The Surgeon's Sacred Flower Trap

I never thought I'd be the type to consider cosmetic surgery, but here I was—lying on an exam table, about to let a stranger examine my most intimate areas. All because my boyfriend had casually mentioned he preferred a certain... look.

"Lie down and spread your legs."

The doctor's detached tone did nothing to ease my nerves. His clinical gaze swept over me, and I suddenly regretted every decision that led me here.

The command came again—firmer this time.

I swallowed hard as Dr. Ethan Holloway stood and drew back the privacy curtain. The sterile white room suddenly felt too bright, too exposed. Shakily, I climbed onto the table, my pulse hammering in my ears.

"Just relax," he said, turning to wash his hands. The sound of running water filled the silence.

I tried. God, I tried. But the deeper I breathed, the tighter my chest became. By the time he returned, I was holding my breath, my cheeks burning.

"Deep breaths," he reminded me, snapping on latex gloves.

I exhaled sharply, my chest rising and falling too fast.

His gaze lingered—not on my face, but lower. On the curves I'd always been self-conscious about.

"Doctor?" My voice came out small.

He blinked, refocusing. "Would you like any breast enhancements while you're here?"

"No." The word tumbled out too quickly.

Ethan tilted his head, considering. "I can still evaluate them. As a male surgeon, I can give you an honest opinion—whether your boyfriend would be satisfied."

The offer hung between us. After a beat, I nodded.

His touch was clinical at first—a professional assessment of shape and firmness. Then his fingers traced higher, pushing my top up with practiced ease.

Cold air hit my skin as my bra was peeled aside. I shivered when his gloved thumb brushed a nipple.

"Now the other one."

The second evaluation was worse. My body betrayed me, reacting to the teasing touches despite my embarrassment.

"You're sensitive," he observed.

I bit my lip, willing myself to disappear.

Finally, he withdrew. "They're perfect. No changes needed."

Relief flooded me. "Good."

"Spread your legs."

I obeyed, my stomach twisting.

"Bend your knees. Lift your hips." His voice was calm, as if asking me to pass the salt.

I shifted awkwardly, hiking my skirt up myself. The butterfly position left me utterly exposed—breasts spilling free, thighs trembling.

"Should I...?" I gestured weakly at my underwear.

"I'll handle it."

His fingers hooked into the lace, sliding the fabric aside. Heat pooled low in my belly, unfamiliar and insistent.