Overtime

Kyle Pierce settles into the crisp exam room chair, the scent of antiseptic sharp in the air. Trevor Knight, the physician, enters with a warm smile that lingers a beat too long. Routine begins: blood pressure cuff tightens, stethoscope chills Kyle's chest. But Trevor's touch turns deliberate, fingers tracing veins with clinical precision that feels anything but. 'Just a thorough check,' Trevor murmurs, his voice low, inviting. He guides Kyle to the table, strips away the gown with steady hands. The exam deepens—fingers probe, slick with lube, pressing past resistance into warm, yielding flesh. Kyle gasps, body arching as Trevor administers his 'treatment,' measured thrusts building to a rhythm that shatters any pretense of protocol. Succor floods in, intense and unyielding, far beyond the oath's cold bounds. They move together, sweat-slicked, Trevor's breath hot against Kyle's neck, until release claims them both in a shuddering peak.