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.