Your nails dig into your hips as you jump, startled.

“That won’t be necessary,” he says. Calm. Matter of fact. Final. “Are you ready?”

You quickly let your underwear drop and slip into the flimsy hospital gown. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m… ready.”

You blink into the light as the curtain is pulled back, exposing you the full glare of the fluorescents.

A large shadow offers you a little relief.

“Lie down for me, please,” he instructs as he snaps a pair of blue gloves onto his hands.

It starts just as you expect, you lace your fingers together across your stomach and stare at the white ceiling and pretend it’s normal to have your childhood friend positioning himself between your legs under bright fluorescents at 10 in the morning, or at all.

He parts your thighs with gentle confidence. “It’s just a quick look,” he says. “Nothing invasive. Try and stay still for me.”

You nod, closing your eyes to seek a little false privacy.

His chair squeaks as he adjusts himself between your legs, but apart from a hand on your thigh, he doesn’t touch you. The air hits you, remining you of your starkness, and it’s unlike anything else, that feeling of exposure.

You attempt to keep your breathing steady, to match his own.

Then his chair squeaks again, and you can feel he’s closer. So close his breath warms the skin of your thighs. “Mm,” he hums, “just a little cold from the gloves now.”

You hold your breath. The chair squeaks. And despite your best efforts, you flinch at the light brush of his gloves. It’s not from the cold. In fact, they aren’t cold at all. You can feel the warmth of his hands through the plastic. But you were expecting something a little more assured, firm, purposeful.

This touch is light. So light it almost tickles.

“It’s alright,” he says. “Just do your best to stay still.”

You suck in a deep breath, and his finger returns. Still far too light. One single, continuous stroke from your mound to your entrance. Feather-light.

That’s how he touches you for what feels like minutes.

It’s long enough that the moment he applies a little pressure to part your lips, you don’t flinch at all—accustomed to his touch. Maybe that was the purpose, you ponder. Maybe this was normal.

“Are you sexually active?” he asks suddenly, his fingers continuing their inspection.

Your eyes blink open into the harsh light. “No,” you mutter.

“Pardon?”

“No,” you answer, loud enough to reach him this time.

“At all?”

You shake your head. A gesture he must catch, because he doesn’t repeat his question. Instead, he hums, continuing his prodding and stroking. He mumbles something too. You’re sure of it. But you can’t bring yourself to question him, and he doesn’t repeat himself, so you assume it’s unimportant.

When the tip of his index finger brushes directly over your hole for the first time, your knees involuntarily snap shut. Or at least, they make an attempt.

He catches your thigh. “Did that hurt?”

“No. Sorry, I—”

“It’s okay,’ he says. “I’m not going inside, remember? Just touching.”

“Yeah,” you breathe, letting your legs relax again.

“Good girl.”

Your breath hitches. Your eyes fix to one spot on the ceiling. Good girl. You have to breathe again. You could breathe. You force yourself to breathe.

You’d misheard him.

This was normal.

His finger prods at your entrance, like he was testing how much pressure he would have to apply to breach you.

Then, “What do you use for menstruation?”

You blink, processing like he was speaking a foreign language you’d just started to pick up.

“Tampons? Pads?” he adds.

“Pads.”

“Have you tried tampons?”

“No.”

He hums. “And have you used any toys?”

You take a shaky breath in. “Toys?”

“Sex toys.”

His warm hand presses against your thigh, holding you spread open before him. “I… No.”

“Fingers?”

Your breathing is uneven now. You can’t control it. You’ve lost the reigns and the only thing you have to ground you is the eye-watering white light above you.

“A little.”

His finger prods, still not breaching. “A little?”

“Mm,” is all you can offer in response.

And then you feel it. His finger moves just enough to spread a little wetness across your skin.

Oh god.

Your eyes squeeze shut.

“It’s okay,” he soothes. “It’s healthy.” He’s only used one finger from the start. And it’s the same index finger that now works to spread your own humiliation up from your entrance to your mound, where he started. “It’s perfectly healthy,” he says again. “Do you know what it’s for?”

Yes. Of course you did.

You’re silent, focusing on breathing. You take a few shaky breaths. He waits.

Then, without yet understanding why, you shake your head.

His finger pauses. A heavy moment of silence. Then his chair squeaks. His breath brushes against the top of your thigh.

“It’s to reduce friction,” he says as his finger works up and down your slit. “Keeps you nice and comfortable…” His voice is different now, you realise. Distracted. “So it’s very good that you get so slippery,” he continues. “So, so healthy. Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

There’s one press after that: one you are sure will push past that little cushion of resistance and slip inside.

He rolls back right at the moment you’re sure he’ll enter, separating himself from you with such a suddenness you are laying there spread wide for an embarrassing long moment before pulling your knees together.

He walks across the room. You don’t dare watch him directly, just track him through your periphery. His gloves snap off and fall into a bin.

He clears his throat.

Then he’s at your bedside. He blocks the light from above you, towering—his normal stoic expression gracing his pretty features. “Sit up for me,” he instructs, all confident professionalism again.

You tuck your knees up into your chest as you pull yourself up.

Then he reaches for his chair and tugs it around to the bedside. “Legs over the edge.”

They hang between his knees like this, and you have no escape. You’re facing him directly now. So you stare at the I.D tag on his chest as he speaks.

“Just a quick breast check. Alright?”

You immediately regret the way your eyes flash up to meet his, dropping them back to his chest as you nod.

He leans forward, right into your space, and it takes you a moment to release he’s reaching behind you to untie the flimsy little string holding your only form of protection against your body.

You grab his forearm, fingers resting against one of his many smooth scars.

His green eyes flick between your own, waiting.

Your arm drops.

His finger brushes against your bare skin as he gently pulls the thin fabric down over your shoulders.

There’s a poster on the wall behind him. A childlike drawing of a boy and a girl playing together on a swing set. You can’t make out the text. But as your doctor’s ungloved hand cups your breast for the first time, you're thinking of the last time you saw him, before all this—not as your doctor, as your playmate.

Your breathing is harder to disguise now. It’s almost more exposing than when he was between your legs. You have nowhere to hide. Your chest rises and falls as he squeezes and gropes–-examines you.

“Do you do regular self-checks?”

You shake your head.

He looks up at you. You keep your eyes fixed over his shoulder.

“You can do it when you shower,” he says. “Just like this.” His fingers press into your skin, each hand working at one breast each now. “Okay?”

You nod.

“Good g–-” His lips press together. Your eyes had snapped to his face at the word good. Quick enough to catch him stop himself.

When he stands, you assume it’s all over. You’re tugging at your gown when he settles his large hand over your wrist to stop you. Then he sits on the bed and shuffles back a little, arranging his long limbs behind you.

“Not quite done,” he says. “Lean back.”

You don’t move, unsure, despite his clear instructions. Lean back… into him?

He applies gentle pressure to your shoulder, guiding you back against his chest. And after a moment of tension, your muscles relax. This was better somehow. You couldn’t see him—weren’t forced to avoid his gaze.

But then his hand falls to your stomach, and his breath hits the shell of your ear as he looks over your shoulder at your exposed breasts. “Easier to show you like this,” he says. His large hands cup you, lifting their weight entirely from your chest. “Just wash as usual,” he starts as his thumbs brush past your nipples. “It’ll be easier when you’re all soapy and slippery. Less friction. Like I explained before. That way you can be nice and thorough. Take your time.” His grip tightens, squeezing in a way that forces you back against him. He lips brush the shell of your ear. “You can do that, can’t you?”

You nod. Then, “Yeah.” It’s a pathetic little sound. A squeak more than anything.

“Does this hurt?” he asks as he fondles you. There’s no precision in his movements now. Not like there was when he was between your legs.

“No.”

“That’s good,” he says with a hum, and you’re sure his lips brush your neck.

“I’m healthy?”

He inhales deeply, his lips touching your bare skin again. “So healthy,” he exhales. “Perfect.”

Your eyes flutter shut, and your head falls back, and you go limp. You thought you’d let your muscles relax before. You’d thought wrong.

His breath continues warming your skin as he speaks—as he gropes and presses you firmly against him. “I should do one more check without gloves,” he mutters. “Just wanna make sure.”

“Mm,” you hum, feeling entirely docile now—pliant. A passenger.

One of his hands leaves your breasts and works at the fabric bunched up at your hips, so he can slip his bare hand between your legs. He barely touches you. His entire palm ghosts over your entire cunt, cradled between your thighs. Then a finger drops down, right at your hole, tapping at your slick—playing with it. Like tapping at his keys.

“Feel that?” he says from his position over your shoulder. Tap, tap, tap. “You have such a soft, healthy, drippy little hole.” His lips press against your neck, confident now. No plausible deniability. No accidental brushes. He’s kissing your neck.

Then, without warning, he dips inside. Thick and warm, guided by all your wetness. “I know you’ve never had anything in here. But you’re made for it.” His breathing is heavy. Hot against your skin. “Feel the way it sucks at my finger?” His prods you, dipping in and out, just at the entrance. “It’s all empty. Not good for you to let it get all desperate like that.”

“I—I didn’t know.”

“I know,” he soothes. “You’ve always been so good.”

His other hand lifts from your breast to your chin, then his fingers are against your lips. He almost fumbles around a little before his thumb tugs at your fuller lower lip.

“I can help you,” he mutters, breathy. “I can get it all nice and full, warm and sticky and full. It’ll be so good for you. Like medicine.”

“Medicine?” The word comes out a little wonky, distorted from his continued exploration of your lips.

“Mm,” he hums. “Medicine.”

“Mm, ‘Kay.”

He inhales again, deep and long, with his nose pressed into your skin. Then you’re being manipulated—rearranged onto your back with a scratchy pillow beneath your head. His warm hands, one wet from slick, the other from saliva, press your thighs back so you are exposed beneath him. It’s nothing new. Your eyes meet the familiar white ceiling and you cradle one breast in your palm for comfort as his large body settles between your legs.

It’s the first time you’ve seen his face since he was sitting in front of you. It’s all different now. His lips are pinker—wetter. They rest a little apart, relaxed. All the controlled stoic professionalism has been replaced with… something else. Less tension. Less control. His movements aren’t careful and precise. He fumbles with his belt. He tugs a little at his tie, like it bothers him. And the entire time his eyes don’t move from your pulsing cunt.

You’re long past shame.

You ache.

And when he rests his heavy cock on you, you’re consumed. “Medicine,” you whimper.

His eyes snap to yours.

You nibble on your knuckle, unsure what to do with your hands.

When it’s clear you aren’t repeating yourself, he grips himself. “Pardon?”

Your hand snakes down your stomach, haulting at your mound, and curling into a fist before going slack. “Medicine.”

He leans forward, touching his leaking tip to your hole and applying the slightest pressure. “That’s what you need? You need your doctor to fill you up with medicine?”

His eyes fix on your lips as he nudges at your entrance, as you nod, as you suck your own finger into your mouth. “All right, sweetheart. Your doctor will make sure you stay exactly like this… just this perfect… give you lots and lots of medicine.” He slips up between your folds a few times, playing in all the wetness he’d worked so hard to tease from your hole and spread over you.

The first few tutoring sessions with them were awkward. They'd come over to your house with their homework, hestitant to trust that you wouldn't belittle them like you had before. You couldn't bring yourself to apologize to them, instead hoping that they'd get a sense of your change of character as you helped them with their studies.

What you didn't know was that they were plotting the perfect revenge against you. It had to be something as humiliating as the ridicle they suffered in high school.

As you helped teach the group, they would take turns going to 'use the bathroom'. In reality they were snooping around your home, looking for dirt on you or something they could tamper with.

Finding your spare key, they pocketed that for later. Being the pevs they were, they also found your rather large collection of sex toys. Vibrators, paddles, nipple clamps, breast pumps, a fuck machine, dildos of all sizes; they discovered you were quite the freak. There was even an enormous monster cock in the collection that you still hadn't been able to stuff inside yourself yet.

They hit the jackpot when one of them found a contract you'd signed agreeing to test out this company's new line of sex toys they had sent you. One was a set of portals that connected your pussy to a handheld ring; you were asked to wear it 24/7 then report back how it felt. The other was a round stress ball made to look like a boob. After sticking this patch to your breastbone it would stimulate any touch done to the toy onto the wearer.

On the day of their revenge plot the team split up, some going to sneak into your house as the others followed and livestreamed you as you went about doing your errands.

At first they started slow, teasing fingers into the portal, giggling at how you desperately tried to hide your confusion and arousal. Your face flushed as you walked through the grocery store. Panic set in as you wondered if the portal was broken or if someone had broken in and found the other half.

Slowly they worked through your collection of dildos, sliding larger and larger ones into your cunt. Your breath caught in your throat everytime they pushed a new one in. When they pumped them as deep as they would go you gripped your cart with white knuckles, chest heaving as you focused on staying quiet while being edged.

Just when you thought they had stopped, a pause in the assault allowing you a moment to catch your breath, you shrieked as they pressed your vibrator to your clit at the highest level. Other shoppers gave you weird looks as you slumped over your cart, legs shaking. You pray no one notices the growing wet spot at your crotch or the way your eyes roll back as you cum.

The boys back at your place grab the boob ball, starting to knead it in their hands. You whimper as the sensation translates to your tits. They pinch, lick, twist, and bite your nipples, making you wince as you attempt to find a quieter aisle in this busy grocery store.

When they attached the breast pump to the toy you instantly knew what was about to happen. A moan broke from your throat as the cups tightly suctioned onto your tits, stimulating the already sensitive buds. Strangers walked by giving you disgusting looks as you were milked with no where for the liquid to go except down your shirt. So much came out that it was leaking onto the floor, leaving a milky trail behind you as you stumbled forward.

It was time for the grand finale. Attaching your monstrous dildo to a fucking machine, they positioned it at the entrance of the portal. Even though you were sopping wet, your pussy hadn't been stretched to accommodate its girth. Even when you tried working up to take it on your own time it never fit. But with it connected to the cold unrelenting machine it dug at your hole, forcefully pushing despite the resistance.

The pressure hurt, adding a newfound level of distress to your already dizzied mind. Finally the tip popped inside, gaping your cunt more than you thought possible. Your legs gave out, sending you crashing to the floor drenched in your own cum and milk.

Searing pain burned your pussy as the machine pushed it deeper and deeper, scratching it against your inner walls. A small crowd gathered, either laughing at how depraved you were or unsure if you needed help.