"N-No… Please, no… I can't fit in anything anymore…"

I can only arch my hips up in the air on the hospital bed. My doctor is currently performing a check-up on me to find out the reason behind my intense lust.

But he seems to be toying with my body. His palm keeps kneading my perky buttocks, and he even inserts a finger into my slit.

The more I beg him to stop, the more excited he becomes.

Unable to take it anymore, I turn back to look at him.

Wait, that's not my doctor! Isn't that Eric Buckley, my college professor?

The next thing I know, he thrusts into me heavily.

My name was Lindsey Hawthorn, and I had struggled with this compulsion for as long as I could remember.

Everyone always thought I was a good, quiet girl, but only I knew the truth—the intense, almost unbearable craving I had for men. Just the sight of a strong, muscular man was enough to make me weak.

By the time I reached college, this need had completely spiraled out of control. Sometimes, even the slightest friction while walking would trigger an overwhelming release. People would stare, probably thinking I had wet myself.

This compulsion was seriously affecting my daily life. I confided in my professor about my struggles, and he suggested that I see a doctor.

That day, I went to the women's clinic. After checking in, I lay on the examination table, staring at the empty room. The faint scent of male hormones lingered in the air.

The itch started again. Between my legs, it felt like ants crawling inside, and my mind was flooded with thoughts of men.

It was unbearable.

With no one around, I couldn't resist slipping my hand beneath my skirt.

I knew I was beautiful, with a body that had developed in all the right ways. My legs were long and slender, and my curves—especially my chest—strained against my clothes even while I lay down. It was cruel, being given this body and then cursed with this humiliating, unrelenting desire.

At that moment, the door to the room opened. A doctor in a white coat stepped inside. His head was lowered, and I couldn't make out his face.

I yanked my hand back. It was still coated with sticky residue. The thought of someone discovering my condition made me flush with embarrassment.

Even in front of him, I couldn't release the shame.

"Lie on your stomach and lift your hips. I need to check you," the doctor instructed.

I turned over and positioned myself face down, lifting my hips as high as I could. The posture made me feel utterly exposed. I had never done anything like this in front of a man.

I was already damp between my legs. To my embarrassment, the doctor grabbed my pants and pulled them down.

Instantly, my pale, round buttocks were revealed.

"You're really going to take off my pants?" I asked in a small, papery whisper.

The doctor chuckled. "How else am I supposed to examine you?"

"B-but…" I stammered.

Being completely exposed gave me goosebumps. The compulsion surged violently, sending a deep, uncontrollable itch through me. I was terrified I might lose control.

I finally felt a little reassured. After all, the doctor was just doing his job—it was probably me being too sensitive. I clenched my resolve, lifted my hips high, and let him examine me, trying to ignore the sharp, gnawing itch.

The next moment, his rough hands pressed against my firm, rounded buttocks. He wasn't wearing gloves.

Normally, doctors wear gloves when examining patients. His warm, rough hands on me made it almost impossible to hold back.

My body itched fiercely, as if a volcano had ignited inside me, searing through my insides.

"Doctor, why aren't you wearing gloves?" I murmured.

"This way, I can examine you better and help you heal," he replied.

For the sake of recovery, I reluctantly let him continue. If I could just hold out a little longer, I would be free.

I bit my lip, trying to control the burning itch deep in my body.

However, the way he touched me felt wrong. It didn't feel like a real examination. It felt off, almost violating.

His rough palms kneaded my skin in slow, controlled circles, sending a shameful shiver through me.

A soft, involuntary moan escaped my lips as the fire inside me raged hotter.

And still, it wasn't enough. He squeezed harder, kneading the flesh of my buttocks like clay.

He couldn't help but murmur in approval. "It's so soft and smooth."

In an instant, I felt my entire body go limp, overcome by a strange, tingling weakness. My hips lifted higher on their own, and before I could stop it, a warm rush escaped me.

How was this supposed to be healing me? It only made the ache worse.

"Doctor, this feels so strange. It's like you're simply touching me," I murmured.

He paused, then responded smoothly, "This is the initial phase of treatment. I am drawing the desire from deep within you. Only after it has been completely released can we truly begin to cure you."

As strange as his words sounded, he was a doctor after all, so I had no choice but to trust him for now. Then, he crooked one finger and slowly traced it along the cleft of my rear.

A jolt of electricity shot up from the base of my spine, sending waves of tingling, aching sensation through my entire back.

The next second, his finger reached my…

In an instant, my blood was on fire. My entire body trembled uncontrollably, and moans spilled from my throat.

My face flushed hot as a ripe peach, and my legs began to give way beneath me. It felt too good. The desire inside me surged wildly, spiraling out of control.

I gripped the bedsheet until my knuckles turned white, struggling against the maddening, soul-shaking itch.

It was humiliating to have a man touch me there, yet somewhere beneath the shame, a forbidden thrill pulsed. I craved him to be rougher.

"N-no, please, I can't take much more," I gasped. "Don't go any deeper."

My whole body felt as if it were being squeezed and crushed.

"You're very sensitive here," he observed. "To properly treat this, I'll have to use a special method."

A special method?

Before I could even process what was happening, a soft, wet sensation pressed against me from below, gliding gently along me.

Was that his tongue?

I couldn't believe it. How could a doctor treat a patient this way? The sensation was so intense, far more overwhelming than anything his fingers had done.

My mind had gone completely numb from the overwhelming pleasure, leaving me paralyzed. I froze in place, helplessly allowing the doctor to continue his so-called treatment.

He held my hips with one hand to keep me from collapsing. "Stop, please stop," I begged. "I can't take this anymore. I don't want the treatment. Just let me go."

Yet he had no intention of stopping. If anything, he thrust his tongue deeper into me.

Tears threatened to spill from my eyes, but my body remained utterly beyond my control. I wanted to escape, but I couldn't move.

Sweat streamed across my forehead, dropping onto the bedsheet below.

I turned around, hoping to put an end to this torment. But as soon as I glanced back, a shock ran through me like lightning.

This man wasn't a doctor at all.

He was my college professor—the very same Eric Buckley who had suggested I come to the hospital for treatment!

In a flash, panic hit me, and I snapped back into control of my body.

I flipped over and curled into a ball, pulling my knees to my chest. "Mr. Buckley? What are you doing here?"

Eric licked his lips and said, "I'm helping with your treatment, sweetheart. Don't be afraid. Once your desire is released, you'll be cured."

I didn't trust him for a second. He was clearly using this as an excuse. Back on campus, I had caught him snooping through my things, and I knew his gaze had always been lecherous.

I knew he wanted me, yet what had just happened left my body humming uncontrollably.

I felt hollow inside, aching to be filled. He was my professor, and 20 years older than me.

"No, Mr. Buckley. We can't," I said, but deep down, I felt an unexpected twinge of disappointment.

Eric climbed onto the bed, inching his way toward me.

"I'm just helping you heal, sweetheart. Be a good girl and spread your legs—just one last step," he said as he reached for my ankles.

I scrambled backward, only to realize that the spot where I had been sitting was soaked through. The bedsheet was dark with evidence of my arousal.

"Look how wet you are," he murmured. "You're aching, aren't you? Don't fight it. Let me help you. Let me take care of it."

I shook my head firmly. "You're my mentor. I'm your student. We can't do this..."

Eric's eyes darkened, and the last trace of restraint snapped. He lunged forward, seizing both of my ankles and violently spreading my legs.

"Enough games," he growled. "Girls like you were born to make men feel good."

Before I could respond, he ripped my skirt away, leaving my bare thighs exposed. His sheer dominance ignited my condition all over again.

My mind screamed to be filled by him. I spread my legs wider, lost to thought and shame alike.

A savage grin spread across his face. "You like it rough, don't you, you little slut? Perfect. Today, I'll give you everything you need."

"Harder," I moaned.

Before I could react, he yanked my legs up and lunged into me.