My story begins when I go to my former pediatrician's office to pick up a copy of my vaccination record for my new GP. I have been seeing this new doctor for a few years, and just recently the issue of past vaccinations arose, so I thought getting my records was a good idea. I show up at the end of the day, rushing to his office right from work. By the time I get there, the receptionist is just closing, but welcomes me in to pick up my chart. She mentions that Dr. Burns is still in his office catching up on some files and that if I wanted to pop my head in to say hello it was ok. As I head down to his office I hear her leave and lock the door behind her.

"Dr. Burns? It's me, Melissa Corey. Just wanted to say hi while I was here." He looked up from his chart and motioned for me to take a seat in front of him. As I removed my coat he finished writing and pushed the file aside. "Melissa my dear, it's so good to see you again. How are you?" We spent a few minutes chatting — I told him all about my job and how happy I was to get something right after graduating from college. He listened and seemed genuinely interested. It's funny when you become an adult and talk like one with the person who has seen you in every aspect turn into who you are. But that is not the object of this story. As I stand up to say goodbye, Dr. Burns stands as well and reaches over to put his hand on my shoulder. "You know Melissa, you are due for a tetanus booster. Why don't I give it to you now and spare you a trip to your doctor?"

I agreed to his offer — it made sense to do it while I was there instead of making another trip. He led me into an exam room and asked me to remove my blouse. I unbuttoned my blouse as he prepared the syringe. As he swabbed my arm, I sneezed. Dr. Burns remarked that he didn't remember me having allergies and asked if I was coming down with something. I answered that with the excitement of the new job and all my normal routine had been slightly off, so maybe I was. As he plunged the syringe into my arm, he suggested that he check me out, just to be safe. I reluctantly agreed, knowing full well that arguing with him was futile.

"Well Melissa, you know the routine — take everything off and jump up on the table." As Dr. Burns spoke he turned to wash his hands at the sink.

I had already removed my blouse and then continued by taking off my skirt, lingering for a moment before removing my tights, as I debated whether I should take my bra and panties off as well. I decided to leave them on, after all, he is a pediatrician! As I sat on the table, I caught him glancing at me from the corner of his eye, a tiny, knowing smirk playing across his face. It was so subtle, like he was testing me, or waiting for me to break.

The radiator clanked once, twice, somewhere down the hall like it was trying to keep the room from feeling too empty. I stood there in nothing but my bra and panties, the cool metal of the table pressing into the backs of my knees. My coat was still on the chair, blouse buttoned where I’d left it, skirt half-zipped because I’d been too nervous to finish. I told myself I was only waiting for the shot to kick in. My fingers kept brushing the hem of my panties again, deciding again whether I should take them off too — because he was a pediatrician. My doctor. The thought should have felt safe. Instead it sent a tiny, shameful shiver up my spine and I found myself staring at the soft swell of my left breast under the thin bra, letting my eyes drift without meaning to. Just… looking. Just checking. Just making sure nothing was wrong.

He turned back from the sink, eyes finding mine for half a second — calm, professional, almost fond — before they dropped, just for a breath, to the pale lace cup where my areolas sat hidden. I felt the look like a touch I hadn’t asked for. My skin prickled all the way down my back. I shifted my weight, the table creaking faintly, and I told myself it was only the chill in the room, only the way my nipples had tightened against the fabric because the air was suddenly colder on my thighs. Nothing more. He even reached out and gave my chest one tiny, clinical tap — just two fingers, like he was checking for fever or listening to your breathing — and then let his hand rest lightly on the same spot for a second longer than necessary. Then, softer than I expected, he said it, voice light and clinical like he was commenting on a patient’s growth chart:

“Melissa… I'm noticing your areolas are partially visible through your bra. They have grown so well. Most women never achieve full areolar development and yours are really quite remarkable.”

The words slid over me like cool water over heated skin. My breath caught. I didn’t move my hands. I just sat there, letting the silence stretch, letting my own thoughts creep in where they weren’t invited.

──────────────────

“Melissa, before we get started with the real exam, let’s do a quick set of measurements for the research notes,” he said, calm and matter-of-fact, like he was checking a growth chart on a child. “You know how we do this — just a few numbers while you’re dressed. Stand up for me.”

I hesitated for half a second, the radiator clanking softly in the silence, then slid off the table. My legs felt unsteady on the cold linoleum. He stepped close, gloved hands hovering just above my chest. “Breathe in… hold… out.” His fingertips rested lightly on the outer curve of my left breast, palm flat against the lace bra, thumb brushing the underside so the fabric stretched and lifted. “Beautiful weight and fullness. Those breasts are perfect — 34D, I’d guess, heavy and well-developed.” His other hand moved to my hips, fingers spreading wide over the flare just above the waistband of my panties. “And your hips have widened so nicely. Look how they spread for me. 28 inches of pure feminine curve.”

His gloved hand then moved and rested heavy and warm right over my bra, and just… cupped. Not squeezed, not really, but his fingers spread wide, palm pressing flat against the soft swell of my left breast, thumb barely brushing the underside, the other hand doing the same to the right. His fingers flexed subtly, like he was measuring the weight, but he wasn’t really cupping them — or maybe he was, I couldn’t tell, the pressure was so light it felt more like he was resting there, claiming space, letting his warmth seep through the thin fabric while I sat frozen, heart hammering so loud I was sure he could hear it. He didn’t move his hand once, just let it sit there, thumb and forefinger idly circling the edge of the bra cup without actually lifting or pulling, as if he was listening to my breathing and deciding how much more I was going to give him tonight.

He didn’t ask. He just… measured. Like it was nothing. Like I was already his patient in every way that mattered. My pulse hammered so loud I was sure he could hear it, but his voice stayed warm and clinical. “You’re doing so well, Melissa. Most girls your age don’t develop this well at all.”

While I stood there, still half-dressed, he reached into the drawer beside the sink and pulled out a soft measuring tape, the kind he used on kids for height and arm span. “Now, for the medical history update,” he continued, eyes flicking up to mine with that gentle, professional smile. “I need to refresh a few things. Any changes in your menstrual cycle since you were last in? Or… any new sensitivities around your chest or hips? It’s just routine, sweetheart — we’re building a long-term profile.”

I swallowed, my voice barely above a whisper. “No… nothing new.” The words felt small in the quiet room.

He nodded, as if that were exactly the answer he’d expected, and kept going without missing a beat. “And your weight? I remember you weighed 128 at your last check-up at nineteen. Any fluctuation at all? Or… any difference in how your body feels to touch now?” His gloved fingers lingered on the curve of my waist, then slid down to trace the exact edge of my hip, taking the measurement as if he were memorizing the shape for a chart. “We’ll note it here. 142 pounds, as usual. Perfect symmetry.”

I shifted my weight again, the table creaking faintly behind me, and he used the tape to measure the bra-band circumference — wrapping it gently around the fullest part of my chest, right under the cups, adjusting it with two fingers like it was the most important detail in the world. “Just a little tighter than last time,” he murmured, almost tenderly. “Progression noted. These areolas are growing beautifully, Melissa. Most women never achieve full areolar development — those dark, puffy circles blooming perfectly around the nipple — and yours are really quite remarkable. You’re one of the lucky ones.”

He prodded for a minute or so about my abdoment mumbled something about feeling a mass, and then continued down to my panties. He did the one thing that bothered me even more than his rectal temp method — he lifted the band of my panties, took a look, and then pulled them back up. I don't really know why that bothered me so much, but it did. He had me sit up before continuing with the rest of the exam. "Well, I felt something when I was examining your abdomen — it may be nothing it may be something, so please answer me honestly. When was your last bowel movement?" I actually was a bit worried, and quickly answered that I had last gone yesterday morning. His "uh-huh" response was not reassuring. Nor were the comments that followed. "Well then Melissa, I think I should do a rectal examination to rule out anything more serious, as I'm not so sure that it is just constipation." At this point, I was no longer all that comfortable sitting clad only in panties at the age of 23 at my pediatrician's office. I wanted to politely tell him that I would call my GP tomorrow and schedule an appointment, but I was feeling intimidated, as if he would call my mother if I left, so reluctantly I continued to comply with the good doctor's instructions.

His hand stayed on my waist a moment longer than necessary, thumb brushing the small of my back, then he stepped back, notebook already open, pen poised. “All done. You’re being such a good girl for me. Now… take everything off and jump up on the table.” His eyes met mine again, warm and knowing, as if he already knew exactly how my body would feel under the next stage of the exam.

---

Then, when I finally stood up on the table and he turned back, he said it in that calm, professional voice like it was the most routine thing in the world:

"Well, Melissa… you’ve grown into such an impressive young woman. Those breasts of yours — God, they’re magnificent. The way they’ve developed, so full and heavy, with areolas that have just blossomed into perfect, dark, puffy circles surrounding those sweet little nipples… it’s really quite remarkable. I’ve seen plenty of breasts in my practice, of course, but nothing quite like yours. The symmetry, the fullness, the way they sit so perfectly on your chest… it’s beautiful, almost textbook. I’ll be sure to examine them very carefully today."

I sat there in my bra and panties, blushing so hard my face burned, while his hand kept resting on my breast like he owned it, and all I could think was that something was deeply, terribly wrong.

Next was taking my temperature, a procedure I remember loathing as I got older. You see, Dr. Burns was a stickler for detail and insisted not only on using a rectal thermometer, but he used a digital one that beeped when it was done. I was hoping that he would respect my dignity and spare me the humiliation. But I should have known better. "C'mon now Melissa, on your tummy like a good girl" chided the good doctor, his voice suddenly dripping with condescending sweetness, like I was one of his little patients instead of a grown woman who just wanted to be done with this. I couldn't believe this was happening to me. Not only was I about to have my temperature taken in my ass by a pediatrician who was treating me like a child, but he was talking to me as if I were a child. I wished that the exam table would suddenly melt into the floor. I reluctantly rolled onto my stomach and obligingly lifted my hips so that he could lower my panties.

He didn't just pull them down—he helped me with them. "Let me help you with those, Melissa, just to be nice," he said with that same fake-polite tone, his gloved hands sliding right under the waistband. His fingers brushed past my pussy as he tugged the fabric down, and I felt him pause for the briefest second, letting his thumb graze lightly over my clit. It wasn't a full rub, but it was enough to make me glance back and see the tiniest smirk on his face. When the panties finally slipped down to my knees, my vagina was fully exposed—puffy lips, smooth and already glistening slightly from the sudden cool air and my own embarrassment. He didn't look away. "Well, well… look at that. Impressive development here too."

He then dipped the thermometer in vaseline and brought it towards me. I could feel the weight of his stare upon my rosebud when he drove the thermometer home. He then rested his hand on my buttocks and started to ask me about my last visit to the gynecologist as my temp registered. I didn't answer him as I couldn't believe he was asking me that! After a few moments of silence, he spoke, telling me that with the changing times, and girls getting sexually active earlier in life that he had begun performing pelvics on some of his patients and was thinking of expanding his general pediatric practice to a pediatric gynecology practice. I was a bit surprised to be hearing all this and just nodded as I felt my cheeks turning a lovely shade of crimson.

Now Melissa, there is nothing to be ashamed of. I'm sure that by now you have seen a gynecologist and I just wanted to know how recently, as a concern of general health. So, when was your last visit? I told him that I hadn't been to one since my senior year of college. Actually, the only gynecologist I had ever seen was at college. Of course he was not happy with that answer and decided that when he finished checking me out he would demonstrate his gynecological technique to me too. I could hardly wait... Luckily, the thermometer beeped as we were finishing that conversation. It seems that I was running a temp and the good doctor was glad that he caught it. "Probably nothing more than a mild throat infection. We'll get that cleared right up with some antibiotics, now why don't you lie back so I can finish the examination."

He smiled that slow, knowing smile again and patted my hip like I was one of his little patients. “On your back now, Melissa, knees up and spread for me like a good girl.” The condescension in his voice made my stomach twist — it was the same tone he used with his actual child patients. I started to feel it then: that deep, creeping discomfort that had been building since his hand had rested on my breast. My skin was prickling, my pulse racing, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very, very wrong with the way he was looking at me. I lay back on the cold table, heart hammering, already wishing the exam would end so I could run.

He leaned in until his breath was hot , voice thick with condescension, “You know, Melissa, I’ve been watching those beautiful breasts of yours grow into such magnificent things. Those huge, heavy, puffy areolas that sit so perfectly on your chest — they’re in the top 95th percentile for size and development, really quite impressive for a 23-year-old. I’ve measured them before, you know. They look even better now, full and round, just begging to be examined again.” His hand slid up slowly, palm flat against my lower back, fingers splaying wide, and I felt his thumb brush the very edge of my bra strap while he “helped” me pull up my panties with his other hand. I couldn’t turn around. I just stood there frozen, heart pounding, praying he would stop touching me.

I followed him back to the exam room, noting the silence in the rest of the office. I sat up on the table and Dr. Burns extended the stirrups. He informed me that he wanted to begin with the pelvic and then end with the rectal exam. Just lovely I thought to myself — let this be a lesson to me to have records faxed in the future! But on with the exam. He snapped on a pair of gloves and began by visually inspecting my genitals — he scrutinized as if he had never seen an adult woman naked before. He then examined my vaginal lips and tugged a little at my pubic hair. He explained that he wanted to assess the coarseness and length — I had never heard of that, but was too annoyed already to question him. I think he sensed that, as a few other aspects of the exam seemed out of the ordinary. He continued by running his index finger up and down my slit. I wanted to stop myself, but I started getting wet, VERY wet. I couldn't believe myself or the situation. I just closed my eyes and lay there on the exam table.

He then turned his attention to my breasts. He cupped them from below, lifting and squeezing with both hands as if measuring their weight and fullness. His fingers brushed over the large, puffy areolas, pinching and tugging gently at first, then more firmly. He rolled them between his fingers, stretching the sensitive tissue until they were stretched wide and taut. The discomfort mixed with unwanted arousal made my nipples harden further, and he took his time, spending long minutes groping and molesting them — squeezing, pulling, and circling his thumbs over the sensitive peaks. "Nice and full," he murmured, "very impressive development." He then took out a caliper-like measuring tool and gently measured my breasts, tracing the circumference of each areola and the distance between them. He looked up at me with a satisfied, creepy smile. "I'm impressed, Melissa. These are in the top 90th percentile for size and development. Very impressive for your age."

He then flicked my clit a few times and announced that he was going to begin with the speculum and then the bimanual exam. With that, he turned to pick up a speculum. He inserted the cool metal and began to slowly expand it, causing me little discomfort at first. But then he pushed it deeper, forcing the metal to stretch my vaginal walls painfully wide. The sides dug into my sensitive inner flesh, tearing and burning as they expanded far beyond what I expected, making me gasp and clench involuntarily. It felt like he was literally tearing my pussy open with the oversized speculum. He shone a penlight to see my cervix and then took a Pap smear. He withdrew the swab, and then closed the handles, turned the speculum, and removed it from my vagina with a wet, painful sound. After replacing the speculum on the tray, he squeezed some KY onto his fingers and started with one finger in my vagina. He then pushed in a second finger and felt around some more. With two fingers in, he then pushed down above my pubic bone, and explained that he was trying to feel my ovaries. After a few moments, he stopped pressing and withdrew his fingers. My eyes still closed, I heard him squeeze KY again. Without warning, he had a finger in my vagina and one poking at my anus. He told me to relax to allow him entrance, and I stifled a sob. He continued pressing forward and my anal ring allowed his finger to penetrate my rectum. He pushed around and then removed his fingers from both holes. I took a deep breath, opened my eyes, and began to sit up. He was stripping off his gloves when he noticed me sitting up. "Melissa, we aren't quite done yet. There's still the rectal exam to do. Please lie back down." Silly me. I thought he was done after that finger fucking of my ass. But once again he had a card up his sleeve.

With my legs in the stirrups, he pushed them wider so as to give him a better view of my anus. He put on a fresh pair of gloves, dabbed on some KY and began to insert his finger. He pushed in, slowly at first and soon I felt him penetrate beyond his second knuckle. He twisted and turned his finger, seeming not to want to miss a millimetre of my previously virgin area. He removed his finger and I breathed a sigh of relief. Until, that is I saw him pick up a rectal speculum. "I want to get a better look, and take a swab back there. This might hurt a bit, as you are rather tight, but if you relax it won't be that bad. Now take a deep breath..." He was so calm compared to my bundle of nerves, as he pushed the shiny metal into me. And he was right — it did hurt! I wanted to scream out, but instead I lay there like a rag doll as he continued his assault on my anal area. Satisfied with the depth of the speculum, he began expanding it, and once again produced the penlight to take a better look. He took the hemocult swab, closed and removed the speculum, much to my relief. Before allowing me up, he re-inserted his finger and pressed down on my abdomen with his other hand. He mumbled something incomprehensible, and then withdrew his finger. At last I was allowed to sit up.

I realized my nakedness as Doc Burns turned to speak to me. He told me that everything appeared normal, however he was concerned about the mass he had felt in my abdomen. He gave me the option of an enema, which would allow him to examine the contents of my bowels, or a suppository which would most likely take effect when I got home. I chose to maintain what little dignity remained and opted for the suppository. He seemed somewhat disappointed when I gave my response but chose not to argue. He opened a cabinet and withdrew two suppositories. He unwrapped the little bullets, relubed his finger and inserted the first. He kept his finger in my anus for a moment, withdrew it and pushed the second one home. This time his finger lingered much longer, and he explained that he wanted it to melt completely.

──────────────────

After he finally squeezes my ass together for several long minutes and wipes the excess lube away, I start to get dressed. I pull my panties on quickly, then look for my bra, hoping to cover as much of myself as quickly as I can. I have one arm of my blouse on when Dr. Burns turns to me and says, “Now Melissa, I hope you haven’t forgotten about that mild throat infection. We still need to deal with that.”

He explains the throat infection in detail while I’m still half-dressed, but I’m too woozy from the shot and the whole day’s humiliation to argue. He keeps talking about “the perfect way the areolas develop in women like you” and how he’s been collecting data on areola size, shape, and response for his research paper. My head is spinning from the antibiotics and the stress, so everything feels a little fuzzy and distant. When he says I might need to come back in a few days for a follow-up “areola development study,” I nod automatically, still trusting him completely like I always have.

He smiles that slow, knowing smile again. “Before you get fully dressed, though, I want to make sure I have accurate measurements for my notes. Those areolas of yours are in the top 95th percentile, Melissa. Really quite impressive development. Can you just stand there while I examine them properly? It’s part of the research — I need to document everything.”

I hesitate for half a second, confused and still a little dazed. The shot is making my limbs feel heavy, and the whole morning feels like a dream I can’t wake up from. But he’s Dr. Burns. The man who’s known me since I was a baby. I can’t say no to him. I let him take the caliper tool from the tray and position me standing with my arms at my sides.

He starts the examination in the most clinical way possible — the same voice he used on every child patient. “Let’s begin with circumference. Breathe in… hold… now out.” He traces the outer edge of my left areola with the caliper, then the right. “14.2 cm on the left, 13.8 cm on the right. Perfect symmetry for your age. Next, we measure the diameter of the areola itself.” He uses a small ruler and writes every number in his notebook like it’s the most important data he’s ever collected. “Diameter 4.1 cm left, 3.9 cm right. Excellent. Now the distance between the centers — 7.3 cm. Textbook.”

He sets the tools down and steps closer, his gloved hands hovering just above my breasts. “I’m going to examine the tissue response next. For research, we need to see how the areolas react to manipulation.” His fingers spread wide over my left areola, palm flat, then slide inward. He pinches the edge lightly at first — nothing more than a clinical pinch — but I feel the pressure increase. “Relax, Melissa. This is normal for studies on areola sensitivity.” He pinches again, harder, then rolls the puffy circle between his thumb and forefinger like he’s testing dough. His other hand does the same to the right areola. I try to step back, but he’s already behind me, holding my hips steady.

He twists the areolas slowly, stretching them wider and wider until the skin is pulled thin and taut. “See how they balloon out? That’s exactly the response we’re measuring — dramatic expansion in larger areolas. Look at that stretch.” He pinches harder now, twisting in different directions, pulling until the areolas are stretched into thin, almost translucent circles. His thumbs press directly on the centers, circling and pressing while he writes notes in his notebook with the other hand. “Sensitivity is high — 9/10 on the pain scale for you. We’re going to test that next.”

I’m frozen, heart hammering, but I can’t pull away. He’s been my doctor my whole life. My nipples are rock-hard and aching now, and I can feel myself starting to get wet again despite everything. He pinches the sensitive peaks directly — not gently, not even carefully — and rolls them between his fingers while he keeps the areolas stretched. “This is where it gets interesting. In your case, the areolas are so responsive they actually start to swell further under manipulation. Watch.” He pinches one nipple harder, twisting it like he’s wringing out milk, then does the same to the other. I let out a small sound and he shushes me softly. “Shh, Melissa. This is part of the study. You’re being so good.”

He keeps going for several long minutes — stretching the areolas until they’re stretched wide and shiny, pinching and rolling the nipples until they’re swollen and purple, tugging on the puffy edges while he measures every millimetre of the new shape. He writes down “areola diameter now 4.8 cm left, 3.7 cm right” and “nipple length 2.1 cm, extremely elongated.” His touch is no longer clinical. It’s possessive. He squeezes the stretched areolas together like they’re soft dough, then pinches the nipples again until tears prick at my eyes. “Perfect specimen, Melissa. These areolas are going to make such a contribution to the paper. I can already see the patterns we’ll see in women with this level of development.”

By the time he finally lets go of my breasts, my areolas feel heavy, swollen, and stretched so far they ache in a way I’ve never felt before. My nipples are sore and throbbing, and I can still see the purple marks his fingers left on them. He writes the final notes in his notebook without even looking up. “Excellent specimen, Melissa. These areolas are going to make such a contribution to the paper. I can already see the patterns we’ll see in women with this level of development.”

He steps back for a moment, then reaches for a small syringe filled with a thick, clear liquid. His voice stays calm, almost affectionate. “For the next part of the study, we’re going to test how the tissue reacts to direct injections. These are very sensitive, aren’t they? You’re being so good for me, Melissa. Lie back down on the table and spread your legs wide. This is just another measurement — nothing to worry about.”

I’m still dazed from the first shot, the shame, and the way my body feels so wrong. My head is spinning, and I can’t bring myself to refuse him. I lie back, pull my knees up, and spread myself for him like he asked, still trusting completely that Dr. Burns would never hurt me.

He snaps on fresh gloves and positions the needle right at the center of my left nipple. “Hold still now, Melissa.” He pushes the syringe in and depresses the plunger slowly, injecting the thick liquid straight into my nipple. I gasp and my whole body jolts. He doesn’t pull the needle out right away — he leaves it inside and starts twisting it gently, pumping more liquid in while I feel the hot, heavy substance spreading through my breast. “See? It’s reacting exactly as we expected. Now the right side.” He moves to my other nipple, injects again, and twists the needle in the same slow, deliberate way. The pain is sharp and deep, like he’s flooding my breasts with fire. My nipples swell instantly, turning dark and puffy, and the liquid makes them feel bloated and bruised.

He keeps the needles in for several long minutes, twisting and pumping while he writes notes in his notebook. “Diameter now 4.8 cm left, 3.7 cm right — the injections are making them even larger. Sensitivity is 9/10 already. Look how they’re reacting.” The shots continue — one more into each nipple, then a few more into the sides of the areolas themselves — and every time he holds my breasts (which is every few seconds now), he squeezes them hard. Not cupping. Crushing. His gloved fingers dig deep into the soft flesh, the nails biting into my skin, forcing the breasts to bulge and deform between his palms. The pressure is so intense my nipples feel like they’re being flattened and stretched at the same time. I try to cry out but he shushes me softly. “Shh, Melissa. This is necessary for the data. You’re doing so well.”

The crushing squeezes and the shots keep going — harder now, his hands gripping so tight the bruises are already forming, the needles pumping until my breasts feel massively swollen and heavy, the areolas stretched wide and shiny from the liquid. My nipples are throbbing, dark, and leaking a the clear fluid injected into them the pressure; stretchmarks start at the edge of one areola, then another — because the stretching and the squeezing is too much. The pain is overwhelming and constant, but I still can’t say no to him. He’s my doctor. He knows what he’s doing. He keeps writing the measurements: “areola diameter now 6.2 cm left, 4.5 cm right (post-injection)” and “nipple length 3.8 cm, extreme elongation and distortion.”

By the time he finally pulls the needles out, my breasts are ruined — massively swollen, deeply bruised, leaking, and stretchmarks as if they grew again. The fluid injected has made my nipples puff out so far, 1 inch; that there is no way they can even be hidden with a thickly padded bra. The crushing has left deep red and purple handprints across both breasts. I lie there trembling, half-dressed, while Dr. Burns calmly cleans up the tray like none of this was ever non-medical.

──────────────────

I’m still dazed from everything — the shot, the crushing, the leaking, the shame. My head is spinning so hard I can barely think. I nod because I trust him completely, the same way I trusted him when I was eleven and he gave me my first shot. I lie back, pull my knees up, and spread my legs as wide as my body allows.

I heard my own voice croak out a soft, broken “Yes, Doctor…” before I could stop it, and Dr. Burns’ smile widened like he’d won something precious. He snapped on fresh gloves, slicked his fingers thick with KY, and slid the first two right into my pussy without warning. My inner walls clenched hard, trying to push them out, but he just pushed deeper, curling them against that hidden spot inside until my hips jerked against his hand. “That’s it, Melissa… good girl. Feel how your walls are already fluttering? Relax for me. I’m not hurting you yet… I’m helping.” The pressure felt wrong, too much, but something in his calm tone made the burning ease a little. My thighs trembled, and I could feel myself getting wetter against my will. He pumped them slow and steady, twisting just enough to make my g-spot throb, and the pain melted into a strange, throbbing warmth that made my clit pulse. “See? You’re already better. Good. Now one more finger… just to make sure.”

I winced the second he added the third, my pussy stretching around the thick intrusion, lips burning as they were forced wider. He didn’t stop. He kept pumping, deeper, until his knuckles bumped my clit and I couldn’t hold back the gasp that turned into a whimper. “Shhh, it’s almost done, Melissa. Feel how much better you’re feeling? Your cunt is opening up for me now… that’s what the research wants.” My eyes watered, but the discomfort was fading, replaced by a heavy, hollow ache that made my knees shake. He pulled out slowly, letting my pussy lips pop back together, swollen and glistening. “Better already, aren’t you? Lie still while I grab the expander. This will just check the connection.”

He reached for a small black rubber balloon attached to a thin metal rod, like a tiny deflated balloon on a syringe. It looked almost harmless—half an inch across, smooth and shiny. “Only for five minutes, Melissa. Just to confirm the areola-vagina link is perfect. You’ll feel a little pressure, but nothing bad.” I nodded weakly, still dazed, and watched him lube it thickly. The first gentle push burned, but after a minute the stretch felt almost tolerable, like he was testing how far my body could open without tearing. My pussy lips parted around the tiny head, and I felt the tip nudge deeper, pressing against that same hidden spot. It didn’t hurt. Not really. My hips gave a tiny, involuntary roll, and I moaned low in my throat. He pumped it in and out slow, watching my face, and I felt myself getting wetter, hotter, the pain easing into something thicker, wetter. “See? Perfect. The nerves are exactly where they should be. You’re doing so well.”

Then he turned the little dial. The black balloon started to swell, inch by inch, pushing my walls apart with a wet, obscene sound. I gasped, eyes flying open, and the first real pain hit when it hit 1.5 inches—my pussy stretched so tight I felt like I was splitting in half. My legs kicked, knees trying to slam shut, but he held them wide in the stirrups. “Easy now… almost there. Only five minutes, remember?” The balloon kept inflating, growing thicker, heavier, forcing my cunt to take more and more. My walls screamed, inner muscles spasming around the rubber, but the stretching felt… good? My clit throbbed in time with my heartbeat, and I felt myself clench hard around the expanding toy. Sweat poured down my face. He kept pumping it up, slow, deliberate, watching my pussy lips bulge outward, turning red, then purple. By the time it reached 2 inches my scream tore out of me, raw and animal, and he just smiled. “It’s almost done, Melissa. The link is perfect.”

The balloon kept growing. Inch after inch, until it was 3 inches, then 4, forcing my pussy to tear open around the rubber, walls splitting in tiny, burning fissures that leaked clear fluid. I could feel every ridge of the inflating balloon scraping against my sensitive flesh, dragging, pulling, making my g-spot feel like it was being ground to pulp. Pain exploded through me in hot, white waves, my hips bucking wildly, but Dr. Burns held me down with one hand on my abdomen, the other pumping the dial higher. “Almost, Melissa… just a little more. The areola-vagina connection is exactly as it should be… perfect specimen.” My cunt was now gaping around the 4-inch balloon, lips stretched paper-thin, torn and raw, but the pain was mixing with something darker, heavier, like my body wanted more. He kept going. 5 inches. My pussy stretched wider, muscles ripping, lube pouring out in thick ropes, soaking the table beneath me. I sobbed, legs shaking, but I couldn’t close them. He was pumping it up to the size of a fist now, then two fists, stretching me until I felt like my whole pelvis was splitting.

Finally he let it reach the size of five penises, inflating it until my vagina was a ruined, gaping hole, lips hanging open like torn meat, torn edges hanging loose, walls raw and shredded, leaking a steady stream of clear fluid. My cunt was destroyed—swollen, cracked, ruined beyond repair. I lay there panting, eyes wide with horror and something darker, the pain so deep there was no difference between hurt and pleasure anymore. Dr. Burns smiled down at me, gentle as ever. “Not to worry, Melissa. All will go back to normal in an hour. You’re doing so well.” He reached one gloved hand inside me again, this time with a rough, irritant towel wrapped around his knuckles, scraping and scrubbing away every drop of lube and torn tissue like he was cleaning a filthy wound. The scraping burned worse than anything, dragging over my shredded walls, making fresh tears leak out as he cleaned me thoroughly. Pain and irritation blurred together completely.

I lay there trembling, half-dressed on the exam table, my ruined cunt still dripping and aching, while Dr. Burns calmly washed his hands at the sink like none of what he’d done had ever happened. The antibiotics were still buzzing in my veins, the shame, the pain, the wet, leaking ruin of my body—it all felt like a dream I couldn’t wake from. He turned back to me with that same slow, knowing smile, voice calm and professional. “There we go, Melissa. All cleaned up. You can get dressed now… or do whatever feels right. I’ll see you in a few days for the follow-up areola development study. And don’t forget the antibiotics—take them as prescribed.” He chuckled softly, almost fondly, while I lay there, pussy hanging open and leaking, body destroyed, mind shattered, whispering to himself, “Perfect specimen… my perfect little Melissa…”

He finally turned, dried his hands on a towel, and smiled that same gentle, paternal smile from when I was twelve and he gave me my first shot. “There, Melissa. All done. You’ve been such a perfect patient today.” His voice was soft, almost loving, like he was praising a child who’d finished her homework. He reached over and patted my thigh—right next to my gaping, ruined hole—and I flinched so violently a fresh trickle of red ran down my ass crack. The touch sent sparks through every torn nerve, turning the numbness into sharp, electric agony that made my vision white out for a second. He didn’t pull away. He just left his hand there, heavy and warm, claiming ownership again. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Your body will be back to normal in an hour. The tears will heal, the stretching will go away… everything will feel perfect again. But right now, you’re just a little overstimulated. Let me help you get dressed so you can get home and rest.”

I tried to nod, but my head was spinning so badly the ceiling tilted. He helped me—slow, careful, like I was one of his actual baby patients. He lifted my legs out of the stirrups one at a time, careful not to jostle my ruined cunt, and pulled my panties up over the swollen, hanging lips with the softest towel I’d ever felt. Every inch of fabric dragged over my shredded walls and I screamed—actually screamed—because the pressure sent fresh waves of tearing pain straight up into my belly. Dr. Burns just shushed me softly, fingers pressing down on my clit like he was calming a crying child. “Shhh, there’s my good girl. We’re almost there. Look how wet you still are… that’s just leftover arousal from the study. Normal for your areola-vagina connection.” He tied the panties, then helped me into my skirt, zipping it slowly over my hips while my body kept leaking onto the floor. The zipper scraped my bruised breasts every time I breathed, and the bra straps dug into the purple handprints until I was gasping.

He helped me sit up, one arm around my shoulders like I was a frail elderly patient. I could barely stand on my own, my legs jelly and my pussy still hanging open, dripping steadily with every tiny shift of my hips. He slid the bra on next, careful to avoid the tender, swollen nipples, and buttoned my blouse over the deep, ugly bruises while I whimpered softly. Every button felt like a spike dragging across my skin. Then he eased me back down so I could put on my tights, sliding them up my legs with the same slow, nurturing patience he used on his actual babies. When he reached my feet I was crying quietly, tears streaming down my face, but he just smiled and patted my cheek. “There we go, Melissa. All dressed and ready to go. You look beautiful as always.” He stood me up on shaky legs, holding me steady while I zipped my coat and slipped my shoes on. The motion made my ruined cunt clench around nothing and fresh red tears leaked out, but he didn’t notice or care. He just walked me to the door, arm around my shoulders the whole way, like a proud father seeing his daughter off after a long day at school.

──────────────────

I was in shock, again! I was hardly expecting another needle, let alone one in my ass. But I knew that I had no choice, so once again I was lying face down on the table. The shot wasn't as painful as I thought it would be, although maybe it was — I couldn't tell you, because I passed out before Doc Burns started plunging the antibiotics into me. By the time I came to, he was finished his assault on my body and was washing up. I sat up, still feeling a bit woozy, and he told me that I could get dressed. He also mentioned that my best course of action would be to have another shot tomorrow and a third one the next day. The alternative was 10 days on oral antibiotics. Needless to say, I took the prescription for 10 days. As I was walking out of the office, I debated whether or not to thank him. But I heard him close his office door and I was pretty sure that I heard him unzip his pants — I figured that was thanks enough.

I stood outside the door, trembling, and I could hear him clearly through the thin wood. His breathing had turned heavy, ragged, and then his voice — low, crude, and dripping with that same condescending satisfaction — drifted out to me. “Fuck yes, Melissa… your body is perfect. Those massive, puffy areolas I had to measure and stretch… I could feel them swelling under my fingers, the way they just ballooned out when I pulled them apart. I had to go back and measure them again after I stretched that old oversized speculum inside your tight little cunt, tearing you open so wide you couldn’t close it for hours. And that fist — yeah, my whole fist in your pussy, stretching you until you were leaking for hours after I pulled out… you were so wet and so fucking tight, I just had to take advantage of those big heavy breasts and that virgin ass. No one else knows what I did to you, and I’ll never let it happen again… but oh fuck, I’m gonna cum thinking about how I ruined you.”

I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, just stood there listening to him destroy himself alone behind the door, whispering medical filth and twisted praise while I trembled outside, half-dressed and leaking.

- NOTE: This is in no way a true story. It is perhaps a description of my ultimate fantasy, however. Hope you enjoyed it!