The clinic’s bell chimes as you push inside, the scent of antiseptic and damp fur wrapping around you like a second skin. It’s that dead hour between the morning rush and the afternoon pickups, when the fluorescent lights hum a little louder and the linoleum floors gleam with the ghost of a recent mopping. Marla, the receptionist, doesn’t even glance up from her clipboard. She just jerks her chin toward the back, her pen tapping once against the counter.
“Exam Two. He’s waiting for you.”
Her tone is flat, but there’s something in it, a flicker of something knowing, maybe, or just the exhaustion of someone who’s seen too much to be surprised. You frown. This isn’t how it usually goes. You’re here for Rex’s lab results, and signature on his discharge form.
The door to Exam Two is already ajar, the overhead light spilling into the hall in a sharp, white rectangle. The air back here has less chemical bite, more warm skin and the faint, musky tang of a body that’s been moving all day.
You knock once, already calling out, “Hey, I’m here for—”
The words die in your throat.
Elliot.
Your vet tech. The one who always remembers your dog’s name, who laughs too easily, whose scrubs cling to his thighs like they’re one size too small. The one who, right now, is standing in the center of the room, completely nude.
The door swings shut behind you with a quiet click. The room is small, the walls lined with cabinets of gauze and syringes, the exam table a hulking metal slab in the center. The hum of the ventilation system fills the silence. It is the only sound besides the sudden rush of blood in your ears.
Elliot’s back is to you, one hand braced on the edge of the table, the other resting low on his hip. The fluorescent light catches the freckles dusting his shoulders, the way his muscles shift as he turns his head just enough to glance at you over his shoulder. His man bun is loose, strawberry blond strands escaping and curling at the nape of his neck. His beard does nothing to hide the slow, knowing curve of his lips.
He turns fully, unhurried, letting you take him in.
His hands are clasped in front of him, hiding nothing, just framing the thick base of his cock. It rests heavy against his thigh, modest now but promising. His nipples are pierced, silver hoops glinting under the harsh light, and his hips are broad, his thighs dense with the kind of muscle that comes from years of lifting, restraining, holding steady. The scar on his cheek, a thin white line cutting through his beard, pulls as he smirks. His tongue piercing flashes as he wets his lower lip.
“Not what you expected?” His voice is rough, amused, like he’s been waiting for this.
You should look away. You should. But you don’t.
He drops his hands.
Your breath catches.
He’s not hard yet. Thick at the base, veiny, the kind of cock that makes your throat go dry just imagining it filled out. His ass is round and full, the kind that flexes when he moves, and you can almost see the way it would jiggle if he walked toward you. His tattoos shift as he turns in a slow circle. Stars trail up his ribs, a faded paw print sits on his wrist. The silver chain around his neck catches the light, the paw charm resting just above his collarbone. His stretched earlobes are empty, the black tunnels he usually wears gone, leaving behind just the faintest impression of where they used to sit. His eyebrow ring glints as he tilts his head, studying you.
“Like what you see?”
His voice is a low rumble, the kind that vibrates in your chest. You swallow, your fingers twitching at your sides. Your jeans are suddenly too tight, your pulse too loud. He takes a step forward, then another, heat radiating off him, close enough to see the dark blond hair dusting his thighs, the way his balls hang heavy between his legs. His gaze drags down your body, lingering on the way your cock strains against your jeans, and his smirk deepens.
“Looks like someone’s happy to see me.”
He doesn’t ask. He just reaches for you, his hands warm through the fabric of your shirt as he pulls you closer. His touch is sure, like he’s been waiting for an excuse.
“Turn around,” he murmurs, his voice a dark purr. “Let me see you.”
You obey.
His fingers find the hem of your shirt first, tugging it free from your waistband. The fabric whispers against your skin as he peels it up, his knuckles grazing your spine, your ribs. You lift your arms and let him strip it off. The cool air raises goosebumps along your arms and your chest. His breath is warm against your shoulder, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he tosses your shirt aside.
“Now the rest.”
You fumble with your belt, but he doesn’t wait. His hands cover yours, deftly unbuckling and unzipping, pushing your jeans and briefs down in one rough motion. They pool at your ankles and you step out of them, naked now, exposed. The tile is cold under your feet, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his gaze.
This is insane. The door isn’t locked. Marla’s right out front. Anyone could walk in. A client. The vet. Your fantasy, the one you’ve jerked off to a dozen times, is standing three feet away, hard and waiting. But it was supposed to stay a fantasy. Your heart pounds so hard you can feel it in your throat, and for a second, you’re not sure if it’s arousal or panic.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “Knew you’d be pretty.”
You turn, because you can’t not. His eyes are dark and hungry, devouring the sight of you. Your cock, hard and flushed, the way your chest rises and falls too fast, and the tremor in your thighs. He doesn’t touch you. Not yet. He just looks, his tongue sweeping over his lower lip.
“On the table,” he says, and his voice is a command and a promise.
The exam table is cold against your bare ass, the rubber mat tacky under your palms as you hoist yourself up. Your cock bobs, desperate and leaking, and his eyes track the movement. He steps between your legs, his hands finding your knees and pushing them apart. The air hits your hole and your balls, and you whimper, because you’ve never been so seen.
He’s closer now, his cock thickening as he watches you, the piercings in his nipples catching the light. His hands slide up your thighs, his thumbs brushing the crease where leg meets hip. You can see the pulse in his neck, the way his breath hitches when you reach for him, your fingers brushing the silver hoops.
“Ellie.”
“Shh.” His lips brush yours, soft and teasing. “Just let me take care of you.”
His hands are calloused, the pads of his fingers rough from years of handling leashes, syringes, the unruly bodies of animals that don’t want to be touched. But his touch is gentle, almost reverent, as he traces the dip of your spine and the curve of your ass. He squeezes, just enough to make you gasp, his thumb dragging along the crack in a way that’s more promise than pressure.
His cock is thicker now, filling out as he watches you, the head darkening, the veins standing out in sharp relief. You can see the way it twitches when you shift, the way the tip glistens with the first hint of pre cum. His balls are heavy and full, and you wonder what they’d feel like in your mouth, how he’d taste.
He leans in, his mouth a breath from yours. You expect a kiss, hard and demanding, but he doesn’t give you that. Not yet. His lips brush yours once, then twice, soft as a tease. Then his teeth graze your earlobe, a sharp nip that makes you gasp.
“You’re gonna look so good like this,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “Spread out for me. Needy.”
His hands slide higher, his thumbs pressing into the hollows of your hips, holding you steady as he steps back just enough to look at you. His gaze is a physical thing, tracing the line of your collarbone, the flush spreading across your chest, the way your cock jerks when his eyes linger too long.
“Touch yourself,” he orders, his voice low. “Show me how you like it.”
You wrap your hand around your cock, stroking slowly. The way he’s watching makes it impossible to do anything but obey. His eyes darken, his tongue piercing glinting as he licks his lips.
“Just like that,” he says, his voice a growl. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”
He doesn’t rush. He takes his time, his hands mapping your body like he’s memorizing you. When he finally touches your cock, it’s with the same surety, firm but not harsh. His fingers curl around you, his thumb swiping over the head and spreading the wetness there. You moan, your hips jerking into his touch, and he chuckles, low and dark.
“Easy,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
And you believe him.
Elliot has always been the steady one, the one who knows exactly what to do and exactly how to touch.
His hand tightens around you, his thumb circling the head of your cock, his other hand sliding up to grip your throat. It’s just enough to make you feel it and to remind you who’s in control.
“You want my mouth? Maybe my cock? Or did you have something else in mind?” he asks, his voice rough.
“Exam Two. He’s waiting for you.”
Her tone is flat, but there’s something in it, a flicker of something knowing, maybe, or just the exhaustion of someone who’s seen too much to be surprised. You frown. This isn’t how it usually goes. You’re here for Rex’s lab results, and signature on his discharge form.
The door to Exam Two is already ajar, the overhead light spilling into the hall in a sharp, white rectangle. The air back here has less chemical bite, more warm skin and the faint, musky tang of a body that’s been moving all day.
You knock once, already calling out, “Hey, I’m here for—”
The words die in your throat.
Elliot.
Your vet tech. The one who always remembers your dog’s name, who laughs too easily, whose scrubs cling to his thighs like they’re one size too small. The one who, right now, is standing in the center of the room, completely nude.
The door swings shut behind you with a quiet click. The room is small, the walls lined with cabinets of gauze and syringes, the exam table a hulking metal slab in the center. The hum of the ventilation system fills the silence. It is the only sound besides the sudden rush of blood in your ears.
Elliot’s back is to you, one hand braced on the edge of the table, the other resting low on his hip. The fluorescent light catches the freckles dusting his shoulders, the way his muscles shift as he turns his head just enough to glance at you over his shoulder. His man bun is loose, strawberry blond strands escaping and curling at the nape of his neck. His beard does nothing to hide the slow, knowing curve of his lips.
He turns fully, unhurried, letting you take him in.
His hands are clasped in front of him, hiding nothing, just framing the thick base of his cock. It rests heavy against his thigh, modest now but promising. His nipples are pierced, silver hoops glinting under the harsh light, and his hips are broad, his thighs dense with the kind of muscle that comes from years of lifting, restraining, holding steady. The scar on his cheek, a thin white line cutting through his beard, pulls as he smirks. His tongue piercing flashes as he wets his lower lip.
“Not what you expected?” His voice is rough, amused, like he’s been waiting for this.
You should look away. You should. But you don’t.
He drops his hands.
Your breath catches.
He’s not hard yet. Thick at the base, veiny, the kind of cock that makes your throat go dry just imagining it filled out. His ass is round and full, the kind that flexes when he moves, and you can almost see the way it would jiggle if he walked toward you. His tattoos shift as he turns in a slow circle. Stars trail up his ribs, a faded paw print sits on his wrist. The silver chain around his neck catches the light, the paw charm resting just above his collarbone. His stretched earlobes are empty, the black tunnels he usually wears gone, leaving behind just the faintest impression of where they used to sit. His eyebrow ring glints as he tilts his head, studying you.
“Like what you see?”
His voice is a low rumble, the kind that vibrates in your chest. You swallow, your fingers twitching at your sides. Your jeans are suddenly too tight, your pulse too loud. He takes a step forward, then another, heat radiating off him, close enough to see the dark blond hair dusting his thighs, the way his balls hang heavy between his legs. His gaze drags down your body, lingering on the way your cock strains against your jeans, and his smirk deepens.
“Looks like someone’s happy to see me.”
He doesn’t ask. He just reaches for you, his hands warm through the fabric of your shirt as he pulls you closer. His touch is sure, like he’s been waiting for an excuse.
“Turn around,” he murmurs, his voice a dark purr. “Let me see you.”
You obey.
His fingers find the hem of your shirt first, tugging it free from your waistband. The fabric whispers against your skin as he peels it up, his knuckles grazing your spine, your ribs. You lift your arms and let him strip it off. The cool air raises goosebumps along your arms and your chest. His breath is warm against your shoulder, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he tosses your shirt aside.
“Now the rest.”
You fumble with your belt, but he doesn’t wait. His hands cover yours, deftly unbuckling and unzipping, pushing your jeans and briefs down in one rough motion. They pool at your ankles and you step out of them, naked now, exposed. The tile is cold under your feet, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his gaze.
This is insane. The door isn’t locked. Marla’s right out front. Anyone could walk in. A client. The vet. Your fantasy, the one you’ve jerked off to a dozen times, is standing three feet away, hard and waiting. But it was supposed to stay a fantasy. Your heart pounds so hard you can feel it in your throat, and for a second, you’re not sure if it’s arousal or panic.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “Knew you’d be pretty.”
You turn, because you can’t not. His eyes are dark and hungry, devouring the sight of you. Your cock, hard and flushed, the way your chest rises and falls too fast, and the tremor in your thighs. He doesn’t touch you. Not yet. He just looks, his tongue sweeping over his lower lip.
“On the table,” he says, and his voice is a command and a promise.
The exam table is cold against your bare ass, the rubber mat tacky under your palms as you hoist yourself up. Your cock bobs, desperate and leaking, and his eyes track the movement. He steps between your legs, his hands finding your knees and pushing them apart. The air hits your hole and your balls, and you whimper, because you’ve never been so seen.
He’s closer now, his cock thickening as he watches you, the piercings in his nipples catching the light. His hands slide up your thighs, his thumbs brushing the crease where leg meets hip. You can see the pulse in his neck, the way his breath hitches when you reach for him, your fingers brushing the silver hoops.
“Ellie.”
“Shh.” His lips brush yours, soft and teasing. “Just let me take care of you.”
His hands are calloused, the pads of his fingers rough from years of handling leashes, syringes, the unruly bodies of animals that don’t want to be touched. But his touch is gentle, almost reverent, as he traces the dip of your spine and the curve of your ass. He squeezes, just enough to make you gasp, his thumb dragging along the crack in a way that’s more promise than pressure.
His cock is thicker now, filling out as he watches you, the head darkening, the veins standing out in sharp relief. You can see the way it twitches when you shift, the way the tip glistens with the first hint of pre cum. His balls are heavy and full, and you wonder what they’d feel like in your mouth, how he’d taste.
He leans in, his mouth a breath from yours. You expect a kiss, hard and demanding, but he doesn’t give you that. Not yet. His lips brush yours once, then twice, soft as a tease. Then his teeth graze your earlobe, a sharp nip that makes you gasp.
“You’re gonna look so good like this,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “Spread out for me. Needy.”
His hands slide higher, his thumbs pressing into the hollows of your hips, holding you steady as he steps back just enough to look at you. His gaze is a physical thing, tracing the line of your collarbone, the flush spreading across your chest, the way your cock jerks when his eyes linger too long.
“Touch yourself,” he orders, his voice low. “Show me how you like it.”
You wrap your hand around your cock, stroking slowly. The way he’s watching makes it impossible to do anything but obey. His eyes darken, his tongue piercing glinting as he licks his lips.
“Just like that,” he says, his voice a growl. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”
He doesn’t rush. He takes his time, his hands mapping your body like he’s memorizing you. When he finally touches your cock, it’s with the same surety, firm but not harsh. His fingers curl around you, his thumb swiping over the head and spreading the wetness there. You moan, your hips jerking into his touch, and he chuckles, low and dark.
“Easy,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
And you believe him.
Elliot has always been the steady one, the one who knows exactly what to do and exactly how to touch.
His hand tightens around you, his thumb circling the head of your cock, his other hand sliding up to grip your throat. It’s just enough to make you feel it and to remind you who’s in control.
“You want my mouth? Maybe my cock? Or did you have something else in mind?” he asks, his voice rough.