His Forbidden Treatment - Chapter 2: Chapter 2
You are reading His Forbidden Treatment, Chapter 2: Chapter 2. Read more chapters of His Forbidden Treatment.
Dr. Ethan Lowell drew back the curtain with a quiet swish, revealing a stark white examination table that gleamed under the clinic lights.
I obeyed without question, stepping forward as instructed.
He moved with practiced efficiency—first to the adjoining bathroom, where the sound of running water filled the silence as he scrubbed his hands methodically. When he returned, the sharp scent of antiseptic followed him, along with the snap of latex gloves settling into place.
The room felt too small suddenly, my shallow breaths loud in the quiet space. The idea of being examined by this composed, strikingly handsome stranger sent a nervous flutter through me. My fingers twisted in the fabric of my skirt. "I... I'm ready. You can begin."
Behind the gold frames of his glasses, his gaze was steady—calm in a way that should have been clinical but instead felt strangely reassuring. "I'll proceed now."
I gave a stiff nod.
His fingers worked slowly, undoing the buttons of my blouse one by one. The heat of his breath ghosted over my collarbone, and my muscles locked on instinct, my eyes squeezing shut.
"Breathe," he murmured. "If anything feels uncomfortable, say the word, and I'll stop."
Something in his voice—low, measured—loosened the tension coiled in my chest. I forced my eyes open.
And found him watching me.
No impatience. No crude jokes. Nothing like my ex, who had always been rough, always in a hurry. Dr. Lowell moved with deliberate care, his touch precise but never invasive.
When the last button slipped free, my bra came into view—pale blue, lace-trimmed.
"Starting tomorrow," he said, his tone leaving no room for debate, "no more cool colors. Reds, oranges—warm tones only."
"Understood, Doctor." My face burned as I answered.
Of course. All those icy blues and muted whites—no wonder my body had grown indifferent.
Then his fingers found the clasp of my bra.
"Any sensation?" His palm brushed lightly over my skin.
"N-no." My cheeks were on fire now, but the sharp, clean scent of disinfectant kept me tethered, kept me honest.
He shifted slightly, the pressure of his touch deepening—just enough to test, never enough to hurt.
"Now?"
"I... I feel it." My teeth caught my lower lip as a quiet sound escaped me, my fingers twisting in the sheets.
"Your responsiveness is delayed," he observed clinically. "It takes more stimulation for your body to react."
His hand trailed lower, skimming past my navel, and I jerked, my grip closing around his wrist before I could stop myself.
A pause. His gaze flicked to mine, questioning but not unkind.
"Just—nervous," I muttered, releasing him and turning my face away, too embarrassed to hold his stare.
"Lift your hips." His voice left no room for hesitation. "The skirt needs to come off."
I obeyed without question, stepping forward as instructed.
He moved with practiced efficiency—first to the adjoining bathroom, where the sound of running water filled the silence as he scrubbed his hands methodically. When he returned, the sharp scent of antiseptic followed him, along with the snap of latex gloves settling into place.
The room felt too small suddenly, my shallow breaths loud in the quiet space. The idea of being examined by this composed, strikingly handsome stranger sent a nervous flutter through me. My fingers twisted in the fabric of my skirt. "I... I'm ready. You can begin."
Behind the gold frames of his glasses, his gaze was steady—calm in a way that should have been clinical but instead felt strangely reassuring. "I'll proceed now."
I gave a stiff nod.
His fingers worked slowly, undoing the buttons of my blouse one by one. The heat of his breath ghosted over my collarbone, and my muscles locked on instinct, my eyes squeezing shut.
"Breathe," he murmured. "If anything feels uncomfortable, say the word, and I'll stop."
Something in his voice—low, measured—loosened the tension coiled in my chest. I forced my eyes open.
And found him watching me.
No impatience. No crude jokes. Nothing like my ex, who had always been rough, always in a hurry. Dr. Lowell moved with deliberate care, his touch precise but never invasive.
When the last button slipped free, my bra came into view—pale blue, lace-trimmed.
"Starting tomorrow," he said, his tone leaving no room for debate, "no more cool colors. Reds, oranges—warm tones only."
"Understood, Doctor." My face burned as I answered.
Of course. All those icy blues and muted whites—no wonder my body had grown indifferent.
Then his fingers found the clasp of my bra.
"Any sensation?" His palm brushed lightly over my skin.
"N-no." My cheeks were on fire now, but the sharp, clean scent of disinfectant kept me tethered, kept me honest.
He shifted slightly, the pressure of his touch deepening—just enough to test, never enough to hurt.
"Now?"
"I... I feel it." My teeth caught my lower lip as a quiet sound escaped me, my fingers twisting in the sheets.
"Your responsiveness is delayed," he observed clinically. "It takes more stimulation for your body to react."
His hand trailed lower, skimming past my navel, and I jerked, my grip closing around his wrist before I could stop myself.
A pause. His gaze flicked to mine, questioning but not unkind.
"Just—nervous," I muttered, releasing him and turning my face away, too embarrassed to hold his stare.
"Lift your hips." His voice left no room for hesitation. "The skirt needs to come off."
End of His Forbidden Treatment Chapter 2. Continue reading Chapter 3 or return to His Forbidden Treatment book page.