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Chapter 1: The Check-In
Hey, I’m Jake–thirty-two, decent shape, just a regular guy who’s been dodging the doctor for too long.
I’m sitting here on this crinkly exam table, the paper sticking to my thighs through the thin gown they handed me when I checked in. It’s a private hospital, Some upscale place my buddy swore by–cleaner than the public clinics, faster service, all that jazz.
I’m only here for a damn checkup, nothing serious, just a nagging cought that won’t quit and a boss who won’t stop riding my ass about the insurance forms.
The room’s sterile as hell–white walls, sharp lights, a faith whiff of antiseptic that stings my nose. My palms are sweaty, rubbing against the table’s edge. I hate this shit–needles, stethoscopes, the whole clinical vibe. Makes my skin crawl.
The door bangs open, no knock, no warning, and I damn near jump out of my skin.
In strides Nurse Chloe (at least according to her name badge), and fuck me, she’s something else. She’s tiny–maybe 5’2″ if she’s lucky–but she moves like she owns the room, hips swaying, heels clicking on the tile like little gunshots.
Her short blonde hair chopped into a messy bob, strands brushing her sharp jaw, and her uniform–Jesus Christ, that uniform. It’s white, tight, hugging every curve, and the top button’s undone, showing off plump cleavage that spills out like it’s becoming to be noticed.
Her breasts are round, full, straining the fabric so hard I swear I hear a thread pop.
She’s unbelievably sexy, a walking porno in scrubs, and I’m staring, mouth dry, pulse kicking up. Her skin’s pale, smooth, and she smells like some floral perfume that’s too sharp, too aggressive–like her.
She tosses a clipboard onto the counter with a clatter, doesn’t even glance my way at first, just mutters something under her breath.
Then those icy blue eyes snap to me, and I’m caught–gawking at her chest like a dumbass teenager. “What the fuck you looking at” she snaps, voice cutting through the air like a razor.
It’s loud, harsh, and my gut twists. I stammer, “I–uh, nothing,” trying to play it cool, but she’s already stalking closer, her smirk curling into something nasty.
“Fucking perv, huh? Think you can just eye-fuck me?” she says, and I can’t help it–I push back, nervouss firing.
“Didn’t know the checkup came with a free show,” I quip, aiming for cocky, but it’s a mistake.
Her hand cracks across my face, a vicious slap that echoes off the walls. My cheek exploits with heat, a stinging red bloom, and my head snaps to the side.
“Smartass little bitch,” she growls, grabbing my chin with fingers like steel traps, yanking my face back to hers. Her nails dig in, sharp pricks against my skin, and her eyes bore into me–cold, mean, promising trouble.
“You’ll regret that, I’m guessing you’re one of the asshole guys, hunh?,” she says, her breath hot and sour, her lips so close I can see the weak gloss shining on them.
That cleavage is right there, inches from my nose, taunting me, and my face burns–half from the hit, half from the humiliation of getting hard under this flimsy gown.
Before I can blink, she shoves me back, hands rough on my shoulders. My spine hits the table hard, knocking the wind out of me, and she’s barking,
“Lie down, smart ass–now.”
I’m too rattled to fight, my head spinning from the slap, and I flatten out, the paper crinkling loud under me. She’s on me in seconds, yanking leather straps from under the table like she’s done this a hundred times.
The first one snaps around my left wrist, cold and tight, biting into my skin as she pulls it taut. I jerk against it, instinct kicking in–“Hey, what the hell?”–but she’s already on the right, buckling it down, her small hands moving fast, brutal.
“Shut up,” she snaps, not even looking at me, like I’m a chor she’s pissed to deal with.
My ankles are next–she spreads my legs, straps them wide, and the leather’s coarse, scraping me raw as she cinches them tight. I tug, muscles flexing, but there’s no give–I’m pinned, spread-eagle, helpless as fuck.
My heart’s slamming now, a jackhammer in my chest, and I’m sweating, the gown sticking to my back. Chloe climbs onto the table’s edge, one knee up, her skirt riding high.
I catch a flash of thigh–smooth, pale, muscled–and my dick twitches, traitor that it is.
She sees it, the bulge under the gown, and laughs, a short, cruel bark. “Look at you, my little bitch–already hard for me,” she says, dismissively, like I’m a toy she’s bored of already.
Her uniform stretches as she leans over me, that plump cleavage swaying, close enough I can see the faith sheen of sweat on her skin.
Her nipples poke through the fabric, hard little points, and I hate how much I notice, hate how my body’s betraying me.
She doesn’t give a fuck about my cought, my checkup–doesn’t even ask my name. I’m nothing to her, just a thing to use, and her smile says she knows it.
“You’re mine now, and don’t you dare resist – I know you’ll do what you’re told” she says, low and mean, her voice dripping with contempt.
She swings her other leg up, straddling the table, hovering over my chest. Her skirt bunches higher, and I can’t help but look–her thighs flexing, the shadow between them promising something I’m not sure I want.
Her hands brace on the table, caging me, and her hair falls forward, brushing my forehead. It’s soft, smells like shampoo, a sick contrast to the venom in her eyes.
My wrists ache, the straws cutting in as I pull again, desperate, but it’s useless–she’s got me locked down. Her breath’s on my face now, hot and ragged, and I smell that perfume again, mixed with something muskier, primary.
She’s staring me down, lips parted, teeth glinting, and I’m drowning in it–her scent, her weight, her fucking presence.
“You don’t get it yet, do you?” she mutters, almost to herself, like I’m not worth addressing. “I’m gonna take what I want, and you’re gonna give it.” Her hand slides down, brushing my chest through the gown, deliberate, teasing, but there’s no warmth in it–just control.
My mouth’s dry, my throat tight, and I can’t speak, can’t think past the pounding in my ears. She shifts, her knees sliding wider, and that cleavage dips closer, a cruel distraction as my dick throbs harder, trapped and obvious.
She doesn’t care about my comfort, my consent–doesn’t give a single fuck about me, the guy with a cought. This isn’t a checkup anymore; it’s her game, her rules, and I’m the dumb bastard caught in it.
The room’s quiet except for my shaky breaths and the faith creak of the table under her. She leans in, lips brushing my ear, and whispers,
Keep your eyes on me, bitch–or I’ll make you scream.” It’s a threat, pure and simple, and my stomach drops, cold sweat trickling down my spine. I’m strapped, exposed, and she’s got me–every inch of me–under her thumb.
She pulls back, smiling again, that sexy, evil curve of her mouth, and I know I’m screwed.
Chapter 2: The Oral Demand
The room’s too bright, lights glaring off the white walls, and my gown’s bunched up, leaving me exposed, dick half-hard Despite the panic clawing my chest. I can’t move, can’t do shit, and Nurse Chloe’s looming over me, a pint-sized tyrant with a body that’d stop traffic.
She’s straddling the table’s edge, her tight skirt hiked up, thighs flexing, and that plump cleavage swaying in her uniform like a fucking taunt.
Her short blonde hair’s messy now, sticking to her neck, and her icy eyes are locked on me, glinting with something feral.
She swings a leg over, planting her knees on either side of my shoulders, and I feel the table creak under her.
She’s light–petite as hell–but it’s like a boulder’s pinning me, her presence suffocating. “You’re gonna make yourself useful” she sneers, her voice dripping venom.
Her hands grab the hem of her skirt, yanking it higher, and–fuck–there’s no panties, just her pussy, bare and glistening, inches from my face.
It’s pink, slick, framed by those smooth thighs, and the muscle hits me hard–raw, earthy, mixed with that sharp floral perfume.
My stomach lurches, half arousal, half dread, and she lowers herself, hovering over my mouth. “Lick,” she barks, sharp and cold, like she’s ordering a dog.
I freeze, my brain scrambling. “This isn’t right–please, stop,” I choose out, voice cracking, but it’s weak, pathetic even to me.
Her hand shoots to my hair, small fingers twisting in, yanking so hard my scalp screams and my eyes sting with tears.
“Do it, you little bitch,” she hisses, leaning down, her breath hot on my face. Her plump breasts tantalizingly just above me, nipples poking the fabric, and I’m dizzy–trapped, cornered, no way out.
She’s not asking, not caring–she doesn’t give a fuck about me, just her pussy and what she can get from it. My resistance crumbles like wet paper; she’s too fierce, too real, and I’m too scared of what she’ll do.
“Okay,” I mutter, barely audible, and she smiles, victorious, easy her grip just enough to let me breathe. I tilt my head, tongue darting out, tenative, brushing her pussy–warm, wet, sharp-tasting.
She slams down, no warning, grinding herself against my mouth, and I gag, overwhelmed. “Faster, you useless fuck,” she snarls, tugging my hair again, sharp jolts of pain shooting through me.
Her pussy’s all I can feel–smearing my lips, my chin, her clip hard against my tongue as she rocks her hips. Her moans rip through the room, loud, greedy, echoing off the walls– “Yeah, like that, good boy”–and I’m drowning in it, her heat, her scent, her goddamn weight.
My jaw’s aching already, tongue fumbling as she rides my face,ruthless. Her thighs clamp my head, muscles twitching, locking me in place, and I can’t breathe right–short gasps through my nose when she lets me.
That cleavage bounces above me, still caged in her uniform, a cruel tease I can’t touch, can’t even focus on past the blur of her grinding.
“You’re my bitch now,” she growls, voice hoarse, and her nails dig into my scalp, scraping, drawing blood maybe–I can’t tell, can’t think. She’s using me, plain and simple–my mouth’s just a tool, my face a fucking seat, and she doesn’t care about Jake, the guy with a cought.
I’m nothing but her plaything, and she’s getting off on it, literally.
Her rhythm picks up, hips bucking harder, and I taste her deeper–salty, slick, overwhelming. Her moans turn jagged, less controlled, and I feel it–her tights starting to quiver, little tremors running through her.
She’s close, I can tell, and my tongue is numb, my neck screaming, but I keep going, tooscared to stop.
“Don’t you dare slow down,” she snaps, yanking my hair so hard I yelp into her pussy, muffled and pitiful.
Her body’s tight now, coiled, and those quivers spread–her legs shaking, her breath hitching. I glance up, blurry through the haze, and see her head tip back, blonde strands sticking to her flushed cheeks, her mouth open in a snarl of pleasure.
Then it hits–she tenses, tighs like a vice around my head, and a guttural cry tears out of her, raw and animal.
Her pussy pulses against my tongue, flooding me, soaking my mouth, my chin, as she orgasms hard. The quivering’s full-on now, her whole frame trembling as she grinds slow and deliberate, milking every shudder.
I’m gasping, drowning, my face slick with her, and she rides it out, uncaring that I’m struggling beneath her.
Her moans soften to heavy pants, her body still quivering desperately, and she stays there, perched over me, her pussy still pressed to my lips like she owns them.My jaw’s locked, my breath ragged, and I taste her on every gulp of air–sharp, wet, inescapable.
She shifts, finally easing the pressure, and her hands loosen in my hair, sliding to brace on the table. Her breathing steals, that smug composure creeping back, and she wipes a bead of sweat from her browser with a flick of her wrist.
Her short blonde hair’s a mess, clinging to her neck, but she’s still fucking gorgeous–plump cleavage heaving in that uniform, icy eyes sharpening as they drop to me.
One hand trails down, casual, brushing my chest, then lower–fingers finding my dick through the gown.
It’s hard, throbbing, and she wraps her hand around it, squeezing just enough to make me flinch. “Well, look at this,” she purrs, voice thick with mockery. “You’re rock-hard, you little wimp–guess you like being taken, huh?”
I squirm, the straps biting deeper, but there’s no hiding it–my body’s a traitor, and she knows it. “No,” I rasp, voice wrecked, but she laughs, a sharp, cutting sound.
“Don’t lie to me, bitch boy,” she says, stroking me once, rough and dismissive, then letting go like I’m trash.
“You’re just a weak little bastard who gets off on this–my pussy owns you, and you love it.”
Her smile’s back, cruel and triumphant, and she leans in, her breasts brushing my chest, taunting me. I’m slick with her, face dripping, and she doesn’t care–doesn’t give a fuck about me beyond what I’ve already given her.
She sits there, still straddling me, her thighs warm against my shoulders, and I’m pinned, helpless, her taste coating my tongue.
“You’re nothing, Jake,” she says, using my name like a slap–first time she’s bothered, and it’s just to twist the knife. “Just my little bitch boy, quivering for me.”
Her hand pats my cheek, hard enough to sting, and I flinch, dick pulsing despite the shame burning through me. She doesn’t move, doesn’t get off–just watches me squirm, smug as hell, knowing she’s got meexactly where she wants me.
Chloe’s still on me, her thighs hot against my shoulders, her pussy lingering over my slick face as she smiles down, smug and cruel.
My wrists burn under the strraps, my scalp stings from her yanking, and my dick’s throbbing, hard and useless under the gown.
She pats my cheek again, a sharp little slap, and purrs, “Okay, wimpy boy–next round.” Her voice is thick, taunting, and my stromach twists–half dread, half something I hate admitting.
She slides back, her weight shifting, and stands up on the table, towering over me like some twisted goddess. Her hands move to her uniform, fingers quick on the buttons, and I can’t look away–can’t fucking breathe.
She peels the top open, slow and deliberate, letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud.
Her breasts spill out, free and perfect–round, full, pale as cream, with nipples hard and pink, jutting out like they’re daring me.
They’re mesmerizing, swwaying slightly as she breathes, and I’m staring, jaw slack, despite the mess she’s already made of me.
They’re the kind of tits you’d dream about–plump, heavy, flawless–and I hate how much I admire them, hate how my dick pulses harder just looking.
She catches me gawking, smiles wider, and kicks the gown up with her foot, exposing me completely. “Pathetic little bitch,” she mutters, stepping down to straddle my hips, her skirt still bunched around her waist.
Her nails rake my chest, sharp and suddenly, leaving red streaks as she positions herself.
I’m hard as steel–can’t help it–and she scoffs, “Fucking wimp,” before sinking onto me, rough and fast. No warning, no tea–just her pussy swallowing me, tight and wet, slamming down like a fist.
I groan, the sound ripped out of me, and she starts riding, brutal and raw, hips crashing against mine. Her breasts bounce in perfect rhythm, hypntic–up and down, up and down, matching every thrust, every slap of skin on skin.
They’re gorgeous, swinging with her motion, sweat beading on her pale curves, and I’m lost in it–her body, her power, her goddamn cruelty.
She’s relentless, grinding hard, chasing her own high. Her hands choke my throat, fingers digging in, cutting my air to ragged gasps, then slide to claw my shoulders, nails biting deep.
“Harder, you weak fuck,” she growls, though I’m strapped down, can’t do shit–she’s the one in control, always is. Her groans start low, guttural, spinling out louder as she picks up speed. The table craiks under us, metal rattling, and her pussy grips me tighter, slick and puzzle.
Those breasts keep bouncing, perfect and obscene, glistening now, and I can’t stop staring, can’t stop feeling her everywhere–her heat, her weight, her nails tearing me up.
Her rhythm’s savage, hips slamming down so hard my pelvis aches, bruises blooming under her assault.
She’s topless, wild–short blonde hair whipping, sticking to her flushed face, eyes half-shut in selfish bliss.
Her groans turn to shouts–“Fuck, yes, bastard!”–echoing off the walls, raw and unrestrained.
Sweat drips from her brow, splashing my chest, and her thighs flex, trembling again, that quiver I felt before creeping back.
She’s close, I can tell–her pussy clenching, her breaths hitching, her whole body tightening like a spring. I’m scanning, dick aching, teetering on the edge, but she doesn’t care–doesn’t even see me past her own lust.
It builds fast–her grosses hit a peak, loud and desperate, and she slams down one last time, shuddering hard.
Her second orgasm rips through her, a violent quake–her pussy pulsing around me, her thighs quivering, her breasts heaving as she yells, a hoarse, primary sound that fills the room.
She rides it out, grinding slow, milking every twitch, every spasm, her nails going my skin as she trembles. I’m right there, so fucking close–my balls tight, my wholebody screaming for release–but she doesn’t let me, doesn’t even notice.
Her eyes flutter open, hazy, satisfied, and I’m left hanging, frustrated as hell, dick pulsing usefully inside her.
She catches her breath, panting, and slides off me, her pussy leaving me slide and cold.
My frustration’s massive–gnawing, clawing at me, a pressure I can’t shake–but she doesn’t give a fuck. She grabs my crumped gown, wipes herself with it–casual, dismissive–and tosses it back onto my chest, damp and crumped. “Shitty little wimp,” she mutters, stepping down, her breasts swinging one last time as she bends to snatch her uniform top.
I’m wrecked–scratched raw, bruised, strapped tight–and she’s pristine again, buttoning up like nothing happened. Those perfect tits disappear behind the fabric, and I hate how much I still want them, hate how she’s left me like this.
“You’re a waste,” she says, smoothing her blonde hair, voice flat and bored. My dick’s still hard, ahing, but she doesn’t glance at it–doesn’t care I didn’t finish.
She’s done with me, her pussy satisfied twice over, and I’m nothing to her now–just a used-up toy. “I’ll get another nurse to come in,” she adds, offhand, like she’s ordering takeout, not leaving me strapped and fucked raw.
Her heels click as she heads for the door, skirt smoothed down, uniform pristine, and I’m staring after her, chest heaving, frustration boiling.
The door swings open, and she pauses, glancing back with that icy smile. “Don’t cry, bitch boy,” she taunts, her voice cutting deep, then she’s gone–door slamming shut, leaving me alone.
The straps dig into my wrists, my skin’s on fire where she clawed me, and my dick’s still hard, pulsing with nowhere to go.
Her scent’s everywhere–sweat, musk, that sharp perfume–and those bouncing breasts are burned into my head, perfect and cruel. I tug against the restraints, desperate, but it’s useless–she’s fucked me over, used me up, and walked away without a second thought.
The room’s silent now, just my ragged breaths and the pounding in my ears, waiting for whoever’s next, knowing I’m still her bitch, even with her gone.
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