Diagnosis Squirter

Dr. Siren steps inside. Kenzie sits perched on the table’s edge, knees drawn close, eyes flicking anywhere but the doctor’s face. The apology lands with a polite nod, then Kenzie shrinks inward. Dr. Siren presses—kind, steady—until the reason spills: something’s wrong down there. Every word costs Kenzie breath. Finally she asks—begs—Dr. Siren to look, without saying what they’ll find. Clothes rustle to the floor. Kenzie settles on the paper sheet, thighs parting, hands hovering like they might close again at any second. Cool air kisses bare skin. Dr. Siren’s gloved fingertips slide along slick folds. Even the lightest brush draws a sharp gasp; another slow stroke pulls a whimper straight from Kenzie’s throat. Her belly tightens. Her pulse jumps under pale skin. Dr. Siren notices the tremor building and hums, low, knowing. She leans closer, inspecting. Before the question forms, Kenzie’s thighs snap taut and a sudden jet of warm fluid erupts, catching the doctor across cheek and lips. Dr. Siren blinks, lashes wet. She exhales, calm despite the shine on her skin. Squirting, she murmurs, nothing to fear. Fingers move to buttons; the white coat drops, blouse follows. Dr. Siren bends again, bare chest pressed to cool metal. Two fingers slip in slowly, knuckles curling, coaxing. The next climax tears through Kenzie harder—another gush splashes Dr. Siren’s wrist, her sternum. Still not finished, the doctor dips her tongue to the swollen clit, tasting salt and heat. She lingers, deliberate, a thorough doctor needing one last, closer look.