This work is a fictional sexual fantasy created for adult audiences only. All characters, events, and situations depicted are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to real events or circumstances is purely coincidental and unintentional. The story does not depict real individuals or machines and should not be interpreted as describing actual conduct, relationships, or experiences.
Orgasmo 9000, pt 4 – The Clinic Opens
Images of the characters can be found here: forum.xnxx.com/threads/orgasmo-9000-story.719045/
Six months later, the discreet brass plaque on a quiet street in the upscale medical district simply read:
EROS WELLNESS COLLECTIVE
Private Sexual Health & Reclamation Therapy By referral only
No signage screamed its true purpose. The building was a renovated Victorian with frosted windows, soft lighting, and a faint scent of jasmine drifting through the air. Patients arrived by appointment only, usually nervous, always alone, clutching a referral card from Dr. Diya Patel’s private practice. They were women in their thirties, forties, sometimes early fifties: executives whose libido had flat-lined under boardroom pressure, mothers of three who hadn’t felt desire since childbirth, wives whose husbands had long stopped trying. They spoke in hushed tones of dryness, pain, disinterest, the quiet shame of a body that had forgotten how to want.
Diya screened them carefully. Only the ones who were truly starving, only the ones who, beneath their polished exteriors, were desperate for fire, received the card.
Inside, the staff greeted them like priestesses of a secret order.
Emily, the bright-eyed receptionist, now twenty and radiant in soft pastel scrubs, smiled with the confidence of someone who had once squirted across a laboratory floor and now owned her pleasure completely. She checked them in, voice honey-sweet, handing over silk robes and chamomile tea laced with just enough calming tincture to soften the edges of fear.
Becky, in crisp white nurse attire that somehow still looked sinful, took vitals and asked the intimate questions with a warmth that made confession easy: “When was the last time you came so hard you forgot your own name?” Most women blushed crimson and whispered “never.”
Sarah, the quiet assistant with the earthquake orgasms, led them down the hallway, her touch reassuring on their lower backs, her own body a living advertisement: curves lush and relaxed, eyes glowing with the serene certainty of a woman who had been thoroughly, repeatedly, devastatingly ruined and rebuilt.
Two treatment paths existed.
The traditional gyno room, for those who needed to ease in gently: stirrups, warm speculums, Diya’s expert hands and a discreet wand that could coax a first orgasm in under four minutes.
And then, for those ready, the Orgasmo Room.
The machine had evolved. Sleeker lines, softer leather the color of midnight, arms that moved like lovers instead of robots. The new cum-simulant reservoir now offered temperature and viscosity variants, even scent profiles, vanilla, musk, ocean salt. A discreet price list sat in the consultation folder:
• Single Session: $5,000
• Package of Three: $12,000
• Transformation Protocol (full week immersion): $25,000 and up
• Discretionary scholarships available
They never turned away a woman they truly wanted. Some paid nothing at all.
Between patients, the larger back room, with its hospital beds that locked together into one vast playground, became their sanctuary. John would lock the door, dim the lights, and the four women would strip him with practiced hunger. Emily riding his face while Sarah took him slow and deep, Becky and Diya tangled beside them in a sixty-nine that left the sheets soaked. Sometimes he’d line them up on their knees, moving from one to the next, watching them kiss and touch each other while they waited their turn. Other times he’d choose just one or two, Becky and Sarah in the shower, water sluicing over their bodies as he took them against the tile; Diya bent over the gyno table, heavy breasts swaying while Emily held her hand and whispered encouragement.
The patients never knew the staff were the original test subjects, now priestesses of the very fire they administered.
By the end of the first year the waiting list stretched eight months. Women left the clinic transformed: walking taller, eyes brighter, marriages reignited or courageously ended, libidos roaring back to life. Some booked the Transformation Protocol and stayed the full week, emerging on Sunday evening with the same glowing, slightly dazed look Sarah and Emily had worn after their spring break.
And in the quiet hours after the last patient had gone, John would stand in the Orgasmo Room, watching his four devotees arrange themselves on the freshly changed sheets, naked, eager, utterly his, and know that the map had become a kingdom.
A kingdom built on five thousand dollars at a time, and on the ruins of every woman who had once believed her fire was gone forever.
Petite, long jet-black hair to her waist, delicate B-cup breasts with dark, perpetually hard nipples, a neat black landing strip above an otherwise smooth pussy. She arrived in a tailored silk blouse, trembling with nerves and shame, whispering that she hadn’t been wet in two years.
Becky prepped her with extra warming lube and a gentle Level 3 start. The moment the vaginal probe seated and began its slow inflation, Linh’s eyes went wide behind the blindfold. The clitoral dome sealed over her tiny, hypersensitive pearl and the nodules started their lazy swirl. Forty-five seconds later her entire body snapped rigid, a high, musical scream echoing off the ceiling as the first orgasm detonated. Clear fluid shot from her in a perfect, high-pressure arc (three feet, four, nearly five) before splattering the ceiling tiles in glittering rain. She squirted again and again with every subsequent climax, the restraints creaking as her slim legs kicked helplessly. By Level 5 she was a fountain, soaking Becky’s scrubs from ten feet away, her long hair plastered to her face with her own release. When the machine finally powered down she lay trembling, whispering broken Vietnamese that Becky later translated as “I didn’t know my body could do that.”
Patient 2: Tamika Brooks, 48, former college basketball star turned personal trainer
Six feet tall, ebony skin gleaming under the lights, massive HH-cup breasts that swayed like pendulums, an ass so round and powerful it looked carved from marble. She joked nervously that “nothing ever got her off anymore.” Becky had to use the reinforced thigh cuffs.
Level 4 was all it took. The vaginal probe inflated to maximum, the anal sentinel twisted deep, and the clitoral dome locked on with triple suction. Tamika’s entire muscular frame locked up (every striation visible under her skin) as the first orgasm hit like a freight train. Her glutes and thighs flexed so violently the leather restraints groaned and one metal buckle actually bent. A guttural, primal roar tore from her throat as she came, her pussy and ass clamping down so hard the pistons stuttered mid-stroke. The second climax followed instantly, her back arching off the table, massive breasts bouncing wildly. On the third she blacked out completely, body going rigid one last time before collapsing in a trembling heap, sweat pouring off her like she’d just finished a championship game. When she came to twenty minutes later, she laughed through tears and said, “Sign me up for the weekly package.”
Between patients the clinic had its own heartbeat, slow, heavy, and wet.
The moment the front door clicked shut behind the last appointment, Emily flipped the sign to CLOSED, her fingers lingering on the lock with a little shiver of anticipation. Sarah was already dimming the lights to that low, honeyed amber that made skin look edible. Becky disappeared into the back and returned rolling the privacy curtain across the hallway, the soft rasp of fabric on metal the only sound until Diya’s low laugh broke the quiet.
John stood in the doorway of the big recovery room, sleeves rolled to his elbows, watching them move like a choreographed ritual they’d perfected over months.
Becky reached him first. She pressed her body to his front, palms sliding up his chest, and kissed him slow and filthy, tongue curling against his while her hips rolled in that deliberate way that always made him half-hard in seconds. Behind her, Sarah and Emily were already stripping each other (Emily’s pastel scrubs peeled down to reveal the sheer white lace bra she wore for exactly these moments, Sarah’s top tossed aside so her fuller breasts spilled free, nipples dark and begging). Diya watched them with half-lidded eyes, unbuttoning her blouse one torturously slow button at a time until the fabric parted and her heavy, pendulous breasts swayed forward, freed from confinement.
The hospital beds had already been locked together into one vast playground.
John let Becky push him backward until his knees hit the mattress. She straddled him instantly, grinding down on the ridge of his cock through his slacks while Sarah crawled up on his left and Emily on his right. Four sets of hands undressed him (fingers tugging at his belt, pulling his shirt over his head, nails raking lightly down his chest until he was naked and aching beneath them).
Sarah claimed his mouth first, kissing him deep and hungry while Emily’s tongue traced hot, wet lines down his throat to his collarbone. Becky slid lower, mouthing the length of him through his boxer briefs until he groaned into Sarah’s kiss. Diya knelt between his thighs, her warm, soft breasts brushing his skin as she helped Becky drag the fabric away. The moment his cock sprang free, Diya took him in one slow, possessive glide (lips stretching around his thickness, tongue swirling, taking him to the back of her throat with practiced ease while Becky kissed the base and Emily and Sarah licked and sucked at his balls in perfect synchrony).
John’s head fell back against the pillow, a low growl rumbling in his chest as four mouths worshipped him at once.
Minutes blurred.
Becky rose up on her knees, guiding him inside her in one slick drop (she was always ready, always dripping the moment the clinic closed). She rode him slow and deep, rolling her hips in that hypnotic figure-eight that made his vision blur. Sarah straddled his face, thighs trembling as she lowered herself onto his waiting tongue; he licked into her with long, deliberate strokes, tasting the faint sweetness she still carried from the last patient’s session. Emily and Diya tangled beside them (Emily on her back, legs spread wide while Diya’s mouth worked between her thighs, two fingers curling inside her until Emily’s high, breathy cries filled the room).
They rotated like a living carousel.
Sarah came first on his tongue, a long, rolling earthquake that left her thighs clamped around his head and her release flooding his mouth. Becky followed seconds later, grinding down hard as her walls spasmed around him, milking him with those rhythmic squeezes that always pulled him dangerously close to the edge.
He flipped Diya onto her back next, spreading her thick thighs and sinking into her in one slow thrust (her heavy breasts bouncing with every stroke, nipples dark and swollen). Emily straddled Diya’s face, facing him, so he could watch Diya’s tongue work while he fucked her slow and deep. Sarah and Becky knelt on either side, mouths on Diya’s breasts, sucking and biting until Diya was sobbing into Emily’s pussy, her own climax building in those luxurious, bone-deep waves.
When Diya came it was with a guttural cry that vibrated through Emily and straight into him (her inner muscles clamping down so hard he had to still inside her or lose control). Emily followed seconds later, her hypersensitivity detonating in a sharp, squirting burst that soaked Diya’s chin and neck, her high-pitched wail echoing off the walls.
John pulled out only long enough to flip Emily onto all fours, sliding into her from behind in one smooth stroke (her tightness exquisite, her body still fluttering from aftershocks). Sarah lay beneath her in a sixty-nine, tongue flicking Emily’s clit while Emily licked her in return. Becky and Diya knelt behind him, taking turns licking where he joined Emily, their tongues occasionally meeting in slow, wet kisses around him.
The final crescendo was chaos and perfection.
He moved from one to the next (Emily’s sharp, frantic climaxes; Sarah’s long, devastating rolls; Becky’s rhythmic, milking squeezes; Diya’s deep, maternal clenches) until he couldn’t tell where one woman ended and the next began. When he finally let go it was inside Sarah again, her favorite place (her legs locked around his waist, urging him deeper as he swelled and spilled in thick, endless pulses). The sensation triggered her largest orgasm of the night, a rolling quake that pulled every drop from him while Emily, Becky, and Diya shuddered through their own chained releases around them.
They collapsed in a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter, skin slick, sheets ruined, the room smelling of sex and jasmine and utter, blissful exhaustion.
Tomorrow there would be new patients, new trembling housewives and executives waiting to be set on fire.
Tonight, the priestesses had their high priest, and the clinic’s true purpose pulsed between them like a second heartbeat.
Pale freckled skin, copper-red hair in a loose bun, soft C-cup breasts with pale pink nipples, and a completely dry, red-haired pussy that hadn’t seen action since her divorce eight years ago.
She was almost clinically detached at first, until the extra-warm, extra-slick lubricant and the slow insertion of the vaginal probe made her gasp.
Level 6 broke her in under four minutes. The machine ramped smoothly: vaginal shaft inflating in waves, anal probe twisting in counter-rhythm, clitoral dome spinning at 280 rpm with gentle electro-pulses. Fiona’s dryness vanished in a flood of natural arousal, her body remembering what it had forgotten. When the final climax chain hit, her pale skin flushed crimson from chest to hairline, freckles standing out like cinnamon on cream. She screamed (a raw, desperate sound) as her first orgasm in years tore through her, then a second, then a third in overlapping waves. On the fourth she simply went limp, eyes rolling back, body twitching in tiny aftershocks while the machine gently powered down. She woke up crying softly, whispering “I thought that part of me was dead.”
Patient 4: Valentina Morales, 32, new mom of twins, Colombian-American
Curvy and soft from recent motherhood, long brunette waves, milk-heavy D-cup breasts that leaked at the slightest touch, dark nipples large and perpetually erect from nursing. She came in exhausted, whispering that sex hurt since the birth and her husband had stopped trying.
Becky fitted the special milking cups first (soft silicone domes that sealed gently over her swollen breasts and began a slow, rhythmic suction in perfect sync with the vaginal probe). The moment the cups latched, milk sprayed in thin, sweet streams. Valentina’s eyes flew open behind the blindfold, a shocked moan turning into a sob of pure relief.
Level 4 turned her into a fountain in every sense. The vaginal probe inflated and pistoned, the clitoral dome spun, and the milking cups ramped up pressure. Milk arced from her breasts in steady pulses while she came (long, luxurious waves, her pussy gushing in creamy floods that soaked the table). John watched from the observation window, transfixed by the sight of her milk spraying in perfect rhythm with her orgasms. When she finally went limp, breasts still dripping, pussy still fluttering, he knew he had to have her himself.
After Valentina's session with the Orgasmo 9000 left her a quivering, milk-dripping mess on the recliner, her D-cup breasts still leaking thin streams of creamy white from the suction cups' relentless milking, her brunette waves matted with sweat, her pussy gaping and glistening with the machine's simulated cum, John decided she needed a "follow-up exam." He unstrapped her with professional detachment, his white coat still buttoned, voice calm and clinical as he helped her into a silk robe that did little to hide the wet spots blooming across her chest. "Mrs. Morales, we'll need to conduct a manual assessment in the back room to ensure full integration of the therapy," he said, his tone that of a doctor discussing blood pressure, even as his eyes lingered on the way her heavy, lactating breasts swayed with each shaky breath.
Valentina nodded weakly, her legs wobbly as he guided her down the hallway, one hand on her elbow in a gesture that started as support but quickly became something more electric. She was already aroused beyond reason, the machine's deep, rhythmic invasions had awakened a fire she'd thought extinguished by motherhood, her pussy still throbbing with aftershocks, slick and swollen between her thighs. As they walked, she "accidentally" brushed against him, first her hip grazing his, then the side of her breast pressing into his arm, the robe slipping just enough to let a warm droplet of milk seep through the fabric onto his sleeve. "Sorry, Doctor," she murmured, but her voice was husky, eyes half-lidded with want, her free hand trailing down his back as if testing the waters. John felt his cock twitch in his slacks, but he maintained the facade, leading her into the larger back room where the hospital beds waited, now pushed together into one vast expanse draped in fresh silk sheets.
The door clicked shut, and the clinical pretense evaporated like mist under sun. Valentina turned to him, robe falling open to reveal her full, milk-heavy breasts, nipples erect and leaking steadily, dark areolas glistening, and pressed her body against his. "Please... I need more," she whispered, her recent-mom curves molding to him, the scent of her arousal mingling with the sweet milk dripping from her tits. It didn't take much effort for John to take her; she was already his, the machine's work priming her like kindling. He shrugged off his coat, lips crashing onto hers in a deep, possessive kiss, tasting the salt of her sweat as his hands cupped her breasts, thumbs flicking her nipples until milk sprayed in thin arcs, soaking his shirt. She moaned into his mouth, grinding her slick pussy against his thigh, her brunette hair tumbling over her shoulders as he backed her onto the bed.
He undressed her fully then, peeling away the robe to expose her soft, post-partum body, stretch marks like silver lightning across her belly, her D-cups heaving with each breath, milk beading at the tips. John laid her back gently, his mouth descending to her breasts, sucking one nipple deep while his hand milked the other, warm, sweet liquid flooding his tongue as she arched with a cry, milk spraying in rhythmic pulses that matched her building arousal. His free hand slipped between her thighs, fingers finding her swollen clit and circling slowly, her pussy already drenched and clenching around nothing. "Oh God... yes," she gasped, her hips bucking as the first orgasm built.
Valentina's first explosive climax hit like a gathering storm, slow at first, her body tensing as John's fingers plunged into her slick heat, curling against her G-spot while his mouth sucked harder on her breast, milk gushing in hot spurts down his chin. She shattered with a low, guttural moan, her walls spasming around his fingers in deep, rolling waves, fluid squirting from her pussy in a thick, continuous flood that soaked his hand and the sheets beneath her ass. Milk sprayed from both breasts in unison, arcing over his head as her back bowed off the bed, tears of overwhelming bliss streaming down her face.
Before the waves subsided, John positioned himself between her legs, his thick cock pressing against her entrance. He entered her slowly, tenderly, stretching her tight, post-birth pussy with exquisite care, the burn melting into bliss as he bottomed out, her walls fluttering around him. He began with gentle rocks, lips on her neck, whispering praises, "You're so beautiful, so wet for me", as his hands kneaded her lactating breasts, milk leaking steadily between his fingers. Valentina's second orgasm built deeper, her moans turning into primal roars as his thrusts quickened, grinding against her clit with each press. She came with a shuddering quake, her pussy clamping down in frantic, milking spasms that pulled groans from his throat, milk spraying from her nipples in forceful jets that hit his chest, her fluid gushing around his cock in a warm rush that left them both slick and trembling.
He didn't stop, flipping her onto her side for deeper access, one hand hooked under her knee to spread her wide, the other milking her breast as he thrust with romantic fervor, long, claiming strokes that made her heavy tits bounce, milk dripping in steady streams onto the silk. The third climax crested like a tidal wave, her body locking rigid as she screamed his name, walls spasming in endless, rolling pulses that wrung him relentlessly, more milk arcing from her breasts in rhythmic sprays, her squirting release soaking his balls and thighs in a continuous flood.
Valentina's fourth and final orgasm built as John rolled her onto her back again, thrusting urgently now, his breath ragged against her ear. She felt him swelling inside her, impossibly thicker, stretching her walls in a new, intimate way that sent her spiraling. "John... you're... oh God, thicker... filling me..." she whimpered, not knowing it signaled his release, only that it felt divine, magical, her body molding to him perfectly. Then he exploded, a growl tearing from his throat as hot cum flooded her womb in thick, rhythmic jets, the warmth spreading like liquid fire, claiming her utterly. The sensation triggered her largest climax yet, a cataclysmic quake that locked her body rigid, walls clamping in frantic, milking spasms that pulled every drop from him, milk spraying from her breasts in forceful arcs that hit the ceiling, her squirting in violent, continuous floods that soaked the bed. She screamed in bliss, feeling complete, whole, remade, the frustration of motherhood washed away in this flood of ecstasy, forever bound to the man who'd reignited her fire.
Valentina rested for over an hour to recover, a blissful smile on her face the whole time. Becky kept checking on her and when she came too, Becky helped her cleanup and dress. Valentina left the clinic with a smile and a glow about her.
John felt new energy ignite within him, and decided he was going to take his harem anally tonight. Becky went first, as she always did when anal was on the menu.
She crawled onto the mattress on all fours, back arched, ass tilted high (her perfect, toned cheeks parting to reveal the jeweled plug she’d worn all day beneath her nurse’s scrubs). John eased the plug out with a slow twist, watching her tight ring flutter and clench at the sudden emptiness. Warm lube drizzled over her, and he pressed the head of his cock against that puckered star. Becky exhaled a long, filthy moan as he pushed in (slow, relentless, stretching her open until her back bowed and her fingers clawed the sheets). Once seated deep, he began to move: long, deliberate strokes that made her whole body rock, her pussy dripping untouched onto the mattress while she gasped his name like a prayer.
Emily was next, impatient and trembling with her trademark hypersensitivity.
She lay on her back, slim legs pulled to her chest, exposing everything. John took his time (coating two fingers in lube, working them into her impossibly tight ring while she whimpered and squirmed, her clit already swollen and begging). When he finally replaced fingers with cock, Emily’s reaction was immediate and explosive: a high, broken cry as he sank into her ass, the stretch overwhelming every nerve. He fucked her slow at first, then faster, her lithe body jerking with each thrust, until she came untouched (sharp, staccato bursts, squirting in glittering arcs across her own belly while her ass clenched around him in frantic pulses).
Sarah needed tenderness after her first time.
She knelt on the edge of the bed, thighs spread, heart-shaped ass presented like a gift. John kissed the small of her back, whispering praise as he eased the head past her ring (still slightly swollen from the machine’s earlier attentions). Sarah’s breath hitched, then melted into a low, rolling moan as he filled her inch by inch. Once buried, he wrapped an arm around her waist, fingers finding her clit, and began a slow, grinding rhythm that matched the deep, seismic waves she was famous for. When she came it was with a guttural roar, her ass clamping down so hard he saw stars, a thick flood pouring from her pussy while her whole body quaked in one long, devastating contraction.
Diya was last, and she demanded it like a queen.
She lay on her side, one leg hooked over John’s shoulder, her heavy breasts swaying as he pressed into her ass with steady pressure. She took him easily (years of secret self-training with plugs and toys), but the stretch still made her eyes flutter shut, a low, maternal moan vibrating in her chest. Once he was fully seated, she reached back to spread herself wider, urging him deeper. He fucked her with long, possessive strokes, one hand kneading her breast, the other rubbing slow circles over her clit. Diya came like a slow-motion earthquake (her ass rippling around him in luxurious pulses, her pussy gushing in a warm, continuous flood that soaked his balls and the sheets beneath them).
Then came the carousel.
John moved from one to the next, sliding out of one slick, clenching ring only to bury himself in another. Becky on her knees, Sarah on her back, Emily riding him reverse with her tiny waist gripped tight, Diya on all fours while the others licked and kissed whatever skin they could reach. Sometimes he’d pull out and let them taste themselves on him (four tongues fighting for the privilege) before choosing the next ass to claim.
The finale was always the same.
They arranged themselves in a circle on the vast bed (Becky on her back, Sarah straddling her face, Emily eating Becky, Diya eating Emily) while John moved behind Diya, sliding into her ass first, then Sarah’s, then Emily’s, then Becky’s, over and over, until none of them knew whose moan belonged to whom. When he finally couldn’t hold back, he chose Sarah (his favorite pet) and buried himself to the hilt in her ass, coming with a guttural roar as she shattered around him, triggering a chain of orgasms that rippled through all four women like dominoes.
They collapsed in a sweaty, trembling heap, every hole tender and glistening, the room thick with the scent of lube, come, and utter devotion.
Tomorrow they would put on their professional smiles and welcome the next starving soul.
Tonight, the priestesses had taken their high priest in every way imaginable, and the clinic’s true heartbeat pulsed on, wet, open, and insatiable.
A week after her “follow-up exam,” Valentina Morales received a discreet, cream-colored envelope slipped under the windshield wiper of her minivan while she picked up her twins from preschool. Inside was a single card, heavy stock, gold foil lettering:
You have been chosen for the Inner Circle Eros Wellness Collective Unlimited access. No charge. Come when you need to be filled.
There was no signature, only a tiny embossed silhouette of the Orgasmo 9000’s clitoral dome.
She came back that same night.
The clinic was dark to the outside world, but inside the back room glowed amber and warm. John opened the door himself, barefoot in soft sweatpants and a black T-shirt, hair still damp from the shower. Becky, Sarah, Emily, and Diya were already waiting on the vast joined bed, naked and languid, skin gleaming under the low lights. Milk still beaded on Valentina’s nipples the moment she saw them; her body had learned to respond to the mere promise of this place.
John didn’t speak. He simply took the diaper bag from her shoulder, set it aside, and kissed her slow and deep while the others watched with welcoming smiles. When he finally pulled back, Becky crawled forward, unbuttoning Valentina’s blouse with reverent fingers, cooing as milk immediately began to leak. Sarah and Emily flanked her, guiding her down onto the silk sheets while Diya knelt between her thighs, spreading them gently and licking a long, slow stripe up her already-soaked pussy.
They took their time reclaiming her.
Becky and Diya latched onto her breasts at the same moment, mouths sealing over her nipples, sucking in perfect rhythm until milk sprayed in steady, sweet pulses. Sarah straddled Valentina’s face, lowering herself so Valentina could taste another woman for the first time (slow, tentative licks that quickly turned hungry). Emily kissed her everywhere else, neck, ribs, the soft curve of her belly still carrying the faint silver lines of her pregnancies.
John watched until Valentina was writhing, milk dripping down her sides, hips bucking against Diya’s tongue. Then he moved between her legs, sliding into her in one slow, possessive thrust. She was tighter than the first time (her body already learning to grip him like it had been waiting years). He fucked her tender and deep while the women held her, milked her, kissed her through the first rolling orgasm that left her sobbing into Sarah’s thigh.
They didn’t stop for hours.
Valentina came again on John’s cock while Becky rode his face. Again on Emily’s strap while Sarah and Diya sucked milk straight from her breasts in unison. Again when all four women formed a circle around her, mouths and fingers everywhere, until she was nothing but shaking limbs and endless, creamy floods.
When John finally took her one last time (on her hands and knees, breasts swaying heavy and dripping, milk pooling beneath her on the sheets), he came with a growl, flooding her pussy while her ass still fluttered from Emily’s tongue. Valentina collapsed forward, face pressed to the silk, body quaking through one final, full-body orgasm that emptied her breasts completely and left her pussy pulsing around him in long, luxurious aftershocks.
Afterward they wrapped her in a warm blanket, Becky stroking her hair, Sarah feeding her sips of water, Emily curling against her back, Diya massaging her milk-heavy breasts until the last drops were gently expressed.
“You’re one of us now,” John whispered against her temple. “Come back whenever the hunger gets too loud. Door’s always open. Bed’s always big enough.”
Valentina’s answer was a soft, sated smile and a sleepy nod. She came back three nights later. And kept coming back. The Inner Circle had gained its fifth devotee, and the clinic’s heartbeat grew richer, warmer, and impossibly wetter with every return visit.
John had always appreciated the female form, but Valentina’s arrival (her soft, post-partum curves, the way her heavy breasts leaked at the slightest touch, the faint silver stretch marks that caught candlelight like secret constellations) awakened something deeper in him. Motherhood, once a clinical footnote in his data, now obsessed him. The swell of a belly, the darkening of nipples, the ripe, fertile glow (he found himself staring at Diya’s body differently too, guilt flickering when he realized Becky, Sarah, and Emily might never know that transformation because of the life he had built around them).
Money had long ceased to matter. The clinic’s discreet accounts overflowed; the waiting list stretched years. One night, sprawled across the vast bed in the back room, bodies still slick from a lazy, hours-long tangle, John traced idle circles on Becky’s flat stomach and murmured, “Ever think about… kids?”
He expected hesitation, discussion, maybe gentle refusal.
Instead Becky launched herself into his lap with a squeal that made the other three women look up from their sleepy pile. “Oh John, can we?” she breathed, eyes shining like a girl who’d just been handed the moon. “I want a baby so bad (your baby) inside me, growing, mine and yours.” She was already kissing him, frantic and hungry, hands sliding down to stroke him hard again while the others watched, amused and aroused. That night they didn’t stop until dawn. John took her missionary first, slow and deep, her legs wrapped high around his waist so every thrust kissed her cervix. When he came she clung to him, whispering “stay inside, stay inside” until the last pulse ebbed. They did it again on her knees, then again with her riding him reverse, breasts bouncing, begging him to fill her “until it takes.” By the time the sun rose Becky was a trembling, cum-soaked mess, thighs slick, a delirious smile on her face as she cupped her still-flat belly and laughed, “Practice round one: complete.”
A day later John gathered them all in the candlelit back room. “Becky and I are getting married,” he said simply, pulling her against his side. “And we’re trying for a baby. Starting now.”
The room erupted. Diya whooped and tackled them both into the sheets. Valentina, milk still beading on her nipples, kissed Becky slow and deep, whispering blessings in Spanish. Sarah smiled (genuine, radiant), but her eyes held a flicker of something sharper. Jealousy, longing, devotion all tangled together. She was the only child of a single mother; John had become lover, protector, father-figure, god. The idea of Becky carrying his child felt like the universe tilting away from her.
Emily, ever the free spirit, announced her engagement a month later (some sweet, normal boy who adored her) and moved three states away with tears and hugs and promises to visit. The clinic carried on, quieter without her bright, high-pitched cries echoing down the hall.
Becky’s pregnancy was confirmed six weeks after that frantic night. Her body bloomed (breasts heavier, nipples dark and sensitive, the gentle curve of her belly that John kissed every morning like sunrise). The clinic thrived, but the back room became quieter (just John and Sarah running most appointments now, Diya handling referrals, Valentina popping in when the twins napped).
Between patients they still fucked like the world was ending. Sarah on the reception desk, legs over his shoulders, begging in that low, earthquake voice. Sarah bent over the gyno table, ass high, taking him deep while patients waited unknowingly in the lobby. One slow afternoon she curled in his lap, tears in her eyes, and whispered, “I want one too, John. Your baby. I need it. I need you in me forever.”
He told Becky that night, expecting complexity. Instead Becky kissed him slow and filthy, then smiled. “Bring her in. Sister wife. I want her beside me, both of us round with you. The more the merrier.”
It didn’t take long.
Within a month of deliberate, bare, relentless trying (missionary with her legs over his shoulders so nothing spilled out, doggy on the joined beds while Becky watched and touched herself, slow midnight rides where Sarah sobbed his name and begged him to breed her), Sarah’s test turned positive.
She cried when she showed him the two pink lines (tears of joy, relief, possession). John pulled her close, hand already sliding to the still-flat plane of her stomach, and felt the future settle into place: two women carrying his children, Diya and Valentina promising the next round, the clinic’s secret heartbeat now echoing with the softer, steadier rhythm of life beginning.
The Eros Wellness Collective had started as a map of pleasure. It had become a family (unconventional, insatiable, and bound by more than desire). And John, once a lone scientist chasing data, now lay each night between the women who had chosen him, hands resting on two growing bellies, listening to four heartbeats that belonged, irrevocably, to him.
It took exactly nine days to find Emily’s replacement.
Her name was Amara Duval (29, light-skinned Creole from New Orleans, the kind of woman who could pass for white in one light and unmistakably Black in another). She walked into the clinic on a quiet Tuesday afternoon wearing a simple sundress that did criminal things to her figure: DD-cup breasts straining against thin cotton, a tiny waist flaring into hips that swayed like music, and a round, gravity-defying ass that made every head in the waiting room turn without realizing they’d done it. Her skin was warm honey under the amber lights, long wavy hair the color of dark caramel cascading to the small of her back, hazel-green eyes framed by lashes that didn’t need mascara.
She told Becky during the interview that she’d always been “too sensitive.” A single fingertip brushing her clit could make her come in public if she wasn’t careful. She’d never found a lover who could handle her without overwhelming her (or being overwhelmed themselves).
Becky hired her on the spot.
Amara’s first day on the job ended the same way Emily’s had: strapped to the Orgasmo 9000 for “calibration.”
John started her at Level 1, just to be safe.
She lasted forty-seven seconds.
The moment the Clitoral Whisperer sealed over her swollen, hypersensitive pearl (already peeking from its hood like it had been waiting years for this), Amara’s entire body jolted as if electrocuted. A high, melodic scream tore from her throat, her back arching so violently the waist belt creaked. Her first orgasm hit like a tidal wave (fluid gushing in a crystal arc that splattered the far wall, her DD breasts heaving, nipples diamond-hard beneath the suction cups). Before the first climax finished, a second detonated, then a third (overlapping, relentless, each one sharper and louder than the last). By the time the vaginal probe had even begun its gentle inflation she was speaking in tongues, hips bucking so hard the thigh cuffs left red marks, her curvaceous ass clenching rhythmically as wave after wave of pleasure tore through her.
John cut the session at Level 3 when she blacked out mid-squirt, body trembling in continuous aftershocks, a pool of her release spreading across the leather beneath her perfect, honey-colored curves.
When she came to twenty minutes later, blindfold off, eyes glassy and glowing, she looked straight at John and whispered in that slow New Orleans drawl:
“Emily was sensitive? Cher, you ain’t seen sensitive yet.”
She started the next day.
The reception desk had never been wetter.
And the back room (now featuring five women whose bodies responded to John like instruments tuned to his exact frequency) became a place where the lights stayed low, the sheets stayed soaked, and the clinic’s heartbeat grew richer, louder, and infinitely more insatiable with every new note Amara added to the symphony.
The Eros Wellness Collective flourished in the years that followed, evolving from a shadowy side project into a discreet empire of liberation, or so John framed it in his encrypted journals. Tucked away in that Victorian facade, the clinic became a beacon for the quietly desperate: women from all walks, referred by Diya's growing network of "enlightened" contacts, seeking the spark they'd lost to time, stress, or neglect. The quest to "help" them was noble on paper, reigniting dormant desires through the Orgasmo 9000's calibrated symphonies, transforming dryness into floods, disinterest into devotion. Sessions ballooned to a waiting list that stretched months, with packages tailored to budgets: $5,000 for a single dive into ecstasy, free for those whose stories tugged at John's heartstrings, like the widowed teacher who hadn't felt alive since her twenties or the executive whose boardroom armor hid a soul starved for surrender.
Underneath the therapeutic veneer, the clinic pulsed with John's personal indulgences. He "helped himself" to their delicate treasures as whim dictated, certain patients invited to the back room for "extended consultations," where the machine's hum gave way to his flesh. A redhead divorcee, post-Level 6 blackout, woke to his hands tracing her freckled skin, her fifty-year fire roaring back as he claimed her slowly on the joined beds. Or the muscular trainer, her massive curves still quivering from nearly snapping the restraints, bent over the gyno table while he took her from behind, her roars echoing as he filled her with the real warmth the simulant could never match.
The staff, his inner circle of devotees, remained the core of his kingdom. Becky, the sultry nurse, orchestrated the interludes with wicked efficiency; Sarah, the once-virgin acolyte, begged for his deep claims in the shower between shifts; first Emily then Amara, the hypersensitive receptionists, squirted in their triple bursts during quickies on the reception desk; Diya, the referral queen, offered her heavy breasts for milking in the alcove, her maternal softness a contrast to the others' youth. Valentina, the one outside addition, joined seamlessly, her lactating D-cups a favorite for group sessions, milk spraying in arcs as they took turns worshipping her while John buried himself in her post-mom tightness.
As the clinic expanded, a second location whispered in the works, international referrals trickling in, John's "help" blurred lines further. Free sessions for "promising" cases often ended with him sampling their treasures, turning patients into occasional playthings or even recruits. The quest marched on: hundreds "helped," souls reignited, but always with John's desires at the helm, his harem of staff ensuring the machine, and he, never went hungry. In this future, liberation came at a price, but for those who paid, the stars burned brighter than ever.
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