Quantum Bisexual Leap Part 2: Doctors

They blinked. The lab disappeared. The smell hit first—antiseptic and something sweet, like cherry lube someone spilled and tried to hide. Lights flickered above a cheap metal bed. Sid still felt the ghost of stretch in her ass, but she wasn’t in her fishnets anymore. Scrubs. Ragged at the hem, the drawstring missing. Her partner wore paper slippers and the world’s tightest Johnson & Johnson tee. Sweat still cooling between their thighs. Door hisses open. Joanna in a stethoscope and a white coat hanging open over nothing but latex straps. Lance behind her, scrub pants slung low enough to show the veined base of his cock, clipboard held like it matters. The coat carries a stain. Maybe coffee. Maybe come. “Vitals,” Joanna says. She tosses the coat, grabs the rail. Her strap digs a red line across Sid’s inner thigh. Lance pushes the bed flat, rips the sheets away. “Anal first,” he mutters. “Observe rectal response.” He spits on his fingers. Pushes two in. Sid arches, half pain, half yes. The other patient—her partner—gets Joanna’s mouth. No preamble. Just tongue, then suction, then two fingers under the balls, working slow circles. “Pulse elevating,” Lance grunts. He frees his cock. Rubs the head around Sid’s slick hole, not pushing in. Teasing. “Responds to tension. Good.” Joanna climbs the bed, knees on either side of the patient’s face. Lowers until her slit seals over their mouth, coat hanging open above them like wings. She rocks once. Then rides. Hard enough the headboard taps the wall—tap-tap-tap. Sid’s breath hitches. The fingers come out. Lance drives in. One thrust, balls-deep. Sid moans, loud, no shame left. “Switch,” Joanna snaps. Lance pulls out, leaving emptiness and the wet sound of it. He circles the bed. Joanna stands, turns. Lance lines up behind her now, hands yanking her coat down to her elbows, pinning her arms. He fucks her from behind, eyes on Sid the whole time—watching, smirking, daring her to touch herself. Sid does. Two fingers inside, pace matching his. Her partner reaches over, takes her wrist, guides it faster. Joanna laughs, half-breath, half-growl. “Treatment plan,” she pants. “Continue until both subjects fail to speak coherently.” Lance answers by slamming harder. The slap echoes. Sid comes first—sharp, sudden, hands fisted in the sheet. Her partner follows, spilling across Joanna’s tongue when she drops and swallows like it’s prescribed. The monitor beeps, heart rates a mess. Joanna straightens, wipes her mouth on the coat, tosses it at the foot of the bed. Lance zips up halfway, already reaching for another pair of gloves. “Round two.” The door clicks. Somewhere down the hall a page echoes. They stay where they are. Nobody is leaving yet.