dilf dentist!nanami x spoiled f!reader đ [size kink, age gap, brat tamer, gag reflex training] 3,9k wordsâĽď¸
dr. nanami wears that same pale blue coat every time crisp, spotless, sleeves rolled neatly at the forearms to reveal thick wrists and a heavy gold watch. his arms are hairy, knotted with muscle, veins visible under the surface like faint roadmaps, and his broad shoulders stretch the seams of his dress shirt no matter how expensive the tailoring. beneath the coat, he wears slacks that hug his hips just right, and dark loafers polished to quiet perfection. his shirtâs always buttoned up, collar stiff, the knot of his tie precise, even when his hairâs tousled from running his fingers through it mid-appointment. his jaw is sharp, clean-shaven except for a slight late day stubble that shades his cheeks golden. the glasses perched low on his nose catch the fluorescent light clear, thick-rimmed, and professional but the eyes behind them are steady and unreadable. warm. intelligent. too calm for comfort.
heâs the kind of man who makes dads shake hands tighter and moms adjust their blouses unconsciously. a man who looks like he should be giving keynote speeches or owning stock portfolios not holding your tongue down with two fingers while humming about plaque.
you walk into the office already annoyed, arms crossed, huffing when your name is called. the smell of bleach and mint hits instantly. you hate it. the high chair, the overhead light, the judgmental scraping sounds. your dad nudges your shoulder, telling you to behave. your mom gives one of those fake little smiles like sheâs embarrassed to have a difficult daughter. you glare at both of them and stomp toward the room.
that same man from last time. hair slicked back and collar open at the throat now, hands gloved, standing behind the reclining chair like some kind of tall, broad-shouldered executioner. glasses glinting. eyes calm. mouth firm.
dr. nanami will take care of you, the assistant says gently, shutting the door behind her.
dr. nanami doesnât say much when your parents walk in, just nods and closes your chart with that same soft click. his shirt strains at the chest under the white coat sleeves rolled back again, revealing thick arms dusted in blond hair. watch heavy on his wrist. buttons neat. quiet. clinical. his pants sit high on his hips, belt tight, slacks fitted in a way that says he doesnât buy cheap, even if youâre too bratty to notice the cost.
you notice other things, though. the way he looks down when you slouch. the way he adjusts his gloves slower when you wear that little cropped tee that says bite me. the way he doesnât flinch when you kick your sneakers off against his cabinets.
heâs too calm for it to be fun.
you always make a show of entering, skirt too short, thighs bare and soft, hips swaying like youâre not here for a cleaning but a performance. you steal a lollipop from the reception jar and suck on it as you sit in the chair like youâre at a nail salon.
thought dentists were supposed to be hot, you mumble around the candy, pushing it to the side of your cheek with your tongue. not, like, old and boring.
nanami exhales through his nose and pulls on a fresh pair of gloves. legs down.
he glances at your mother. sheâs already checking her phone. your father just shrugs, clearly used to you.
no, nanami says. but i will tell him if you keep wasting my time. lay back. now.
you roll your eyes, but you obey. flop dramatically into the chair, skirt riding up just enough that the crease of your thighs shows beneath it. you know he sees it. thatâs the whole point. if heâs uncomfortable, he doesnât show it.
he lowers the light slowly. adjusts the tray. youâre still glaring at him through your lashes, lollipop tucked back between your lips.
he taps your wrist once, flat and firm.
you groan and drop the candy stick into the tray like it offended you.
what, scared iâll choke?
no, he says, lifting the mirror tool. just tired of your mouth being full of sugar when iâm trying to work.
he leans closer. large. warm. presence heavy beside the chair. you can smell his cologne. something clean. citrus and sandalwood and sweat from a long day.
you pout for a second, just to be annoying.
he tilts his head slightly.
you do it slow. lips parted, tongue flat, eyes locked on his like youâre daring him to look lower. your lashes flutter. your thighs shift. the chair squeaks. your skirt doesnât cover much anymore.
his hand rests against your jaw just enough pressure to make your cheeks warm. then the mirror slides in, cool and hard against your tongue. his gloved fingers steady your face like heâs holding something fragile, even when you squirm a little.
he doesnât speak unless necessary. his voice is measured. dry. deep like a dull blade drawn slowly. he never looks at you with hunger or disgust just the same calm, silent disappointment reserved for misbehaving children or spilled coffee. his eyes barely move from the tray as he arranges his tools with those large, veined hands in slow, deliberate order. gloved fingers curl around the cold metal as the latex stretches tight across his knuckles, quiet snap of his wrist straightening every instrument. mirror. probe. scaler. suction. cotton roll. all aligned. all quiet.
you twist a strand of hair around your manicured nail, chewing on the tip like a habit. legs crossed, then uncrossed again. thighs bare, soft and pressed together, only to part slightly when you shift in the chair with an exaggerated sigh. the vinyl squeaks beneath you. your skirt hikes a little higher, exposing the delicate edge of your damp panties, barely visible between the thick plush of your inner thighs.
you pretend not to notice. you know he sees. itâs the only reason you came today. your dad guilted you, and your mom was all fake smiles and shoulder squeezes, but it was the idea of annoying him that really made you get in the car.
he still doesnât look at you.
you pout a little deeper, voice sharp as you flick your tongue against your front teeth.
just âcause my dad knows you doesnât mean you can boss me around, you know. i didnât even wanna come.
he doesnât respond. just opens the lower drawer and retrieves another set of tools, inspecting the edges beneath the glow of the lamp. the silence should fluster you. but it never does. it makes you meaner.
you act like youâre some kind of doctor, you mutter, letting your leg swing, foot tapping against the cabinet, skirt riding higher. but this place is sad. itâs so bland. no decor. no personality. just white walls and those ugly lights. depressing.
his head lifts slowly, gaze meeting yours without a single shift in posture. he looks at you like something small. unimportant. like youâre a bored child playing house. his expression doesnât flicker.
you bite your lip harder. suck it between your teeth and flutter your lashes. your thighs part again as you adjust your hips, slowly rubbing them together, voice softer now, sticky with mock innocence.
why do you even work alone? sâcause nobody wants to work with you?
still nothing. just the low sound of latex snapping as he slides on another glove, letting it tighten over his broad wrist.
then finally he moves toward you. not fast. not irritated. just with that same quiet deliberation. he takes the overhead lamp and tilts it with two fingers, angling it directly onto your flushed face, bathing you in sterile light.
he leans over the tray, not even glancing between your legs, and murmurs with that same clinical detachment that makes your cheeks burn.
you donât move. cross your arms. just your chin.
his eyes flick up once cold, empty, and tired.
if i have to repeat myself, iâll call your father in and let him know youâve been flashing your underwear at me since you walked in.
your breath catches, but you roll your eyes like it doesnât matter. cheeks hot. hands fidgeting with your hem. but you lay down anyway, slowly, like youâre doing him a favor. arms flopped at your sides. legs still parted just enough to tease the damp patch sticking to your center.
he adjusts the chair with the foot pedal low, mechanical hum as your body reclines. you feel his presence beside you, towering. his thighs solid beneath the fabric of his pants. you glance up, licking your lips just to test him.
you really gonna stare at my mouth again, old man?
he finally turns toward you, shadow falling across your chest as he reaches for the mirror.
you pout. then obey. slowly. eyes locked to his. you stick your tongue out and press your head back into the chair, legs fidgeting beneath the light, the cool air of the office making your skin prickle.
he presses the tool against your tongue, sliding it deeper this time. his other hand resting at the base of your throat, firm. gloved. quiet.
you blink at him, tongue still out, tasting metal and latex and something more shameful beneath it all. but you donât close them. not yet.
not until he mutters again, slower this time. not louder but heavier.
the cold metal touches the back of your tongue, and you squint up at him, lashes twitching, legs still lazily parted beneath the overhead light. the air conditioner hums low, brushing over your inner thighs where your panties cling damp and soft, nearly transparent now under the clinical glare. nanami doesnât look down. he doesnât need to. he can smell how warm you are from here. can see how flushed your neck is. how your eyes roll when the tool presses just a little too deep.
you twitch, gagging softly, eyebrows pulling together as your thighs tense.
nghâf-fuck, too big, you whimper, spitting around the mirror as you raise your hand and shove weakly at his wrist, nails scraping his glove. ew. ew. wanna throw up. fuck. whyâre your fingers so bigâ
he doesnât react the way you want him to. doesnât flinch or rush. he just watches, unmoved, as you cough around the mirror and squirm in the chair, dramatic and loud and messy like always. only when your hand swats again does he slowly draw the tool out, his expression unreadable behind the glare of his lenses. he sighs, barely audible. heavy. irritated.
youâre the most dramatic patient iâve ever had.
you pout hard, breathing through your nose as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, smearing spit and gloss across your knuckle. you push your tits up when you sit back again, letting the strap of your tiny tank top slip off one shoulder, exposing the soft swell of your upper chest. your legs stay open, thighs glossy with sweat now, and you hook one foot around the edge of the chair like youâre stretching but itâs all show. everything with you always is.
your fingers crawl toward his tie. you tug at it gently, playing with the knot.
maybe you should use smaller tools, you say, voice all fake sweetness, lips slick, teeth catching the bottom one. unless you like watching me gag. you into that, old man?
his gaze lowers slowly to your lips, then back to your eyes. he doesnât pull his tie away. doesnât move an inch.
you gag like that on a mirror, he says flatly, almost like heâs talking to himself. should see yourself when itâs something softer.
you blink just for a second surprised.
then you smile. wide. dirty. like you finally won a round.
he adjusts the light again, eyes flicking back to your mouth like it never happened.
open your mouth, he murmurs, reaching for a thicker tool this time.
the soft hum of fluorescent lights and the quiet shifting of metal as nanami adjusts the tray again, methodical. slow. as if he hasnât noticed the way your fingers keep looping around his tie, tugging the silk knot loose, twisting it like itâs something delicate you plan to unravel. he exhales through his nose, sharp and controlled, sliding his glasses up the bridge as you bat your lashes up at him, your thighs still shamelessly spread beneath the chair, humid and sticky between them.
he doesnât look. not directly. but he doesnât step away either. doesnât move your hand from his chest. doesnât stop you when your nails trace lightly down his buttons. his expression stays the same: that cold, tired annoyance. but thereâs a twitch in his jaw when you shift again, pushing your hips lower into the chair, angling your pelvis toward the light so the damp outline of your cunt presses tighter against your panties. the scent of you is warm in the air now sweet, soft, unmistakable. and he doesnât comment. he just tightens his glove slowly, one finger at a time, like heâs still trying to keep control.
you pull on his tie again, leaning forward with a fake little frown.
sânot fair, you whine, tilting your head. i donât even like doctors. especially you. all cold and serious. acting like you donât look at me when i walk in.
his mouth barely moves. no reaction, no shift in tone. just a flat sigh, like heâs heard this a thousand times from a thousand little girls who think theyâre clever.
so? your pout deepens as your thighs spread wider. you know exactly what youâre doing. doesnât mean you donât think about it. old men like you always act like theyâre above it. above me.
he turns toward the counter without a word, selects another instrument, sets it down. his back is straight. hands steady. but his breathing has changed slower. deeper. heâs not unaffected. not even close.
you lean further over the chair, breasts pressing together in your tight tank, shirt strap dangling half down your arm.
whyâre you so quiet now?
he finally looks at you again. slow. measured. and this time his eyes drag down to your knees, the spread of your thighs, the glistening patch between them. his nostrils flare just slightly. you see the twitch of his brow. the faint clench in his jaw.
then he looks back at your face unblinking.
you think this is a game.
youâre the one playing doctor, old man.
he adjusts his glasses again, steps in closer, and you feel the heat of him above you tall, broad, scent of soap and sweat and something low and male rising beneath his coat. he leans over without touching you, voice low near your cheek.
then keep your mouth open, he murmurs, steady and clinical, and try not to moan when i make you gag again.
he presses the tool back to your tongue like nothingâs changed.
his hand is steady when he slides the tool back inside your mouth this time deeper. his gloved fingers press firm against your cheek, thumb resting just under your jaw as the mirror glides along your tongue and pushes toward the back. you gag instantly, reflex jerking your thighs inward, toes curling against the edge of the chair. your hands fly up, but he doesnât pause. doesnât blink. doesnât even glance at your squirming legs.
you try to turn your head away, but his other hand comes up fast big and warm and grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking it back so your face tilts up, mouth forced open, throat stretched beneath the sharp bite of his grip. the pressure pins your scalp to the vinyl. your back arches involuntarily. the chair squeaks loud beneath your writhing.
stay still, he mutters under his breath, his voice flat, but rough now. restrained and heavy like itâs been building in his chest for too long.
you whimper, eyes squeezing shut, tongue twitching under the tool as your lips stretch and drool slides down your chin. your manicured fingers grab onto his forearm his hairy, thick forearm nails digging into the flesh hard enough to leave little crescents. youâre not trying to stop him. youâre clinging. moaning.
mmfhâtoo big, you gasp out around it, gagging again. sâbig. fuck, waitâ
he pulls it out, slow, unbothered, latex glove catching against your wet lip with a soft, obscene sound. you let out a bratty, broken little shriek, half cough, half sob.
mmmnâ you wipe your chin fast, spit smeared across your hand and cheek, breathing hard, blinking up at him with watery eyes. fuck! iâm gonna throw up, old man! your gloves taste like latexâ your nose wrinkles dramatically, tears clinging to your lashes. nasty.
he doesnât respond right away. his chest rises slowly, heavier now, and he exhales sharp through his nose, nostrils flaring as his eyes roam your face. your lips are red and wet, mouth still slightly open, hair tugged loose from his grip. your legs are still parted, panties soaked, and youâre squirming like youâre not even sure why anymore.
he adjusts his glasses with one gloved hand, the other still flexing faintly where you scratched him.
you were told to stay still, he says flat, but his voice is hoarse now. deeper. heavier. like itâs dragged through his throat.
your pout curls slow and sweet, even as you sniffle.
sânot my fault. youâre the one with big tools and pervy big hands.
he steps closer, shadow casting over your bare thighs.
your smile sharpens. your legs stay open.
he pulls off the gloves slow methodical. one at a time, starting from the wrist, peeling them down with soft snaps that echo too loud in the stillness of the room. his hands underneath are broad, calloused, dusted with blond hair down to the knuckles. thick fingers. blunt nails. wedding ring tan line faint on one.
your eyes track the movement, lips parted, chin still slick with spit. you huff, dramatic, twisting a lock of hair around your manicured finger like youâre bored but your thighs stay spread wide under the overhead light, pussy glistening through your ruined panties.
tsk, you mutter, sticking your tongue out as you arch your back just enough to tilt your hips. your fingers are so big. and long. no wonder you do this shit for a living. probably couldnât keep a wife with hands like that.
he doesnât answer right away just steps closer, tall frame blocking out the light, and lifts one of those bare hands to brush a thumb against your cheek. his palm is warm. rough. it makes you shiver. he taps your tongue once with his middle finger, calm and deliberate.
you roll your eyes, but your thighs part a little more.
he slides that same thick finger slowly into your mouth, curling just slightly against your tongue, pressing flat like heâs testing the space. your lips stretch around it instinctively, breath catching.
your throatâs tight, he says quietly, eyes not even on your face heâs watching the way your mouth struggles to accommodate the full length of his finger. tiny glands. narrow arch. barely enough room back there to even fit a mirror. his other hand lifts to cup your jaw, angling you up. youâre built too small to talk this much.
you moan low, involuntarily, clenching your legs but still keeping them open, shifting like the chair is too hot beneath you. your lashes flutter as you breathe through your nose, tongue dragging wet and heavy over his knuckle.
he pulls out just as slow, thick spit stringing between his finger and your mouth.
you pant softly, glaring up at him now, lips shiny and sore.
he just pats your cheek again gentle, dry, almost dismissive.
no wonder you gag so easy, he murmurs. i bet you choke on your food all the time. like a spoiled little girl who was never taught how to chew properly.
you huff. flip your hair back and glare at him like you arenât seconds from drooling again.
maybe i just need practice.
he doesnât flinch when you say it. doesnât blink. doesnât even shift his weight. he just watches you with that same unreadable calm, like heâs trying to determine whether youâre being bratty for the thrill or genuinely this reckless. your spit still glistens on the finger he pulled from your mouth, a slow drip stringing from the pad of it to the back of his hand before it breaks and falls between your bare thighs.
you said it too sweetly to be a joke.
your voice is sticky with spit and pride, your lips glossy and pink from suckling on his skin. your legs are still open like a dare, and he knows this game. heâs played it in silence longer than youâve been alive.
he hums low in his throat, more a breath than a sound. adjusts his glasses with the clean edge of his hand, back straight, shirt collar still perfectly pressed despite the heat now rising under it. he doesnât meet your eyes at first. just looks at your lips. swollen. twitching. soft.
then finally, his gaze lifts slow, steady and meets yours.
your throat can barely manage one finger, he says, like heâs reading a chart, not looking at your spit-slicked mouth. and that was with your head tilted just right. relaxed. you still gagged.
you blink up at him. pout deepening. the hum of the dental lamp buzzing behind your ears like itâs trying to fill the silence he lets stretch too long. your fingers twist in your lap now, pulling at the hem of your shirt until it rides up over your belly. he doesnât stop you.
yeah, you say, voice a little smaller, but bratty still, testing him. and? sânot like itâs my fault you have weird hands.
his brow lifts. just slightly. barely enough to count.
theyâre standard-sized hands, sweetheart. youâre just small.
he pauses. steps a little closer until his thighs graze the side of the chair. the scent of him warm, masculine, faint cologne under clinical soap wraps around you like pressure. like weight.
if you really want to train your gag reflex, he continues, voice lower now, cooler, there are more efficient methods than dental tools.
your stomach flips. your thighs tense, but they donât close.
you blink slow. wide-eyed. swallowing hard as your fingers toy with the hem of your skirt now instead, inching it higher while you pretend not to hear what he just implied.
he watches you. still hasnât touched you again. doesnât need to.
methods i wouldnât normally use on a patient, he adds, gaze lowering to the spread of your legs. especially not one whose father signs my checks.
your teeth catch your lip again, pout twisting sharp. you lift your hips just barely, enough to show the full dark patch between your legs now, your soaked panties pulled taut between your thighs. your voice is almost a whisper now, but still smug. still teasing.
but youâre thinking about it, arenât you?
his breath is measured. he doesnât deny it. instead, his bare hand comes down not roughly, but firm settling between your thighs. warm palm cupping just over the damp heat of your panties. not moving. just feeling. his fingers twitch once.
he doesnât speak for a long moment.
youâd cry before the head even passed your tongue, he says finally, like heâs bored. like heâs telling you the weather. your throatâs not made for that kind of pressure.
your breath stutters. your hand shoots out and grabs the front of his shirt, tugging the tie with it, nails pressing into his chest.
then make it fit, you whisper, lashes fluttering, thighs clenching beneath his hand.
he sighs again. heavy. controlled.
his fingers curl softly over the fabric between your legs, pressing deeper into the wet heat, slow and diagnostic.
not in this chair, he murmurs. not until we sterilize it again.
your legs keep shifting open, then closed, then open again like youâre restless, like youâre teasing, like you donât know what to do with the pressure building under your skin. but you know exactly what youâre doing. every movement deliberate. bratty little sighs leave your mouth as your hips roll softly in the chair, panties sticky and clinging as nanamiâs warm, bare hand stays planted between your thighs, palm rising and falling with your fidgeting. he doesnât speak. doesnât push. just keeps rubbing that slow, maddening pressure right where the heat leaks from you.
your fingers curl around his tie again yellow silk with a black patch, soft and wrinkled now from your constant tugging. you twist it tighter and pull him closer as your cheeks flush, eyes locked on his calm, older face. not a single muscle twitching. not even when your lips part to bite the air and your breath fans against his chin.
you stare up at him with glassy eyes and a full pout.
then your gaze drops bold, slow, bratty to the heavy swell beneath his slacks. itâs been pressing tight against the fabric for too long now. thick. prominent. the kind of size that doesnât just fill, but stretches, reshapes, bruises. your thighs clench again, pussy fluttering as your breath hitches.
you smile crooked, proud, shameless.
i already sucked cock back then, you whisper, low and smug, licking your lips after. so whatâs the problem?
he doesnât flinch. doesnât even blink.
yeah, he says dryly, voice almost tired. boys your age.
your jaw tightens. pout fades a little.
he leans forward then, finally, letting the heat of his chest meet your knees as his hand slowly trails up one plush thigh, his thumb brushing the seam of your soaked panties before he hooks it just beneath the edge, stretching the fabric without pulling it down. his face is close now. serious. eyes half-lidded, glasses slipping down his nose. the lines at the corners of his mouth deeper, jaw heavier, more tired than hungry.
youâre still young, he murmurs, voice steady and clinical, but it hits like gravel rubbed over silk. you gagged on one finger, sweetheart. i donât want to hurt your throat. not more than it can take.
you blink, lip trembling now, but not with fear.
with something hotter. louder. deeper.
your thighs twitch. your chest rises fast. you tighten your grip on his tie and pull him closer until the scent of his cologne drowns the sterile air.
then let me prove it, you whisper through clenched teeth. iâm not scared. i can take it. iâm not some little girl.
his hand slides up higher, fingers dragging slow against your soaked heat, not pulling, just rubbing the friction through the fabric.
you breathe sharp, eyes wet now, glassy and wide with something between begging and defiance.
he watches you for a long moment.
then he pats your cheek again.
his hand stays between your thighs, broad and warm and clinical in the way it strokes like he's observing symptoms, not playing with the soaked cotton between your legs. the pad of his thumb presses slow against the damp heat, pushing fabric into you just enough to make your hips jerk, but not enough to satisfy. it's maddening. that cold detachment in the way he touches. like he's writing it all down in some quiet report in his mind.
your fingers curl tighter around his tie and yank, tugging him closer until his belt grazes the seat between your legs. your thighs part wider, flushed and slick, your pout trembling into a bratty whine.
please, you huff, blinking up at him with glassy, frustrated eyes. just let me suck it. i said i could do it.
he exhales long through his nose. doesn't speak right away.
instead, he looks down at you face tight, sharp jaw tense under the shadows of the lamp, lips parted like he's trying not to say something filthier. you look small below him, all attitude and glossed lips, mascara wet at the corners, tank top slipping off one shoulder, throat flushed red.
he taps the side of your pussy lightly through your panties, the sound wet and quiet.
you don't even know what you're saying, he mutters. you're just daddy's spoiled little girl throwing a tantrum.
your thighs tremble. your back arches, grinding into the heel of his hand now, desperate. humiliated.
don't say that, you snap, even as your eyes start to water. don't treat me like i'm stupid. i know what i want.
he raises a brow, unimpressed.
you tug his tie hard, nails digging into the fabric. his chest looms inches above your face now, his bulge straining beneath his slacks, so thick you can see the outline pressing against the seam.
you're panting now. sweaty. wrecked. cheeks hot.
your cock, you whisper, voice cracked like you're on the edge of tears. in my throat. you said it's too tight then help me. if you wanna help me loosen my throat then fucking help me.
his fingers slide beneath your panties now slow, curling against your slit. he doesn't push in. just rubs, wet and heavy, while his other hand reaches for the back of your head, gripping your scalp,
not rough but firm. still in control.
begging like that, he says low, voice rough now, you sound more pathetic than spoiled.
you hiccup a breath, tears sliding down your cheek.
your mascara's starting to smear.
then make me shut up, you whisper, trembling. with your cock.
his hand still stroking slow and precise over the damp fabric of your panties like heâs memorizing the way your heat bleeds through it. heâs not pushing, not pulling, just rubbing that firm pressure in circles right where you pulse, enough to make your thighs tremble, enough to make your eyes water again, but not enough to give you what you really want. not yet. heâs too calm. too composed. and you know itâs unraveling him.
his cock is straining hard now, the thick swell of it pushing bold and unforgiving behind the fly of his slacks. too big. too heavy to hide. the shape of it sharp through the fabric, pressed right near your parted thighs.
you glance down at it. eyes wide. lips full and pouty as you bite down soft.
look, you whisper, voice sticky and bratty, hips twitching under his touch. youâre hard.
you tug his tie again, fingers curling around the silk like a leash. your eyes flick up to meet his, wet and glinting.
and i let you rub my pussy, you pout deeper, lips brushing his jaw as you lean in. so why? why are you hesitating now, old man?
he exhales slow through his nose, but doesnât answer. his hand grips your thigh harder, his knuckles tightening where they hold you open.
is it because weâre at your office? you mock softly, dragging the tip of your tongue across your bottom lip. because of the smell of bleach and the ugly white walls and the fact that your little gloves are gone now?
you rock your hips just enough to make his fingers shift against your soaked heat, your panties stretching wet and sticky between you. you lean back into the chair and let your thighs fall wider. completely open. your shirt strap falls off again, tank top clinging to the curve of your chest, and you look up at him smiling like a spoiled thing. like you know youâve already won.
please, you whisper, but your voice is still cocky, still filthy with sugar and defiance, come on. it doesnât matter if youâre older. i like older. i need older. sânot like weâre doing it for realâ you tug his tie tighter and lick the corner of your mouthâ just loosening my throat, remember? just helping your patient like a good doctor should.
his jaw is locked now. chest rising slower. he doesnât speak. not right away. his hand finally leaves your panties dripping with your slick and presses firm against your stomach, thumb grazing your waistband, the heat of his palm searing down low.
he doesnât say yes. yet.
his hand drags slow down your thigh one last time thick, warm palm catching the edge of your panties and gliding across the tacky, damp stretch of your inner thigh. the sound it makes is quiet, but obscene. wet skin against dry. a parting goodbye. you twitch, expecting more. hips shifting toward the contact like a needy animal.
his touch vanishes. the weight of him gone in an instant. his hand lifts, fingers curling back into a fist as he steps back, measured and controlled, like nothing just happened.
you blink up, confused. breath shallow. legs still parted wide on the chair, your panties clinging to your slit like a second skin. your whole body tingles, heat sinking low, pulsing, unsatisfied. your pussy flutters around nothing. your nails twitch on the armrests. itâs pathetic.
he turns his back to you. walks toward the counter. silent.
his jaw is tight now, sharp lines carved into his cheek as he exhales through his nose. he adjusts the cuffs of his coat like heâs trying to forget the slick on his fingers, the bratty whimpers still echoing behind him.
you huff, eyebrows furrowed, lips full and pouty and wet.
then you kneel in the chair slowly spreading your thighs wider with a soft, dramatic whimper, elbows pressed to the armrests as you lean forward and glare at the wide stretch of his back beneath that perfect white coat.
whyâd you stop? you snap, voice still thick and whiny. why did you stop rubbing my pussy, huh? you were doing it all smart, all slow and serious like a fucking doctorâ
he turns his head just slightly. not all the way. his profile hard. jaw twitching again.
and now you just leave? whatââcause youâre scared?
he doesnât speak right away.
just stands there, shoulders broad, fists clenched by his sides.
youâre not ready, he says eventually, voice low and flat. youâre too young. and you think this is just teasing. a little game to get what you want. but itâs not. not with me.
you sniff, pout deepening. fingers clawing at the armrest.
then teach me, you whisper, staring at his back like itâll turn around and swallow you whole. if iâm wrong, then make me right.
his shoulders rise slow one long breath dragging through his lungs. his slacks are still tented. painfully so. and he hasnât touched himself. hasnât moved to hide it. itâs all still there. thick and heavy and hard. because of you.
you donât know what youâre asking for, he mutters, almost to himself.
you kneel deeper into the chair, your spine curved like a question mark, thighs wide and glistening under the sharp chill of the overhead lamp. you press your tits to the armrest, elbows digging in, the seat squeaking beneath you with every desperate little shift of your hips. your panties cling to you like wet gauze, barely covering the drip of slick thatâs begun to shine down the crease of your inner thigh. you know he sees it. you know he hears how sticky you are every time your legs twitch open.
his back is still to you.
you pout deeper, twisting a strand of hair around your manicured nail with mock innocence, all girlish and airy, voice soft and pouty like youâre just starting to realize what you are.
of course i am, you breathe, chin tipping down as you lower your voice. mânot pretending, i really am dumb about it⌠i mean, of course youâre older. more experienced. moreâ your eyes drop to the obscene outline still stretching his slacks, âwell, more everything.
his shoulders flinch. just once. barely.
you sit up slightly, still kneeling, and sway your hips in the chair, breath hitching as your soaked panties press tighter against your slit.
i donât know a lot about real menâs cocks, you murmur, curling your lip around the word, dragging it out like something youâre still learning how to say. boys donât count. i mean, you already said my throatâs tight. really tight. you felt it, right? so i need practice, thatâs what you said. and youâ
you lick your lips slowly, fingers drifting back to his tie that still hangs loose around his neck, a little wrinkled now from your pulling.
youâre the only one who knows it that well.
you lean closer, lips brushing the air just behind his ear, eyes fluttering as your voice falls into a whimper.
come on, you whisper. please. i wonât tell anyone. i promise. sâjust us here. no cameras. no nurses. you can use me⌠just to practice. just to help me get better.
his jaw is locked. hard. his eyes are dark behind his glasses, a thousand thoughts buried beneath years of restraint. his slacks still strain against the full weight of his arousal. he doesnât touch you. doesnât speak.
he just looks at you like youâve ruined something in him.
doesnât speak, doesnât blink he just stands there for a long, unbearable moment, letting the air between you stretch and buzz with tension thick enough to choke on. his jawâs still clenched, and his breathing is deeper now, slower, like heâs trying to tamp something down in his chest. but his eyes those sharp, cool eyes behind the glass are fixed on you, and theyâre not clinical anymore. not detached. theyâre hungry. and furious. and tired of pretending otherwise.
you stay kneeling in the chair, elbows propped on the armrest, hair messy and damp at your temple, cheek flushed, thighs wide open like youâve already been claimed. like you belong to him. your panties are nearly see-through now, ruined from your own slick and the way he played with you. and youâre still pouting. still twisting your finger in your hair and breathing through your mouth and pretending like you donât understand why itâs bad.
like you donât understand why this isnât just wrong,
slow. heavy. calm, but not like before. this isnât doctor calm. this is older man calm. iâve-lived-long-enough-to-know-iâm-going-to-regret-this calm. you shiver as he moves closer his thighs wide, shoulders broad, chest stretching the crisp white of his button-down. the tie youâve been pulling on swings loose as he looms over you again. his slacks bulge at the front, zipper strained, the outline of his cock long and heavy and thick enough that your thighs press together just from the sight of it.
he doesnât reach for you. not right away.
instead, he leans in near your ear, his voice low and steady, warm breath on your temple as he speaks.
you want practice? he murmurs, tone unreadable. then learn the first rule.
his hand comes down hard not a slap, but a full, controlling grip to the back of your neck, his fingers curling into your nape. you gasp, spine arching under the pressure as he pushes your chest further down into the chair, forcing your face forward so your cheek presses to the vinyl. you can feel how big his hand is from the way it spans your entire neck, not choking, just holding. like heâs anchoring you to his presence. like heâs claiming you by touch alone.
men donât wait for permission, he says, voice rougher now. they take. and girls like youâ
his other hand slides down the dip of your back, over the hem of your skirt, and yanks your panties to the side without ceremony, exposing your soaked cunt to the cool air.
âgirls like you ask for things you donât understand.
you moan soft, involuntary, humiliated but you donât pull away.
he presses his thick fingers between your folds again, slow and wet, dragging them through the mess, not even pretending to tease this time. youâre trembling beneath him, thighs parted wide and your back bowed in that pretty little shape that makes you look younger than you are.
his fingers push deeper this time, curling into your cunt without warning one, then two and you sob into the chair, hips rocking back toward his hand, your slick gushing around him like your bodyâs begging to be filled.
youâre shaking already, he mutters. you think youâre ready for my cock?
you nod, mouth open, breath ragged.
yesâyes, please, i want itâ
he curls his fingers harder, hitting that spot that makes your thighs kick, your nails claw at the armrest.
you can barely take two fingers, sweetheart. youâre so small. you want to cry already and i havenât even unzipped my pants.
youâre sobbing now not from pain. from how badly you want it. from the ache in your gut. from how his voice makes you feel like a child and a slut and a thing thatâs meant to be broken open by men like him.
you twist your head to look back at him, tearful and flushed, your hair clinging to your damp cheek. your eyes shine. your mouth parts.
his lips curl into something between a scowl and a smirk.
weâll see if your throat is as brave as your pussy.
and he undoes it. slow. deliberate.
his belt clicks open with a low, deliberate sound, metal sliding through the loops like a warning. you flinch at the sound, body tensing as you look back over your shoulder face flushed, lip bitten raw, eyes wide and blinking fast. your knees dig into the vinyl of the chair, panties pushed to the side, your whole body curved low and trembling, thighs slick and trembling beneath the light. everything about you is soft, twitching, needy. too small. too easy to move.
he slides his zipper down slow, chest rising under his white button-down, the fabric stretching over the wide plane of his torso. he doesnât bother with theatrics. heâs not the type. he just pulls his slacks down far enough, and your mouth parts without thinking.
not just thick but heavy, veiny, flushed at the tip and curving low under the weight of it. the kind of cock that has mass. one that doesnât stand straight, but drapes forward like it knows itâs too much for most. your eyes go wide, and your breath catches before you even realize youâre holding it in.
your gaze trails up past his swollen length, the dusting of pale, coarse hair that leads from his thick base all the way up his torso. you see his happy trail first blond and soft but messy, curling under his navel and then the edge of his shirt lifts slightly and you see it.
broad. dense. muscled beneath soft edges. not gym-hard but man-hard. built from years of wear, weight, stress. chest hair darker and coarser than the trail, thick across the swell of his pecs, peeking out from the gap in his buttons. his stomach is flat but not cut, thick around the edges, all muscle padded with age. a real manâs body. not carved. earned.
you swallow hard and stare up at him, still kneeling in the chair, gripping your skirt like itâs the only thing tethering you to earth. your lower lip trembles, teeth catching it as your eyes flick from his cock to his face, heart racing.
sâ⌠big, you whisper, voice small, hoarse.
he finally looks down at you. and for the first time, he takes off his glasses slowly, folding the arms, setting them on the tray beside him without looking away. his eyes are darker now without the glare. older. heavy with something unreadable. regret, maybe. restraint. want. exhaustion.
he reaches out with one broad hand and pats your head.
youâre just now realizing that? his voice is low, gravel-dragged, but steady. you begged for it. cried for it. and now you want to hesitate?
you bite your lip harder, nodding once. eyes wide. nervous now but not from fear. from how small you feel under him. from how real this is. heâs not a boy with a condom and a quick finish. heâs a man whoâs going to feel it when you sob. a man who will watch when you canât take more, and keep pushing anyway.
you still want to practice? he asks, cock hanging heavy in front of your face. you still want to prove how grown you are?
you gulp again. yes, you whisper, barely audible.
he slides his hand under your chin and lifts your face tilting it just enough so your eyes meet his.
then breathe through your nose.
he wraps your hair around his fist.
you stay kneeling in the chair, still twisted toward him with your spine arched and thighs trembling under you, your breath catching in your throat as your gaze locks on the heavy weight of his cock. it hangs there thick, veined, flushed with heat and twitching slightly every time your breath brushes against it. the tip is red and leaking, a bead of precum hanging at the slit, and it bobs just a little as you lean in closer, the scent of him overtaking everything.
you tilt your head up, looking at him through your lashes pouty, tear-stained, lips parted as you slowly stick out your tongue. itâs hesitant at first. not from doubt, but from awe. from the size. the shape. the heat radiating off it. your tongue touches the head gently just a soft, wet flick and his cock jumps at the contact, twitching right onto your tongue, smearing the salty taste of his precum across your mouth like a reward.
above you, he hums low, fingers threading into your hair. he rubs your scalp with slow, circular motions, his palm wide and warm, voice still even.
go on, he murmurs. get familiar. donât be shy now.
you whimper, tongue dragging slower now, tracing the ridge of the head, flicking under it, then licking up the thick vein pulsing along the underside. your spit drips already, mouth watering too fast. you open wider, lips brushing against the shaft, cheeks puffed slightly as you try to fit more.
his cock is so much bigger up close. heavier. warmer than you thought. and the more you lick, the more he twitches against your tongue, the more your thighs rub together, desperate to be touched again.
finally, you slide your mouth forward too fast. youâre too eager, too needy, and it hits the back of your throat before youâre ready. you gag hard, eyes flying wide as you choke, spit bubbling from your lips, the pressure too much too fast.
he doesnât flinch. doesnât push. he just strokes your hair, calm, amused.
you pull back fast, gasping, tears already slipping down your cheeks. your lips are wet and red, mouth open as you cough softly into your hand, mascara smudging as your eyes blur.
fuck, you whimper. itâs so bigâŚ
you bite your lip again, looking up at him like youâre ashamed of choking but he just hushes you, the pads of his fingers brushing your cheek, his voice lower now. softer. but not gentle.
shhh, he murmurs, thumb rubbing just under your eye. donât try to take it all at once. slow down. youâre not ready yet.
you whine softly, shifting in the seat as your thighs squeeze together again, your fingers still holding onto the base of his cock like it might slip away.
youâve got a warm little throat, he says, watching the way your lips cling to the tip again. tight. greedy. itâll take time. you need to learn how to breathe through it.
his cock pulses again against your tongue, already wet with your spit and his arousal, and he smiles down at you for the first time small, crooked, and so amused.
weâve got all day, donât we? he murmurs. now start again. nice and slow.
your throatâs already raw and youâve barely started.
you nod slowly, swallowing around the thickness in your mouth, eyes wide and glassy as you look up at him like youâre trying to hold composure but itâs slipping. fast. his cock rests heavy on your tongue, twitching each time you breathe, and your lips stretch wide around the swollen tip, gloss smeared and spit already dripping down your chin, thick strings hanging from the corners of your mouth to your chest.
his hand stays in your hair. not forcing. not thrusting. just⌠there. wide palm cupping the back of your skull, fingers tightening when you gag a little too fast, loosening when you back off and suck gently. heâs not helping you. heâs guiding you. like heâs done this before. like he knows exactly how much your little throat can handle.
his voice stays steady. dry. like a father talking a child through their first driving lesson.
slow. breathe through your nose. imagine itâs a big lollipop. take your time with it.
you moan low around him, tongue heavy beneath the shaft as you flatten it and let the weight of his cock rest deeper toward your throat. the sounds echo now wet, sucking, broken little gags that make your eyes roll. your hands grip his thighs, nails dragging against the coarse hair there as you whimper again, then pull off with a slick pop, spit webbing between your lips and his cock.
you cough, catching your breath, eyes watery as you pout up at him.
how the fuck do you even carry this thing around all day, you mutter, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, voice hoarse and bratty. my throatâs sore and iâve barely sucked it three times.
he doesnât smile. doesnât soften. just looks down at you with that flat, almost cold expression calm, stern, like heâs watching you try to earn something youâre not ready for.
you begged for it, he says simply, fingers curling in your hair again as he guides you forward. you said you could take it. now take it.
you glare up at him, cheeks flushed, and bring one hand down between his legs cupping his balls, heavy and tight, the weight of them obscene in your small palm. they twitch when you touch them, and your thumb rubs softly over the seam between them, your manicured nail tracing the sensitive skin like youâre playing with something fragile.
jesus, you whisper, licking your lips again. youâre like some kind of fucked-up anatomy model. like a cock display.
just holds your gaze. still, serious, towering over you with his chest rising slow beneath that wrinkled shirt, a tuft of dark blond chest hair peeking out through the top buttons. his tie swings gently near your face as you lower your mouth again, tongue dragging over the underside of his shaft.
his hand tightens a little more in your hair not forcing, not hurting. just reminding you.
youâre small. itâs supposed to hurt, he says, voice low, sharp now. you want a manâs cock in your throat, you learn how to cry with your mouth full.
and you moan as you open again, letting him slide back in.
youâre not taking him deep not yet.
but the sounds youâre making? theyâre fucking filthy.
wet, sloshing, gawk-gawk sounds echo off the cold tile walls of his office, mixing with your soft moans and gasping slurps as your mouth works his fat cock in slow, suckling strokes. your lips donât pass the halfway mark not even close but youâre determined to make up for it. every inch you can handle, you take with spit, with tongue, with bratty effort. your cheeks hollow as you pull back with a thick pop, then dive in again, letting the tip smack against the roof of your mouth, tongue swirling under the thick vein that pulses along the bottom.
he growls. low and rough not vocal, not performative but the real kind.
that sound older men make when their control slips just slightly.
a noise buried deep in his chest, rumbling through his throat like gravel coated in honey, drawn from years of being quiet, disciplined, detached and now suddenly choking on how warm and eager your tiny mouth is.
just like that, he grits, breath flaring through his nose, voice thick and barely above a whisper. good. fuck, yeah just like that. youâre learning fast, arenât you.
his hand tightens in your hair, fingers fisting deep into your roots as his hips jerk forward just enough to make you gag again. heâs not thrusting heâs guiding, anchoring, feeding you slow, thick inches like he wants you to remember every ridge of his cock by the shape it leaves on your tongue.
your palm rests at the base of him now flat, delicate fingers splayed against his coarse pubic hair, trying to ground yourself. itâs soft under your hand, warm and masculine and real, dusted gold where it meets the base of his cock. your thumb rubs upward, tracing the curve where the vein thickens, and you whimper around him, head tilting deeper. your jaw aches already. your throat stings. and he hasnât even bottomed out yet.
you need him to see you red lips stretched around his cock, drool leaking from the corners of your mouth, eyes glassy and proud. you want to be his best. better than any woman heâs ever had. better than the ones his age, older than you. you want him to remember this every time he jerks off alone. not some experienced divorcee. you.
you let him in deeper. not all the way but far enough to make your eyes sting. you gag, then moan against him, spit bubbling around your tongue.
his growl deepens chest vibrating, shoulders tensing, teeth clenched as he looks down at you like youâve just sunk your teeth into something forbidden.
fuckinâ good girl, he mutters under his breath, hand stroking your scalp. look at you mouth full of cock, all worked up just for me. i bet they donât even know what youâre capable of, huh?
you shake your head slowly around him, tongue lapping, tears sliding freely now.
you know you canât take him all the way not yet.
you pull off him with a loud, wet pop, lips red and glistening, spit smeared down your chin and coating his cock like gloss. your chest rises and falls fast your throat raw, jaw sore, your voice stuck somewhere between a whimper and a pant. your eyes donât leave his though. wide. defiant. still bratty. still gleaming with something dangerous.
your fingers reach down and tug your tank top up over your head, slow and teasing, your skin sticking to the fabric from sweat and heat. the cotton peels off and drops to the side with a soft thud. youâre left in your tiny bra, straps thin and delicate, barely clinging to your flushed, heaving chest. your tits bounce with every breath, pushed high and soft over the braâs lace.
you kneel up straighter in the chair, arms behind your back to arch your chest out, spit still dripping from your chin. your thighs twitch, still sticky, panties soaked, cunt pulsing around nothing.
want your cum all over my face, you pant, tongue dragging across your lips, voice breathy and hoarse. wanna feel it want you to mess me up. sânot fair if you keep all of it inside after i worked so hard for it.
he twitches visibly cock pulsing in his hand as he looks down at you, all knees and soft tits and messy mouth, sitting there like youâre proud of how ruined you are. and his fist starts to move. slow. heavy strokes from base to tip, his thick cock veiny and flushed and angry now, precum beading at the top and smearing down the shaft.
he groans under his breath, fuck, voice deeper than before, lower, raspier. the sound of a man whoâs held back for too long. you know itâs been a while, he mutters, looking away for a split second like itâs shameful. the kind of women i know⌠they donât let me do that. itâs always polite. quiet. respectful.
his eyes drop back to you.
you. half-naked. flushed. waiting. tongue peeking out between pouty lips, still shining with spit, your thighs parted, body trembling just to be used.
youâre not like them, he mutters. youâre a disgusting slut.
you grin. stick your tongue out further. flat. wide. bratty.
go on, you whisper, lashes fluttering. make me dirtier, old man.
he growls again. louder this time.
the first spurt hits your cheek, hot and thick, sliding down toward your jaw.
the second paints your tongue, heavy and sticky, the taste hitting instantly salt, warmth, bitterness. you moan around it, gulping softly.
the third ropes across the bridge of your nose, dripping down toward your lips, and he strokes himself through it, hand slick, chest heaving.
you stay still. taking it.
his cum shines on your face, dripping from your nose, cheeks, chin, tongue still out. his cock twitches in his hand again, oversensitive, still leaking.
you close your mouth slowly, swallowing, then drag your tongue across your upper lip, collecting the last of it. you moan softly, eyes rolling.
mppf⌠itâs so hot⌠you murmur, biting your lip, cheeks painted, voice hoarse. so thick. and warmâŚ
he looks down at you shirt wrinkled, chest rising, glasses still off.
youâve never seen him look like this. not cold. not detached.
your hands are still on him small, messy, shameless. youâre not jerking him off anymore, not trying to suck, just⌠playing. like itâs yours now. like you earned it.
you bounce his heavy cock in your palm lazily, dragging your slick fingers over the swollen head and smearing the cum from your face back onto his shaft. the size of him is absurd next to your delicate hands your fingers donât even wrap halfway around the base. you push your thumb down the thick vein that runs along the underside, and it twitches again, still sensitive, still pulsing.
your face is still streaked with his release cheek shiny, a thick drop clinging to your jaw, your lips swollen and pink from use. you donât care. you giggle to yourself, tracing the wet curve of him like youâre drawing something secret.
he exhales slowly, trying to fix his collar. he buttons his shirt again, slower than usual, the fabric creasing across his broad chest and the dark blond curls of his chest hair disappearing beneath the neat line of buttons. his tie hangs undone for a moment, then he loops it back into place tight, perfect just like nothing happened. no sign of the heavy panting, the wrecked groans, the way he came across your face like he needed to.
his glasses go on last. the image of control.
youâre still crouched in front of him, cock in hand, your lips parted and your eyes wide with bratty amusement. he doesnât flinch when the phone rings he just presses a single, quiet palm to your forehead and gently pushes your hand away, guiding you off his cock like heâs brushing something away from his coat. not annoyed. not even angry. just finished.
but he answers the call, voice perfectly flat.
his hand is still resting on the top of your head.
you pout more, squirming, crawling to the side and sitting on your knees, then pressing your cheek right up against his cock again soft now, still big, so much bigger than your face. it rests against the side of your jaw like it doesnât belong there. like it shouldnât fit. you nuzzle it anyway, bratty, your fingers tracing his zipper lazily.
âŚyes, he says into the phone, eyes looking out the window now, jaw tight again.
a soft, polite female voice mumbles on the other end his secretary. her voice is faint but clear enough for you to catch.
the patientâs parents are here. theyâre wondering if sheâs finishedâŚ
he stares forward, tone cold.
yes, he says. sheâs finished. cleaned. discharged.
you snort. you know what heâs doing.
you pull away from his cock with a bratty hum, then push yourself to your feet, your knees wobbly and thighs sticky with your own arousal. you stretch your arms overhead like youâre in your room after a nap, tits bouncing in your bra before you finally reach for your tank top.
ugh. my parents suck, you whine, slipping the shirt over your head, turning to look at him sideways with your hair messy and your mouth still glistening. you suck too.
you grin as you say it. just to provoke him. see if the cold look will break.
he doesnât say a word. just watches you with that unreadable, deep stare as he adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves, tucking his phone away and walking back to his desk like this is any other appointment.
you wipe your face with one of the napkins from the tray, smearing his cum off your lips and cheek, then toss it right back on his desk.
guess i gotta go, you say, bouncing on your heels like nothingâs happened. your hairâs still messy, eyes still wet, panties still soaked beneath your skirt.
he picks up a clipboard and scribbles something.
then calm, unbothered, with his tie perfect and glasses back on:
iâll see you at your next appointment, he says, not looking at you. and avoid chewing on that left molar until we get the crown settled. youâre sensitive there.
you stare. pout. then giggle as you walk out.
like itâs just your dentist.
and you canât wait to see him againâŚ
Ęâ˘á´Ľâ˘Ę thank you, babes !!
this was my first nanami fic ever and honestly?? i was so excited (and nervous đ) to finally write something for this daddy, serious, dilf.
you guys have been requesting him for monthsđ
thank you for all the filthy messages and encouragement, i wouldnât have written this without you.
if you want a part two you comes back for a âfollow-upâ or if youâd like me to start a nanami-specific taglist for future fics, let me know! đ
