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There’s little comfort to be found in Dr. Stanley’s examination room. Harry winces and shifts on the table, crinkling the sterile paper beneath him. He’s still waiting on the doctor to arrive, and the bright fluorescent lights and complete lack of decoration aren’t helping soothe his nerves.
It’s only an examination, he tells himself. Every omega goes through it.
While true, that doesn’t change the fact that the outcome of this examination will decide whether the Coninghams will go through with the mating. Harry really hopes they will; he thinks James is lovely and kind—the sort of alpha he wouldn’t mind starting a family with.
So, actually, there’s quite a lot at stake.
The door slides open smoothly, and Harry’s head snaps up as Dr. Stanley steps inside. “Good afternoon,” he says without looking up from Harry’s file, “Mr…Goodsir.”
Harry grants him a nervous little smile and clasps his hands together in his lap so he doesn’t fiddle with them. “Hello.”
“I’m told you’re here for a pre-mating examination; is that correct?”
Harry’s stomach flutters. “Y-yes, that’s right.”
Dr. Stanley makes a noncommittal noise and sits down on the stool by the counter. As a physician, he comes highly recommended—the Coninghams themselves had made this appointment for him—and Harry can see why. He cuts an intimidating figure, tall and stern with a no-nonsense expression, and even through the mild scent blockers, Harry can tell that he’s an alpha. Dr. Stanley smells sharp and cold, like ice water in a frosted glass. It’s a severe scent, but appealing—one that makes Harry desperately want to be good.
“You’ve begun your heat cycles, I presume?” Dr. Stanley asks. He draws a pen out of his breast pocket with long, sure fingers and clicks it, then rests the smooth metal nib against Harry’s chart as he waits for an answer.
Harry swallows and blinks hard. “Ah, yes.”
“Are they regular?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Dr. Stanley writes something down, then skims the rest of the chart while Harry fidgets and tries not to watch him too closely. “Are you a virgin, Mr. Goodsir?”
The question is matter-of-fact, uttered with complete clinical ease, and somehow all the more vulgar for it. Harry’s pulse stutters with mortification. He clears his throat, trying to ignore the heat flaming in his cheeks. “I—ah, yes, I am.”
“And have you attempted vaginal penetration?”
Harry flushes harder. “H-have I…?”
“Attempted vaginal penetration,” Dr. Stanley repeats slowly, each word clipped with impatience. “Whether through manual stimulation or with a heat aid.”
Harry opens his mouth to speak, but he’s so flustered that he can’t decide where to start.
Dr. Stanley sighs. “A simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ will suffice.”
“Yes.”
“Have you been knotted? Or pseudo-knotted, in this case?”
“I—” Harry digs his fingers into his thighs and squeezes. You prepared yourself for this, he tells himself. You knew he’d ask these questions. It does little to put him at ease. “Y-yes.”
“Did you experience any issues with either?”
Harry shakes his head. When Dr. Stanley fails to respond or record his answer, he clarifies: “No. Um, no issues.”
“Very well.” Dr. Stanley clicks the pen again and slides it smoothly back into his breast pocket, then pushes the back from the counter. The wheels on the stool rattle against the smooth tan flooring as he does, and for the first time, Harry is leveled with the full weight of his gaze. His stomach flutters again, and he swallows convulsively, looking down at his lap.
“We’ll start with your scent glands,” Dr. Stanley says. He snaps on a pair of blue nitrile gloves and comes to stand beside the examination table, right at Harry’s hip.
This is the part Harry’s been dreading the most—the physical examination. Though he’s somewhat vague on the specifics, he knows his reproductive system will be thoroughly scrutinized, and he isn’t looking forward to having the most intimate parts of his body poked and prodded. And by a stranger, no less—even if Harry does find that stranger austerely appealing.
His heart begins to pound a little faster, and he reminds himself once again that it will all be over shortly. In all likelihood, it won’t be half so bad as he imagined, and it’ll end with Dr. Stanley finding him in perfect health.
“Lift your chin.”
Harry does. He stares up at the ceiling as Dr. Stanley steps closer, releasing a brisk whiff of his cold-water scent that makes Harry’s nostrils flare. Dr. Stanley doesn’t comment on his response, for which he’s grateful. Instead, he simply reaches a hand out and grips Harry’s throat, his gloved palm resting over his Adam’s apple. His thumb and forefinger dig into the flesh just beneath Harry’s jaw and press gently, feeling around until they graze the scent glands on each side of his neck. Pleasure sparks through his body, and he shivers as Dr. Stanley presses harder, massaging each gland and the skin surrounding it.
It’s like nothing Harry has ever felt. He whines, and his head drops back like a cut tulip. Dr. Stanley catches him before he can strain his throat, his free hand tangling in Harry’s curls.
“Hmm.” Dr. Stanley circles a swollen gland with his thumb, and Harry sinks more heavily into his grasp. “Reactive, aren’t you?” The corner of Dr. Stanley’s mouth curls into a sardonic smile, and he presses down once more on the sensitive flesh, making Harry gasp. “Everything feels normal. Now, if you’d lie back on the table?”
Awkward and a little embarrassed, Harry swings his legs up onto the table and lies down against the angled backrest, making sure as he does that the backless hospital gown he’d changed into doesn’t ride up too high on his thighs or shift to show his ass. He feels hopelessly exposed, lying here belly-up as Dr. Stanley looms somberly over him.
The sensation is…not altogether unpleasant.
After a moment, Dr. Stanley begins to palpate his abdomen. His hands are firm, and Harry sucks in a breath as the touches drift lower and lower, his stomach jumping beneath the doctor’s fingers. To his dismay, each press sends a pulse of sensation out toward his groin, a pleasant jolt that builds and builds until he fears he might start slicking.
Dr. Stanley stills, his hands resting just over Harry’s pubic bone. “Breathe normally, please.”
Harry blows out a heavy breath. “Sorry.”
He hopes the doctor can’t smell his arousal. It’s only incipient at the moment, not even enough to stir his cock toward hardness, and with Dr. Stanley’s scent blockers besides, he really shouldn’t be able to pick up on it.
Right?
“Good,” Dr. Stanley says indifferently. “Fold your gown down to the waist; I need to examine your breasts.”
Harry tries not to think about what he’s doing as he pulls his arms out of his sleeves so he can bare his chest. The exam room isn’t cold, but he shivers when he lies back against the table, and his nipples pebble in the exposed air. As far as breast tissue goes, Harry doesn’t have much. He knows that will likely change when he has his first pup, but he has to admit that he likes the way his body is now, his chest flat and only a little fatty.
The noise Dr. Stanley makes, though, doesn’t sound very impressed. Harry winces and fights the sudden urge to bare his throat in appeasement. Instead, his eyelids flutter, and he stares up at the ceiling, which is coated evenly in the same drab white paint as the walls.
Because he’s decidedly not looking at Dr. Stanley, the first touch to his breasts comes as a surprise. He flinches, and Dr. Stanley emits a tired sigh as he crawls his fingers over Harry’s breasts, from his armpit all the way over to his sternum. “Relax, Mr. Goodsir,” he drones. “You aren’t lying down for your execution.”
That, Harry thinks, is quite easy for an alpha who isn’t being felt up to say.
But you aren’t being felt up, he tells himself sternly. Dr. Stanley is a medical professional.
Dr. Stanley presses down a little harder, compressing Harry’s limited breast tissue against his ribs, and Harry bites down on a groan. Professional or not, his body was programmed to have certain physical responses to this kind of stimulation, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to tamp them down. When Dr. Stanley rolls one of his nipples between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing hard, Harry gasps, and one of his legs kicks out a little on the table.
“Well, your breasts are underdeveloped compared to the average male omega of your age and stature,” Dr. Stanley says, as he spreads his fingers and cups one of Harry’s tits in his broad palm, “but they respond well to stimulation. They should fatten up during pregnancy.”
Dr. Stanley’s hand is warm, and the blue nitrile feels smooth and soft against Harry’s skin. He whines, and Dr. Stanley squeezes gently, then repeats the whole process on the other side.
It’s strange, having someone else’s hands on his body. Harry doesn’t often pay attention to his tits, even when he’s in heat, but he likes the way Dr. Stanley’s fingers feel, how they press and mold and pinch. He’s fastidiously attentive, leaving no inch unexplored; by the time he’s finished, Harry’s breathing hard, and his chest tingles. Between his legs, his cock has thickened a little, pushing up obscenely against the loose gown draped over it.
“You may cover yourself,” Dr. Stanley says. “Then we will begin your pelvic examination.”
As Harry fumbles to stick his arms back into his sleeves, Dr. Stanley rolls the little stool over to the end of the table and unfolds the metal stirrups, which clunk forebodingly into place. Harry’s stomach swoops down into his lap, but, to his chagrin, his arousal doesn’t abate.
“Sit at the edge of the table, please,” Dr. Stanley says without looking up. He’s still adjusting the stirrups, fiddling precisely with their angle and length. Harry watches his hands as he scoots forward, holding his gown down between his legs to preserve his modesty. Dr. Stanley arches an eyebrow but says nothing, and Harry sets his feet gently in the stirrups, which splay his legs wide and high, opening him up for the doctor’s attention. He feels his labia part wetly and bites down on a whine as slick gathers at his entrance. The metal stirrups are cold against the soles of his feet, and he shivers, toes curling. Goose pimples sprout on his limbs, spreading from his ankles all the way up to his thighs.
He’s still holding the gown down between his legs, pressing the hem of it against the crinkled paper on the examination table, and Dr. Stanley looks down at where he fists the fabric with an expression of exhausted disapproval.
Reluctantly, Harry loosens his grip and lies back. The gown shifts tantalizingly over his half-hard cock, and his pulse pounds in his ears. The exam table’s backrest is angled so low that he can only barely see Dr. Stanley without straining his neck, which means he’s unprepared when the doctor pushes the hem of his gown up higher on his thighs, and he flinches at the touch.
“Come closer to the edge of the table,” Dr. Stanley instructs.
Harry realizes he’s trembling. He breathes heavily through his mouth and pushes himself further down on the table, his knees bending as he brings his genitalia closer to Dr. Stanley’s gaze.
“Good.” The stool wheels rattle a little as the doctor adjusts his position. “I’m going to touch you now, Mr. Goodsir,” he says drily, as though it’s an inconvenience to announce this at all, and he’s only doing it for the benefit of a particularly tiresome patient who needs coddling.
Harry shuts his eyes and swallows hard, trying to focus on the smooth coolness of Dr. Stanley’s scent. It helps a bit, and when the first touch comes, he only jumps a little.
Dr. Stanley lifts Harry’s cock from where it lies, fully erect, on his hipbone. He manipulates it in his fingers, moving it this way and that, and Harry begins to slick in earnest.
“You’ve reached full arousal quickly,” Dr. Stanley says. Harry can’t tell whether he’s disdainful or impressed, but before he can figure it out, Dr. Stanley wraps his hand around the length of his shaft and gives him a considering stroke. Harry’s hips jerk up, thrusting into the touch, and Stanley huffs through his nose. He can feel slick beginning to trickle down toward the cleft of his ass and bites his lip, trying to calm himself down.
“Penile tissue appears normal,” Dr. Stanley continues. He releases Harry’s cock, and it slaps heavily against his stomach. “Do you always produce this much slick?”
Harry clenches around nothing. “Is—is that a bad thing?” he breathes, doing his best to sound composed.
“It is not.” Dr. Stanley spreads his labia and traces his fingers down their swell. Harry’s slit aches—having Dr. Stanley’s hands on him is so different than when he touches himself, exponentially amplifying every sensation. “Though unusual, I should have expected it, given how viscerally you responded to limited stimulation earlier.” Dr. Stanley circles Harry’s slit with one finger, and tears spring to his eyes.
“P-please,” he chokes.
He’s so wet that when Dr. Stanley pushes, his finger slides in without any resistance. Harry moans.
“You’re a needy little thing,” Dr. Stanley says. He slips a second finger in without pause, pressing all the way up to his knuckles.
Harry clenches down around them, tilting his hips up to give Dr. Stanley better access. When he can focus on something other than the firm fingers pushed up inside him, he realizes that Dr. Stanley has stood up from the stool and is leaning over him, one palm planted on the table for balance. His scent strengthens, a soothing menthol that blankets the pockmarked heat of Harry’s desperation, and Harry stares at him, his lips parted in surprise as he begins to move his hand, thrusting smoothly and crooking his fingertips against Harry’s inner walls.
Pleasure sparks behind his eyes, and he pushes up into the touch, trying to get Dr. Stanley deeper. Penetration has never felt so unbelievably good before, not even when he’s been in heat; already, he feels like he might come, and the unruffled focus on the doctor’s face only heightens his arousal. He’s so intent and yet so unaffected… So composed, while Harry writhes on the examination table with his gown rucked up to his waist, entirely at Dr. Stanley’s mercy.
“Do you think you’re prepared to take another finger?” He sounds exactly as professional—as unbothered—as he had when he first walked into the exam room. If anyone were to overhear, the only hint that they weren’t simply exchanging pleasantries would be the obscenely wet noises his fingers are making in Harry’s cunt.
Harry jerks his head in a nod and tries to spread his legs wider, but the stirrups only allow him to go so far, constraining him to precisely the position Dr. Stanley wants.
“The only omegas I’ve seen take so quickly the pelvic examination were all in heat,” Dr. Stanley says, as he slips his ring finger inside Harry’s cunt. He thrusts a little harder now, and his lips twist into an almost disdainful smile. “But you aren’t in heat, are you, Mr. Goodsir?”
Shame floods Harry’s cheeks, heating him all the way down to his chest. He moans. “No…”
“No,” Dr. Stanley echoes. He leans back a little and wraps his free hand around Harry’s cock, which is hard and red and drooling clear fluid onto his stomach. The pulse of pleasure that follows makes Harry’s jaw drop open, and he slams his head back against the examination table, arching his throat. “Who could have known a nervous little thing like you would be such a slut?”
No one has ever spoken to Harry like that; his head spins with it. A small, distant part of him wonders if this is normal—if this is what all pre-mating examinations are like, and whether all doctors speak to their patients with such wildly arousing contempt—but the thought fades quickly from his consciousness, like a stone dropped into a deep, murky pool.
“Always the quiet ones, hmm? You play at propriety, but all you really need is for someone to open you up.” Dr. Stanley punctuates his words with a deep thrust of his fingers, and Harry whines, shoving his hips up hard. Pleasure is building fast in his belly, and he’s leaking so much slick that it’s begun to collect on the paper beneath him, which clings to his ass and lower back.
“Please,” he begs, “Please, Dr. Stanley, I…”
“Please what?” Dr. Stanley tightens his grip on Harry’s dick, and precome blurts from the tip. “Is this not enough for you? Greedy boy…”
Harry’s hands fly to his curls, and he tangles his fingers in them and pulls, needing something to anchor him. He’s not sure what he’s asking for, but it’s just—it’s not enough. “Please, please, please…”
“Very well,” Dr. Stanley says. Though he sounds mildly put-upon, his scent is thick with desire, and he eagerly slides his pinky finger into Harry alongside the rest. Harry breathes a punched-out little hah as Dr. Stanley slips his hand deeper, his knuckles stretching Harry wide. His thumb butts against the crease in Harry’s groin with every thrust, an extra stimulus that makes him lightheaded with need.
Dr. Stanley releases his cock and reaches up to stroke his thumb over Harry’s scent glands, and Harry trembles as sensation throbs through him. “Look at you,” Dr. Stanley sneers. “Absolutely mindless with pleasure. If only your intended could see you now…” He presses down harder, and Harry cries out. “Do you think he’d be impressed? Or would he see what I see—a little whore begging for any alpha who’ll give him the time of day?”
Harry whines desperately. He wouldn’t—James wouldn’t think that. He knows he wouldn’t.
“How long will it take you to spread your legs for him?” Dr. Stanley continues, as mortified tears spring to Harry’s eyes. Despite his humiliation, he remains achingly hard. “An hour? Two? Or perhaps you’ve done it already. Have you seduced him, Mr. Goodsir?”
Harry shakes his head, still clutching at his curls. Tears begin to leak from the corners of his eyes, dribbling down onto the examination table below. “I’m not—” he tries, his voice cracking, “I wouldn’t!”
“No?” Dr. Stanley asks, as he trails a hand down to toy with Harry’s breast, “You expect me to believe that? You say you’ve been good, and yet here you are, writhing on my table like a bitch in heat.” He punctuates his question with a pinch to Harry’s nipple, and the pain shoots straight through him, tightening the hot, desperate feeling in his gut.
“I can hardly imagine what you’d be like when you are in heat,” Dr. Stanley muses. “God, you must be absolutely begging for it.”
Harry can barely think. He’s hot all over, and he’s begun to make small, desperate noises with each thrust of Dr. Stanley’s fingers, which are keeping up a firm, steady rhythm in his cunt. His thighs begin to tremble, and he hitches his legs back higher, so he’s pressing only his tiptoes against the stirrups.
“You’re close, aren’t you?” Dr. Stanley strokes down Harry’s torso and grips his cock again, circling his fingers just beneath the head in a touch Harry can feel behind his teeth. “Are you going to come on your doctor’s fingers?”
He is close—he can feel his climax building inside him, a burst of pleasure he chases with his hips, and his body tenses hard as he fights his way toward it, urging Dr. Stanley faster and deeper.
“That’s it, Mr. Goodsir,” Dr. Stanley praises. He tucks his thumb up against his other four fingers and nudges it inside Harry, until Harry feels split open on his knuckles, and then his entire hand is inside and he’s working it hard and fast, his wrist buried between Harry’s legs. “Show me how much you need it.”
“Oh, God,” Harry cries. His entire body seizes, and he flings out a hand, grabbing Dr. Stanley’s forearm and shoving him deep as he begins to come. He spurts across his stomach, staining his medical gown with thick stripes of semen, and Dr. Stanley strokes him through it, his fist tight and unyielding around Harry’s shaft. Inside his cunt, he’s formed his hand into a fist, and Harry clenches down as his climax surges impossibly higher. His legs shake uncontrollably in the stirrups, and Dr. Stanley’s face has twisted into a feral expression of hunger that makes Harry’s eyelids flutter.
As he comes down from it, he lets go of Dr. Stanley’s arm and falls back against the table, breathing hard. Dr. Stanley releases his cock, but he leaves his fist inside Harry’s cunt, which is still pulsing slowly with the last aftershocks of his orgasm.
Dr. Stanley pushes Harry’s sweaty curls out of his face, and Harry groans, turning into the touch.
“Well,” Dr. Stanley says. He carefully eases his hand out and pulls back, turning to the designated wastebasket so he can peel off his soiled gloves. They land in the bin with a heavy, wet sound. Even with the gloves removed, slick glistens all the way up past his wrist. Harry swallows hard, and his spent cock twitches.
“That will be all for today,” Dr. Stanley says. “You can see Mr. Bridgens on your way out to schedule a six-month follow-up.” When he looks back at Harry, his gaze is self-satisfied but sharp. “Congratulations, Mr. Goodsir. I think your alpha will be very pleased.”