Kinky Examination

Erica Fontes shows up every week for her check-ups – cool cucumber, navy-blue hoodie, one leg over the other while the doctor talks numbers. Long-term doc is abroad, though, so today she meets Dr. Lang. Dude runs the place like a locker room: jokes hit low, respect comes second. First thing he clocks is how Erica leans forward, hoodie slipping off a shoulder, and smiles instead of frowning. He runs his hand along the paper gown seam like he’s taping a tight end before kickoff, real casual, but louder than it needs to be. She laughs, pulls one knee up on the table so the hem rises high. No hesitation on consent or HIPAA. His fingers slide between her legs like they belong there – two digits deep, slow pump-test routine. Blood pressure forgotten. He curves, rocks, grins every time her hips twitch on schedule. Erica rides the rhythm without missing a beat; asshole flutters, cheeks flush. When the throaty moan lands, Dr. Lang says "Atta girl," digs a third finger in to make the sound bounce off the cabinets. Pretty obvious the exam table stands-in for a bench these days, fluid-slick and creaking a soundtrack. The entire appendage sweep is clinical on paper, molten in practice – thicker two knuckles to the hilt, spinning the dish-towel vibe from student-housing parties. They finish with her lying fast supine, gown an afterthought at her sternum; finger-smears printed up her thigh like team logo tape. Nut rinsed, towel frisbeed off into the corner hamper – the bullpen laugh caught once in her throat, and one wink richer. She books same slot next week. Never once touches "health first" with a ten-foot pole.