Chapter 5

“Why are you up and pruning yourself so early?” Barry asked groggily, rolling onto his side and blinking at the soft hum of the hairdryer. His voice was thick with sleep, his eyes squinting against the pale morning light that was beginning to seep through the blinds. Across the room, Zoe sat at her vanity in her pale lilac silk robe, legs crossed, her long, toned back perfectly straight. She was brushing and blow-drying her thick brunette hair with deliberate care, the strands falling in glossy, disciplined waves around her shoulders. It was the kind of attention she usually reserved for date nights or special functions—rare events where she’d let herself lean into her femininity, where she made herself look not just polished, but undeniably desirable.

“I still have some work stuff that needs doing while the office is closed,” she replied evenly, eyes focused on the mirror. She pulled the brush through another section of hair, careful, precise, trying to get the volume and wave just right. Most days, she didn’t even bother. A ponytail. A clip. Something easy, clinical. But not today. Today ... she needed to feel beautiful. Sexy. Confident.

“Well, you look amazing, dear...” Barry said as he swung his legs off the bed and wandered over, planting a sleepy kiss on her cheek. “My naughty stripper,” he added with a lopsided grin, still basking in the afterglow of the night before.

“Barry...” Zoe warned, a playful scolding tone in her voice. But inside, her nerves prickled.

“Last night ... last night was fun,” she admitted, setting down the dryer and running her fingers through her hair. “But it’s only for special times. Don’t go expecting me to be involved in your role-play fantasies every night.”

She kept her tone light, just sharp enough to sound believable. If she sounded too defensive, he might sense there was more beneath the surface. And the last thing she needed was for him to realise that the stripper fantasy hadn’t been his alone. That the words she’d moaned, the names she’d called out, the pleasure she’d drowned in—hadn’t been an act. That it hadn’t been pretend.

Barry laughed, scratching his chest as he made his way toward the bathroom. “Well, last night was pretty amazing though.”

Zoe didn’t reply.

“And you?” he continued, pausing at the doorway, grinning at her reflection. “You were incredible, honey. I mean it. It was like you were really some slutty stripper who was into the whole black guy thing. You were... really convincing.”

Zoe forced a smile, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Well, I’m just glad I managed to keep up the act long enough to convince you,” she said sweetly, letting the lie roll easily off her tongue.

Barry looked pleased. Proud, even. And that pleased her—because it meant he was still clueless. Still completely unaware that last night hadn’t been a performance. That the words she’d whispered, the way she’d ridden that black dildo like it was the only thing that could reach deep enough to satisfy her, had come from a place far more honest than she dared admit.

“Now hurry up and get going,” she said, her tone suddenly shifting as her eyes flicked to the clock. “You’re going to be late.”

It was 7:00 a.m.

Fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes until her first home patient visit.

Zoe exhaled, the quiet of the house folding around her like a blanket of permission. She stood still for a moment at the top of the stairs, listening to the silence, feeling her heart begin to beat faster in her chest. The moment her fingers touched the doorknob to their bedroom again, something inside her shifted. Something subtle but seismic.

She crossed the room and reached for the plain white cotton panties and the sensible support bra she’d laid out the night before—her typical undergarments, the ones that aligned with the role she had carefully played for years: professional, modest, controlled. But as she held the fabric in her hands, a small frown touched her lips. Something didn’t feel right. Not today. Not on this body. Not for who she was starting to remember herself to be.

That version of Zoe—the careful, restrained, beige one—felt like an old photograph curling at the edges. A woman encased in habit and denial. But today, standing in the light of her mirror with the echoes of last night’s fantasy still vibrating beneath her skin, she felt something else. She wasn’t just a doctor. Not just a wife. Not just a woman who had spent years dressing in layers of denial.

She was desirable.

Sexual.

Alive.

She reached into the drawer instead for the lingerie she’d once tucked away for some undefined “someday”—and today, that day had arrived. She slid the sheer black panties up her long, smooth legs, the mesh clinging to her skin like whispers. They framed her pubic hair perfectly—soft and dark beneath the transparency, the V of her mound gently shadowed by it. She considered, for a moment, trimming it. Or shaving entirely. But something about the way it looked through the panties turned her on. It was raw. Real. Her.

She turned to the side and glanced over her shoulder, admiring the full, round curve of her ass, the way the string of the thong disappeared into her cheeks like an invitation. It made her want to bend forward. Made her wonder what it would feel like to be looked at like that—by someone else. To be studied. Touched. Tasted.

Then came the thigh-highs—sleek black, with a shimmer that kissed her calves and thighs with every shift of light. The deep lace tops hugged her legs like a lover’s hands. She fastened the garters with a practiced ease, sliding her fingers along the suspender straps, smoothing them as she stood straighter. She admired the way the tension of the suspenders pulled everything together—every inch of her enhanced, lifted, framed. She looked like temptation dressed in discipline.

The matching bustier followed—black mesh and fine boning that hugged her curves in a sculpting embrace. With no bra underneath, her breasts were free, but perfectly supported by the tightness of the garment. Each movement made them jiggle ever so slightly, the sheer fabric offering only the illusion of modesty. Her nipples, already erect, pressed visibly through the mesh, and she couldn’t help but drag her fingers over them—first softly, then rolling them gently between thumb and forefinger.

She gasped softly at the sensation, at the way her body responded instantly. Her skin was flushed, her pulse fluttering. She was turned on by herself. By the idea of being seen. And not by Barry. No ... this wasn’t for him. Not today.

Her mind drifted, uninvited, to Nate. His body. His size. His voice. The way he smiled at her with that quiet confidence that seemed to see through everything. The way he stood naked in her office without shame, cock hanging long and wet, still full even after release. Her hand almost moved between her legs then—almost.

And then, as if on cue, the doorbell rang.

“Shit,” Zoe snapped under her breath, jolting upright as the chime of the doorbell echoed down the hallway for the second time. She had completely lost track of time—lost in the ritual of dressing herself, in the feel of the mesh against her skin, in the quiet thrill of being looked at the way she was beginning to crave. She tugged on her silk robe quickly, wrapping it tight around her waist, tying it off with a practiced flick of the wrist. It clung to her curves in the most dangerous of ways—riding just millimetres below the lace tops of her stockings, the thin fabric hugging her full hips and rising with every step. Across her chest, it fought to contain her breasts, the swell of them threatening to spill from the plunging neckline with each movement, the knot of the belt cinching them higher, tighter, making them look obscene. She fixed her hair one last time, touched up her lip gloss in the mirror, and darted down the stairs just as the bell rang again.

“Nate! I’m so sorry, I lost track of time. Come on in,” Zoe said warmly as she opened the door, breathless but composed, her smile bright with more than just politeness.

“No need to apologise, Dr. Z,” Nate replied smoothly, stepping into the house with a quiet swagger. His eyes moved over her without shame, drinking in the sight. “You were worth the wait.”

Zoe felt her stomach flutter. His voice was calm, but the heat behind his gaze was unmistakable. She laughed softly, playing her part. “I didn’t have time to dress properly,” she said with mock embarrassment, her fingers reflexively tugging at the robe’s belt, even though she knew how perfectly it framed her body. Truthfully, she could feel the electricity crackling under her skin. She wanted him to look. She wanted him to see her like this. And God, he was looking.

“You won’t hear me complaining,” Nate replied, letting his eyes linger for just a second longer. “Besides, this is your week off. You shouldn’t be stuck wearing your office clothes just because of my stupid problems.”

Zoe tilted her head, smiling at the way he tried to temper the flirtation with humility. There was a charm to it—he wasn’t pushing too hard, but he was definitely pushing.

“You wear as much or as little as you like, Doc,” he added with a sly grin. “This is your vacation.”

She blushed, and the warmth that spread across her cheeks wasn’t entirely innocent. “Thanks, Nate,” she said softly. “And your problem isn’t stupid. How are you feeling this morning?”

“Like someone kicked me in the balls,” he said without missing a beat.

Zoe winced in sympathy. “That bad?”

“Pretty much.”

Her smile softened. “Well, don’t you worry. We’re going to get to the bottom of this. I promise you, Nate—I’ll help you find a solution to all of it. We just need to start with the samples, okay?”

“Let’s do it,” he said, nodding with enthusiasm. There was something so disarmingly earnest about him—this balance of physical dominance and boyish honesty—that made her want to lean into the role more. To nurture. To guide. And maybe ... to tempt.

“Come upstairs,” she said, turning and leading him toward the staircase. “I’ll set you up in the spare room.”

Nate followed close behind, and as his eyes lifted to watch her ascend, he could barely believe what he was seeing. Every step she took caused the silk robe to ride up the back of her thighs just slightly, teasing him with flashes of her black stockings and the delicate strip of her suspenders. As soon as he caught a glimpse on one leg, it would disappear again—only for the next step to reveal the garter on the other side. It was hypnotic, almost cruel, the way the robe shifted, never giving too much, but always giving just enough to make him stare harder.

And then there was her ass.

The robe hugged it like spandex—tight and high and full, the kind of perfect curve that seemed to bounce with every step. He couldn’t believe how firm it looked, like it belonged to a woman half her age, trained and toned and just barely contained by the cling of that silk. It wasn’t just sexy. It was erotic. Almost pornographic. And the most outrageous part was that she had to know. No one wore something like that without knowing exactly how it moved, how it looked from behind, how much it made a man want to drop to his knees and bury his face between those thighs.

By the time they reached the landing, Nate’s cock was already beginning to swell in his jeans. He adjusted himself casually as Zoe turned her head over her shoulder to smile at him.

Right now, he would’ve followed her anywhere.

“Well, here’s the cup,” Zoe said, her voice sounding more cheerful than she felt as she led Nate into the spare bedroom and handed him the oversized plastic container. It was at least three times the size of a standard medical sample cup—clear, sterile, absurdly large, and yet ... she wasn’t entirely sure it would be enough. “Hopefully it’s big enough,” she added with a smile that felt almost conspiratorial. “But just in case, I’ve laid some towels out for you.”

She couldn’t help it—her eyes flicked down, just for a second. But that second was more than enough. Her gaze dropped to his crotch and froze. There it was. The unmistakable outline of a thick, heavy erection pressing against the fabric of his jeans, shameless, straining. She glanced away—then looked again, as if her eyes hadn’t believed what they’d seen the first time. It was massive. Bigger than it had been in the clinic. Bigger than even her memory had dared to recall.

“I’ll, um ... leave you to it,” she said quickly, and turned before her face could betray the blush rising up her cheeks. She walked briskly back to her bedroom, her heartbeat pulsing in her throat, her mouth dry. As she reached the mirror, she caught a full reflection of herself and gasped. The robe clung to her body like liquid silk, cinched so tightly at the waist it made her curves look exaggerated, erotic, deliberately obscene. The swell of her breasts was pressing visibly against the fabric, the sheer bustier beneath doing nothing to disguise her hardened nipples. And just beneath the hem, the black lace of her stockings peeked through, the suspenders taut against her thighs.

He was hard for me, she thought, her pulse skipping. *Not for the cup. Not for the sample. For me.

She bit her lip, the heat in her chest sliding lower as she felt her nipples strain even harder against the mesh. Her core pulsed. Wet. Warm. Ready. “Fuck, I’m horny,” she whispered aloud, pressing one hand to her stomach as if to calm the storm building inside her.

She sat down at the edge of the bed, legs parted slightly, toes curling into the carpet. Her body felt tight, charged, like every inch of her skin was vibrating with tension. She closed her eyes and let herself imagine it—Nate, in the room just down the hallway, stripping out of his clothes, those strong arms flexing as he peeled off his shirt. The deep, rich tone of his chest. The thickness of his cock as it dropped, heavy and proud. The way his hand would look wrapped around it—barely able to encircle the base. The way his hips might move. The way he might breathe as he stroked himself, slowly at first, then faster. Her thighs clenched together. The ache was unbearable.

She reached down, fingers grazing her panties, and let out a tiny gasp when she felt how soaked they already were. She rubbed gently, small circles at first, just enough to feel it, just enough to keep the edge alive. “What the hell is wrong with me?” she muttered, but the words sounded hollow, false. Her hand moved again, pressure building, her hips lifting into her palm. “Fuck ... it feels so good.”