I swore this was just another checkup.
Legs forced wide in unforgiving stirrups, cold metal biting skin under merciless fluorescents. Exposed. Vulnerable. The kind of position that strips a man down to his twitching secrets.
He enters. Gloves snap taut over strong hands. His stare pins me worse than any restraint, clinical mask cracking with something hungry. Defiance rises in my throat, snarky barbs ready. "This your idea of routine?" But my voice husks out breathless, betraying the thrill twisting low.

Those gloved fingers trace me first with precision, mapping shame into fire. Probing deeper, they coax throbs I can't deny, legs trembling wider despite my gritted snarls. Humiliation floods hot, sweet, turning my buried cravings alive. He knows. God, he sees it all, that intoxicating authority wielding degradation like a lover's promise. I crave his growl of command, the way he'll push me past breaking, make surrender feel like victory.

Yet every lingering stroke risks it all. My protocol hangs by scrutiny, his license one whisper from ruin. Review boards circle like vultures, reputations teetering on this forbidden edge. One gasp too loud, one touch too blatant, and we're exposed, careers gutted.

I tell myself I'll walk out untouched, control intact. But as sweat slicks my skin in the aftermath, collapsing breathless under his gaze, the lie burns. How do I chase this exquisite ruin without dragging us both under?