Pain Management

Chapter 6: Medical Malpractice

Something had embedded itself in you—a thorny aberration trapped deep within your flesh, woven into the fiber of your muscles, tangled with every nerve—that seemed to possess you when you would creep down the halls late into the night, your head on a swivel as you approached your captain's office. The soft knock at Law's door, the impatient shifting from foot to foot, the furtive glances up and down the corridor as you waited with growing unease, a maddeningly urgent heat pooling between your thighs—it wasn't possible that you were still in control. An unknown something must have roused you from sleep, coiled its way around your spine and was manipulating you like a marionette, steering you on jerky limbs. But you knew the unspeakable truth: that it was you and only you, and your endless meditations on Law and the power of his healing hands, unable to rid yourself of the ghost of his touch on your skin, that compelled you to his door.

It was almost laughable how easy it had become to blur the already murky lines between doctor and patient, captain and subordinate—to grasp the veil of professionalism, the one that had already begun to lower that night in his room, in between your trembling fingers and tug it down just a little further with every clandestine visit. You'd stand there in his doorway, wistful and doe-eyed, complaining of some unknown ache, silently pleading him to invite you inside and give you release with the ministrations of his skilled hands. Law would look you over with a lascivious grin, holding his fingers against your neck and make a show of checking your pulse, grasping your slacked jaw between his thumb and forefinger to hold you steady while his eyes perused the contours of your face.

"Poor thing, did I not do a thorough job earlier?" he'd hum as he took ahold of your wrist and shepherded you inside his dimly-lit room. He'd close the door behind you, quickly moving to shove the precarious stacks of papers and books on his cluttered desk to one side, making a space perfectly sized just for you. The illusion of formality afforded to you in the exam room was unneeded in the quiet perversion of his private office, and he'd lean against the wall, thumbs hooked in his pockets, his curious eyes wandering over you as you'd undress for him; you grew less and less humiliated each time, almost relishing in his shameless glances. Soon, hushed words of praised would be murmured in your ear, his ungloved fingers crooked inside you, thumb idly playing with your clit, as he started to pull you apart piece by piece.

"You're just so needy for me, aren't you?" he'd whisper, holding your face in a firm grasp, squishing the fat of your cheeks and forcing your attentions up towards him, urging you to meet his unceasing gaze. His steely eyes darted over you as he studied every twitch of your lips, every flare of your nostrils, every upward quirk of your eyebrows as he thrust his long fingers into you, analyzing every reaction as you pulsed around him. He'd subtly adjust his movements now and again, adapting to your responses, letting your body set the pace for him; every sigh he earned from you only the made the salacious grin on his lips stretch even wider, your subdued moans a sordid prize he wanted to win.

Your trembling legs dangled off the edge of his desk, and the temptation to wrap them around Law's waist, to pull him into you and grind against him until he had no choice but to succumb and replace his hard fingers with his even harder arousal, never far from your mind. His quiet groans, barely audible over the lewd sounds of him plunging inside your drenched cunt over and over again, only helped to unravel you more and more, coaxing you ever closer to the edge of ruin. Eventually, he'd place his free hand on the back of your head and he'd tenderly guide you forward, inviting you to muffle your sobs in his shoulder while you clenched around his fingers, his low voice reciting, "That's my good girl" as you rode out your waves on his hand. Afterwards, as you sat jelly-legged and lost in the haze of desire, he'd clean you up with gentle motions, the rough towel still verging on too much against your sensitive cunt; you'd gaze out the large glass window next to you, watching the marine life drift by, and wonder if they had witnessed your covert liaison, smiling to yourself at the thought of some fluorescent fish being the unwitting keeper of your secrets.