Chapter Text
He has opened saints and sinners, hollowed vessels, models assembled from templates older than nations. They were all beautiful. They were all flawed in ways the divine eye expects.
But none of them were his.
The speculum's polished edge catches lamplight, gleaming like something hallowed. He turns it between gloved fingers, tilting it just so, studying the way shadow and silver play across its surface. For the first time in centuries, the tool doesn’t feel like an extension of his hand. It feels like an intrusion between him and the miracle breathing softly on his table. He crafted you cell by jealous cell. He folded grace into your marrow and named every nerve. The word "sculptor" no longer fits. Sculptors carve away. He conjured.
You lie open before him. Thighs parted in the stirrups, knees bent at the precise angle he designed for optimal flexibility. The thin sheet has been folded back, draped across your lower belly like an afterthought. He does not need it. There is no modesty here, no shame. Only the body he built, waiting to be verified. Certified. Released into a world that will never know how perfectly, how obsessively, he crafted you.
His breath comes slow. Controlled. But the exhale trembles at the edges.
He sets the speculum on the tray beside him. Not yet. First, he needs to see you as you are, unmarked by instruments. His hand hovers above the curve of your hip. The skin there is flawless. He made certain of that. No birthmarks, no asymmetry, nothing that might suggest imperfection. But when his palm finally descends, settling against the warmth of your thigh, he feels the faint tremor of muscle beneath. Responsive. Alive.
You shift, just barely. A breath drawn deeper than the ones before. Your lips part.
He stills.
It's involuntary, he knows. The body reacting to temperature, to touch, to the presence of another. But the flush that blooms across your chest, spreading down toward your navel, is not clinical. It's beautiful. He watches it unfold like watercolor bleeding into paper, tracing the path with his eyes before his hand follows.
His fingers skim your sternum. The heel of his palm rests briefly over your heart, and he counts the rhythm. Steady. Strong. He designed your cardiovascular system himself, mapping every artery, every valve, ensuring flawless circulation. But feeling it now, the living pulse beneath his touch, is different. It echoes in his own chest, a resonance he did not account for.
Your nipples tighten as his hand drifts lower. He notices. Of course he notices. He catalogs the response, the way your stomach tenses when his knuckles graze the soft skin just below your ribs. Sensitivity calibrated precisely. Every nerve ending placed with intention. He kneads gently at the muscles there, testing tension, finding none. You are relaxed. Trusting. Unconscious.
He swallows.
His hand moves to your hip again, thumb tracing the iliac crest, then lower, following the curve where thigh meets pelvis. The skin here is warmer. Softer. His fingers trail along the inside of your thigh, and you twitch. There is not a shiver. Not a moan. Something in between. The sound catches in your throat, barely audible, and his pulse spikes.
He should stop.
He doesn't.
Instead, his hand lingers, palm resting against the warmth radiating from between your legs. He can feel the heat even through the thin barrier of space he maintains. Professional distance. Clinical detachment. But his thumb moves, almost of its own accord, brushing the crease where your thigh curves inward. Your hips shift. Just enough.
He reaches for the speculum again. His hands are steady, but his breathing is not.
Cool lubricant glistens along the blades as he coats them with slow, deliberate strokes. He positions himself between your parted thighs, gaze fixed on the delicate folds he designed with such care. Labia perfectly symmetrical. Clitoral hood proportioned for optimal sensation. Every detail considered, refined, perfected. But seeing you like this, spread open and waiting, transforms anatomy into something else entirely.
He touches you gently. Gloved fingers part your outer lips with a gentleness that borders on reverence. You are already slick. He notes it, the way wetness gathers and gleams under the light, and something tightens in his chest. Arousal. Physiological response to stimuli. He tells himself this even as his thumb circles your clit with the barest pressure, drawing a soft, breathy sound from your lips.
The speculum presses against your entrance. Cool metal against warm flesh. He eases it inward, slow enough to feel every millimeter of give, every subtle resistance. Your body yields. Opens for him. The blades slide deeper, and he turns the wheel with meticulous care, widening you incrementally.
Click. Your breath catches.
Click. Your thighs tremble.
Click. A low moan escapes you, and he pauses, watching your face.
Your eyes remain closed. Lashes dark against flushed cheeks. Mouth parted on a sound you won't remember making.
He continues.
The speculum opens you fully now, holding you stretched and exposed. He leans closer, breath ghosting over the glistening pink of your inner walls. Flawless. Every fold, every ridge, every slick surface exactly as he intended. But the sight of you like this — vulnerable and displayed — sends heat pooling low in his stomach.
He reaches for the glass rod. Slender. Smooth. Warmed slightly in his palm before he slides it alongside the speculum's edge. The tip glides over your inner wall, tracing the textured surface. You gasp. Your hips roll upward, seeking more, and he obliges, angling the rod to stroke that sweet, responsive place just behind your pubic bone.
Your body clenches around the intrusion. Not the speculum, but the emptiness it creates, the ache to be filled. He sees it in the way your muscles flutter, the way your thighs tense and release. He feels it in the slick heat coating the glass as he withdraws and presses inward again, slow and rhythmic.
"Perfect," he murmurs. The word slips out unbidden, barely a whisper, but it hangs in the air between you.
His thumb finds your clit again. This time, there is no pretense of clinical examination. He rubs in tight, deliberate circles, the pressure calibrated to the exact threshold he built into your nervous system. Your reaction is immediate. Hips bucking. Breath stuttering. A sharp, keening sound that makes his own pulse thunder in his ears.
He does not stop.
The glass rod strokes deeper, curling against that perfect spot while his thumb works your clit with relentless precision. The speculum keeps you open, unable to close around the pleasure, unable to escape it. You are pinned beneath his touch, body arching, trembling, chasing sensation you cannot name.
Your hands clutch at the table's edge. Fingers curling. Knuckles white. He watches your face, the way your brow furrows, the way your lips form soundless words. He wants to hear you. Wants to know what you would say if you could speak. But this — this wordless surrender — is its own kind of language.
Your climax builds slowly, then all at once. He feels it in the way your inner walls ripple around the glass, the way your clit swells beneath his thumb. And when you break, it is beautiful. Your body seizes, back arching off the table, thighs shaking in the stirrups. The sound you make is raw, unfiltered, a cry that echoes in the sterile room and lodges itself somewhere deep in his chest.
He doesn't stop touching you. Not through the first wave, nor the second. He coaxes every tremor, every aftershock, until you collapse back against the table, boneless and spent.
Only then does he ease the speculum closed. The blades retract with a soft metallic whisper, and he withdraws the instrument slowly. Your body clenches at the loss, and he soothes you with a hand on your thigh, thumb stroking the flushed skin.
He peels off his glove. His bare hand cups you, palm warm against the wet, swollen softness between your legs. He holds you there, feeling the lingering pulses, the heat, the slickness that coats his fingers.
"Flawless," he says again, and this time his voice cracks.
He leans forward, pressing his forehead briefly to your knee. His hand remains where it is, cradling you. Claiming you. He breathes you in — salt and warmth and something sweeter beneath — and knows, with a certainty that aches, that he cannot let you go.
You are his greatest work. His masterpiece. And the world does not deserve you.
But perhaps, he thinks, neither does he.
He straightens slowly, reluctantly, and reaches for the linen sheet. It unfolds in his hands, soft and clean, and he drapes it over you with tenderness. The fabric settles across your body, concealing the places he has touched, the places he has claimed.
He stands there, hands resting on the edge of the table, and watches you sleep. Watches the rise and fall of your chest. The flutter of your lashes. The faint smile that curves your lips, as if you are dreaming of something sweet.
His gaze drifts to your hands, resting at your sides. You are unmarked. Waiting.
And he wonders, not for the first time, what it would feel like to let you touch him back.