Chapter 371: Doctor Anya Prescribes Sex Toys

Nathalie’s breath hitched into a moan she couldn’t stifle. Her free hand clutched my shirt; the other hovered near her lap, fingers twitching as if dying to press against the obscene pressure inside her.

I leaned down, lips brushing her ear. "Feel them staring, baby?"

She nodded frantically, glassy eyes rolling. "Yes... fuck... they can smell your load leaking out of me... my asshole’s clenching around the panties... pushing more out... it’s running down my legs... please... don’t stop..."

We reached Dr. Anya’s office at the end of the corridor. Every step was torture-ecstasy for Nathalie—calves flexing in those red Louboutins, ass cheeks clenching visibly under the too-short skirt, each movement forcing a tiny, wet squelch that echoed in the sudden quiet.

I knocked once. Firm. Authoritative.

"Come in..." came the smooth, professional voice from inside.

Anya’s office smelled of antiseptic and expensive perfume—until we walked in.

The door clicked shut behind us, sealing the thick, animal cloud of sex inside with five bodies. Anya sat behind her wide desk in her crisp white coat, silver hair pinned severely, glasses perched on her nose.

To her left, Olivia (early 30s, blonde ponytail, lab coat sleeves rolled to show toned forearms) and Nancy (late 20s, short black hair, name tag slightly askew) were bent over a stack of patient charts, pens paused mid-note.

All three heads snapped up at once.

Anya’s cheeks flushed instantly—two perfect pink circles blooming high on her cheekbones. Her gaze flicked from my face to the obvious bulge still straining my damp pants, then dropped to Nathalie: skirt hiked scandalously, thighs gleaming with fresh trails, blouse gaping to expose the bruised undersides of her tits, nipples like hard little bullets under silk.

Olivia’s pen slipped from her fingers and rolled across the desk. Nancy inhaled sharply through her nose, nostrils flaring, then pressed her lips together as if to trap whatever sound wanted to escape.

"Please... take a seat," Anya managed, voice huskier than professional decorum allowed.

I guided Nathalie forward. She tried to sit normally—failed. Instead, she perched sideways on the edge of the chair, one hip lifted, one ass cheek hovering so the sodden wad of panties wouldn’t grind deeper into her stretched hole.

Her skirt rode up further in the process; a dark, wet patch bloomed visibly across the pale skin of her right ass cheek—thick, pearly cum that had leaked out around the edges of her makeshift plug and soaked through the fabric.

She didn’t notice.

But they did.

Three sets of eyes locked on that glistening spot. Three noses twitched in perfect, involuntary unison.

Olivia’s thighs clamped together under the table. Nancy’s breathing turned shallow and audible. Anya removed her glasses with trembling fingers, set them down, then leaned forward slightly—inhaling again, deeper this time, like she couldn’t help herself.

"What... is that smell?" Nancy whispered, voice cracking on the last word. She sounded half-starved.

Anya swallowed hard. "It’s... very distinct."

Nathalie’s breath hitched into another stifled moan. Her lifted hip trembled; the movement forced a fresh squirt of my load to ooze past the stretched rim of her asshole. A slow, warm trickle slid down the back of her thigh, visible to everyone in the room, pooling eventually on the leather seat beneath her.

Anya’s pupils were blown wide behind her professional mask. "Nathalie... are you... injured? Or... unwell?"

Nathalie shook her head frantically, glassy eyes darting between the three women like a trapped animal. "No... I’m not injured..." she whispered, voice wrecked and trembling. Her cheeks burned crimson as she flicked her gaze to me, seeking permission, seeking rescue, seeking more.

I dropped my eyes to the floor, shoulders hunching, playing the part of the ashamed, overwhelmed husband. My voice came out small, shaking, barely audible. "Doctor... that... It’s my fault. When I saw Nathalie in that dress... ready for the appointment... I couldn’t stop myself. We... we did that. Right there in the bedroom. I just... lost control."

Anya’s throat worked visibly. She understood instantly—I’d fucked my wife raw and thoroughly minutes before bringing her here, stuffed her full, left her dripping through the hospital corridors.

The knowledge hung in the air like smoke. She coughed once, sharply, trying to reclaim professionalism, but her voice was already lower, huskier.

"Did you... Try the method I recommended last time?" she asked, eyes flicking between us.

I shook my head, still staring at my shoes, voice cracking with feigned guilt. "Doctor... I’m sorry. I really can’t control myself. When you were supervising the sessions here, I tried so hard... I held back. But at home... alone with her... I’m sorry, Doctor. I couldn’t."

Anya’s blush deepened, spreading down her neck. Olivia and Nancy had gone completely still—breathing shallow, eyes wide, thighs pressed tight together under the desk. The room reeked of us: thick cum, stretched ass, Nathalie’s constant slow leak, my musk still clinging to both our skins.

Anya cleared her throat again. "Have you... sought release with anyone else? Or... used toys? To satisfy yourself without... overburdening Nathalie?"

I shook my head quickly, eyes still downcast. "No, Doctor. Never. Only her."

Anya exhaled, slow and shaky. "Then I strongly recommend you try sex toys. They can... take the edge off. Give your wife some relief."

I lifted my head at last, letting disappointment and raw hunger bleed into my expression. My voice cracked deliberately. "But Doctor... how can a toy ever be as good as... the real thing? As warm, as hard, as deep... I—"

Anya cut me off, straightening, trying to summon stern authority even as her nipples visibly stiffened under her blouse and her pupils stayed blown wide. "Mr. Dexter," she said sharply, "not every medicine has to taste good. You can’t only think of your own pleasure. I’m very concerned about your wife’s health."

"If you keep...

pressuring

her like this all the time—filling her repeatedly, stretching her beyond what her body can recover from—she’ll end up with real damage. Tears. Infections. Permanent looseness. Is that what you want for Nathalie?"

Nathalie whimpered at the words—half shame, half unbearable arousal. Her lifted hip trembled; another thick rope of my cum squeezed past the sodden panties and slid audibly down her inner thigh, dripping onto the floor in a slow, glistening bead. The wet spot on the leather chair beneath her had grown noticeably larger.