The exam room was too white, too sterile, lit by a flickering fluorescent bulb that hummed like an insect trapped behind frosted glass. Floyd sat on the edge of the paper-covered table, the thin gown draped over his shoulders doing little to conceal the soft curves beneath. The fabric billowed around his mousy brown curls, framing the round swell of his bubble-like breasts, his rosy nipples peeking out from the gaps in the gown’s loose front. Below, the back panel fluttered open where it tied, leaving the plush expanse of his bottom completely exposed—hairless, flushed, and so maddeningly soft that even the air touching it seemed to linger too long. He could feel his own pulse thudding between his legs, a slow, insistent heat pooling where he was most vulnerable.

The room smelled of antiseptic and something faintly floral—lavender, perhaps, or chamomile—but the sterile air did little to soothe him. His round, bubble-like breasts pressed against the inside of the gown, the peaked nipples betraying his arousal despite his best efforts to calm himself. He shifted, the cold leather of the table sticking for a moment to his bare thighs before he settled again. Floyd shifted again, the paper crinkling beneath him, his thighs pressing together reflexively. He knew what came next. Oh, he knew.

The memories from his last visit slithered into his mind unbidden, heat creeping up his neck. The way Dr. Ramsey’s gloves had snapped over his wrists—sharp, like the crack of a whip. The way his broad hands had parted Floyd’s trembling thighs, exposing the delicate pink folds of his slit as it glistened under the clinical lights. The way he had taken the strange, slick orb that had emerged from Floyd’s quivering passage with barely a word, as if this were the most ordinary thing in the world. Floyd’s cheeks burned. The incident. That was what they called it, wasn’t it? The day his body had done something impossible—something fantastical. The day he had given birth to something that defied explanation.

He remembered the way his legs had trembled, spread wide on this very table, white socks scrunched just above his ankles. The way Dr. Ramsey’s gloved fingers had pried him open, spreading the plush lips of his vagina with clinical precision, his other hand braced against Floyd’s heaving stomach. And then—oh, then—the slick, pulsating pressure as something round and smooth had pushed its way out of him in a gush of pink fluid.

Dr. Ramsey had caught it effortlessly, examining the strange, luminous orb with fascination before setting it aside to focus on Floyd, who had been gasping and trembling, his body wracked with the aftershocks of delivery.

And now, Floyd was here again, waiting.

The door creaked open.

“Ah, Mr. Lemaire,” came the deep, graveled voice—thick with a Scottish brogue, laced with something smokier, something hungrier. “Right on time.”

Floyd’s breath hitched.

Dr. Ramsey was a tall man, broad-shouldered, with the kind of presence that filled a room before he even stepped inside. His dark hair, streaked with silver at the temples, was slicked back neatly, and his shrewd, demanding eyes raked over Floyd as if already cataloging every inch of him. He smelled of antiseptic and something richer, something masculine—black pepper, maybe, or whiskey.

“Dr. Ramsey,” Floyd murmured, his fingers twisting in the hem of the gown. His accent curled around the name like a plea.

The doctor’s lips quirked as he shut the door, locking it with a decisive click.

“Let’s get started, shall we?”

The questions were merciless.

“Any unusual discharge?” Dr. Ramsey asked, scribbling notes without looking up.

Floyd squirmed. “N-no, not that I—”

“Bowel movements regular?”

A flush crept over Floyd’s cheeks. “Y-yes.”

“Any sensitivity in your vaginal canal?” The doctor’s gaze flicked up, dark and knowing. “Any itchiness?”

Floyd’s breath caught. The way Ramsey said it—so casual, so clinical—made it worse.

“No,” Floyd whispered.

Ramsey’s pen scratched against the clipboard. “Good. Now.” He set it aside. “Position yourself.”

Floyd’s pulse thundered in his ears.

He knew the drill.

Slowly, shakily, he turned on the table, his bare bottom trembling as he got onto his hands and knees. The gown slipped further open, exposing the full, plush globes of his rear, his cheeks already tinged pink with embarrassment.

Behind him, the sharp snap of latex gloves being pulled on.

Floyd’s entire body tensed.

Then—warm hands settled on his hips, possessive, firm.

“Relax,” Ramsey murmured, though his grip only tightened.

Floyd tried. He really did.

But then—

The cool drag of lubricant against his sensitive rim.

A gasp tore from his throat as Ramsey’s fingers pressed in, slow, deliberate.

“Mmm,” the doctor hummed, spreading Floyd open with obscene ease. “Still so soft.”

Floyd whimpered.

The fingers sank deeper, twisting, probing—until they curled just there, and Floyd’s vision whited out for a split second. His thighs trembled, wetness dripping from his slit onto the paper beneath him.

Ramsey chuckled darkly.

“Such a responsive little thing, aren’t you?”

Floyd could only pant, his forehead pressed to the table as Ramsey worked him open—first two fingers, then three, stretching him with agonizing thoroughness.

Then—

A fourth.

Floyd choked on a moan.

“I—ah!—D-Doctor, I—”

Ramsey ignored him, his breath hot against Floyd’s exposed skin as he leaned in, his free hand gripping Floyd’s hip hard enough to bruise.

“You can take it,” he growled. “I know you can.”

Floyd shuddered.

And then—

The slow, inexorable press of Ramsey’s fist.

Floyd’s entire body arched, his toes curling inside his white ankle socks as he was spread impossibly wide. The stretch burned, but the pleasure—oh god—the pleasure was unbearable.

Ramsey’s other hand came down, landing sharp against Floyd’s ass, making him jolt.

“Good boy,” Ramsey murmured, his voice rough as he pumped his wrist in and out, the slick sounds obscene in the sterile air.

Floyd was lost.

His mind dissolved into static, his throat raw from whimpering, his hole clenching helplessly around the thick intrusion. A string of broken French spilled from his lips as Ramsey fucked him open with his hand, the fingers of his other hand now teasing Floyd’s dripping slit.

“Mmm, look at you,” Ramsey purred. “Dripping all over my table.”

Floyd sobbed.

Then—

Ramsey’s fist pulled free with a wet pop, and before Floyd could protest, the gown was being yanked off entirely, leaving him bare but for his socks.

“Turn around,” Ramsey ordered.

Floyd obeyed, his legs splayed, his cunt glistening under the lights. Ramsey’s fingers were back on him in an instant—two plunging deep inside his fluttering hole while his thumb circled his swollen clit.

It was too much.

Floyd’s back arched, his breasts heaving as Ramsey fucked him with his fingers, each thrust brutal, precise.

“Cum for me,” Ramsey commanded, his voice like gravel.

And Floyd—

Floyd did.

A broken cry escaped him as his body convulsed, his cunt clenching around Ramsey’s fingers as pleasure ripped through him in violent waves. His thighs shook, his hole pulsing, spilling slick onto the ruined paper beneath him.

Ramsey kept going.

Watching him with those eyes—dark, possessive, hungry.

“Good,” he murmured, finally withdrawing his fingers, smeared pink. “Very good.”

Floyd collapsed back, boneless, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

Ramsey peeled off his gloves, discarding them before picking up a cloth to clean Floyd with gentle, almost tender motions.

“Same time next month?” he asked, as if discussing the weather.

Floyd could only nod, dazed, spent, his body still humming with aftershocks.

Ramsey smirked.

And as the door clicked shut behind him, Floyd was left with nothing but the sound of his own ragged breaths—and the phantom grip of the doctor’s hands still branding his skin.