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Thursday	By : MrFanFIction Category: +1 through F > Animaniacs Views: 3162 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Animaniacs, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. I have no affiliation with Warner Brothers Studios. All rights are held by their respective companies.

Chapter List
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First came the greeting, which he observed as matter of informal tradition.
He started, as he always did, "Und how are ve today Dot?"
"We?” An instant later she was standing on his shoulders and giving his head a playful rap-tap-tapping her knuckles. “How many people you got in there Scratchy?"
He endured it. The Warners had no concept of personal-space. He did not fault them for it. It was his job to be sympathetic and understanding, but even this close-contact made him uneasy.
Without missing a beat he gestured to the couch. "Ha, Ha. Very funny. Vould you like to take a seat?"
"No thanks. I'm still attached to the one I’ve got," she replied, before suddenly hopping into his lap, "See? Still nice and soft." The lewd wiggle of her hips belied the innocence of her tone and expression.
This was bad.
A terrible thought crossed his mind, "Vhy today? Does she know?"
Certainly she knew more than a girl of her perceived should. She knew what the pressure in his lap was doing, what her soft bottom was pressing down against, and why he was suddenly taken by a cold sweat. But he knew what to do. He focused his thoughts on image of his Nana’s hairy back.
"Dot. Please. Take a seat. On. Zhe. Couch."
Dot pouted. "Awwwwww. That's boring." Regardless, she obediently hopped off his lap.
Against his better judgement, Doctor Otto von Schrachensniff indulged in optimism, he believed he could 'fake it’ for the next fifty-five minutes. Then Dot sat.
Five seconds. Five seconds, wherein time slowed to a crawl as he watched that pink skirt dance over coal-black legs that, for a heartbeat, seemed longer than they had any right to be. He saw the hem hike over thighs did not belong to a little girl. Legs stretched out, while thighs passed over and against each other as their owner transitioned smoothly from seated to supine upon the couch. The crowning moment was the flash of delicate white frills; glimpsed just before the skirt stilled.
"Might want to blink Doc." To anyone else, her voice would have come across as cheerful, cute, even mildly flirtatious. To the doctor, it was the voice of doom.
But he refused to be daunted. He had sworn an oath and he would see it through. He would endure. “But those legs…” a whispered thought from the back of his mind. He shook lingering image and did his best to appear casual while in his mind held nana was now sporting her summer beachwear.
"*ahem* Ja. Let us begin."
Dot’s voice was equal-parts malice and saccharine. "Way ahead of you."
***
For the first ten minutes he avoided looking at her directly. It didn't work. The less attention he paid to her, the less attention she gave him. He was tempted to let it be, but he had a duty to perform. Besides, he did not feel entirely comfortable having her, or any Warner, out of his sight.
Then, an idea. "I'll focus on her face.". So he did. It was a perfect plan —until it backfired horribly.
It was a choice between her eyes and her mouth. Those baleful shark-like eyes held no comfort for him, so he focused on her lips. It was better there. For a time. He passed five, ten ,then fifteen minutes that way, thinking she was none the wiser. Then, the pen came into the picture.
It wasn't one of his. He owned no pink pens, and certainly none so fat either. It seemed to just appear, casually tapping against her lower lip. He thought nothing of it. Two minutes later he watched as the pen slowly traced her lips. Lips that, to the doctor, seemed fuller than they were just moments before. Then she licked the pen, flicking her tongue briskly against to rounded cap. The phallic symbolism was impossible to ignore. Worse, he could no longer remember what his nana looked like.
He had to look away. But where?
Fear drove his gaze downward. He did not care to meet the stygian gaze he knew awaited him. The pen followed. Radiant pink against abyssal black of her neck. From there it lead his eyes between the oddly post-pubescent swells of her breasts before coming to the inky void of her abdomen. It all-but vanished against the like-colour of her skirt only to reappear in vivid contrast against her thighs. It passed from outer to inner thigh before reversing course, trailing up and between those slender thighs in lackadaisical manner before wandering beneath the hem of her skirt.
Spellbound, the doctor watched as the pen’s movements disturbed the skirt that covered his patient’s subtly writhing hips. Dark thighs shifted, and for a moment he saw the frilly white between those thighs, and the rest of that pen. A white-gloved hand came into focus, as it tugged skirt down, hiding that which he should not have seen. The skirt, in small ways, betrayed the movements going on beneath it.
“Mmmmm…”
The sound brought the doctor back. How long had been in that scoptophilic stupor? How long had he been silent? He knew none of these things only that been tricked, lead into her trap.
He shook his head violently before forcing up to her face and there beheld the placid smile of purest evil.
She fixed him with a patient, predator gaze. "Something the matter Doc?” she asked, “You haven’t answered my question.”
She shifted again, turning to lay on her belly, propping her chin atop her interwoven fingers while, the languid sway of her tail, disturbed the ill-lain hem to occasionally expose white frills.
The doctor panicked. “She asked a question? When? Should—” He turned his head aside. He needed to think. Quickly!
Then he felt the sharp tug on the his shirt collar. It bent him forward with unnatural strength and brought him nose-to-nose with her. Those eyes, like the yawning abyss. Windows to the soul indeed.
“Dot what—”
“I’ll give you credit doc. You lasted longer than the others.”
“I-I don’t know vhat—”
She placed a gloved finger to his lips. “—Shhhh…It’s okay Doc. Just be a good fish and stop flopping around the boat.”
“N-Now see here—”
She took a step back, hands behind her back and simply smiled as she posed in coy fashion. “Aww Doc, Why you gotta be so stubborn?”
Her voice. It was so adorably honeyed it made one’s teeth ache and yet at the same time, it touched him. How many times had he scoffed at the whispered gossip of Dot’s cuteness? Weaponized cuteness indeed. The very notion was enough to draw a snicker.
He wasn’t snickering now. “Were her teeth always so sharp und pointy?”
He quickly shook the thought away. "Vhy me?" he whimpered.
“Why What?" she asked, affecting a mocking parody of innocence.
“Zhis!” he said, voice rising as he bolted to his feet, arms waving erratically. “With zhe lap, zhe skirt, zhe pen. Everything!"
She giggled and replied, "I have no idea what you're talking about Doc."
"Dot. Zhis is—” he began, but the words became stillborn his throat. Her eyes.
"—Doc. I'd be worrying about other things if I were you." she said. Not in, the tone of feigned naivete, but the in calm, self-satisfied tone one reserves for declaring ‘checkmate’. For the first time in three years, she allowed him to glimpse beyond her facade, beyond the cheerful cuteness.
His voice fell hoarse, "This vas all-"
"—A set up to give me an excuse to do horrible things to you? Yes." she said. She wore that same cheshire smile. Not a grin, just a smile.
He collapsed bonelessly back into his chair as all tension let his body. His mind recoiling at the horrible truth. To think he had only be concerned about his job and reputation.
“Dot please…”
“Doc. Don’t beg. It’s too late for that.”
Words and intellect failed him. He could only sit passively as she clambered into his lap and planted her bottom pressing down against the painfully hard erection in his pants,. He was felt an unpleasant sense of deja-vu.
“You know. You held out a whole year longer than the last doctor. Not bad.”
"Y-your last doctor? Zhe man who goes all twitchy when he hears the word Warner?"
She laughed. It was not a cheerful sound. "So you met him. Does he still pee sitting down?"
Again silence. He could only picture the pleasant middle-aged gentleman he met that summer day. Back when he still had a full head of hair. He remembered nervous twitches, and, most damningly, the curious soprano timbre of his voice.
"But. Vhy?"
She bounced playfully before flicking his nose, a gesture others might see as cute, "Because. It's fun.”
An uncontrollable shiver seized his body. The chilling truth of it. He moved to stand, braced his hands against the armrests to rise, and found no strength in either his arms or his legs. Panic, fear, terror, and then the soft touch of a gloved finger to his lips.
“Doc…” was all she said, all she needed to say.
Fear froze his body just as readily as it spurred panicked flight. He could only imagine himself as a fish gasping for air on the deck of a fishing boat.
She turned to face him, straddling his thighs. “Did he tell you about prize I gave him?”, she asked with a smile. She brought the gloved digit up from his lips to his nose. “He wanted me to use my hand. So I did. He liked it. First I made him moan. Then…” A curved, ivory, claw popped from the tip of that gloved finger.
“Does he still pee sitting down?” The question echoed in his mind.
He felt a tug at the front of his pants. His legs found strength, but it was too little. His arms were no better. He looked at her pleadingly, but she only smiled that awful smile. The claw retracted and her hand moved down. He felt it on his chest, he felt it in his lap. He felt it wiggle into his pants.
He tried to shout, scream, so that Ms. Nurse might hear, that anyone might hear and come to his rescue. “Dot. Please. Please no…” What came out was a mewling sob. Then she squeezed. Her hand was warm.
“Doc. What did I say?”
“B-Be a good fish?”
Another squeeze, a stroke and his body eagerly responded to her touch, even as his mind recoiled in horror at the thought of what was to come.
“That’s right. Be a good fish and I promise you’ll enjoy it until the end.” she whispered. Showing the same disturbingly placid smile while her hand steadily rose and fell in his lap. It was no false promise. She knew what she was doing. She knew when , where and just how fast to go. He did not want to imagine where she learned such things, but he did all the same, and after his voyeuristic indulgence, it wasn’t long before he was panting with every stroke. Never in his life had he been so desperate to hold back.
“Does he still pee sitting down?”
Then, she whispered, “Want me to use my mouth?”
To his horror, he felt his lips and tongue forming words in answer. Part of him was answering. Again those damning words echoed in his mind,
“Does he still pee sitting down?”
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