You naughty

The message shattered the silence, rippling deep,
a friend, a familiar name, never once touched.
Casual words after the wedding’s golden haze,
but words alone could never unravel him.
It was the images that swallowed him whole,
the ones he should have ignored but couldn’t,
the ones that rewrote desire into his skin.

Her hair—dark curls spilling like ink on silk,
tumbling over shoulders he had never kissed.
Her waist—drawn tight like a whispered prayer,
her hips—a slow verse swaying without thought.
Her cleavage—deep enough to swallow restraint,
soft enough to drag a man to his knees,
a hymn of hunger wrapped in unknowing sin.

She wasn’t just a girl he once knew,
no longer a passing name on a screen.
She was sculpted, woven of silk and fire,
an altar of hunger, untouched yet consuming.
She was made for worship, made for ruin,
and he surrendered—without her knowing,
without permission, without the strength to resist.

Then came the moment that shattered his hold,
a picture, a message, light as a sigh.
"Also, if in case you have not noticed…"
Not a confession, not even an invitation,
but a spell whispered into his undoing.
The curve of her, the way light adored her,
made restraint slip like silk through trembling hands.

She laughed, playful, unaware of the wreckage,
her words dipped in nothing but mischief.
But to him, they were soaked in sin,
pressed into his skin like fire and ache.
Each pause, each teasing hesitation,
wrapped around him like a velvet noose,
tightening with every breath, every beat.

He stroked the keyboard in tandem with himself,
a symphony of clicks and strangled gasps.
Her words, his breath, the slick rhythm—
a melody of need, desperate and raw.
He tried to last, to stretch out the suffering,
but she stayed up late, stretching the night,
typing softly, teasing, lazily amused.

"You naughty," she whispered, voice slow and blurred,
her eyelids heavy, her replies growing slower.
His body locked, his breath breaking apart,
every muscle pulled into tight surrender.
She was teasing—but she did not know.
His back arched, his body shattered, his breath caught,
spilling thick heat in silence, in reverence, in ruin.

A drop on the screen, a tribute, an offering,
a confession to a woman who would never know.
The conversation faded, unfinished, lost in silence,
but his body still burned, still ached, still wanted.
His mind still clung to her name,
wrapped around the ghost of what never was.
She would never know—she had already ruined him.

Clinical Evaluation

"Leg pain?" she repeats, flicking through my file,
not looking up, not acknowledging the truth.
"You do seem to find reasons to visit"
A smirk, a pause, the pen tapping slow,
as if she’s debating whether to indulge me.
"Well. Let’s take a thorough look."

Her hands glide over my calf, cool and firm,
pressing, testing, kneading—too carefully, too slow.
"No swelling, no tenderness, but… still aching?"
A knowing hum, fingers dragging slightly higher.
"Let’s check for deeper muscular strain"
My breath stalls. We both know where this is going.

Thumbs trace my inner thigh, deliberate, unhurried,
each press, each squeeze making restraint impossible.
"Circulation is excellent. Reflexes seem responsive."
Another hum, another glance, too amused.
"Though I do notice some increased tension here…"
She lingers—long enough for me to throb beneath her hand.

A snap of latex, a measured sigh,
gloves pulled on with unbearable precision.
"For accuracy, I’ll need to evaluate carefully."
The words are pure professionalism.
The way she palms me, grips me—is not.
Fabric tightens beneath her touch, betraying me.

"Does it hurt here?" Her voice is featherlight, teasing.
She presses once, slow, firm, just enough to wreck me.
Fingers tighten, drag, a lazy squeeze, a cruel stroke.
My breath breaks apart; my hips shift involuntarily.
"Ah. Marked rigidity. Hyperstimulation, perhaps?"
Her thumb circles. I shudder. I can’t help it.

Her grip adjusts—just slightly, just barely—
enough to tease, enough to torture, never enough.
"Significant responsiveness. We should test endurance."
She strokes once, twice, then stops, watching me tremble.
A smirk flickers across her lips, almost kind.
"I’d advise some… release techniques at home."

She lets go. Peels off her gloves. Steps back.
Clipboard snaps shut, fingers smoothing her coat.
"No real concern, but if symptoms persist…"
A pause, a slow, knowing glance downward.
"Do come back. I do enjoy… monitoring progress."
Her voice is soft. It is devastating.