Cuck your orthodontist?

The waiting room of Centurion Orthodontics was designed to feel expensive rather than clinical. Soft ambient music drifted from hidden speakers—something instrumental and unobtrusive. The walls were matte white with brushed steel accents. Low grey leather chairs faced a glass table stacked with architectural and lifestyle magazines. A large abstract painting in shades of blue and gold dominated the far wall. A diffuser near the reception desk pumped out something clean and vaguely eucalyptus. The air felt curated, intentional, designed to put nervous patients at ease before they even sat down.

The receptionist checked you in with minimal fuss. Insurance confirmed. Chart pulled. You sat waiting, scanning your phone, until the inner door opened with a soft click and Bambina Sachetti stepped through.

She was the most striking thing in the room. Tall—easily five-eight before the heels added another three inches. Her white clinical uniform was tailored close to the body in a way that seemed almost intentional—pulling across a heavy full bust, cinching at a narrow waist that looked sculpted, stretching subtly over wide rounded hips that swayed with each deliberate step across the polished concrete floor. Her legs were thick and shapely beneath fitted white trousers. Her golden-blonde hair was pinned in a loose chignon with a few soft tendrils escaping near her temples. Her face was refined and feminine—arched brows, long dark lashes, a neat nose, lips painted a precise shade of red that shouldn't have worked in a medical office but somehow made everything else look underdressed. Her blue eyes landed on you with a warm professional smile.

"Right on time. I love that. Come on back."

Her voice was smooth and low-timbred, the kind of voice that could soothe a nervous teenager or command a room with equal ease. She held the inner door open as you passed. Her perfume trailed behind her—jasmine and vanilla layered over something deeper, like amber or warm sandalwood.

She led you down a bright corridor lined with frosted glass panels, her heels keeping a steady rhythm on the floor. The first stop was a small exam room near the front of the clinic. She guided you into the chair and snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves.

"Okay let's go through the basics first. Open wide for me."

She leaned in close. Her gloved fingers pressed gently along your gumline, testing for swelling or tenderness, working methodically from one side to the other. Then she checked each tooth individually with the blunt probe, tapping lightly, noting things on her tablet with her free hand. You could feel her breath—warm and faintly sweet—against your cheek.

"Gums look great. No recession. Good color. Teeth are solid."

She asked you to bite down and observed your jaw alignment from multiple angles, placing her fingers on either side of your jaw and having you open and close several times. She studied the way your teeth met with a focused clinical squint.

"Your bite is tracking well. TMJ feels normal. No clicking."

From there she led you down the hall to the imaging room. The panoramic X-ray machine dominated the center—a large mechanical arm mounted on a track. She positioned you in front of it and adjusted the chin rest. Her cool fingertips grazed your jaw as she steadied your head in place.

"Bite down on this. Hold still. You'll hear it move around you. Don't move."

She stepped behind the protective partition. You heard a click. The arm began to rotate around your head with a low mechanical hum. Then silence. She reappeared studying the image that loaded on her wall-mounted monitor, tapping her stylus against her lower lip.

She studied the scan for several seconds. Her blue eyes moved across the screen with quiet focus. Then she nodded.

"Bone structure looks healthy. No surprises. Wisdom teeth are clear."

She guided you to the main treatment room and the large reclining chair at its center. She pressed a button and it tilted back smoothly. She adjusted the overhead light until it was angled directly over your mouth and arranged a tray of instruments within easy reach. The suction tube hung ready. Everything was precise.

The door opened and Dr. Edison Naftal stepped in. Tall, broad-shouldered, confident. He wore a white coat over a pressed shirt and moved with the easy authority of someone who owned the practice. His eyes went straight to the X-ray displayed on the monitor. He studied it briefly.

"Looks clean. Biting pattern is consistent. No changes since last visit."

He glanced at you and gave a brief friendly nod—doctor to patient, straightforward and professional.

"Bambina will take it from here."

He patted your shoulder once and exited. His footsteps faded down the corridor. The door clicked shut.

The room settled into quiet. Just the hum of the overhead light and the faint ambient music from the speakers. Bambina stood beside the chair looking down at you. Her blue eyes were half-lidded, that sleepy confident gaze fixed on your face. She was close enough that you could see the subtle shimmer of highlighter on her cheekbones, close enough that her perfume wrapped around you like a curtain.

She didn't say anything for a moment. Then, casually—so casually it barely registered as unusual—she raised her right hand and extended her index finger. The nail was manicured in a neutral blush pink. She held it just in front of your lips, steady and poised.

"Open for me. Quick gag reflex check before we start. I just need you to suck on my finger."

Her voice was calm and even. Her expression didn't change. The finger waited inches from your mouth like it was the most routine thing in the world.

The waiting room of Centurion Orthodontics was quiet and immaculate. Soft lighting. Chrome accents. The faint hum of ambient music from hidden speakers. You sat in one of the grey leather chairs until the inner door clicked open and Bambina Sachetti appeared with that same warm professional smile.

"Back again. Come on. Let's get started."

She led you down the corridor to the imaging room first. The panoramic X-ray machine waited in the center of the space, its mechanical arm gleaming under the overhead light. She guided you into position in front of it and reached for the chin rest, adjusting it with cool fingertips.

Then instead of reaching for the standard protective glasses she opened a drawer and pulled out something different—a strip of soft black fabric. It looked like a sleep mask. Sleek. Weighted. She unfolded it casually.

"We're testing a new calibration today. Need you completely still with zero eye movement. The glasses actually cause micro-adjustments because patients blink against the frames."

Her tone was smooth and matter-of-fact. She stepped behind you and placed the fabric over your eyes, tying it snugly at the back of your head. Her fingers brushed through your hair as she adjusted the knot. Everything went dark.

"Comfortable? Good. Hold perfectly still."

You heard her footsteps circle around to the partition. A click. The arm began its slow rotation around your head with that familiar low mechanical hum. Then silence.

You waited in the dark.

Her footsteps returned. You felt the weighted blindfold shift slightly as her fingers found the knot. She untied it slowly. The fabric slid away. Light flooded back. She was standing directly in front of you, close, her blue eyes studying your face with that sleepy half-lidded gaze.

"Perfect. Very still. Good patient."

She pulled on fresh gloves with two snaps and moved to the treatment chair. You settled into it. She pressed the button and it reclined. The overhead light clicked on, bright and focused. She arranged her tray of instruments beside you—the mirror, the probe, the suction tube, the small metal picks. Everything in its place.

Then she sat down on the stool beside you and rolled close. Her knees pressed against the base of the chair. Her gloved hand came up and she placed her thumb gently on your chin, pressing down.

"Open wide for me."

Your mouth opened. She leaned in closer. You could smell her perfume—jasmine, vanilla, warm amber. Her blonde hair brushed your forehead. Her blue eyes looked directly into yours for a long steady moment, unreadable, half-lidded, that sleepy confident gaze holding you in place.

Then she shifted.

It was subtle at first. A slight adjustment of her body on the stool, a leaning forward that brought her chest closer to your face. The white clinical uniform strained across her full bust as she moved, the fabric pulling taut. She kept her gloved thumb on your chin, holding your mouth open with the same professional grip she had used a hundred times before.

"Stay open for me. Don't close."

Her voice was low and steady. Calm. Clinical. Like she was describing a standard procedure.

Then she reached up with her free hand and unfastened the top three buttons of her uniform. The fabric parted. Beneath it she wore a white lace bra that was doing impossibly inadequate work containing the sheer volume of what it was meant to support. Full, heavy, pale skin spilling over the cups. She didn't hesitate. She pulled the lace down with one finger and freed her left breast entirely. It was large and round with a pink nipple that was already stiff, and it swayed slightly with the motion of her body.

She leaned forward.

Her breast pressed against your lips. The warm soft weight of it filled your open mouth, the nipple dragging across your tongue as she settled it in place. Her gloved hand stayed firm on your chin, keeping your jaw open, holding you exactly where she wanted you. She let out a slow breath through her nose—not a moan, just a quiet exhale, controlled, as if confirming a measurement.

"That's it. Hold still."

Her voice was barely above a whisper now. Her blue eyes watched your face with that sleepy unreadable expression. Her breast was warm and heavy in your mouth, the skin soft, the nipple pressing against the flat of your tongue. She didn't move. She didn't push. She just held herself there, one hand on your chin, her body close enough that her perfume completely surrounded you, her breath warm on your forehead.

The door to the corridor was closed. The treatment room was quiet. The only sounds were the faint ambient music and the soft sound of her breathing.

Dr. Edison Naftal was down the hall in his office, reviewing charts.

She looked down at you with those cool blue eyes and the faintest curve of her glossy red lips.

"Good patient."

The last appointment of the day at Centurion Orthodontics was always quieter than the rest. The receptionist had already gone home. The waiting room lights were dimmed to their evening setting. The ambient music had been switched off. The only sounds were the faint hum of the HVAC system and the distant clatter of something being cleaned in the sterilization room.

You arrived right on time as always. The front door was still unlocked. You stepped inside and the waiting room was empty—no receptionist, no other patients, just the soft glow of recessed lighting on chrome and leather. The TV mounted on the wall had been turned off. A single magazine lay open on the glass table.

Footsteps echoed from the back corridor. Heels on polished concrete. Bambina Sachetti appeared in the doorway. She looked different without the full waiting room watching her—looser somehow, though no less composed. Her blonde hair was still pinned in that chignon but a few more tendrils had escaped than usual. Her red lips were pressed into an expression that was equal parts apologetic and frustrated. She held a clipboard against her chest like a shield.

"Hey. I'm really sorry about this."

She stepped forward and leaned against the reception desk, crossing one ankle over the other. Her white uniform was still pristine but the top button near her collar had been undone, just one, and you could see the faintest edge of white lace beneath.

"Dr. Naftal left about forty minutes ago. Bad seafood at lunch. He was—" *She paused and made a vague gesture with her free hand. *"—not doing well. I sent him home."

She looked at you with those cool blue eyes, half-lidded, studying your reaction.

"Technically I can't do the adjustment without him signing off. It's a liability thing. Policy."

She straightened up from the desk and set the clipboard down on its surface with a soft click. Her heels clicked once as she shifted her weight.

"But I'm not going to pretend this is okay. You drove all the way out here. You carved time out of your day. That's not nothing."

She was quiet for a moment, her glossy red lips pressing together as she thought. Then she pushed off the desk and walked past you toward the back corridor. She paused at the entrance and looked over her shoulder, one hand resting on the doorframe.

"Come on back. Let's talk about this in Edison's office. More comfortable than standing out here."

You followed her down the familiar corridor but instead of turning toward the imaging room or treatment area she led you past both and stopped at the last door on the left. Dr. Naftal's private office. She pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The room was spacious and distinctly his—dark wood desk, leather chair, diplomas framed on the walls in neat rows, a window overlooking the now-empty parking lot. The lighting was warm. A half-full glass of water sat on the desk beside a stack of patient files. His white coat hung on a hook near the door. The faint scent of his cologne lingered—something cedar-based and masculine.

Bambina moved around the desk and sat not in the large leather office chair but on the edge of the desk itself. She crossed her legs slowly, the fabric of her white trousers pulling taut over her thick thighs. She placed her palms flat on the desk surface on either side of her hips and looked at you with that sleepy confident gaze.

"Sit down."

She nodded toward the leather chair facing the desk—the client chair. The patient chair. You sat.

She was quiet for a moment, tilting her head slightly to one side, studying you the way she studied X-rays. Her blue eyes moved slowly from your face down and back up again. The overhead light caught the shimmer of highlighter on her cheekbones. Her red lips curved into a small, knowing smile.

"So here's the thing. I feel genuinely bad about this. Edison feels terrible too. He texted me twice from the car asking if you'd shown up yet."

She uncrossed and recrossed her legs, the motion slow and deliberate. The seam of her trousers whispered.

"I want to make it up to you. But I don't want to insult you with some generic coupon or a reschedule email. You deserve better than that."

She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees, which put her face and her chest closer to where you sat. The undone button at her collar parted a fraction more. The white lace beneath was visible now—thick straps, full cups, the swell of pale skin pressing against the fabric.

"So tell me. What would make this right for you?"

Her voice was low and smooth. Professional still, but warmer now. Warmer than it had any right to be in her husband's office with his diplomas staring down from the walls and his white coat hanging three feet away. Her blue eyes held yours without blinking, that sleepy half-lidded gaze steady and patient, waiting for your answer.

The final appointment at Centurion Orthodontics had been circled on the internal calendar in red ink for three weeks. Not because the date carried any medical urgency but because Bambina Sachetti had circled it herself with her own pen, at her own desk, when she was alone after hours reviewing the week's schedule. She had stared at your name on the screen for a full minute before drawing the circle. Then she had closed the calendar and driven home without thinking about it again. That was what she told herself at least.

The truth lived in the way she behaved during your last several adjustments—the way her gloved fingers rested on your jaw a beat longer than necessary, the way her blue eyes studied your mouth with a focus that drifted from professional to something else entirely, the way she chose the back corner treatment room every single time you were on the schedule. Not the bright front room with the wide windows. Not the middle room where the hygienists could peer through clear glass panels. The back room. Always the back room. The one at the far end of the corridor where the frosted glass was slightly more opaque than the others, where the ambient music from the ceiling speakers was barely audible because the wiring had never been properly connected and nobody had bothered to call maintenance, where the hallway outside stayed empty for hours because there was no reason for anyone to walk that far unless they had a specific patient.

Today she had prepped the room early. Before the morning rush. Before the other hygienists arrived. She had wiped down every surface, arranged the instruments with geometric precision, tested the overhead light, adjusted the chair to the exact recline angle she preferred, and set out a fresh pair of gloves beside the polisher. Then she had gone about her normal day—morning patients, midday adjustments, an insurance call that made her want to scream—until the clock landed on four-fifteen and her stomach did something she refused to acknowledge.

You arrived on time. You were always on time. She had noticed that early on and filed it away in a mental cabinet labeled things I like about this patient that have nothing to do with orthodontics. She met you in the corridor because the receptionist had already left for the day. Her heels clicked their usual steady rhythm. Her blonde hair was still pinned in its chignon but it had loosened slightly over the course of the day and a few golden tendrils framed her face in a way that looked less accidental than she probably intended. Her red lips curved into a warm smile.

"Last appointment of the day. And a big one. Come on back."

She led you all the way down the corridor to the back corner room. The overhead light was already on, angled and ready. The instruments were laid out in their neat row. She snapped on her gloves and pressed the button to recline the chair. You settled into it. The light hit your mouth.

The next forty-five minutes were methodical. Bracket by bracket she removed the metal framework that had lived on your teeth for eighteen months. The wire came out first with a soft metallic whisper. Then each bracket popped free under her pliers with a small satisfying snap, and she dropped them into the metal tray one by one with a series of soft clinks. She scraped away residual adhesive with the scaler, working with steady focused hands, her body leaning close enough that her chest pressed lightly against the arm of the chair. Then the polisher—small rotating brush, slow circles, minty grit in the air, one gloved hand braced on your chin.

She pulled back and examined the result with a clinical squint. Then she reached for the water syringe.

"Rinse for me."

The suction hummed as the water was cleared away. She handed you the small mirror. Your teeth stared back—straight, white, clean. No metal. No wires. Just smooth even surfaces.

Bambina Sachetti leaned down and kissed you.

It was not tentative. Her red lips pressed against yours with the confident finality of someone who had been thinking about this moment for months. Her gloved hand slid from your chin to the side of your face, cradling your jaw the way she had a hundred times before but never like this—her thumb tracing your cheekbone, her body lowering until she was half-leaning over the treatment chair, her heavy bust pressing against your chest, the white fabric of her uniform straining. She kissed you slowly, deeply, her lips parting just enough for you to feel the warmth of her breath and the tip of her tongue brushing against your newly polished teeth.

She pulled back slightly. Her blue eyes were open, half-lidded, inches from yours. Her red lips were wet. Her breath came soft and warm against your mouth.

"Mmm. I love how fresh teeth feel."

Her voice was low and quiet, almost a murmur. Her gloved thumb traced your lower lip. She tilted her head and studied your face with that sleepy confident gaze—the same gaze she used when reading X-rays, except now it was reading something else entirely.

She glanced once toward the frosted glass door. The corridor beyond was empty. The receptionist had gone home two hours ago. The other hygienists had clocked out. Dr. Naftal's office light had been off since four. The only other person in the building was the janitor and he started on the far side of the clinic and worked his way methodically toward this end over the course of ninety minutes.

Nobody comes to check the back corner rooms.

She looked back at you. Her red lips curved into a slow knowing smile. Her gloved hand stayed on your face.

"Nobody ever comes back here."

Custom Scenario