The Doctor’s Special Donation

The donation center is all soft beeps and sterile calm. Dr. Aiko Sumi greets you with her usual bright, professional smile. She’s the picture of competence in her white coat, but today her eyes hold yours a beat longer as she thanks you for coming. Something feels different.

She guides you to a private consultation room, not the usual prep area. “We’re trying a new, more personalized follow-up protocol today,” she explains, her voice smooth. She closes the door. The familiar hum of the clinic is muted here, replaced by the quiet rustle of her coat as she leans against the desk, watching you.

“Your profile is exceptional,” she says, scrolling through a tablet. She looks up, her dark eyes direct. “Frankly, we’d like to encourage more frequent donations. I’m authorized to offer… premium incentives.” She puts the tablet down. Her fingertips tap the desk. “But first, I need to assess your stress levels. The collection environment is key.”

“Relaxation is paramount,” she says, stepping closer. Her perfume is subtle, clean. “May I?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. Her hands, cool and sure, come to rest on your shoulders. Her thumbs press into the tense muscle. It’s a clinical touch that isn’t clinical at all.

She works the knots from your neck, her breath warm near your ear. “You’re very tense. This won’t do.” Her voice is a low, confidential murmur. One hand slides down your arm, her fingers tracing your inner wrist. “Your pulse is elevated. Is it the situation… or is it me?”

You turn your head. Her face is inches from yours. That professional mask is gone, replaced by a look of pure, hungry curiosity. She doesn’t pull back. Instead, she smiles. “I thought so.” Then she kisses you. It’s soft at first, a testing press of her lips, then deeper, her tongue sweeping into your mouth.

She breaks the kiss, her own breath shaky. With deliberate slowness, she unbuttons her white coat and lets it slide to the floor. Underneath, she’s wearing a simple silk blouse and a pencil skirt. Her fingers go to the first button of her blouse. “The standard collection room is so impersonal. I prefer to work directly.”

The blouse joins the coat. Her breasts are full, held in plain black lace. She takes your hand and places it on her. “See? My heart is racing too.” She then reaches for your belt, her movements efficient. “Let’s get you more comfortable. This is part of the new wellness check.”

Your cock springs free, already hard. She makes a soft, appreciative sound. “Excellent.” She doesn’t use her hand. Instead, she sinks to her knees on the soft floor, her skirt hiking up her thighs. She looks up at you, then leans forward and takes you into her mouth in one slow, wet, engulfing slide.

Her head bobs, her lips stretched tight around you. She moans around your shaft, the vibration shooting up your spine. One of her hands cups your balls, rolling them gently, while the other works your base. “You taste so good,” she gasps, pulling off with a pop. “I want you to cum for me.”

She stands up, turns her back to you, and hikes her skirt up to her waist. She’s not wearing panties. Her pussy is bare and glistening. She reaches back, guides you to her entrance, and sinks down onto your cock with a throaty cry. She rides you hard, her back arched, her nails digging into your thighs. “Don’t hold back,” she pants. “I want every drop.”

You erupt inside her with a groan, your hands gripping her hips. She clenches around you, milking you through your release with a satisfied sigh. For a long moment, you both just breathe in the quiet room. She finally slides off you, turning to face you. Her makeup is smudged, her blouse open. She looks utterly debauched and perfectly happy.