The Doctor’s House Call
I have always been a bit of a provocateur. I love the thrill of awakening desire in others, the electric tension of a gaze that lingers a second too long. Usually, my boyfriend is the sole recipient of my flirtations, but a sudden, grueling bout of illness left me stranded and vulnerable in my own bedroom, craving a different kind of attention.
When the house call doctor arrived, I was in no state to be formal. I lay in bed, clad only in an oversized sweatshirt and a tiny lace thong, shivering under the sheets. As he began his examination, asking about my symptoms and the pain I had been enduring, the clinical atmosphere shifted. When he asked to examine me, I didn’t hesitate. I shifted onto my stomach, the sheets sliding away to reveal the curves I took such pride in.
I could feel his gaze roaming over me, a heavy, appreciative weight. When he asked me to adjust my position, I moved into a submissive, kneeling posture, sliding my thong down to my mid-thighs. I felt a rush of heat—half embarrassment, half intense arousal—as I exposed myself completely to him. The professional distance between us vanished the moment his fingers touched me. While his diagnosis was clinical, the tension in the room was anything but.
When he stood up, I caught a glimpse of his trousers; he was clearly affected by the sight of me. A mischievous spark ignited in my mind. I asked him to stay for a few minutes while my helper fetched my medication, requesting that he administer the first injection himself. As he prepared the needle, I slid off the bed and discarded my thong entirely, leaving it draped provocatively on the nightstand. I watched his composure crack as I leaned over the edge of the mattress, offering him a full view of my desire.
The injection was slow, almost agonizingly so. Then, I played my final card, asking for his help applying a healing ointment to a sensitive area I couldn’t reach. I returned to that kneeling position, my breath hitching as his finger, slick with cream, began to trace slow, rhythmic circles. I let out a soft moan, a sound of pure pleasure that I pretended was pain. The air between us was thick with unspoken hunger, a dance of power and submission that left me trembling.
He left shortly after, but the game wasn’t over. When he returned that evening for the second dose, I ensured the environment was just as charged. I wore a thin t-shirt and another thong, playing the part of the recovering patient while leading him back to the sanctuary of my bed. Once again, I exposed myself, watching his struggle to remain professional while his body betrayed him. As he applied the ointment one last time, I saw the evidence of his arousal through his clothes, and I felt myself grow slick and aching for him.
After he departed for the final time, I hurried to the bathroom only to find a delicious surprise: my thong was gone. He had taken it as a trophy. When my boyfriend arrived later to pamper me, I led him to the bed and asked him to apply the ointment just as the doctor had. As my boyfriend’s fingers worked their magic, I closed my eyes, imagining the doctor’s touch and the secret we now shared.