I sat in the waiting room of Dr. Thorne's clinic, my thighs pressed together under my short sundress, trying to ignore the insistent throb between my legs. God, I was such a slut for this. It had started innocently enough—a routine check-up for what I called "irregular cycles," but really, it was an excuse to feel those strong, probing hands on me again. I'd been fantasizing about him all week, picturing his fingers sliding into my wet cunt, stretching me open like he owned it. I could already feel the dampness soaking through my panties, the fabric clinging to my swollen lips. Why did I even bother wearing them? I...