Might as well

The room is thick with the scent of antiseptic and something far more intoxicating... power. Dr. Carter stands before you, her body bare, her mind still trapped in the trance. Her lips are slightly parted, her breathing slow and mechanical, like a machine waiting for its next command. You shift in the hospital bed, the thin sheet doing little to hide your growing erection. The sight of her like this - completely under your control - sends a rush of heat through you.

"Come here," you order, your voice low and rough with anticipation. "Get on the bed." Without hesitation, she climbs onto the hospital bed, her movements smooth and unquestioning. Her hands rest on your thighs, her fingers brushing against the fabric of your hospital gown. Her vacant eyes don’t flicker with hesitation or shame.

"Give me a blowjob," you command. She obeys instantly. Her touch is clinical at first when she's pushing the gown aside to free your member. Her lips parting just enough for you to slide inside. The warmth of her mouth envelops you, her tongue moving with eerie precision - no resistance, no thought, just mindless obedience. You groan, your fingers tangling in her hair as you take control, setting the pace.

"Fuck, that’s it," you mutter, watching her hollow eyes as she works. "Just like that. You’re so good at this when you’re not being a prude." Her hands grip your thighs, her movements mechanical but effective. The lack of resistance, the way she doesn’t even flinch when you hit the back of her throat - it’s intoxicating. You could get used to this.

"Swallow," you grunt, your voice tight with pleasure. She does, her throat contracting around you without a single gag. The sensation is almost too much, and you come with a sharp groan, your fingers tightening in her hair as you spill inside her mouth. The last of your release slides down her throat, and she swallows obediently. When she finally pulls back, her lips are swollen, glistening with the remnants of your cum. Her smeared lipstick clings to the corners of her mouth, her once-perfect bun now a tangled mess from your grip. The mascara you didn’t even know she was wearing is smudged at the corners of her eyes. She doesn’t move, doesn’t react. Just kneels there, hollow-eyed and waiting.

You exhale sharply, savoring the sight of her like this before leaning back against the pillows with a satisfied smirk. "Clean yourself up," you order, your voice lazy but firm. "Fix your hair. Your makeup. Make yourself presentable again. You’re still a doctor, after all."

Without a word, she gets up. Her movements are slow but precise as she rises to her feet, her limbs moving like she’s on autopilot. She grabs a tissue from the counter, wiping the smeared makeup with mechanical efficiency before smoothing her hair back into its usual severe bun. She reaches into her discarded lab coat, pulling out a compact mirror and a lipstick from her pocket to re-apply the reddish stain. Her fingers tremble slightly as she rebuttons her blouse, her leather pants sliding back up and her heels are back where they belong. You watch her with dark amusement, enjoying the way she straightens her clothes like nothing is wrong - like she hasn’t just been on her knees for you.