Tiger Lily

The light is bright when it hits your eyes, a sharp beam in the quiet room. The metal is cold beneath your limp limbs, a dizziness you can’t put your finger on lingering in the back of your head, and you shift, only to realize you’re restrained. Wrists and ankles are bound against the sterile table, and panic runs through you, although the door opens, and you quickly turn your head.

They walk in. A nurse?

“Scared, are you?” she says softly, her mask muffling the already quiet words, but she slips it off and grins at you. “That’s okay, don’t worry,” she reassures, walking around the table you’re currently stuck on.

Your eyes roam around the room; cool and metallic, unlike any hospital you’ve been in. If the nurse hadn’t spoken to you, you’d be convinced you were having an out-of-body experience, spectating your dead body in a morgue. But, no, you’re alive, and confused.

“You’re quiet,” she says softly, and you turn your head, watching her sift through the tall cabinets, each handle secured with a lock her nimble fingers unlatched. “Usual patients are confused,” she laughs, and you don’t laugh; you don’t make a sound.

You look away, staring up at the bright lights above you; harsh and medical, to get the clearest look at your body, your limbs, your blood, your organs, your bones.

“He’ll be in soon,” she reassures you with a smile, though you can’t see it–she slips up the mask, carefully shutting the door with a light click. And lock. 

The nurse vanishes out of the room, and you’re left there against the table, sprawled out, the generosity of a hospital gown barely covering what you wish was hidden. You squirm lightly, hearing the buckles around your wrists and ankles twitch, and you give up, succumbing to the inevitable.

A few beats pass, your eyes closed in eager patience, only for the door to open again; it’s no nurse, it’s a doctor. He stands tall, his broad shoulders framed by a white jacket, his hair neatly in place, and walks towards the counter, slipping on latex gloves before even acknowledging your existence as his patient.

“Hello,” he says calmly, slow steps against the tile floor, strong hands fixing the blue gloves that stretch around his longer fingers. “Nurse told me you’re a quiet thing,” he smiles–it’s mechanical, something he must do for patients, to comfort them in times of vulnerability like this.

You nod hesitantly, and he approaches the table, eyes roving across your stiff body. He’s calculating, eyes analyzing your ankles and wrists, reddening from the light struggle you were putting up.

“Very quiet,” he comments, his eyes finding yours, and he smiles again; still mechanical, a learned practice for somebody specialized in his field. “May I?”

He doesn’t give you much to nod to, and a slow hand finds your face, the gloved finger pulling down your lower lids, and you look up, and he focuses on the whites of your eyes. He notes something in his head; you can see the mental aspects click and form, gears moving in the doctor’s head, and you stay still. 

“You’re healthy, very healthy,” he acknowledges with a slow nod, clicking his tongue as he lowers his hand, lower and lower, until he’s tugging at your lips, a firm thumb gently rubbing your gums. You groan at the invasive movement, and he looks at your eyes again.

“Only going to take a second, dear,” he reassures, pausing briefly for your comfort. “Don’t worry, you’re okay,” he tells you quietly, slowly pulling his damp thumb out of your mouth, and your eyes widen.

You muster up the courage to finally speak, but the words fall flat–it’s not like you want to, but you realize, no, you can't speak. He notices the flash of worry in your eyes; the minute realization hits you, and you realize he was taunting you the minute he walked in. You are drugged, and have been this whole time.

“Your oral health is… very good as well,” he lightly praises, walking away from the table, leaving your lax body, only to return with a stethoscope around his neck, and he blinks slowly. “Dentist often, I presume,” he mutters, shrugging.

“Your heartbeat,” he starts, footsteps quiet in the empty room, now standing over you again. “Probably quite fast right now, yes?” he asks, noting the heavy breaths beneath the paper gown you’re wearing, the light huffs from your nose.

“That’s okay, I understand,” he says, smiling and adjusting the scope, carefully shifting the buds into his ears, his hand holding the metal end, as he gazes down at your body. You nod out of pure fear, and he nods too, thanking you for the permission.

It presses against your chest through the garment, and he listens closely, lightly shaking his head.

“I am going to slide my hand underneath, okay? I will be able to hear it better. Is that alright with you?” he asks, and you swallow hard, hesitantly nodding. You’re not sure you have a choice anyway.

You feel the flimsy gown when he flips it over, and he’s careful, a mere clinical touch, feeling the cold metal press against your sweaty chest. You flinch at the temperature change, and he glances at the twitch of your wrists in the restraints. He's proud of himself for securing you.

“It’s fast,” he says slowly, listening to the steady flow of the beat, blood pumping through your veins, steady but quick. “Too fast,” he adds, sighing quietly as he glances across the room.

You’d like to speak up and explain why the hell it’s so fast–you don’t know why you’re here, stuck to an operating table, restrained and unable to speak while a doctor looks over your body like you’re some kind of special project. His project.

“You’d benefit from a light sedative,” he casually says as he begins to wander away from the table. “It will help calm you down; it will make the examination easier for both of us,” he explains further, his swift hands reaching over to grab a few things.

You shake your head the minute you see it in his hand: a needle. No way.

“It’s my own,” he tells you. “Something I made, like a mad scientist,” he laughs, attempting to ease the growing tension, his fingers working out of sight, probably setting up the intravenous. 

“It’s a strong sedative,” he tells you again, his voice echoing in the vacant room. “Tranquillizer-like effect, though I will give you a low dosage,” he explains, walking you through the steps to ease the feeling. It doesn't make it any better.

“Took me a while to create it,” he starts again, working off somewhere in the room, out of your line of sight. You can barely move. “Very, very strong,” he shrugs, smiling down at his hands. 

You can’t see what he is doing.

A few strides have him beside you again, carefully analyzing the way you look up at him, eyes slowly blinking. He has a few things with him, on a small tray beside him: medical tools, a needle, everything he seems to need, and you shift in protest.

“Hey,” he whispers to you, shaking his head. “I would never hurt you,” he explains, eyebrows lifting as he turns back and away from you again.

You look at him, watching him carefully, and he’s working skillfully, hands moving at a pace that reveals years and years of practice; the glide and slip of metal tools, the way he easily maneuvers the tools you’ve never seen before. He sighs quietly, turning towards you again.

“I’m going to touch you again, on the arm, sweetheart,” he explains, the pet name slipping into soothing your nerves, but it doesn’t do much at all.

The latex, pulled taut around his fingers, grazes the bend of your arm, and he pokes and prods, looking for a vein, and he smiles when he finds one. “Perfect, your arms are perfect,” he comments, reaching over. 

It’s not the needle yet, no, it’s just a few wipes, and he cleans around the surface. It smells like rubbing alcohol, and your nose scrunches, chemicals flooding your system, and you shift lightly against the cold table again.

“Sit still for me,” he tells you calmly, finally reaching for the IV, his quick fingers working through it, and he looks at you, smiling.

“One deep breath in,” he soothes, breathing out with you. “One little pinch, you’ll be okay,” he mumbles, and he slides it into your arm–yeah, there’s a pinch, and a sting, and he’s quick with the other part; properly setting it up, ensuring everything is in place, monitoring your reaction. 

The effect hits you instantly: a wave of drowsiness washes over you, a persistent fuzziness, and you’re struggling to keep your eyes open, suddenly feeling like you could fall asleep. Jesus Christ, what the fuck did he just give you?

“You feel okay?” he asks you quietly, finding you quite amusing right now; suddenly limp, your breathing instantly slowing, you barely nod, and he quirks a smile.

“I know it’s a lot,” he tells you, lifting a hand to gently rub your forehead, the latex rubbing against your clammy forehead. “But I know you… And you can take a lot.” 

You stare up at him through your heavy eyelids, mouth hanging open, and all you can do is nod slowly, succumbing to whatever practice he was planning on. It’s not like you have a choice right now, but even if you did, you’d probably say yes anyway.

The doctor slowly turns away from you, though he glances over to make sure you’re still conscious, and you are, but barely. 

He holds a clipboard and glances down at the sheet; there you are, a poorly printed picture of you in black ink, your name neatly written at the top. His dream patient, he thinks to himself, the smartest girl they could find, all for him to run tests on, and he clicks a pen, checking off an unknown box. He places it back down, slowly returning to you.

“Okay,” he sighs quietly, a hand reaching over to the tray beside your head, an array of metal instruments, and he lifts one, just moving it, and it glistens in the overhead light. You try to speak, but you fail.

“Your neck,” he says softly, shifting a little closer, and he carefully presses his thumb to your pulse, feeling the blood pumping. “Beautiful, steady heart rate,” he tells you, nodding in satisfaction at your body's reaction to his own drug.

He presses his thumb harder into the skin, feeling it, watching it closely. 

“Your body is reacting perfectly,” he whispers, almost in disbelief, smiling at you, and you’re still out of it, blinking slowly. “I don’t think there’s a better patient than you,” he compliments you, lightly squeezing your neck.

The doctor pulls back his hand, and he pauses for a moment, admiring you; all pliant against the metal table, the IV pushed past your warm skin, wrists and ankles bound, your eyes soft, mind fuzzy, all because of his hard work. And there you are.

He gazes down at the flimsy sheet of paper draped across you, a poor excuse of a dress, and he clicks his tongue. He wants to see more–it’s a part of the examination, right?

“I’m going to peel this back,” he explains, and he watches the flash beneath your half-lids, suddenly realizing you’re about to be naked before him. “You don’t know how much this means to me,” he says, looking back at your body, carefully pulling the hospital gown off you. 

There’s not much of a reaction; he just stands there, your bare body against the cold table, your legs lazily spread open, stomach and chest moving with each breath. You are his right now, and he’s beyond grateful, in pure awe.

You muster up every fibre in your body to move, but you can’t, and you lazily turn your head, barely, to look at him; eyes grazing over your body, lingering on your abdomen, slowly trailing up to your breasts, neck, and then he looks at you. He grins.

“You still feel okay?” he asks quietly, his hand gently cupping your cheek, rubbing beneath your eye. All you can smell are the bright blue gloves. “You’re okay, you feel good,” he hums.

You swallow hard, your eyes following his, watching the way he examines you carefully. He moves back and away, moving down the metal table, and reaches out, his palm cupping over your knee, and sliding down your calf, all the way down to your foot.

“These restraints,” the doctor starts quietly, noticing the slight struggle you had at first. “Hurting your poor body a little, right? It’s for your safety, dear,” he explains, his hand drifting to your other foot.

His hand slides up your calf and over your knee, dipping down to your thigh, and he begins to drag it downwards. He lightly squeezes as he does so, his gloved thumb rubbing over the warm skin. Your eyes are heavy, and you watch him; he’s analyzing you, running brief tests in his mind.

“Beautiful skin,” he comments, tapping your thigh with his thumb again. “Soft… healthy,” he praises, slowly dragging his hand up further, lightly holding where your thigh meets your hip. You make a quiet noise.

His thumb drags up and over your hipbone, gently rubbing there now, his eyes focused on your face and the way you react to him. He notices the flicker in your eyes, and he smiles, licking his lips.

“I know,” he coos, sliding up and lightly rubbing your lower abdomen. “Stranger touching all over your body… but I'm your doctor, no stranger to you,” he tells you, his voice quiet and low. 

His hand slides up your stomach and towards your breast, and he cups it in his hand. He notices the muscles in your body seizing up, the light lift of your chest, pushing into him, and he blinks, his eyes focused on your face. He feels your nipple against his palm, and he swallows.

“Very… reactive, it’s good,” he hums, massaging your breast in his hand. “One of my biggest worries about the sedative—though, it seems not to be a problem,” he clicks his tongue. 

He slides his hand away from your breast, pulling back slightly, and lightly flicking your nipple. He glances at your face when he does it; the faint scrunch of your nose, your eyebrow struggling to furrow, and the slight parting of your lips.

You don’t want to feel it, but you do—it feels good. An unfortunate tingle, the light stimulant, and you hate how you can’t squeeze your thighs right now, and hide the arousal that’ll soon be appearing as slick evidence onto the metal table. 

“Your body is still picking up touch,” he says quietly, glancing down at your legs that are still limp, and the facial expressions you can’t make. “Sometimes… sedatives take that ability away, forcing you into a state where you are unable to feel a thing at all… but your body, it seems to respond to it well.”

You want to tell him that you really can feel it all, and that you just can’t respond. And you also can’t tell him how it feels good, that you want more.

“A lot of the times, the feeling is… distant, very faint,” he goes on, switching over to your next breast, flicking it, watching the same slight expression and shuffle. “But for you, sweetheart… you’re responding very well; it’s impressive.”

He finally pulls his hand away and notices the slight relaxation in your muscles, too. He licks his lips against yours and starts going further down your body, gazing at your bare thighs, the softness of them, the way your stomach moves slowly, your slight breaths and your chest. He grins.

“I’m just testing how well you respond to things,” the doctor tells you, and he’s turning away, reaching for some metal tools. “Can’t be using sedatives on my patients when I’m not sure how the body responds to them… and you’re the perfect test subject, you know?”

He holds a small metal rod, an instrument that’s quite small, and he glances at it, then at your face. He swallows hard and takes a step towards your body, pressing the tip of it against your thigh, waiting for your reaction.

“It’s cold,” he says quietly, slowly dragging it up your thigh, watching goosebumps break to the surface of your skin. “You’ll be okay. I’d never hurt you,” he reassures again.

He slowly drifts the rod up your body, and closer to your inner thigh, checking your reaction. Your muscles slightly tensing up, and he nods, knowing that sedatives usually do the opposite; soothes muscles, relaxes them, but in your case, you’re tensing up. 

“Hmm…” he hums quietly, gliding it up further until it’s shy of your core, and he tilts his head to the side. “Deep breath in…” he coos, lightly pressing the tip of the cold metal to your clit. “And then out…”

Your muscles immediately tense, and he watches your eyes flash, and he can tell your body is reacting to the touch. He keeps the cold instrument against you, letting it rest, and he can see the light struggle, the internal one your body is desperately trying to escape.

“Pleasure,” he starts quietly, slowly taking the metal away and lifting it to the unnatural lighting. “I’ll be testing how your body reacts to it, despite the sedative,” he explains, eyes narrowing.

The tip of the rod is glistening, and he glances between your thighs, the immediate small mess between your thighs making him realize that your body is definitely reacting. He grins a little, clicking his tongue, nodding.

“Ahh…” he hums, setting down the tool against the small cart. “Your body is reacting to pleasure… that’s a good sign,” he tells you, gently patting your thigh.

You hate that you like it; the gentle, careful touches, how calculated and slow he’s being, the soft praises when you obey, and how his eyes never leave your body. This entire experiment is around you right now, and he chose you. 

The doctor slowly moves closer again, looming over your body; one hand rests against your forehead, cradling it, a thumb sweeping between your eyebrows, and the other hand lightly cups your core. It’s a gentle touch, almost hesitant.

“A lot of patients… they don’t seem to respond to touch when they’re under,” he explains again, just in case your hazed mind didn’t comprehend it, two gloved fingers nudging between your folds. “Especially to pleasure… doesn’t really compute well, no connection,” he says, just shy of your entrance.

His eyes glance down between your parted thighs, and he lets his fingers slip back slightly, letting the tips of them spread you open. He watches you clench, and his eyebrows raise, head tilting in surprise. You’re responding well again.

“You’re wet,” is all he says, eyes flicking up to your face, and he can see your eyebrows trying to furrow again. “Quite wet, actually.”

You know that you are; you felt the arousal bloom in your stomach the second he took the gown off you. He’s tall, and his eyes are sharp, his touch tender, his words slow, and his voice deep. It was hard not to be aroused, and it was obvious to him that your body is begging for something right now. 

“I’m going to insert my finger inside of you, sweetheart,” he whispers, and he slowly slips his middle finger in, and he feels you clench. He nods.

A moan is caught in your throat, and you’re begging for more and more, a heavy thrum that buzzes in the back of your brain. It’s all want and need, and he can tell, and he’s trying his best not to give in to urges that go beyond doctor and patient.

He slides it in deeper, carefully feeling around. He licks his lips, still gently rubbing your head, keeping you against the metal table. The restraints do most of the work.

“Perfectly staying still,” he praises, nodding, hooking his finger. “Thank you, sweetheart, you’re doing good,” he murmurs, the pet names easing into the conversation now that the tests are shifting.

He’s feeling around, and you can’t tell if it’s clinical or not, but it feels good; the pressure, the movement, the way he’s staring at you. He can feel you clenching more, your body squeezing and adapting. 

“Your body temperature is warm,” he explains, his finger brushing that soft, spongy spot. “Warm… tight, too,” he explains, his words bordering sexual rather than medical. He presses down, and he feels you clench again.

Another moan is caught in the back of your throat, and he notices the twitch of your foot, the light struggle against the restraint. His head ticks, but he’s not too worried about it right now.

“I’m going to insert another finger inside of you,” he tells you, slowly sliding in another one, the latex adding another texture, something you haven’t felt. “There we go, good girl,” he tells you, patting your forehead with his thumb.

Two fingers now lightly move inside of you, just feeling around, inspecting, and they even find that same part again. He curls them, purposely pressing down on it now. He can feel your forehead twitching, an attempt for you to make a facial expression, but the sedative has still inhabited that part of you.

“Right here,” he whispers, pressing down firmer, keeping a light motion. “This… feels very good for you, yes? You’ll likely orgasm if pressure is applied here,” he tells you, applying that pressure. 

You close your eyes and swipe his thumb over your eyelashes, dipping below to swipe your cheek next. He keeps pressing and moving his fingers, never leaving that spot, a consistent pressure. He knows you want to moan and squirm and beg for more. 

“Easy, you’re okay,” he whispers, pressing down, feeling your body writhing now, a light noise from the restraints as your body resists the sedative. “Keep still for me, sweetheart, you’re doing good.”

You stop the slight movement of your wrists and feet even when you gain the ability to, and he realizes that the sedative may be wearing off, or isn’t as strong as the pleasure he’s inflicting on you. He clicks his tongue again.

“Pretty girl you are,” he tells you, driving you to finish. “I’ve had many, many patients… and I’ve only done this to you, you know that?” He asks you, his words smooth and low.

He hears it, the faint noise your throat can make. His eyebrows raise once he hears it, and he realizes that he might need to sedate you more, but first, he wants to make you cum as an experiment, of course.

“You’re special,” he praises, hooking his fingers once more. “When I saw you for the first time, I knew… knew I had to have you like this,” he explains, his words slowly slipping into something more than just your doctor.

There you were, leaving the doctor's appointment just a few weeks back; your bare thighs soft and warm in the summer heat, and he was watching you from his office window; your hesitant eyes as you crossed the street, the bend in your knee, the curve of your hip beneath your dress, and the way your personal doctor spoke about you. He had heard it in the room over, the light chatter, and he knew it had to be you. You had to be the one for this.

He caresses your forehead even more, his hand still working between your thighs, your body almost having the strength to squirm against the table.

“Wanted to test on your body… so strong, and pretty, knew it could take everything,” he continues, and you find yourself slipping into a state you’re not sure you’ve felt before; bliss.

And then you cum, and he finds it to be the most fascinating thing; just your thighs clenching, back arching ever so slightly, and he feels the warmth rush over his latex-covered fingers, and he extracts them from you, looking at the glistening mess. He blinks.

“See? Strong body you’ve got there,” he adds, and he can tell that your heart rate is back up, and he sighs quietly. “But that poor heart of yours…”

You can feel it pounding in your chest, and he can just tell by looking at you. He carefully pulls away from your shaking body and begins to move.

“Maybe we need to give you a higher dosage, sweetheart,” he explains, adjusting his gloves, one of them covered in slick. “Make you relax again… make you feel good, better than before, how does that sound?”

You don’t have much of a choice, because he’s already doing it.