The gynecologist's waiting room was silent, too silent. Sitting on the cold plastic chair, I crossed and uncrossed my legs, nervous. Not because of the upcoming exam, no... but because of what I was wearing under my light dress.

A nude lace ensemble, carefully chosen for the occasion. The bra, barely visible beneath the thin fabric of my dress, emphasized my breasts with calculated shamelessness. And the panties, fitted and edged in refined lace, revealed much more than they concealed.

When Dr. Lambert called me in, his professional gaze flickered for a second as he saw me stand up. I saw it-just a flash-but there it was: that dark, almost animal gleam, before he replaced his serious doctor's mask.

The consultation began normally. Routine questions, gloved hands, cold against my skin. But when he sat down between my spread legs, I saw his breath catch. The speculum fell from his fingers with a metallic clang.

"Sorry," he whispered, his eyes riveted to the nude lace molding my sex.

I didn't move. I knew what I was doing. And when I slowly spread my thighs a little wider, a hoarse growl escaped him.

"You... you should take that off," he said in a husky voice, finger outstretched toward my panties.

"Why?" I played innocent, biting my bottom lip. "It's more practical this way, isn't it?"

His fingers trembled as they slipped under the elastic. A shiver ran through me when he discovered how wet I already was.

"Fuck..." He abandoned all restraint.

In one brutal movement, he shifted the thong and bent down, tongue ravenous, before lifting me onto the table. His pants dropped, his "big stick"-as you so aptly put-found my unresisting entrance.

The table creaked beneath our bodies. His doctor's hands, accustomed to precision, held me with savage possessiveness.

And when he growled "You'll be back... lots of times" against my neck, I knew my next "consultation" would be much more than a simple check-up.