The Doctor Came Back and Undressed Me in Her Office

The mind eventually finds a way to fit everything into place, even the things that should never fit. For almost two years I told myself that appointment had been a mixture of fever, fear, and desire. My husband and I kept practicing what we had learned that day, first out of necessity and later for pure addiction. What had begun as a way to relieve my breasts had turned into an intimate routine that aroused us both.

When my daughter stopped nursing, I expected my body to ease off. It didn’t. I was still producing milk, and sometimes all it took was for my husband to suck one nipple or squeeze it with his tongue for desire to shoot straight down to my cunt. There were nights when we ended up with the sheets wet from my milk and my come, and afterward, curled up in his arms, I wondered whether that dark-eyed doctor had been real or whether we had invented her between us.

Life went on. I learned to get around the city on my own, to leave my daughter at daycare, to shop, to speak as best I could in a language that still escaped me from time to time. My husband accompanied me less and less to medical appointments because work consumed him. So on the day of my routine checkup, I went alone, thinking about anything but the past.

Until I opened the door.

Behind the desk was not the usual doctor. It was her.

She wore her black hair differently, without the streak of color I remembered so well, and yet I recognized her instantly. She looked at me the same way, calmly, as if she already knew what was going on inside me before I opened my mouth. She was wearing a mask, a white coat, and a composure that made my legs go weak the moment I saw her.

“Come in and close the door,” she said in a low, professional, clear voice.

I stood motionless for a second. I remembered the other doctor swearing that no doctor by that name had ever worked there. I remembered her mouth on my breast, her fingers between my legs, my husband breathing hard beside me. I remembered the taste of my own milk on her lips. And still I went in. I closed the door quietly and felt my chest tighten as if I had stepped into a dream again.

“You’re not accompanied today?” she asked in Japanese, without taking her eyes off the screen.

“No. I don’t need help understanding almost everything anymore,” I replied, also in her language, proud and nervous at once.

She finally raised her eyes. I felt a hard blow in my belly.

“Tell me what brings you in.”

“A checkup. Nothing serious.”

She stood and came around the desk with a calm that made me more tense than any hurry could have. She was shorter than I was, but when she stopped in front of me, I felt the same absurd fragility I had felt the last time. Beneath her coat I could make out a tight-fitting shirt and close-fitting trousers. I didn’t have to look hard to realize she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her nipples showed through the fabric, and the sight filled my mouth with saliva.

She took my chin between her fingertips and turned my face toward the light. Her hands were cold. Her eyes were not.

“Don’t tense up,” she murmured as she examined my mouth and eyelids. “Breathe.”

I obeyed. She smelled of soap, lavender, and clean skin. Of something else, too—something subtle, animal, that churned me up inside with a shameful familiarity. I was already wet, and she had barely touched my face.

“Take off your blouse.”

I did it slowly, my fingers clumsy. I was left in my bra, and she put on her stethoscope. The cold bell touched my breast and raised gooseflesh over my skin. I inhaled and exhaled as she instructed, but following her orders wasn’t the difficult part. The difficult part was not staring into the opening of her coat, not thinking about her tits moving beneath her shirt, not remembering what her hands had done before.

When she moved behind me to listen to my back, the heat of her body enveloped me. She was so close that one more brush would have been enough for me to press my ass against her belly. I didn’t. Barely.

“Have you continued having episodes of breast pain?” she asked.

“Sometimes.”

“Inflammation?”

“Not as much as before.”

Her free hand rested on my side for a second. One second too long.

“Are you still expressing milk regularly?”

I swallowed before answering.

“Yes.”

“With a breast pump?”

The question was innocent. The answer wasn’t.

“Not always.”

She set the stethoscope on the table without commenting. Then she turned toward me and said:

“Take off your bra.”

Her tone didn’t change, but the order made me tremble. I undid the garment with clumsy fingers and left my breasts bare. As soon as the office air touched my nipples, they hardened. I didn’t know whether it was from the cold or from her. Maybe both.

She bent until she was level with my breasts and placed a hand on my left one. She began palpating carefully, like a doctor. Then she squeezed with more precise, more intimate pressure, gradually closing the movement around the areola. That alone was enough for a white drop to form at the tip of my nipple.

I was so embarrassed that I lowered my head.

“I’m sorry...”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” she replied without stopping her touch.

She squeezed again, and the drop became a thin stream. Then two. I felt the milk run beneath my breast and a hot stab between my legs. She watched closely, as if there were nothing indecent about my body reacting so easily. But I saw the gleam in her eyes and knew it wasn’t merely clinical curiosity.

When she moved to the other breast, she brushed my nipple with her thumb and a moan escaped me. The first jet shot out and stained her mask and cheek. I turned red to the tips of my ears.

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

She took a paper towel, wiped herself slowly, and faced me again.

“I already told you not to worry.”

This time I did see an amused spark in her eyes. She made me lie back on the examination table with gentle pressure on my shoulder. I obeyed without arguing, as if I had spent two years waiting for exactly that hand to guide me again.

“You’re still producing quite a lot of milk,” she said as she settled me on my back.

“Yes.”

“Does your husband still empty your breasts with his mouth?”

The bluntness of the question set my face and my cunt on fire at the same time.

“Yes.”

“How often?”

I didn’t answer immediately. She insisted with the same cruel calm.

“I want an approximate number.”

“Three or four times a week. Sometimes more.”

Her fingers circled my right nipple, pulling it slightly outward and then squeezing toward the center. Milk sprang out in thin threads. The left one began dripping on its own.

“That keeps production high,” she said. “And it also maintains the arousal associated with the area.”

I was breathing faster. Without realizing it, I had begun rubbing one thigh against the other.

She saw.

“Take off your trousers and underwear.”

The order hit me all at once, though deep down I had been expecting it since I came in. Even so, I hesitated. I was alone. My husband wasn’t there to share my madness or hold my gaze. It was just her and me, the smell of disinfectant, the white sheet, and that thick tension growing between us.

“Is that part of the examination too?” I asked, my voice hoarse.

“If you want me to examine you properly, yes.”

I had no real excuse. I undid my trousers, lowered them along with my panties, and when I pulled them aside I saw the dark stain of my arousal. A strand of wetness stretched for a moment between the fabric and my vulva before breaking. I wanted to die of embarrassment.

She said nothing. Not one word. But she looked.

I lay back down and spread my legs a little. Then a little farther, because her silence carried more authority than many orders. She positioned herself between my thighs without taking her eyes off me. One of her hands kept working on my breast, squeezing milk out with a skill I already knew. The other moved slowly down my stomach until it rested over the hair on my pubis.

“You’re very wet for a routine examination,” she murmured.

I couldn’t pretend.

“You know why.”

It was the first time I had addressed her informally. She didn’t correct me.

She parted my lips with two fingers and studied my cunt as if she were reading something written there for her. Then she brushed my entrance with the tip of her index finger. The contact was so light that I arched my back, seeking more. She smiled with her eyes. I could see it even though the mask still covered half her face.

“Do you get aroused when your husband empties your breasts too?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“And does he penetrate you while he does it?”

“Yes. Almost always.”

She thrust two fingers in at once, halfway in, and my gasp broke in my throat.

“Like this?” she asked.

I nodded, biting my lip. I didn’t want to beg so soon, but my body was ahead of my pride. She began moving her fingers inside me with unbearable slowness, opening them slightly to feel my walls, withdrawing almost completely and entering again. At the same time, she kept squeezing my left nipple. Each squeeze drew out a jet of milk that splashed my breast and neck.

“Look at you,” she whispered. “Getting yourself wet and dripping from top to bottom.”

I moaned despite myself. Hearing the obscenity from her mouth aroused me even more. I buried my head in the table while she played with me as if she had studied my body for years.

“Did you think of me when you were with him?” she suddenly asked.

I opened my eyes, startled. Her fingers kept going in and out, increasingly wet, increasingly noisy.

“Yes,” I finally admitted. “At first, yes.”

“And afterward?”

“Afterward too, sometimes.”

At last her thumb settled on my clitoris. She didn’t rub it yet. She merely covered it, heavy and warm, like a promise.

“I want you to tell me when you come,” she said.

“Not yet...”

“I haven’t really started.”

Then she did. She began moving her thumb in short, firm, exact circles while her fingers fucked me with an increasingly definite rhythm. They went in, turned slightly, came out, and she pushed them back in to the hilt. I spread my legs wider and grabbed her wrist. Milk burst from my breasts in disordered pulses, wetting my ribs, the sheet, and her hand.

“Fuck...” escaped me. “Don’t stop.”

“I won’t stop if you stay this receptive.”

The word made me shudder. Receptive. As if I were a body opened for her, ready to receive whatever she wanted to do to me. And perhaps I was. Because when I tried to lift my head a little to see her better, she slid her wet palm over my breast and pinched the other nipple until I screamed.

“Stay still,” she ordered. “Let me work.”

I obeyed. Not out of docility, but because she was dismantling me too effectively for me to resist anything. Her fingers sounded wet inside me. My cunt contracted around them hungrily, as if it wanted to keep them. The entire office already seemed to smell of milk, skin, and sex.

“Can I ask you something?” I gasped.

“You can.”

“Who are you really?”

Her movements did not stop.

“Right now, I’m the woman making you come.”

The answer ran through me like a lash of pleasure and fear. I raised a hand and placed it on her hip. Beneath the coat, her body was firm and tense. I stroked her cautiously, waiting for her to push me away. She didn’t.

“Can I touch you?” I asked.

This time she didn’t answer with words. She stepped back halfway, undid her trousers, and lowered them along with her underwear to mid-thigh. Seeing her like that, still wearing her coat, still wearing her mask, still maintaining that serene air while showing me her cunt, left me breathless.

She had dark hair between her legs and a wet, shining vulva. Not excessively so. Just enough to show me I wasn’t the only one losing her composure. I extended my trembling hand and placed it on the inside of her thigh. I felt the hard muscle and the heat of her skin.

“Slowly,” she murmured.

I moved upward with my fingers. I brushed the hair, then the cleft, and she let out the first genuine moan I had heard from her throughout the appointment. It was low and restrained, but real. My cunt tightened around her fingers when I heard it.

“That’s it,” she said. “Keep going.”

I slipped the tip of my finger between her lips and felt her wetness on my fingertip. It was thick and hot. She closed her eyes for a moment, and that tiny loss of control aroused me brutally. I imagined her finally falling apart, taking off her mask, climbing astride me. I wanted to push a finger inside her, explore her, find out how far her composure went.

As soon as I began to push, she gently caught my wrist.

“Not today,” she whispered.

The refusal frustrated me, but she didn’t let go. She simply guided my hand so that I continued stroking her on the outside, slowly, while her other hand went back to destroying my clitoris. Her rhythm changed. Stronger. Faster. Her fingers entered me decisively, mercilessly, and every time her thumb passed over the exact spot, I saw lights behind my eyelids.

“Tell me what you feel,” she demanded.

“That... that I’m going to come.”

“Not yet. Hold it.”

She squeezed my nipple so hard that milk shot out and hit my chin. I let out a hoarse moan. She leaned over me and, for a second, I thought she was finally going to kiss me or suck my breast. She didn’t. She brought her face close enough only to speak into my ear.

“I want to feel your cunt trembling before you come.”

I nearly came from that alone. I dug my nails into her hip and began moving against her hand desperately. She let me do it for a moment, then held me firmly with her forearm across my stomach, controlling my spasms. The gesture wasn’t rough, but it was unquestionable. She was masturbating me the way she wanted, at the pace she wanted, and I was already too lost to pretend otherwise.

“Please...” I gasped.

“Please what?”

“Make me come.”

“That’s better.”

Then she added a third finger. I felt the stretch, the fullness, the obscene shock of wetness. She opened me from within and began truly fucking me with her hand, using a short, brutal rhythm that made me gush over her knuckles. Her thumb pressed against my clitoris in hard, insistent circles. My breasts continued releasing milk in jolts, no longer perfect streams but disordered spills that wet me down to my stomach.

I rubbed her vulva with my palm and fingers, clumsy but determined, and she responded by opening her legs a little wider. The sound of our breathing mingled with the wet sounds of my cunt taking her fingers and with my now completely indecent moans.

“This is how I wanted you,” she murmured. “Open, wet, and no longer lying to me.”

The words burst me open from within. The orgasm rose from my belly like a huge, violent wave, and I could no longer hold it back. My legs, back, and throat tensed. I felt my cunt throb around her fingers, and I came screaming, convulsing on the table while milk spilled from my breasts at the same time. One jet landed on my face and got into my mouth; another ran down my neck. Pleasure blinded me for several seconds.

She didn’t remove her hand immediately. She kept stroking me more slowly, letting me come down little by little, squeezing out the last spasms with almost cruel patience. My hips trembled. My thighs were soaked. Between the milk and my come, I had made a mess of the sheet.

When she finally withdrew her fingers, I watched them gleam with my fluids. She took some paper towels and began cleaning me with the same serenity with which she had begun. My breast, my belly, my face, the insides of my thighs. Every stroke made me feel even more naked—not because of my body, but because of how obvious the hunger with which I had responded to her had been.

Then she cleaned her hands. I saw her fingers linger a second too long, as if she could smell me clinging to her skin too. She pulled up her underwear and trousers, adjusted her coat, and suddenly became the immaculate doctor she had been at the start. Only her nipples, still visible beneath her shirt, betrayed something of what had happened.

She helped me sit up. My legs trembled when my feet touched the floor.

“Slowly.”

She sat me in the chair in front of the desk and went to write something in a notebook. I was still naked from the waist down, breathing deeply, trying to put my thoughts in order. There was one question burning more fiercely than all the others.

“What about you?” I asked. “Don’t you want to finish?”

She looked up and gave a brief, fresh laugh.

“Not today.”

“You got wet.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly at the observation, but she wasn’t offended.

“Yes. And still, not today.”

It hurt more than I expected. Not because I felt rejected, but because she decided when to begin and when to stop, while I could only follow her. Perhaps she noticed, because she came over again and touched my forehead with her fingertips.

“Don’t confuse treatment, desire, and affection,” she said gently. “Sometimes they become mixed together and leave the mind worse off than the body.”

I swallowed. I thought of my husband. Of our rules. Of the fact that, although what had happened had been between two women in a closed examination room, it hadn’t felt like a simple physical infidelity but something more twisted, more intimate. As if she had known how to open a door inside me that I hadn’t even shown her.

“What do I have to do?” I asked.

She returned to the desk, wrote a few lines, and then looked directly at me.

“I want to see you both again. You and your husband. Both of you.”

My mouth went dry. The image appeared on its own: him sitting where I was now, watching; her touching me again; or touching him; or making us do exactly what she wanted. I felt another jolt of immediate, obscene arousal despite my recent orgasm.

“Here?” I asked.

“Here.”

“Will you be here?”

The pause was brief but heavy.

“Yes. Make the appointment as soon as possible.”

I dressed slowly, still dazed. Every time I pulled on another item of clothing, I felt the memory of her fingers on my skin. Before leaving, I turned toward her. She was still behind the desk, immaculate, as if she hadn’t had her hand inside my cunt a few minutes earlier.

“I want to see your face without the mask,” I said bluntly.

Her eyes smiled again. This time there was something closer, more dangerous, in them.

“Perhaps another time.”

I left the office with weak legs and my head in knots. Outside, the hospital was just as it always was: people walking, doors opening, low voices, gurney wheels in the hallway. Everything normal. Everything clean. Everything in its place. Only I was a mess inside, my cunt still throbbing and my nipples sensitive, wondering how the hell I was going to explain to my husband that the impossible doctor had returned—and that this time she wanted to receive both of us.

***

That night I couldn’t wait for him to guess. As soon as we put the little girl to bed, I shut myself in the bedroom with my husband and told him half the story before I began kissing him. He read my body long before he understood the words. He unbuttoned my blouse, and as soon as he touched my breasts, he noticed that they were still heavy, full, and sensitive.

“Something happened at the appointment,” he said, staring at me.

“Yes.”

“She came back?”

I nodded. Seeing the impact on his face confirmed that he, too, had never truly forgotten her.

He took me to bed and sucked one nipple while I, with my head thrown back, described every detail. How she had made me close the door. How she had undressed me. How she had put her fingers in my cunt while milking my breasts. How she had made me come while calling me a liar, wet, open. My husband grew hard as he listened, breathing more heavily against my skin. I could feel his cock tense against my thigh, and the memory immediately aroused me again.

“Do you like hearing it?” I asked, gasping.

“It’s driving me crazy.”

I slipped my hand inside his trousers and grabbed him. He was hard and burning. He kept sucking my nipple hungrily, drawing milk from me, and between mouthfuls he said:

“Tell me everything while I fuck you.”

When he penetrated me, my milk wet across my chest and his mouth still latched onto me, I felt the entire appointment open up again inside our bedroom. At times I moaned the doctor’s name and at others my husband’s, completely disordered, correcting myself too late and too poorly. He wasn’t offended. On the contrary. He spread my legs wider and began thrusting into me furiously, hard, seeking the depths while one hand squeezed my other breast to make more milk come out.

“That’s how she touched you, isn’t it?” he growled.

“Yes... fuck, yes.”

“And is that how you came?”

His thumb landed on my clitoris and made me see white.

“Yes. Yes. Like that.”

He fucked me while listening to every detail of the appointment, and I gave him all of them, raw, sparing nothing: how wet I had been before taking off my clothes, how her body smelled, how she had refused to let me put a finger inside her, how she had promised to see us together again. Each confession seemed to arouse him more. And the more aroused he became, the more my cunt burned with the need to see her again.

We came almost at the same time. He came inside me, gripping my hips. I soaked his hand and belly, my breasts releasing their last drops over his mouth. Then we lay there, panting, both of us knowing there was no way left to pretend to be sane.

Because this time it wasn’t about finding out whether that woman existed or not. She existed. And she had called us back.

The next appointment, I knew now, would not be an accident.