Dr. Vikram Desai’s clinic in South Mumbai’s Breach Candy smelled of antiseptic, oud, and the faint sweetness of frangipani drifting in from the window. At 40, he was the city’s most sought-after cardiologist—tall, lean, with silver threading his temples and hands that could restart a heart or make one skip. His white coat hung open over charcoal trousers; the stethoscope around his neck gleamed like a promise.
Ananya Rao, 28, stepped in for her annual check-up. A corporate lawyer who thrived on 18-hour days, she wore a navy blazer over a silk camisole, pencil skirt hugging hips that swayed when she walked. Her hair was pinned in a low knot, a few tendrils escaping to frame cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. She’d chosen this clinic because of the reviews. She stayed because of the doctor.
Seduction in the Examination Room
“Any chest pain, Ms. Rao?” Vikram asked, voice smooth as aged whiskey. He pressed the cold diaphragm of the stethoscope to her sternum. She’d unbuttoned just enough—two buttons, maybe three. The lace edge of her bra peeked out.
“Only when I think about work,” she lied, pulse racing under his fingers. He moved the stethoscope lower, between her breasts, listening. His knuckles brushed the swell of soft skin. Neither flinched.
“Breathe in.” She did. The room filled with the scent of her perfume—oud and rose. His eyes flicked to the monitor: 92 bpm and climbing.
“Stress,” he diagnosed, but his thumb lingered, tracing the cup of her bra. “We should investigate further.”
Ananya’s lips curved. “Privately?”
The nurse had left for the day. The clinic’s frosted glass door clicked locked.
Foreplay Behind the Screen
He led her to the ultrasound room—dim lights, the low hum of machines, a narrow bed with crisp white sheets. “Lie back. Let’s check your… circulation.”
She slipped off her blazer, camisole following. Her breasts spilled free—full, dusky, nipples tightening in the cool air. Vikram’s coat hit the floor. His shirt unbuttoned slowly, revealing a chest dusted with dark hair, abs carved from early-morning runs along Marine Drive.
He warmed gel between his palms, then spread it over her breasts, the transducer gliding in slow circles. The screen showed nothing but her heartbeat—erratic, hungry. His mouth replaced the probe, tongue flicking a nipple until she arched, fingers threading his hair.
“Doctor’s orders,” he murmured against her skin, “stay very still.” He trailed lower, unbuttoning her skirt, sliding it down with her lace panties. She was bare, glistening. He parted her thighs, breath ghosting over her clit.
“Vitals are elevated,” he said, voice rough. One finger slipped inside—tight, wet, clenching. A second joined, curling to stroke the spot that made her gasp in Marathi. His thumb circled her clit in time with the ultrasound’s rhythmic beep.
Ananya’s hips bucked. “Vikram… please.”
He stood, unzipping. His cock strained against boxer briefs—thick, curved slightly, a bead of pre-cum at the tip. She sat up, pulling him free, stroking once, twice, then taking him into her mouth. Salt and heat; her tongue traced the vein underneath. He groaned, hand fisting her hair, guiding her deeper until she gagged softly—then pulled back, eyes watering, triumphant.
Deep Sex: Diagnosis and Cure
He lifted her onto the bed, legs over his shoulders. A foil packet from his drawer—always prepared. She rolled it on with steady fingers, then guided him to her entrance.
He entered slowly, inch by inch, watching her face—eyes fluttering, lips parted. When he was fully seated, he paused, letting her adjust to the stretch. Then he moved—deep, deliberate thrusts that nudged her cervix, each one drawing a soft cry.
The bed creaked in rhythm with the heart monitor’s frantic beeps. He angled his hips, hitting her G-spot relentlessly. Her nails scored his back; her pussy fluttered around him.
“Look at me,” he commanded. Their eyes locked—doctor and patient, predator and prey, lovers. She came first, walls spasming, a gush of wetness soaking the sheet. He followed seconds later, buried to the hilt, pulsing inside the latex.
Afterglow in the Recovery Room
They stayed joined, breathing hard. He disposed of the condom, then cleaned her gently with warm towels—clinical precision turned tender. She watched him dress, shirt half-buttoned, hair mussed.
“Your heart’s fine,” he said, kissing her forehead. “But I recommend weekly follow-ups.”
Ananya smiled, slipping her camisole back on. “House calls?”
He wrote his private number on a prescription pad. “Start tonight.”
Outside, the Arabian Sea crashed against the rocks below the clinic. Inside, two pulses synced—hers steady now, his racing for the first time in years.