“W-what? N-no… not really… not like that.”

“Not really?” His brows lifted slightly, the faintest hint of amusement in his tone. “So you’ve tried?”

I bit my lip, my voice small. “Just once. It hurt.”

He nodded slowly, as though filing that information away, and then reached to the counter. I watched him pick up a small bottle, clear and glistening, the cap snapping open. He held it just high enough that my eyes couldn’t look anywhere else. He squeezed, and the lube slid out in a long, glossy ribbon over his gloved fingers, catching the light as it stretched before breaking and pooling in his palm. The sight alone made my stomach clench, because I knew exactly where those coated fingers were going next.

He rubbed his hands together, spreading the slickness across each thick finger, flexing them deliberately. “Much better,” he said, as if to himself, then met my eyes again. “Now I’m going to examine you more closely.”

He stepped back between my legs, his presence filling my view again, and lowered his hand. The first brush of his lubed fingertips against my labia made me gasp—it was cool, slippery, gliding easily as he parted me open. He took his time, spreading the folds with his thumb and forefinger, pulling me apart so he could see everything. The air on my bared flesh made me shiver, my clit throbbing from the exposure.

“You see,” he explained calmly, his voice steady like a teacher’s, “I have to assess the condition of the tissue here, check for elasticity, moisture, response. That means I need to open you up fully.” His fingers widened their hold, tugging me open in a way that felt too much, too intimate, and I whimpered, squeezing my eyes shut.

“Don’t close your eyes,” he murmured. “Stay with me.”

I **** them open, cheeks burning, staring at the ceiling as his slick fingers circled lazily over the rim of my entrance, spreading the lube across me.

Then his voice came again, steady, matter-of-fact, and the words made my whole body tense. “I’m now going to insert my fingers into your vagina.”

He didn’t ask permission—he simply told me, as though it was inevitable, his gloved hand poised between my thighs, ready to push inside.

He lingered at my entrance, two fingers poised, the latex slick with lube, spreading the cool wetness over my folds as though he was preparing a surface for painting. His gaze stayed intent, professional but unwavering, as if the sight of me open beneath him was something he had to memorize.

Then, slow as if savoring the inevitable, he pressed.

The first finger slid inside with a deliberate push, stretching me around it, the lube easing the glide but not hiding the intrusion. I gasped, my hips jerking instinctively against the invasion, my thighs trembling where they rested open for him. He waited, just a moment, letting me feel it fully, before his second finger pressed in beside the first.

“Ahh—” The sound spilled from my lips before I could stop it, a mixture of shock and a needy ache.

“Two fingers,” he murmured, almost to himself, the tone of a man cataloging his own work. “I need to feel the walls, check for sensitivity, moisture, any irregularities.”

He took his time, moving them slowly inside me, spreading and curling, pressing against spots that made my belly tighten. He wasn’t rough—he was too controlled for that—but thorough, deliberate, as if every inch of me had to be inspected. I whimpered softly, ashamed of how wet I was becoming against his gloved knuckles, the slippery sounds of his movements filling the quiet room.

“Good,” he said, voice low, calm. “But I need to see more.”

He eased his fingers out, leaving me gaping and fluttering around nothing, and stripped off his gloves. Rising from the stool, he walked to the cabinet, pulling it open. My breath stuttered when I saw what he set on the counter: a metal speculum, long, gleaming, polished to a cold shine. It looked impossibly large, brutal even, the two curved blades joined by a screw mechanism at the top.

He snapped on a fresh pair of gloves, and once again reached for the lube. I watched, trembling, as he coated the metal with generous streaks of the slick gel, rubbing it across the cold surface until the instrument gleamed wetly under the light. He turned back to me, holding it in one hand, the sight of it making my stomach twist with dread and anticipation.

“This is necessary,” he explained evenly, his eyes steady on mine. “The fingers tell me some things. But the speculum will let me see everything inside you.”

I whimpered, my thighs twitching, but I didn’t close them.

He set the instrument aside for a moment and touched me again with his gloved hand, spreading more lube directly across my folds, his fingers gliding through it, circling, pushing some into my entrance with deliberate pressure. The slickness pooled there, making me shiver at the wet, slippery sensation.

“You’ll need to be well-lubricated for this,” he said matter-of-factly, spreading me open with his thumb and forefinger, dragging the lube right up to my clit and down again, smearing it everywhere until I glistened under the bright exam light.

Then he picked up the speculum again, its weighty gleam filling my vision as he positioned it between my thighs.