Page 23 of Scary In Love

Jenna

Based on literally every medical interaction I’ve ever had, I expect him to use a flat tongue depressor, but he surprises me by sliding two fingers into my mouth, sweeping them around the inside of my cheeks like a swab.

I want to be a good patient, but with the size of his hands, it’s a struggle not to close my lips around them and suck. Mason keeps going, slipping right to the back of my throat.

“Swallow,” he says.

My eyes water, and I focus on my breathing, determined not to choke.

“Gag reflex is minimal,” he dictates. “Throat is well hydrated.”

That much is obvious when he removes his fingers, slick with my saliva. He smears it across my face, squeezing my cheeks until my lips open. His fingers slip inside and hook behind my bottom teeth, pulling my jaw wider.

He drags his hand lower and wraps it around my throat, pressing his thumb and fingers into the sides. He studies his wrist, counting off my thrumming pulse. I’m so busy wishing he’d press a little harder it takes a while for me to notice he’s not even wearing a watch .

“As expected, patient displays many of the common whore symptoms. Pulse rate is high, breath is rapid, pupils dilated. Investigations will continue.”

Shifting to my side, he squeezes up and down the length of my arms, lifting one, then the other, and letting them drop.

“Any other health concerns you want to make me aware of?”

Nothing comes to mind, then I remember we’re in a scene. This is not real life.

“I’ve been spending a lot of time in a dusty old house with a strange man,” I tell him in my sweetest, most concerned voice. “It’s been causing some terrible sensations.”

“What sort of sensations?”

“I’m embarrassed to say, Doctor. I know I have a sickness. Please don’t make me confess.”

He hums, tapping his fingers against the clipboard. “We should probably make sure all this dust hasn’t affected your lung capacity.”

Mason fetches a stethoscope from the trolley, and listens intently while pressing it into the top of my breasts, over the soft fabric of my sweater.

“Take a deep breath for me.”

There’s no way he knows how to accurately take patient observations, and I’m unable to fight the urge to tell him what he’s doing wrong.

“You’re meant to hold it against my skin, I think.”

Mason chuckles. “I’m aware, Miss. Do you think I’m a fake doctor or something?”

He reaches for something else, and the next thing I know, he’s slicing through my top and tearing it open with his hands. He shoves it roughly to the sides and listens again .

I breathe deeply, certain the only thing he’ll hear is my rampant heartbeat.

“Lungs sound clear.”

Normally I wear sports bras for extra support, but the one I chose tonight is lacy and sexy, and pushes my breasts tight and high. Mason tugs the cups down over my nipples and gasps.

“No fucking way.”

He stares down at me for a long time before picking up the dictaphone.

“Patient has pierced both nipples, and currently sports silver barbells.” He clicks it off, lowers his voice, and hovers his fingers over them. “Can I? Please?”

“I might die if you don’t.”

“Put your arms above your head for me.”

His touch is achingly tender at first. Rolling over one, then the other. I got them for me, and they feel amazing to play with, though the men I’ve been with before have shown little interest.

He slides the bars back and forth, the sensation sparking a new flood of heat between my legs.

“Those are so fucking hot.”

He’s never asked if I had any piercings. I wouldn’t have lied if he did, but I’m pleased I could surprise him.

With his hands behind his back, he bends over and angles his head to lock eyes with me while he sticks out his tongue and circles it.

I watch him take it between his teeth and tug hard, sending a zip of pleasure shooting down my spine.

When I think he’s about to move away, he spits on the other nipple, spreading it around with his gloved fingers. He examines me closely, pulling and pinching at my heavy, aching tits. I’ve tried to have nipple orgasms before, unsuccessfully. Maybe I just needed the help of a hot fake doctor.

Mason loses himself in playing with them, nipping me, sucking so hard I see stars. All I can do is lie there and take it, gripping the top of the bed until he tears himself away with a pained groan.

I watch him adjust the front of his trousers, fix his tie, and return to his observations. He clears his throat and stands tall.

“It’s possible the patient’s sickness is infectious. She appears to have the ability to possess those around her with her deviance. Future practitioners should be extra careful when examining her.”

I press my lips together, giddy at knowing I’m having this effect on him, and I’m not even doing anything.

“Let’s get your legs into position, and we can get started.”

We haven’t even started? What the fuck is he going to do to me now?

He leaves my chest exposed, and I fight the urge to cover myself up.

Mason steps between my legs and helps me lift my ankles onto the stirrups, securing them with a wide, buckled restraints.

They’re not tight, but I’m well and truly stuck.

He then brings out a little rolling stool and positions it at the foot of the bed.

Shame heats my skin knowing his face is level with my pussy.

“Ah, we might have a small issue with access here,” he says to himself, rifling through the implements on the trolley. “Hold still, miss. This won’t take a second. I just need to…”

He moves the lamp to one side, directing my gaze to where he slides surgical scissors between two gaps in my fishnets and neatly snips at the side of my panties. He repeats it on the other side and tilts his head.

“I need to make a few more incisions here,” he says, dragging the sharp tip of the scissors down the seam between my legs. He cuts slowly, severing one section at a time, and I feel the gap pinging wider apart with each snip .

Even half in shadow, his face is the picture of professionalism. “We can reimburse you for these if you complete the paperwork at reception.”

He swaps the scissors for something else and slips them beneath the lace that’s already damp and sticking to me. Cold metal grazes against my hot flesh, and I yelp. The leg restraints rattle, and he glances at them with a perverse satisfaction.

“Lift your hips a little, please.”

It’s tricky at this angle, but I manage, and he yanks hard, pulling my underwear out through the slit he cut open. He lifts them up to his face, examines them, and drops them onto the tray before returning to his dictaphone, and his assessment of me.

“Pubic hair has been removed. Skin is soft and smooth.”

I drove to the city to get a wax a few days ago, not wanting anyone local to know about the choices I make for my body. Not that I care about that when Mason is inspecting the most sensitive parts of me.

“Patient’s cunt is swollen and soaking wet.”

My hands cover my face. How is this so hot when it’s so fucking mortifying?

“Clear signs of arousal.” He presses one gloved finger to my entrance, scooping up the pool of liquid that’s gathered there. “Fluid is sticky and sweet.”

Oh my God, did he just taste me?

He continues his stroking, sweeping through my folds, up one side and down the other, never coming anywhere close to where I need him.

I shift to rest on my forearms, desperate to see more. With the dictaphone in one hand, he leans closer, watching how my body reacts to his torment .

“Clit is sensitive and throbbing.” He taps it a few times, and when I whine, he has the audacity to laugh, and I think I might cry.

Fuck, I hate this, but I love it more.

“Cunt is clenching.”

He keeps taunting me. Wiping my stickiness up and down. Pinching the sensitive skin at the tops of my thighs. Squeezing my labia. Pushing the flat of his palm against my aching hole.

“Patient appears desperate to be touched.”

Desperate doesn’t scratch the surface. My hips buck, hungry for his cock, his fingers, his tongue, literally anything as long as I have something inside me as soon as possible. I feel like all my wishes have been granted when he slips the tip of his pinky inside me.

“The ache she previously described can be witnessed when she clamps around the introduction of a probe, in this case a finger.”

It’s not enough, but I bear down on it anyway. He tuts at me, pulling it out and dragging it lower.

“Asshole is…” He moans, tapping it gently, circling, pushing against it. The pressure is incredible. “Pretty as fuck.”

Even with my legs in the restraints, I twist and squirm, dying for more.

“Please,” I beg, my eyes squeezing closed.

I don’t know how much more of this I can take. My thighs are already shaking, but Mason pulls back, peels his gloves off and drops them onto the tray.

He unbuckles my ankles, then pulls the lamp back to illuminate my entire body. I catch the briefest glimpse of his face before he leaves the room without a word.

A howl of agony, a noise I’ve never made in my life, roars out of me.

It can’t be over.

My breath hitches when I look down at the mess he’s made of me, my nipples shiny and wet, my clothes torn, my pussy exposed and visibly aroused.

What the fucking fuck?

Only when I try to sit up do I notice a small cream envelope, tucked into the waistband of my skirt.

I rip it open, blinking to read the note on the back of his map.

Congratulations, Miss Laing. You’re ready for The Round Table.