Getting Something Off Her Chest

Patty walked into Dr. Cooper's office already tired of the ache across her chest. She met a pair of dark eyes and a smirk that landed somewhere between professional and predatory. First impressions never lie for long. Dr. Cooper grabbed her clipboard like she wanted to get serious, but the spark hung in the air like cheap cologne. She asked Patty to lift her shirt. Every question, every tap of her pen led to the real diagnosis: the bra was strangling her. Too small, too cruel. Patty peeled the straps off right there on the exam table. The relief hit like a cold beer on a hot day, but so did the tension. Dr. Cooper’s hand didn’t pull away. Fingers traced the red marks where elastic had cut in, then slid lower, weighing each heavy breast like she was figuring out how to hold something she’d been wanting. Patty’s breath stuttered as the doctor’s mouth replaced her hands. Soft kisses turned into slow, deliberate licks across aching nipples. When Dr. Cooper sucked one between her lips and moaned, the sound went straight through Patty’s spine. Clothes landed on the linoleum. Bodies pressed together. The exam table squeaked under two warm, eager frames grinding in rhythm. Patty’s chest heaved, tender flesh spilling into Dr. Cooper’s palms as they rocked together, coming undone on cold, sterile paper.