Chapter Text
You’re lying stretched out in front of him on the hard, gray examination table in the Polar Tang’s infirmary, trying to relax while Trafalgar Law carefully feels around your stomach. His gray eyes are focused, his hands are encased in blue latex gloves, and you flinch imperceptibly at every touch.
Actually, you didn’t want to go to him with your “health” problem. It’s not only particularly bothersome, but also terribly embarrassing. You can’t run to your captain for every little ache and pain; he may be a doctor, but he’s reluctant to play the understanding physician. Most of the time, he wears a mask of dismissive impatience, along with his white fur cap.
But you can’t ignore the symptoms any longer.
For several days now, a painful pulling sensation has been plaguing your lower abdomen. A heat that refuses to go away, no matter what you do—and you’ve tried a lot: cold showers, compresses, chamomile tea, meditation, and exercises in the gym. None of it has helped. The pain is like a taut thread stretching between your chest and your navel. Every day the tension grows, every day it becomes more unbearable. Your body is changing too; at first you didn’t even notice it, only the crew members’ glances changed. They lingered longer. On your lips; your breasts, which suddenly appear full and round beneath the jumpsuit.
Everything rubs against your skin when you move. The panties between your throbbing legs, the jumpsuit against your rosy nipples. Sometimes you have to stop walking because your knees go weak.
Finally—after you nearly collapsed in front of the Polar Tang’s engine room—you decided to bring this problem to your captain’s attention. As expected, he was only moderately pleased with your description of the pain in your lower abdomen. You’d better leave out the other symptoms for now.
You try to focus on his face while he concentrates on the examination. You’ve pulled up your T-shirt, lowered the waistband of your gray cotton pants slightly, and force yourself to breathe steadily while the heat pulses between your legs.
“Do you have any other symptoms?” he asks casually, settling onto a stool next to the exam table. He grabs a clipboard from the desk, checks a few boxes, and writes notes in the empty spaces under your name.
You say nothing, but your gaze involuntarily drifts to your chest. He notices it; from behind the clipboard, his gaze lingers for a moment on your T-shirt, where the round, heavy curves of your breasts are visible beneath the white fabric. His gaze sends a shiver through your body, and you squirm restlessly back and forth on the couch.
Slowly, he rolls his chair over and sets the clipboard down next to you.
His hands touch your stomach again, but now they feel their way more tentatively; his gaze is appraising as he sizes you up. Slowly, he moves his hands toward your lower abdomen, coming dangerously close to your throbbing, sensitive spot.
Trembling, you try to keep your eyelids open, but they flutter shut; your lips part of their own accord as his hands press you down onto the hard examination table. A loud sound escapes you—half sigh, half moan.
“Is that the spot?” Law asks, lingering there with his hands. You have to summon all your willpower not to thrust your pelvis toward him and, in the same breath, beg him to do unspeakable things with his fingers.
Suddenly, it dawns on you what a terrible idea it was to turn to him.
You press your pelvis into the hard examination table and shake your head.
“Further down,” you manage to say, your voice strained and brittle. “A pulling, burning pain.”
He watches your distress hesitantly and removes his hands from your stomach. The absence of his touch seems to put your body even more on high alert. Your mouth goes dry, your heart pounds like crazy.
“Something seems to be wrong with your hormones,” he says. “I’m not a gynecologist.”
“Can’t you still take a look—”
Slowly, you spread your legs, revealing your swollen crotch and the moisture that’s clearly visible as a stain on your light gray pants.
For a brief moment, his usually controlled expression shifts. He reflexively moistens his lips.
“That’s really—” he begins, his voice hoarse, “not really a medical problem.”
“But it hurts so much, Law.” Your tone is pleading, “What if it’s dangerous?” Maybe it’s your pleading, or your body, which is still writhing on the couch as if a thousand insects were buzzing inside you. You can’t—think clearly. Everything is engulfed in heat and flames. It’s unbearable.
Your core throbs, pulses; ragged breaths escape your mouth. Law stares, spellbound, at the damp patch between your legs and follows, as if hypnotized, the circling movements of your pelvis. Movements you believe will bring you relief and free you from this strange state. He bites his lower lip.
“Stop moving,” he commands. His harsh tone cuts through you, and you press yourself into the examination table with a moan.
He grabs your side and holds you tight. His rough grip only drives you more insane, and you suppress the moan that wants to escape your mouth.
“I’m just feeling around,” he said. “Just once. That’s all. I don’t even have the right tools for this.”
You wonder what he needs to feel you besides his sinful hands, but the question vanishes into thin air as he slides your pants down over your hips.
You spread your legs wider, ready to take all of him inside you. Your hand moves to your breasts and rubs over them tremblingly to release the tension within them.
“God. You’re in quite a state,” he says, half fascinated, half amused.
He parts your heated flesh with his gloved hand and pushes two fingers inside.
A small cry escapes you as you feel him inside you. Your whole body tightens around him, and he can barely suppress a gasp as he continues with medical precision.
He finishes quickly. Your eyes widen in disbelief; the sound that now escapes your lips is pure horror.
He stands up, takes off his gloves, and tosses them into the trash can next to the exam table.
“You’re fine,” he says, “nothing to worry about. You’re just on edge hormonally right now.”
The fact that he isn’t looking at you gives you hope. He has turned away, perhaps to hide that this is affecting him too.
Although your knees are weak as rubber, you pull up your panties and stand up from the couch.
“It still hurts,” you say quietly.
“Of course.”
“Here.” Even though you know you shouldn’t, you take his hand and place it on one of your breasts. You can’t help yourself; your skin is crying out for him, your mind has melted away in the heat of your body, and now all you want is to feel him and his hands on you. Those rough, unyielding hands.
“What’s this supposed to be,” he asks, “manual therapy?” Despite his mocking tone, he doesn’t pull his hand away. His fingers grip the full curve, slowly applying pressure, as if testing the sensation, the softness between his hands.
Your knees give way immediately; you slump against his chest while clinging to his muscular arms.
“This really isn’t normal,” he murmurs now, pulling you up by the waist and maneuvering you back onto the table. He presses you firmly onto the hard surface. “Don’t get up again.”
He leans over you. Seems to be thinking. Your body arches toward him on the examination table.
“I’m scared,” you whimper, “check again. Please.”
A grim grin spreads across his face as he watches you lying there before him. Your thighs rub idly together. The tops of your breasts peek out from under your T-shirt, and your lips are moist.
“Do you really want this?” His tongue brushes lightly against his teeth.
He says it like a threat, sending a delightful shiver down your spine.
“All right,” he murmurs, and your glassy eyes widen as he slides between your legs and rubs his hand over your swollen lips.
His gaze is fixed on your lustful agony. How you breathe in gasps, pant, and whimper his name. You writhe under his touch, as he deliberately holds back to intensify your suffering.
His movements aren’t enough; his rough thumb glides sluggishly and slowly over your skin. It’s more like pleasurable torture than the fulfillment you crave so deeply.
Law is still watching you, fascinated.
“You want it so badly,” he says, his eyes dark and gleaming as his cool fingers circle over you. You hold your breath, waiting for them to finally slide into you, thrust inside, penetrate you, but he pulls them back and lets your panties snap back into place.
You almost howl with disappointment and arch your back.
The hard examination table presses into your back as he pushes your hips down with his hands.
“Don’t move,” he says, “if you’re a good girl and stop squirming around, I’ll keep examining you.”
You nod obediently, trying to stay still, even though it’s hard for you.
Although he’s trying to hide it, you can tell he’s enjoying it too.
His jeans strain tellingly at his crotch, and the growing bulge drives you wild.
Without rushing, he pushes your T-shirt up. Your ample bust has long since spilled out of the small cups, your nipples standing erect like spikes. Without moving much, you press your upper body toward him, eager for him to examine it.
“Please,” you whisper.
“Tch. Shameless… and I told you not to move.” He still presses your hip onto the examination table with one hand while grabbing one of your breasts with the other. He begins to grope, but it’s more like a massage. Your center is burning, and you writhe beneath him like an eel.
Suddenly, you feel warm breath on your ear. “You didn’t follow my orders,” he says softly, and you whimper as he roughly pinches your nipple.
“I’m not moving,” you gasp, even though you’re shamelessly rubbing against his hand like a cat. “I’ll do anything you want, Captain.”
You feel his smile on your ear. “That’s not what I meant. You ate those strange berries on the last island—even though I specifically told you not to touch anything that grows there.”
You vaguely remember the sweet, juicy berries that burst in your mouth and trickled down your chin like warm honey; at the thought, you lick your lips.
“You should have eaten some too,” you reply cheekily. You hope he’ll punish you for your comment by grabbing you tighter. He actually does you the favor.
Slowly, he moves his hand to your hip, pulling you closer to your center again, and slides his fingers under the fabric of your panties, which are damp and hot against your skin. Your body tingles with desire as he kneads your breast with one hand and fingers his way between your legs with the other. Then he suddenly enters you.
Everything inside you screams, your mouth opens, your vision blurs. Your hand claws into the couch beside you as a thick, heavy wave of pleasure washes over you, leaving you whimpering and gasping on the hard examination table.
Your next breath shakes your entire body. The orgasm has burrowed into your skin like tingling, twitching needles, erasing every other sensation. The pain has finally vanished for a moment.
“Already over?”
He sounds almost disappointed.
Painfully slowly, he pulls his finger out of you.
“Doesn’t seem like there was a particularly strong aphrodisiac in there,” he says thoughtfully, examining his fingers. Then he looks at you, lying on the examination table, trembling and twitching.
“Are you feeling better?”
You nod slowly, even though fatigue is now overwhelming you and your thoughts are still far from clear.
“All right,” he says. “We’re done here.”