do something.
"Gonna stretch you out," he murmurs, his voice dropping lower. "Nice and slow."
The lube is cool when it touches you, a sharp contrast to the heat of his fingers as he spreads it, circling your hole with lazy pressure. You expect him to be watching what he's doing, focused on the mechanics, but when you glance over your shoulder you find his eyes on your face instead. Reading you. Watching for every hitch in your breath, every flutter of your eyelids.
"Breathe for me," he says, and you do, dragging in air as his finger finally presses inside.
The stretch is immediate but not overwhelming. He goes slow, so slow, working just the tip in and then pausing, letting you adjust. His other hand comes to rest on your lower back, a steady anchor, and you focus on the warmth of it as he presses deeper.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Just like that."
He finds a rhythm, shallow thrusts that barely constitute movement, just enough to ease you open. When he crooks his finger, searching, you feel the moment he finds what he's looking for—a bright spike of pleasure that makes you gasp and push back onto his hand.
"There we go," Elliot says, sounding pleased. "Found it already."
He works that spot with patient precision, and you can feel yourself relaxing around him, your body learning to accept the intrusion. The burn fades into something warmer, something that makes your cock leak steadily onto the table beneath you.
"You're doing so good," he says, and the praise makes something in your chest loosen. "Ready for more?"
You nod, not trusting your voice, and feel him withdraw slightly before pressing back in with two fingers.
The stretch is real now. Not painful, but undeniable, your body having to work to accommodate him. Your breath hitches, coming faster, and Elliot's hand on your back slides down to your thigh, grounding you with firm pressure.
"Breathe," he reminds you. "You've got this."
You do breathe, forcing air into your lungs as he scissors his fingers, opening you wider. The burn is sharper now, teetering on the edge of too much, but then he angles just right and hits that spot inside you and the burn sweetens into something that makes your vision blur.
"Fuck," you gasp, your hips jerking involuntarily.
"Yeah," Elliot agrees, his voice rough. You catch a glimpse of him over your shoulder—his tongue piercing flashing as he licks his lips, his eyes dark and hungry as he watches you take his fingers. "Look at you. Opening up so pretty for me."
He pumps his fingers slowly, deliberately, each thrust pressing deeper. The squelch of lube is obscene in the quiet room, mixing with the harsh sound of your breathing and the low, encouraging noises Elliot makes when you clench around him.
"You're doing so good," he says again. "So fucking good."
Time loses meaning. There's only the stretch, the burn, the building pressure as he works you open. When he finally adds a third finger, you feel it everywhere, the threshold where pleasure edges toward too much, your body trembling with the effort of accepting him.
"Ellie—" His name breaks on your lips, half plea, half prayer.
"I know," he soothes. "I know. Just feel it. Feel yourself opening up for me."
Your cock is leaking steadily now, untouched and desperate, smearing the exam table. You're so focused on the stretch, on the relentless pressure of his fingers inside you, that you've almost forgotten about it. But then Elliot shifts, pressing deeper, and you cry out as he nails that spot dead-on.
"Feel that?" His voice is wrecked, barely controlled. "That's you opening up for me. Taking what I give you."
You can hear the strain in his voice, the way his breathing has gone ragged, and when you manage to look back at him again you see it. His cock is thick and heavy between his legs, flushed dark and leaking. He's as affected by this as you are, maybe more, watching you fall apart on his fingers.
His fingers move in deep, slow thrusts now, three of them pressing in to the knuckle before withdrawing almost entirely, then pressing in again. Your hole flutters around him, adjusting, learning the rhythm. The squelch of lube is louder now, filthy, and every thrust sends another jolt of sensation through your body.
You're making noises you don't recognize, whimpers, gasps, broken syllables that might be his name. Your hands scrabble at the exam table, trying to find purchase, trying to ground yourself as the pleasure builds and builds with nowhere to go.
Then Elliot stills.
His fingers stay buried inside you, but he stops moving, and the sudden absence of rhythm makes you whine in protest. Before you can process it, he's leaning over you, his naked chest pressing against your back, his weight solid and grounding. His free hand finds yours where it's gripping the edge of the table, fingers interlacing, squeezing.
"Fuck," he breathes against the back of your neck, his beard scratching your skin. You can feel the heat of him, the way his body curves over yours, and when he shifts you feel his cock brush against your thigh, hot and slick with pre-cum. "You feel how hard you make me?"
You can't answer. You can only nod, pressing back against his fingers, desperate for more contact, more friction, more anything.
His mouth finds the shell of your ear, his breath hot and unsteady. "You want more?" he whispers, and the intimacy of it—the quiet question in the clinical room, his body covering yours, his fingers still deep inside you—makes your throat go tight.
"Yes," you manage, your voice wrecked. "Please, Ellie. More."
You feel him shudder against you, hear the sharp intake of breath. For a moment, he just breathes, his chest rising and falling against your back, his hand tight around yours. Then he presses a kiss to your shoulder, soft and almost tender.
"Yeah," he says, and it sounds like a promise. "I'm gonna give you more."
"Fuck, look at you," he breathes. "So ready for it."
You are. God, you are. Your cock is leaking onto the exam table, your thighs are shaking, and every nerve in your body is screaming for him to touch you, fill you, do something.
"Gonna stretch you out," he murmurs, his voice dropping lower. "Nice and slow."
The lube is cool when it touches you, a sharp contrast to the heat of his fingers as he spreads it, circling your hole with lazy pressure. You expect him to be watching what he's doing, focused on the mechanics, but when you glance over your shoulder you find his eyes on your face instead. Reading you. Watching for every hitch in your breath, every flutter of your eyelids.
"Breathe for me," he says, and you do, dragging in air as his finger finally presses inside.
The stretch is immediate but not overwhelming. He goes slow, so slow, working just the tip in and then pausing, letting you adjust. His other hand comes to rest on your lower back, a steady anchor, and you focus on the warmth of it as he presses deeper.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Just like that."
He finds a rhythm, shallow thrusts that barely constitute movement, just enough to ease you open. When he crooks his finger, searching, you feel the moment he finds what he's looking for—a bright spike of pleasure that makes you gasp and push back onto his hand.
"There we go," Elliot says, sounding pleased. "Found it already."
He works that spot with patient precision, and you can feel yourself relaxing around him, your body learning to accept the intrusion. The burn fades into something warmer, something that makes your cock leak steadily onto the table beneath you.
"You're doing so good," he says, and the praise makes something in your chest loosen. "Ready for more?"
You nod, not trusting your voice, and feel him withdraw slightly before pressing back in with two fingers.
The stretch is real now. Not painful, but undeniable, your body having to work to accommodate him. Your breath hitches, coming faster, and Elliot's hand on your back slides down to your thigh, grounding you with firm pressure.
"Breathe," he reminds you. "You've got this."
You do breathe, forcing air into your lungs as he scissors his fingers, opening you wider. The burn is sharper now, teetering on the edge of too much, but then he angles just right and hits that spot inside you and the burn sweetens into something that makes your vision blur.
"Fuck," you gasp, your hips jerking involuntarily.
"Yeah," Elliot agrees, his voice rough. You catch a glimpse of him over your shoulder—his tongue piercing flashing as he licks his lips, his eyes dark and hungry as he watches you take his fingers. "Look at you. Opening up so pretty for me."
He pumps his fingers slowly, deliberately, each thrust pressing deeper. The squelch of lube is obscene in the quiet room, mixing with the harsh sound of your breathing and the low, encouraging noises Elliot makes when you clench around him.
"You're doing so good," he says again. "So fucking good."
Time loses meaning. There's only the stretch, the burn, the building pressure as he works you open. When he finally adds a third finger, you feel it everywhere, the threshold where pleasure edges toward too much, your body trembling with the effort of accepting him.
"Ellie—" His name breaks on your lips, half plea, half prayer.
"I know," he soothes. "I know. Just feel it. Feel yourself opening up for me."
Your cock is leaking steadily now, untouched and desperate, smearing the exam table. You're so focused on the stretch, on the relentless pressure of his fingers inside you, that you've almost forgotten about it. But then Elliot shifts, pressing deeper, and you cry out as he nails that spot dead-on.
"Feel that?" His voice is wrecked, barely controlled. "That's you opening up for me. Taking what I give you."
You can hear the strain in his voice, the way his breathing has gone ragged, and when you manage to look back at him again you see it. His cock is thick and heavy between his legs, flushed dark and leaking. He's as affected by this as you are, maybe more, watching you fall apart on his fingers.
His fingers move in deep, slow thrusts now, three of them pressing in to the knuckle before withdrawing almost entirely, then pressing in again. Your hole flutters around him, adjusting, learning the rhythm. The squelch of lube is louder now, filthy, and every thrust sends another jolt of sensation through your body.
You're making noises you don't recognize, whimpers, gasps, broken syllables that might be his name. Your hands scrabble at the exam table, trying to find purchase, trying to ground yourself as the pleasure builds and builds with nowhere to go.
Then Elliot stills.
His fingers stay buried inside you, but he stops moving, and the sudden absence of rhythm makes you whine in protest. Before you can process it, he's leaning over you, his naked chest pressing against your back, his weight solid and grounding. His free hand finds yours where it's gripping the edge of the table, fingers interlacing, squeezing.
"Fuck," he breathes against the back of your neck, his beard scratching your skin. You can feel the heat of him, the way his body curves over yours, and when he shifts you feel his cock brush against your thigh, hot and slick with pre-cum. "You feel how hard you make me?"
You can't answer. You can only nod, pressing back against his fingers, desperate for more contact, more friction, more anything.
His mouth finds the shell of your ear, his breath hot and unsteady. "You want more?" he whispers, and the intimacy of it—the quiet question in the clinical room, his body covering yours, his fingers still deep inside you—makes your throat go tight.
"Yes," you manage, your voice wrecked. "Please, Ellie. More."
You feel him shudder against you, hear the sharp intake of breath. For a moment, he just breathes, his chest rising and falling against your back, his hand tight around yours. Then he presses a kiss to your shoulder, soft and almost tender.
"Yeah," he says, and it sounds like a promise. "I'm gonna give you more."