The female voice from the hallway was soft, hesitant, almost apologetic. "Is Doctor Anya here…? I have an appointment…"
Olivia—still flushed, hair damp with piss and sweat, scrub pants crooked, the crotch dark and clinging—let out a low, irritated growl under her breath.
She shot a look back at us: Anya, half-dressed in her open white coat, Nancy slumped on the recliner with cum still trickling from her gaping asshole, me with my pants barely zipped over a slick, semi-hard cock, and Nathalie trembling against me like her legs might give out any second.
Olivia yanked her top down to cover the worst of the mess on her chest, smoothed her hair (pointless), and cracked the door just wide enough to peer out.
Standing there was a middle-aged woman, mid-40s, conservatively dressed in a simple salwar kameez, dupatta draped modestly, dupatta clutched tight in nervous fingers. Her face was flushed, eyes downcast, cheeks burning with obvious embarrassment. She looked Indian.
