Alpha_Mated

by Nora Ash

  Dr. Hershey shook his head, clicking his tongue disapprovingly. “Pharmaceuticals... It may be slightly unorthodox, given my profession, but I rarely support attempts at altering brain chemistry with the use of drugs. The human mind is such a fascinating organism, and so much can be done with the aid of a person’s own body.”

  Selma furrowed her brows at him—that was certainly unorthodox thinking for a psychiatrist, based on their normal trigger-happiness when it came to dispensing pills to ‘soothe’ her problem.

  “The paramedics did some blood samples on you last night, do you remember?” he continued, ignoring her obvious doubt.

  There was a hazy memory of being pricked with a needle, but she’d not realized that they did anything other than give her some sedatives. She nodded anyway.

  “There is an indication of a pretty rare hormonal imbalance in your tests, one we haven’t been able to test for up until about four years ago. I suspect, and new research supports, that this can be the core issue with your illusions.”

  That sounded really, really far-fetched. Almost as much as the horrible child psychologist who had suggested she needed some real life scares to overcome the fear of Bogeymen. “But I have had them since I was a child,” she pointed out.

  The doctor turned his body fully towards her, leaned forward and held out one large hand, palm facing up in an inviting gesture.

  Tentatively, because that was his obvious wish, she placed her right hand in his, glancing at his face.

  “Selma...” His finger constricted slightly around hers, making them appear ghostly pale against his olive skin, even though heat rushed through them from his touch. “I understand that you have been through many failed treatments and theories, and how that must have affected your life. That you have chosen to deal with this disorder on your own for an entire decade makes it very clear that you have little trust left for any part of the medical profession, which I cannot fault you for. But this... this will change your life, I can almost guarantee it.”

  It wasn’t that she believed he was right, exactly, but the conviction on his attractive face was hard to ignore... or remain unaffected by. And he wasn’t going to use some experimental drugs on her, so what harm could there really be in giving it a try? “Okay.”

  “Good girl.” The warm hand around hers squeezed again, firmer this time, before he let go and sat up straight, the professional persona overtaking his posture again. “The main goal is to even out your hormonal balance and encourage your brain to create new neurological pathways using physical and mental stimuli. That you see me as a monster will be helpful.”

  Selma cocked her head, taking in his words. “Why?” The only thing his monster-appearance helped her with was to refrain from acting like the giggly nurse had.

  That brilliant smile returned. “If you are subjected to pleasant stimuli that adjust your hormones from someone with the appearance of one of your demons, it will really aid your brain in building the new pathways that can break the illusions you see.” He opened a drawer in the desk and pulled a notebook and a pen out. “But first, I need to ask you some questions about your general health, to establish a pattern for the treatment.”

  ‘Pleasant stimuli’. For a moment she’d feared he would be delving into electric-therapy, but this sounded a lot more agreeable. She returned his smile, a feeling of lightness in her chest settling in for the first time since that horrible incident the night before. If there was even a remote chance that her condition could be improved by looking at puppy pictures and listening to recordings from the rainforest, she was more than happy to give it a shot.

  “Are you a virgin?”

  Selma blinked, taken aback by the abrupt and fairly unexpected question. “Uh...“

  But the handsome doctor was all business, which made her able to fight off a blush. She was twenty-seven, after all; there was no need to get embarrassed about sharing her history with a medical professional. “No.”

  “How many partners?”

  “Three.” One drunken one night stand and two attempts at dating that had lasted a little less than three weeks, combined, but he hopefully wouldn’t need the specifics.

  That large hand swung the pen elegantly across the page of the notebook, and she stared at it creating beautifully curled script across the paper, somewhat mesmerized by the movement. He seemed to be adding a whole lot more than just her one-word answers.

  “Have you ever been, or tried to become, pregnant?”

  “No.” She had made her peace with never getting to bring a baby into the world long ago; no one deserved a mother who struggled with this kind of illness.

  “Are you on birth control?”

  One would have to have a sex life for that to be relevant. “No.”

  “How long since you were last sexually active?”

  Selma blinked awkwardly; professional setting aside, admitting to a probably-rather-attractive-without-those-horns male that she had a sex life most nuns would scoff dismissively at was still pretty humiliating.

  “Two years.” It was an embarrassed mutter.

  The pen paused as he looked up. “How often do you masturbate?”

  There was no fighting the blood rushing to her face this time, coloring it a startling bright red. “I... do you really need to know that?”

  “I need to know everything that affects your hormonal production,” was the calm answer.

  Well! Selma rubbed her suddenly clammy hands against the white linen pants covering her thighs, wishing he’d look down at the paper again. “Maybe...uh, maybe... three times a... week?” It came out as a question.

  His forehead furrowed, and she managed to feel like a complete pervert before he said, “That won’t do. Make sure you increase it—your body needs the surge in hormones. Do you have a healthy diet?”

  Did he really just prescribe orgasms? She managed a weak nod to his question about eating right, as well as answering if she exercised.

  “Excellent.” Dr. Hershey snapped the notebook shut and got to his feet, gesturing towards a wooden door at the back wall she’d not paid much attention to before. “Please, come with me. I will give you a quick physical, to make sure the imbalance hasn’t impacted on your body’s response levels, and then we will proceed with the therapy. Does that sound good?”

  It really didn’t; being prodded at by doctors was never fun, and after the general theme of his questions, she wasn’t much in the mood to strip down and be even more exposed to this young doctor.

  Nevertheless, she got off the chair and followed him through the cozy office to the door that he opened and held for her; at least a physical by a psychiatrist should be less invasive than the tests and scans she’d endured from physicians through the years.

  However, the sight of the small room on the other side of the door made her stop abruptly in her tracks, her heels practically digging into the floor before she even crossed the threshold. Stunned, she whipped her head around, staring up at him with wide eyes. Surely, this was taking it a bit far?

  “Is this really necessary?” She shuffled one foot backwards, only to meet the gentle yet firm resistance of a large, hot hand against the back of her white linen top.

  “I’m afraid so.” His voice rumbled soothingly down at her—why was he so tall? —but the slight pressure against her spine didn’t ease up until she took a hesitant step into the room. “If you are uncomfortable with the process, I can ask the nurse to return and oversee it?”

  Selma glanced from the intimidating gynecological chair centered in the room to the hand he had resting on the doorknob of the slightly ajar entrance. She was being silly and she knew it; he was a medical professional, flaming eyes and smoldering looks aside, and as most women her age she had had gynecological examinations done before. Besides, the thought of the nurse flirting with him over her spread legs was a humiliation she didn’t care to sit through.

  “No, it’s... fine.” Selma took a deep, calming breath before finally walking all the way i
nto the center of the room, eyes trained on the leg rests featuring some rather disturbing leather straps clearly intended as restraints.

  Best not to think too hard about that. She forced her gaze from the chair to the rest of the room, noticing a metal tray on wheels containing a few unpleasant-looking tools—best not to think about those either—and the white, clinical-looking tiles covering the floor and walls. There were no windows or decorations in the small room, the only items in there being the gynecological chair, the tray with the tools, a metal sink in one corner and a chair for the doctor’s comfort. Nothing pleasant to focus on.

  At least it wasn’t cold.

  An ominous ‘click’ from the door closing behind her made her flinch involuntarily. Why was this so… so off? Was it just that he was one of them? As far as doctors went she’d probably never had one as caring or pleasant—or optimistic in regards to managing her illness. She looked over her shoulder at him, dark brown hair falling in front of her eyes and obscuring what she sensed was an encouraging smile. Of course, she’d never had a psychiatrist insist on giving her a gynecological checkup, but the chair made it pretty clear that this was standard procedure for Doctor Hershey.

  “Have you done a lot of these tests?” The question slipped out before she managed to stop herself, but a rather large part of her needed to know that she wasn’t a complete guinea pig.

  The black haired man turned fully towards her, cocking his head slightly. “Yes; I was a leading researcher in this field of psychiatry before I came to Ravenswood House six months ago, and while it is not an appropriate procedure for every patient here, many have experienced great progress from it. I can show you my statistics after we are done if you wish, but you need to trust me, Selma. I am an expert in my profession, and I will help you.”

  A blush crept over her cheeks as she nodded and bent her head, realizing that her hesitation only served to make the situation more awkward. The more she resisted, the more it would seem like she thought he was some lewd hoping for a fondle, and not a highly regarded professional.

  “Of course... I’m sorry.” It came out quite shakily, and his face softened.

  “No need for apologies; I appreciate that you are hesitant to trust one of us.”

  He didn’t specify if he meant a doctor or a monster, and Selma didn’t really want to ask. She fidgeted with the buttons of the linen shirt, glancing back at the chair. “So should I...?” It wasn’t exactly that she was eager to get started, but she wanted to prove that she, too, saw this as nothing more than the checkup it was.

  That clear-cut face regained the full, somewhat detached, professional expression. “Yes, please. If you would take off your pants and underwear, and open your shirt before climbing up.”

  However much she’d appreciated the gentleness he’d conducted the previous part of the consultation with, she was somewhat relieved at the subtle change; having a compassionate man poking around between her legs was not going to help the awkwardness of the situation any.

  She quickly slipped out of pants and panties, folding them in a bundle and placing them on the floor next to the chair before starting on the shirt. Her fingers were fumbling with the buttons, the knowledge that she was bare from the waist down making her muscles stiff with discomfort. The shirt was just long enough to skim the bottom of her cheeks, providing the flimsiest of modesty, but as soon as the last button had been undone it split open and revealed her dark curls.

  ‘Right, well he’ll be seeing a lot more of that anyway,’ she thought grimly, fighting the urge to huddle up and cover herself while climbing up on the chair. It was comfortably reclined, and she leaned back rigidly, keeping her thighs pressed together and the shirt covering both breasts and as much of her groin as possible before looking up in the direction of Dr. Hershey.

  He seemed to take the movement as an indication that she was ready for the examination and strode across the floor from where he’d been leaning against the wall by the door, waiting for her to undress.

  Why did he have to stare at her like that? While his expression was firmly professional, that burning gaze was really hard to not cringe under, the sensation of being evaluated making her feel even more exposed than her semi-nude state.

  Dr. Hershey walked to the end of the chair, placing his big, warm hands on her knees. Without pause his palms slid up her thighs to land around her hips, underneath the shirt, and her sharp intake of breath at the unexpected caress turned to a startled squeal when he lifted her, strong fingers digging into the flesh as he brought her all the way to the edge of the chair before sitting her down again.

  Selma stared up at him in alarm, but he only briefly met her eyes before he let go of her hips. The reprieve from his burning touch was, however, short lived, as he once again grabbed her knees and spread them with a firm pressure against the insides, which—to her horror—traveled up along the smooth skin.

  “W-what are you... ?” His hands brought a burning tingle up along her inner thighs, and her mouth felt dry. She couldn’t help but stare at them as they approached her center. Surely, this was not how he’d instigate the examination? Surely this was highly unprofessional and—

  “I am just getting you into position. Relax, Selma.” His voice sounded completely composed, even as his fingertips brushed over the crease where her thighs met her mound, and she jolted, abandoning the attempt at appearing calm. The flush his touch had caused didn’t allow her to keep up the pretense.

  The doctor simply made a shushing sound, turning his hands so each rested underneath a thigh. With skilled ease he lifted her right leg by applying pressure just beneath her buttocks, smoothly sliding back down her hamstring until he reached the back of her knee so he could place her calf in the cushioned stirrup. Without hesitation he repeated the action with her left leg, lightly brushing the topmost part of her scar with a thumb as he did so.

  And then she was spread open for him, the implication thoroughly magnified when he stepped so close that there was barely any air between her curls and his pants. The disturbing realization that the height of the chair had her completely unprotected slit aligned with his zipper did not improve her enjoyment of the incredibly mortifying position.

  “There, that wasn’t too bad, I hope?” He sent her a reassuring smile, and despite the beet-red shade of her face, Selma automatically shook her head. Admitting that yes, it was really that bad would just take everything to an entirely new level of awkward.

  The doctor gave her a quick once-over, ensuring that her hips and legs were placed as they should before moving away from her spread thighs—to her great relief—and around to her side. “I will just get you leaned back, and then we’ll get started,” he informed her at the same time as reaching behind the seat and pulling on something, which made her tip backwards slowly and smoothly.

  As soon as she was flat on her back his head popped into her field of vision, the horns being oddly outlined by the sharp light attached to the ceiling. His otherness seemed to shimmer more strongly as he bent over her, and she closed her eyes when that familiar panic of being close to one of them set in again. It’d faded while they talked, his calm and kind composure soothing her natural caution of them, but being so completely helpless for him...

  Warm hands slid over her ribcage, brushing the shirt open and nestling underneath her breasts, causing an involuntary hitch in her breathing.

  “Your heart is beating so fast,” he murmured, those large hands moving in what was probably meant to be small, soothing circles, but only emphasized the feel of his palm against her bare skin along with gentle brushes along the sensitive underside of her breasts. She felt her nipples harden in response.

  “Are you still scared of me?”

  Despite the gentle tone the suddenly somewhat firmer press against her ribs lessened her desire to test him with another lie. “Yes,” she whispered, shamefully aware that her firmly shut eyes must make her appear like a silly child trying to hide from the darkness by pretending it isn’t the
re. “But... but it’s okay, I just... I know you’re not a monster.”

  A low chuckle made her crack open an eye, and the sight of his wry smile met her.

  “That’s good; that’s a step in the right direction,” he assured her, face slipping back into the professional mask as his hands slid up and over her breasts, encompassing them fully. “Try to relax while I examine you. Your fear is understandable—do not be ashamed of it, but try to remember that by the end of this session, you should be much better already. Now, how does this feel?”

  “Uh...” It felt like firm heat pressed gently against her soft flesh from all sides. She had a small C-cup and had always thought of her size as ‘average’, but in his oversized hands she felt... well, not flat; it was impossible to feel small with just how completely he dominated her nerve endings by touching her there—nothing capable of so much sensation could be underdeveloped. But he sure didn’t have trouble covering every inch of them. “Uh, it’s... it’s okay.”

  “It doesn’t feel tender or uncomfortable?” If he noticed that her general fear was fluctuating with embarrassment he didn’t show it, his gaze focused on her chest as he pressed gently, observing her body’s reactions.

  “Nu-uh!” The last syllable was somewhat higher pitched, because the doctor had separated his fingers on both hands, letting her pink nipples slip through the gap before pinching firmly.

  “And this?”

  “No.” Her brown eyes locked on the sensitive buds in his grip, her brows furrowing as she fought not to whimper. Her efforts failed as he lifted his hands with his fingers still lodged around her nipples, pulling gently to make them stretch up before he let them slip through the gaps.

  “They seem suitably responsive,” he said in a tone that indicated he was noting this down in his memory as a reference point, rather than commenting for her benefit. His index fingers and thumbs grabbed and plucked them a couple of times until they were achingly hard under his touch. “Any discomfort now?”