The penthouse was silent, save for the rhythmic tictic-tictic of Beatrice’s heels against the marble floor. Beatrice was a woman of sharp lines and sharper wit; her auburn hair was styled into a precise, polished flip that brushed her collarbones, echoing the structured tailoring of her blazer. She was the personification of order, a woman who commanded a courtroom with a single glance.

Then there was Melinda.

Melinda was the soft edges to Beatrice’s sharp ones. With her waist-length red curls and a perpetual air of wide-eyed wonder, she moved through the world as if she were perpetually caught in the first blush of spring. To Beatrice, she was an intoxicating distraction—a woman who smelled like peonies and looked like a Pre-Raphaelite painting come to life.

"Melinda?" Beatrice called out, her voice a low, melodic rasp. "You weren't at the gala. I grew… concerned."

She found Melinda in the library, curled up on a velvet chaise lounge. The usual spark in Melinda’s eyes was dimmed, replaced by a weary, pained cloudiness. Her face was flushed, her breathing shallow.

"Oh, Beatrice," Melinda murmured, her voice a soft trill. "I’m sorry. I’ve just been feeling… terribly unwell. A dull ache that won’t leave me be."

Beatrice crossed the room in three strides, her eyes narrowing with professional scrutiny that masked a much deeper, more primal hunger. She reached out, her cool hand pressing against Melinda’s warm forehead.

"You’re burning up, darling," Beatrice whispered.

"It’s just… a bladder infection, I think," Melinda admitted, her cheeks deepening in color. "It’s quite uncomfortable. I was going to call the doctor in the morning."

Beatrice’s gaze darkened. The lust she had suppressed for months—the desire to possess, to touch, and to control—surfaced in her eyes like a rising tide. She didn't move away. Instead, she leaned closer, her auburn hair shimmering under the chandelier light.

"Why wait for a doctor," Beatrice said, her voice dropping an octave, "when I am right here? I have a certain… medical background, as you know. And I don’t like the idea of you suffering in silence."

Melinda looked up, her blue eyes searching Beatrice’s face. She saw the clinical precision there, but beneath it, she saw the heat. "Beatrice, I don't think—"

"Shh," Beatrice interrupted, her thumb tracing the line of Melinda’s jaw. The touch was electric. "You’re in pain, Melinda. You need someone to take care of you. Someone who knows exactly where it hurts."

Beatrice stood up and slowly began to unbutton her blazer, her eyes never leaving Melinda’s. "I’m going to examine you. Thoroughly. We need to know exactly how far the inflammation has spread, don't we?"

The air in the library grew thick. Melinda felt a different kind of heat beginning to stir, competing with the discomfort of her illness. Beatrice’s presence was overwhelming, authoritative, and utterly magnetic.

"Lie back, Melinda," Beatrice commanded softly, the steel returning to her tone, though it was now laced with a dangerous silkiness. "Let me see what’s bothering you."

The library light seemed to dim, focusing entirely on the chaise lounge where Melinda lay. The contrast between them had never been more striking: Beatrice, in her structured, high-collared authority, and Melinda, a soft vision of silk and spilling red curls.

"The pain is centered here, isn't it?" Beatrice asked, her voice a low, vibrating hum as she placed a firm hand on Melinda's lower abdomen. Through the thin fabric of Melinda’s floral dress, Beatrice could feel the heat radiating from her skin.

"Yes," Melinda exhaled, a small, shaky sound. "It’s... a constant pressure."

Beatrice’s eyes, sharp and hungry, tracked the movement of Melinda’s chest as it rose and fell. "Then we must be thorough. Clothes are merely an obstruction to a proper diagnosis, Melinda. You trust me, don't you?"

Without waiting for an answer, Beatrice guided Melinda to shift, helping her slide the dress upward. The movement revealed the creamy, expansive curves of Melinda’s hips and the plush, rounded softness of her bottom, which pressed deep into the velvet cushion. Finally, there were the panties—tiny, white, and adorned with delicate lace ruffles that looked almost doll-like against the mature, generous curves of her body.

"Take them off," Beatrice commanded. The tone was professional, yet it vibrated with a suppressed intensity that made the air feel heavy.

With trembling fingers, Melinda hooked her thumbs into the lacy elastic. As she pushed the silk down her shapely legs, she felt the cool air of the library hit her skin. She felt exposed, her innocence clashing with the clinical, predatory gaze of the woman standing over her.

"Spread your legs for me, darling. Wide. I need to see the extent of the irritation."

Melinda obeyed, her breath hitching as she opened herself to Beatrice. Her anatomy was a study in soft pinks and vulnerability—innocent in appearance, yet already glistening with a natural moisture that spoke of a body reacting to Beatrice’s overwhelming presence despite the discomfort of the UTI.

Beatrice stepped closer, the hem of her skirt brushing Melinda's knees. She didn't look away. Instead, she reached into her bag and pulled out a pair of latex gloves, the sharp snap of the material echoing in the quiet room.

"I’m going to touch you now," Beatrice whispered.

The first contact was deliberate. Beatrice’s gloved fingers, cool and smooth, pressed firmly against the sensitive skin of Melinda's inner thigh, slowly dragging upward toward the heat. Melinda’s back arched slightly, her long red hair fanning out over the chaise like a spilled sunset.

When Beatrice finally made contact with the center of the "inflammation," she was surprisingly gentle, yet her touch was invasive in its precision. She parted the soft, moistened folds with two fingers, her thumb resting on the pelvic bone to steady her hand.

"It’s very flushed," Beatrice noted, her voice dropping to a gravelly silk. She applied a slight pressure, circling the area where the discomfort was most acute. "Is this where it hurts most? Or is it here?"

Melinda couldn't find her voice; she could only nod, a soft moan escaping her lips as the sensation of Beatrice’s rhythmic, searching touch sent ripples through her. The sensory overload—the scent of Beatrice’s expensive perfume, the sight of the auburn hair swaying just inches from her knees, and the firm, knowing pressure between her legs—was turning the "examination" into something far more intoxicating than a mere medical necessity.

Beatrice looked up, her eyes locking onto Melinda’s. "You’re reacting quite strongly, Melinda. Your body is very… welcoming. I think this will require a much more 'internal' investigation to be sure."

Beatrice’s expression remained a mask of professional calm, though the pulse at the base of her throat betrayed her. She reached for her leather medical bag, the metallic clack of the latch sounding loud in the velvet-shrouded room.

"Since the discomfort is localized so deep, Melinda, we need to ensure the infection hasn't migrated," Beatrice explained, her voice as smooth as aged bourbon. She produced a small, clear tube of sterile lubricant and a gleam of polished metal—a speculum.

Melinda’s eyes widened, her red curls shimmering as she pressed her head back into the chaise. "Beatrice... is all that necessary?"

"Innocent Melinda," Beatrice cooed, her auburn flip bouncing slightly as she tilted her head. "You wouldn't want to be negligent with your health, would you? Now, keep those lovely, curvy legs apart. For me."

Beatrice squeezed a generous amount of the clear, viscous gel onto her gloved fingers. The sound of the slick friction was wet and rhythmic. She began by coating the entrance of Melinda’s vulnerability, her touch firm and uncompromising. The cool glide of the lube against Melinda's inflamed, feverish skin made her gasp, her hips stuttering in a reflexive jerk.

"Easy," Beatrice murmured, using her free hand to grip Melinda’s thigh, her thumb digging into the soft, pale flesh to hold her still.

With practiced precision, Beatrice introduced the speculum. The sensation was cold and unyielding, a stark contrast to the soft, pliant heat of Melinda’s body. As Beatrice slowly adjusted the instrument to open, the internal pressure made Melinda’s breath come in short, jagged hitches. She felt utterly exposed, her most private places laid bare under the sharp, intelligent gaze of the woman she both feared and craved.

"You're very tight, darling. Very reactive," Beatrice noted, her voice humming with a dark satisfaction.

She then took a long, sterile cotton swab. "I'm going to take a sample. It might feel a bit... invasive."

As Beatrice swept the cotton tip against the sensitive, moistened walls of Melinda’s interior, Melinda’s hands flew to the velvet cushions, gripping them until her knuckles turned white. The sensation was a strange, overwhelming mix of the dull ache from her infection and a sharp, rising electricity triggered by Beatrice’s clinical movements.

Beatrice leaned in closer, her face just inches from Melinda’s knees. She could smell the sweet, floral scent of Melinda’s skin mixing with the medicinal tang of the lube. "Look at you," Beatrice whispered, her eyes dark with a hunger she no longer bothered to hide. "So vulnerable. So perfectly open for me."

She withdrew the swab but kept her fingers in place, tracing the rim of the metal instrument, her touch lingering far longer than any diagnosis required. She watched the way Melinda’s plump, curvy bottom buckled against the chaise, the sheer physical weight of her desire making her tremble.

"The examination is nearly complete," Beatrice said, her voice dropping to a seductive rasp. "But I think I need to check the sensitivity of the surrounding tissue one more time... just to be certain of your recovery."

Beatrice’s professional facade finally began to fracture, the discipline melting into a raw, unchecked hunger. She set the tools aside, the metal clicking against the side table, and replaced them with the only thing Melinda truly needed: the direct, heavy weight of her hand.

"You’re trembling, Melinda," Beatrice observed, her voice now a low, predatory growl. "Your body is fighting the infection, but it’s fighting me, too. Or perhaps... it’s begging."

Beatrice didn't wait for a reply. She discarded the speculum and dove back in, her gloved fingers slick with lube and Melinda’s own mounting heat. This time, there was no clinical hesitation. She buried two fingers deep into Melinda’s plush, yielding interior, finding the exact point where the internal ache met a sharp, electric throb of pleasure.

Melinda’s back arched violently, her long red hair cascading off the edge of the chaise like a waterfall of fire. "Beatrice! Oh—"

"Shh," Beatrice commanded, her auburn hair falling forward as she leaned over Melinda, pinning her down with the sheer force of her presence. She began a rhythmic, curled motion deep inside, a "come-hither" gesture that drove Melinda’s hips upward. "Tell me how it feels to be handled like this. Tell me you need your medicine."

The sensation was overwhelming. Melinda felt the fullness of Beatrice’s intrusion, the way those steady, strong fingers stretched and claimed her. Her curvy bottom pressed hard into the velvet, her plump thighs shaking as she tried to find purchase against the air. The dull discomfort of the UTI was being drowned out by a tidal wave of sensory input—the friction, the wetness, and the sight of Beatrice’s dark, focused eyes watching her unravel.

Beatrice added a third finger, pushing deeper, her thumb finding the sensitive, swollen nub at the apex of Melinda’s vulnerability. She applied a firm, circular pressure, mimicking the relentless pace of her internal work.

"You’re so close, aren't you?" Beatrice whispered, her breath hot against Melinda’s ear. "The inflammation is peaking, Melinda. I can feel your pulse jumping against my fingertips. Give it to me."

Melinda’s breath became a series of high, desperate whimpers. The world narrowed down to the point of contact between them—the slick, sliding heat and the authoritative pressure that refused to let her go. She felt the climax rising like a fever, hot and unstoppable.

With one final, deep thrust and a heavy, grounding pressure from Beatrice’s thumb, the dam broke. Melinda’s internal muscles clamped down tight around Beatrice’s hand in a series of rhythmic, pulsing contractions. She cried out, her voice echoing through the silent library, her body shuddering as the release washed over her in waves of golden light.

Beatrice didn't pull away. She stayed there, deep inside, feeling every aftershock of Melinda’s peak, her own face flushed with a dark, triumphant satisfaction. The "examination" was over, but the look in Beatrice’s eyes suggested that the treatment had only just begun.

The library, once a place of quiet study and clinical "examinations," had transformed into a sanctuary of raw, undeniable heat. As the tremors of Melinda’s release finally began to settle, she reached upward, her fingers tangling in the auburn silk of Beatrice’s hair. With a strength born of pure, liberated desire, she pulled the older woman down, closing the distance between them.

Their lips met with a desperate, bruising passion. It wasn't the soft, fairytale kiss of a princess; it was the hungry, thirsty reclamation of a woman who had been watched and handled until she was desperate to handle in return. Beatrice groaned into Melinda’s mouth, her tongue sweeping past Melinda’s teeth to claim her territory.

"Melinda," Beatrice rasped against her lips, her professional composure finally shattering. "You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to take you like this."

Melinda didn't answer with words. She reached for the buttons of Beatrice’s tailored blouse, her hands trembling as she fumbled them open. She wanted to see the woman beneath the suit. As the silk fell away, Beatrice’s own form was revealed—elegant, lean, and firm, with breasts that were high and tipped with deep rose.

Melinda sat up, her long red curls brushing against Beatrice’s chest. She leaned forward, her mouth finding one of Beatrice’s nipples, swirling her tongue around the peak until Beatrice gasped, her head falling back.

"My turn to examine you, Beatrice," Melinda whispered playfully, though her eyes were dark with intent.

Beatrice stripped out of her skirt and hosiery with frantic efficiency, exposing the pale, smooth lines of her legs. She moved Melinda to the center of the large library table, sweeping aside heavy law books and inkwells. She laid Melinda back, her curvy bottom resting against the cool wood, her legs draped over Beatrice’s shoulders.

The sight was breathtaking. Melinda’s breasts were full and heavy, swaying with her movements, the aureoles dark and sensitive. Beatrice leaned down, her mouth devouring Melinda’s skin, leaving faint marks of possession.

Melinda reached down, her fingers finding the hidden heat between Beatrice’s legs. Unlike Melinda’s soft, moistened vulnerability, Beatrice was a tight, slick ache of anticipation. Melinda slid her fingers inside, marveling at the contrast—the way Beatrice’s body was a coiled spring of tension and hunger.

"You're so wet for me," Melinda teased, her voice regaining that lilt but with a new, seductive edge.

They moved together in a chaotic, beautiful tangle of limbs and red-toned hair. Beatrice eventually moved between Melinda’s thighs, her hands gripping those plush, curvy hips to hold her still. She lowered her head, her tongue finding the center of Melinda's pleasure once more, but this time without the clinical distance of a doctor. She drank from her, her auburn hair fanning out over Melinda's pale stomach.

Melinda’s hands found Beatrice’s head, guiding her, her hips bucking as the friction of skin on skin and the deep, internal work of Beatrice’s fingers drove them both toward the edge.

"Now, Beatrice," Melinda pleaded, her voice a high, sweet melody of need. "I want to feel you."

Beatrice rose up, pressing her body fully against Melinda’s. They rubbed against one another, the soft curves of Melinda’s breasts crushing against the firmer lines of Beatrice’s chest. The friction of their vaginas pressing and sliding together created a wet, rhythmic sound that filled the room.

The climax hit them simultaneously—a violent, beautiful collision. Melinda cried out Beatrice’s name, her legs locking around Beatrice’s waist, pulling her as deep as possible. Beatrice buried her face in the crook of Melinda’s neck, her body racking with pulses of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

As they lay there, the cool air of the library finally beginning to chill their sweat-slicked skin, Beatrice pulled Melinda into her arms, tucking the red-haired woman’s head under her chin.

"I think," Beatrice whispered, her voice finally soft and genuinely gentle, "that your recovery is going to require a very long, very private stay in my bed."

Melinda smiled, tracing a finger over Beatrice's collarbone. "I'll follow whatever orders you give, Beatrice."

****************************

The following morning, the clinical order of the library had been replaced by a heavy, languid heat. The sun filtered through the high windows, casting long shadows across the mahogany table where the power dynamic had irrevocably shifted.

Beatrice, usually the architect of control, found herself stripped of every defense. She lay on her back, her slender, athletic frame exposed to the air. Her body was a contrast to Melinda’s—leaner, with high, firm breasts and a stomach that dipped inward. Her auburn hair, once perfectly flipped, was a tangled mess against the wood. Without her tailored suits and biting wit, she felt terrifyingly small, her skin prickling with a vulnerability she had spent her life avoiding.

Melinda stood over her, her long red curls cascading over her shoulders like a queen’s mantle. The sweetness was still there, but it was tempered by a new, dominant fire. She looked down at Beatrice’s slim legs and the trembling of her thighs with a gaze that was both loving and possessive.

"You've spent so much time 'examining' me, Beatrice," Melinda murmured, her voice a soft, dangerous trill. "But I think it’s time we addressed your own... tensions."

Beatrice tried to speak, but her throat was dry. The exposure was overwhelming; she felt naked in a way that went beyond the lack of clothes. She was a woman of law and logic, now reduced to a shivering pulse under Melinda's watch.

Melinda didn't hesitate. She reached for the tube of lubricant, the sound of the slick gel coating her hand causing Beatrice’s breath to hitch. Melinda gathered her fingers together, forming a firm, narrow point. She pressed into Beatrice’s heat, which was already weeping with a desperate, involuntary need.

"Melinda, wait—I’ve never—" Beatrice’s voice cracked as Melinda pushed inward.

"I know," Melinda whispered. "That’s why you need this."

With a slow, inexorable pressure, Melinda began to slide her hand deeper. Beatrice’s eyes flew open, her pupils blown wide with a mix of terror and intoxicating shock. She felt the internal stretch, the way Melinda’s hand claimed every inch of her narrow, tight interior. It was a sensation of being filled completely, of being conquered from the inside out.

Melinda didn't stop until she was fisting Beatrice deeply, her knuckles pressing against the walls of Beatrice's womb. The fullness was staggering. Beatrice’s back arched off the table, her breasts straining upward, her heels digging into the wood as she tried to escape the sensation and simultaneously pull it deeper.

"Look at you, Beatrice," Melinda commanded, leaning over to watch the way Beatrice’s body reacted to the intrusion. "So slim, so refined, and yet you're stretching so perfectly for me."

Beatrice let out a strangled cry. The loss of control was absolute. She was being held open, handled with a raw strength that bypassed her mind and went straight to her nerves. The pressure was relentless. Melinda began a slow, rhythmic pulsing, her hand moving just enough to keep the friction at a fever pitch.

The terror of the vulnerability melted into an insatiable hunger. Beatrice’s internal muscles began to seize around Melinda’s hand, a desperate, rhythmic clenching that she couldn't stop.

"Please," Beatrice gasped, her head thrashing from side to side. "Melinda, I can't... I’m going to—"

"Go then," Melinda said, her voice a firm, grounding anchor. "Break for me."

The climax hit Beatrice like a physical blow. It was a violent, total-body release that left her sobbing for breath. Her body buckled around Melinda’s hand, wave after wave of intense, pressurized pleasure crashing through her. In that moment of total exposure, the sharp-edged lawyer was gone, replaced by a woman who had finally found someone strong enough to hold her when she fell apart.

Melinda stayed with her, her hand remaining a heavy, comforting presence inside until the last of the tremors faded. She leaned down, kissing Beatrice’s sweat-slicked brow with a gentle, triumphant smile.

"There," Melinda whispered. "Now you’re exactly where you belong."