Recovery (Doctor Dom Volume 5) (A BDSM & Medical Play Novella) (2 page)

Patrick:

Jackie Blackburn’s office called me Monday morning. “She can see you this evening, if you still need an appointment?” her assistant asked me.

“Oh yes,” I said. “I still need an appointment.” That had to be the understatement of the year. All weekend long, I had wanted to call Lisa. To hear the sound of her voice, the throaty gurgle of her laugh. And all weekend long, I found myself too afraid to reach out and pick up the phone.

I said all of this to Jackie that evening. I sat there and poured it all out; how we’d met, how our relationship had evolved, her prior experience with D/s, and finally, the night of the unused safe word.

It was terribly cathartic to let everything out. I had friends, of course, that I could talk to about my problems. But I wanted Lisa to stick around for a long time, and I didn’t want to talk about our problems to any of them. It would have been like airing dirty laundry, and I wouldn’t do that to her.

Jackie listened to me, taking an odd note or two here and there, then she looked at me for a long time when I was done talking. “What would you say the problem is, Patrick?” she asked.

I started talking, and then stopped. Many, many times in the course of the years I’d been seeing Jackie, she’d do this. She’d ask a question that made me annoyed at her, wondering if she’d even heard what I had said. But then, I’d come to realize she had always heard what I said.

This time, I didn’t know what the problem was. Or rather, I couldn’t identify the problem in a clear sentence or two. I just had feelings. Vague feelings of unease and disquiet churned around in me. A nagging sense that something was wrong. From prior experience, I knew
that my personal path to healing lay in the clear identification of the problem.

“My brain tells me that Lisa can be trusted,” I started. “And, honestly, so does my heart.”

She kept quiet. There was a ‘
but’
at the end of that sentence, and she was waiting for me to continue.

“But that doesn’t make me less afraid.”

The obvious question was to ask me what I was afraid of. But she didn’t ask me that. Instead, she fixed me with a steady gaze. “What do you want to do next?”

“Book another session,” I replied. I wasn’t answering her question. She had clearly been referring to what I was going to do next with Lisa.

“Well,” she quipped, “my kids could use the contribution to their college tuition. But that’s not what I meant. Do you want to end things with Lisa?”

“No.” My reply was instantaneous, and I paused in surprise. I didn’t want to walk away from Lisa. I had said that with conviction. I was still afraid. I still needed time. But the fact that I
was utterly certain that I didn’t want things to end – this was massively reassuring to me.

“I just need time,” I elaborated, taking a sip of my water.

“Time for what?”

“I don’t know.” My reply hung there in the air. “I’m afraid, Jackie. I’m afraid that I’m not ready for a
nother D/s relationship. I’m afraid she’s not ready either. And now the genie’s out the bottle, and the horse is out the stable, and there’s no going back from here.”

Jackie kindly ignored my insane
metaphors, and concentrated on what I had said. I had no secrets from Jackie. She knew all about my sexual preferences, my kinks of choice, the role it played in my marriage. I never held back with Jackie. She wasn’t my friend. She was my therapist. If I was ready to be helped, Jackie would help me.

“Talk to me some more about the day in question. The day she didn’t use her safe word,” Jackie suggested. “You said you feel guilty that you punished her.”

I nodded.

“Why?”

“When I punish Lisa in a session, it is more play than punishment. The safe word is part of that. It keeps the dynamic between us consensual.” Another sip of my water. “Without a safe word, it tips into abuse.”

“And you think you abused her that day?”

I shrugged. There were two responses. One came from my head, and the answer there was
No
. I’d spanked her with no greater intensity than any other play session. I hadn’t known she’d been unprepared to use her safe word. I’d been annoyed that she’d been ignoring my phone calls, but when she walked into my house, I’d let the anger go.

However, t
he other response came from my heart, from the place in which I always felt far too responsible for things. Like the day Andrea’s ankles had bled after a session. And there was only guilt in that place.

“Did she cry out in pain?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Did you break skin?”

“No,” I said immediately, my voice shocked. I looked at Jackie, slightly aghast. “Of course not. It’s never about pain for pain’s sake. The play session, it was a release for me, a cathartic symbol through which I could close a door and move on. But I don’t need to hurt her for that. The punishment was more symbolic than anything.”

I got a level look from Jackie.
“It seems to me, Patrick,” she said carefully, “that she trusted you and you trusted her, and nothing untoward happened. Is this all a big storm in a teacup?”

Jackie was British. Every once in a while, she’d say something that sounded so classically English it skirted close to parody. When she said
‘storm in a teacup’
, it was almost like the Queen was talking or something. I hid my grin – choosing not to share that particular thought, and pondered what she said.

“Do you blame Lisa for what happened that night?”

“No. I blame myself.”

“For what?
Was there any impact from that session? Did your relationship suffer because of it? Or deepen?”

I started speaking, then stopped. What did I blame myself for? Until Lisa had mentioned that she had been unprepared to use her safe word, I hadn’t been bothered by that night in any real way.

Sure, we’d both fucked up in a variety of ways. But also, we’d known each other for a while. Maybe we’d assumed, correctly, that we had nothing to fear from the other person. I felt the tight band of fear around my heart ease slightly. Perhaps, as Jackie said, it was all a storm in a teacup.

“
It mattered to me that she reached out to me when her mother was ill,” I said. “It mattered that she wanted to lean on me.” My heart clenched as I said it. I loved Lisa so much. “I’m having dinner with her on Friday,” I added.

“How do you feel about that?” she asked me.

“Excited. Afraid. I don’t want to fuck this thing up.”

“Why?”

Ah, therapists. The endless probing until I got past the avoidance, and exposed the heart of the matter.

“When she sent me the drink at the bar, it was flattering being approached. But then, she was so unexpected. She wanted to be spanked, but she wasn’t passive about it. She owned it, you know? She was so very much her own person.”

A sip of the water. “Then, you start falling in love. Not because of the sex, though it’s hard to ignore the sex. You fall in love because you find out what people go through, and it is astonishing how people can come through situations still whole. With scars, but yet unblemished in who they are. She is so fucking amazing and she doesn’t see it.”

I thought about Lisa as I spoke to Jackie. She wasn’t clingy. She wasn’t demanding or possessive. When we’d been on a date and I’d been called in, she didn’t even pout for a second. She just took care of the check so we could leave.

She was an adult, and she acted like one, and I didn’t have to be responsible for her emotional state. With or without me, she was a happy person, content in who she was. And because of that, I could be myself around her, warts and all. If I was grouchy, I didn’t have to worry that her feelings would be hurt. If I wanted to skip the cuddling and the pillow talk in favour of sleep, I could, and she would understand.

I was too old to be interested in tempestuousness. In tantrums and crying jags. In yelling matches. Jackie had heard enough of that when I’d been married to Andrea.

“I’m afraid to fuck this up because I love her,” I told Jackie. “I love her precisely because she’s her own person, and I’m my own, and we can both live without each other. I want her because I can choose her freely, with no sense of obligation. She is the purest expression of my love, because there is no guilt or feeling of responsibility behind it. And I’m miserable without her.”

I booked my next appointment the following Monday.

***

That all went very well, and my session with Jackie had helped me a lot.

I was a neurosurgeon. My hands were always rock-steady – they had to be. But when I reached for the phone to call her on Friday, my hands were shaking, and I could feel my heart pounding in my chest.

Lisa:

Patrick had said he’d call me on Friday, and I knew he would. I still wasn’t sure if we were going to break up, but in any case, he would call when he said he would, because that was who he was. There was a straightforwardness about him that was very attractive. An honesty and a sense of integrity.

I was still profoundly glad to hear from him.

Do you still love me? Are we breaking up?
These thoughts rattled around in my head. I strove for a neutral tone, and instead ended up sounding hesitant. “Hey,” I said.

“How’s your week been?” Patrick asked me. His voice didn’t sound hesitant. He sounded as he always did on the phone. Warm and attentive.

“Okay,” I responded. “Kind of slow. I’m waiting on some permits from the city.” I sounded stilted now, as part of me was struggling to interpret each and every question he asked as if it were a clue that could reveal what was going to happen to us in the future.

“Dinner tonight?” he asked me after a few moments of slightly awkward silence.

“I’d like that,” I responded softly.

“Tell you what,” he replied. “Why don’t I cook? I’ve been feeling guilty after the grief I got from Doug and James about not cooking for you.”

Were we doing dinner at his place so that I wouldn’t create a scene in public if we broke up? If that was what was happening, his caution was unnecessary. I would be utterly devastated, but I would keep calm until I made it home. Then, I would fall apart. But I was private enough that there’d be no tears in a restaurant.

“You don’t have to cook if it’s too much trouble,” I started.

“I’d like to cook for you,” he replied, and the tight knot of fear around my heart eased very, very slightly. He sounded sincere.

“Okay,” I said.
There was a hopeful smile on my face, and I could hear it in my voice. “Can I bring something? Dessert? Wine?”

He laughed aloud, amused. “I thought you were the dessert,” he teased, and that tight knot eased some more. I grinned automatically, and I relaxed for the first time during our conversation.

“I’ll just bring wine then,” I said dryly, and he laughed again.

“Come whenever,” he told me. “Any time this evening. I’ll plan on having the food ready by six thirty or so, but you can come early and hang out, if you aren’t busy?”

“That sounds great,” I responded, crossing my fingers and my toes as I spoke. I had missed him so much. I’d missed our conversations and our easy camaraderie, and I’d missed his warm, supportive presence in my life. And I’d missed the sex. I’d played with myself half-heartedly during the week, but there was an ache, a void that could only be filled by Patrick.

***

I didn’t want to be the girl that rushed over like a puppy when her master called. Oh, that image. Heat rose in my body as I contemplated that picture; remembered the last time that Patrick and I had made love, when he had called me his kitten, his obedient little pet.

Whoa there,
I advised my aching pussy. The chances of that happening tonight seemed unlikely.

At two, I left work, muttering my apologies to Natalie, and telling her to leave early as well.
She’d come back to work on Wednesday, but she still looked drained. On my way back home, I stopped at the liquor store and bought a bottle of wine, a moderately priced French Syrah. I’d had a long and passionate conversation with Patrick one day about my affinity for European wines. I tended to prefer their more subtle, shy flavouring to the bold assertiveness of their New World counterparts. Patrick had looked amused at my mini-rant, and had muttered something about my preferences in bed matching my taste in wine. “Do you prefer new world wines then?” I had asked archly, and laughed as he had thrown me on the bed, wrestled me still, and spanked me for my sass.

I sighed. I really hoped things would work out
between us.

At five thirty, I rang Patrick’s doorbell. Early November, and it was already starting to darken outside. In another month, it would be dark at five. Most people would leave home in the morning before daylight, work in a cubicle all day, and return home in the evening in the dark. At times like that, I was thrilled that my gamble starting my own business was paying off. Being self-employed, I worked a lot of evenings and weekends, somewhat dependent on the schedule of my clients. But mostly, I got to make my own hours, and that flexibility was fantastic. Between the months of November and March, I actually saw daylight. While there was financial uncertainty to being self-employed, I couldn’t deny the importance of sunshine and daylight in my life.

Patrick pulled the door open. “Hey,” I said hesitantly. I held out the bottle of wine. “I brought wine.” 

He ignored that bit of inanity, pulled me into his arms and kissed my lips. For a few moments, nothing mattered except the way he felt against me. His hard muscles pressing up against my body. His smell - male and woodsy and spicy all in one, now underscored by a faint aroma of tomato sauce. The way he tasted, of mint and toothpaste. The touch of his tongue brushing across my mouth, the feel of his teeth nibbling at my lower lip.

“Lisa,” he replied. “Sorry, it’s cold outside. Come on in.” I followed him into the kitchen, and took a seat at his kitchen table.

I was immensely cheered and relieved by his welcome. The entire way to his house, I had been trying to think of other things, but truth be told, I’d been preparing myself for a break up. I’d crossed my fingers and my toes resolutely to ward off any ill-luck, but my heart had been aching with premature hurt.

But while I didn’t know everything about Patrick, I knew the important bits. He was only cruel in bed when he was dominating me, and then, only with my express consent. He wouldn’t have kissed me the
way he had, with heat and passion, only to break up with me minutes after. For the first time since last Friday, I truly let myself relax.

“I brought wine,” I said, gesturing to the bottle I’d set down on the counter.

“Let’s open it then,” he replied cheerfully, gesturing to the cabinet where he stored his wine glasses. “Unless you are ambitious enough to decant it? I have one of those things they sell you in fancy wineries, the ones that’ll speed up the decanting?”

“Meh, I’m not that picky,” I replied, and he smiled at me as he took the glass I poured him.

“Cheers,” he said, and we clinked glasses and took a sip. I had a friend who believed that if you didn’t look into a person’s eyes when you clinked glasses, you were condemned to seven years of bad sex. I made very, very sure I was looking into Patrick’s eyes when I took my first sip of the wine.

“Can I do anything to help?” I asked him.

He shook his head. “I’m making lasagna,” he said. “I recently had a roasted pumpkin lasagna that was fantastic, and I wanted to try and replicate it. Does that sound okay?”

I nodded. “It sounds interesting,” I replied. “Very Thanksgiving in feel.”

“Exactly,” he said with enthusiasm. “I didn’t think the flavours would work, but they really did. How was your week?”

Right. I wasn’t going to make small talk with Patrick. I needed answers first.

“I missed you,” I said boldly, crossing my fingers under the table.

He stopped what he was doing at the counter and turned around to look at me.
“I missed you too,” he replied. “It was hard to keep myself from reaching out to talk to you.”

I took a steadying sip of wine. “
Why didn’t you? Was what I did that bad?”

“
No, no, of course not,” he said instantly. “This is my issue, not yours. My therapist called it a storm in a teacup. I was afraid, I guess.”

He had discussed me with his therapist. I made a mental note of that fact. “
Afraid of what?” I asked him. “Afraid I was Andrea?”

He shook his head. “Not exactly,” he replied. “I’m afraid that
when it comes down to it, neither of us has any business playing with kink. That we have enough issues with it from our pasts that we should just walk away from D/s. Perhaps doing without it is healthier for both of us.”

Well, fuck me. It wasn’t the worst case scenario. The worst case scenario was us breaking up. But this, what he was suggesting, it wasn’t good. When it came down to it, I wasn’t sure if I could walk away from the kink. Not after experiencing it the way I did with Patrick. With perfect trust. With love and tenderness.

Could Patrick walk away from it? I didn’t think he could either. This had to be the fear talking.
It had to be.

I didn’t know what to say
in reply, so I just kept silent, kept my eyes on my wine glass. He didn’t break the silence either. He turned after a few minutes back to the stove, stirring the tomato sauce that was simmering on the stove top, and opening the oven door to check on the pumpkin roasting inside. A smell of roasting pumpkin and warming spices wafted out as the door opened, and my stomach growled, and I laughed in embarrassment, and he chuckled, looking over his shoulder at me.

“
That smells great,” I said, my cheeks flushed.

“H
opefully, it tastes good too. I have already warned you that this is a bit of an experiment?”

“
Relax, I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I said, rolling my eyes. Any other time, he’d have threatened to spank my ass for that bit of attitude, but today, he didn’t go there. His lips just twitched, and he put a plate of cheese and olives in front of me.

Eat,”
he ordered.

“Still bossy then,” I retorted, and he laughed aloud at that, and came over to the table, bending down to kiss me thoroughly.

“I love you, Lisa,” he said when he pulled away.

My body was heavy with need. Right now, I didn’t care whether he was going to be my
Dom or not. At this moment, I just wanted him, any way I could have him. I gazed at him, my need visible in my eyes, and he smiled. “After dinner,” he promised. “We don’t want the food to burn.”

Speak for yourself,
I wanted to retort. I was perfectly happy skipping the food and devouring Patrick instead. But I pushed back that sentiment, and responded to his words. “I love you too,” I replied. I really did. It was because I loved him with an all-consuming need that I was studiously ignoring the possibility that the D/s component of our relationship was over. 

***

“This is really good,” I said, speaking with my mouth full. The sweetness of the roasted pumpkin contrasted beautifully with the sharp bite of feta cheese. Patrick had made a simple tossed salad as a side, and also some steamed broccoli.

“Still like broccoli?” he asked me with a grin. I nodded, inwardly amazed he remembered our conversation from so many weeks ago. B
ut then, I should have known he would.

“Yup,” I said, digging in happily. I was starving, and the food really hit the spot. “You realize
you’re in trouble now that I know you are a really good cook?” I continued. “You might be stuck in the kitchen from now on.

“Barefoot? With an apron around my waist?” he asked dryly. “Like a well-behaved pet?”

“I thought I was the pet in our relationship,” I said, and then instantly regretted my words. I didn’t want to push the D/s thing. Given time, his fear would dissipate. It had to.

He didn’t comment. We continued talking about inconsequential things as we ate.

“Want dessert?” I asked him boldly when we were done eating. I’d worn a cream peasant style top and a narrow black skirt with an elastic waistband. Under the top, I had worn a tight cream bustier that pushed my boobs out and together. I wasn’t going to lie – I’d chosen clothes that were easy to get out of. Except the bustier. I’d chosen that because I was hoping it would get me laid. Same reason I skipped panties.

“
Push that skirt up,” he suggested. The dominant edge that customarily accompanied such statements was missing from his voice though.
Damn it, Patrick.

But in
my head, Patrick was still my Dom. When he talked, irrespective of his tone, I heard my Dom give me an order. And so I obeyed. I stood up and pushed the skirt up, higher and higher, past my knees, past my thighs, until my pussy was on display.

“No panties?”
he laughed, though there was heat in his eyes as he spoke; an aroused edge to his voice.

“
I don’t like things to get in the way of dessert,” I said meekly. His lips twitched. He got up and carried our plates to the sink, then came back for our wine glasses, placing those on the counter.

“Why don’t you get on the table?” he suggested. “I want your bare ass at the edge of the table, your knees spread wide. Stay there while I soak these dishes.”

I did as he told me to. I could see him move, covering up the lasagna and putting it in the refrigerator, doing the same to the salad, soaking the plates in the sink.

I should have been piqued that he was cleaning when I lay there, legs spread wide open, my pussy exposed for his pleasure. His back was to me, and I watched him work, and instead of annoyance, I only felt arousal. My Dom had given me an order, and all I needed to do was obey. I didn’t need to think. I didn’t need to second-guess his command. I trusted him implicitly, and the peaceful surrender that came with my submission was the most freeing sensation I felt.