Doctor's Orders: The Exam (2 page)

On some level, I know that this is insane. But it’s a very
far away, abstract kind of awareness. The rest of me, the flesh and blood and
driving animal part of me, the part that can still feel things, wants to scream
its relief: finally, something feels right. It’s like he’s in my head already.

“Yes.” I say.

“You will submit to me completely during the course of your
treatment, Claire. I will give you a safeword. If you choose to use it, treatment
will immediately, and permanently, cease. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“You will submit to me
completely.
”

This is the first thing he’s said with any sense of urgency,
and I feel the stirrings of nerves in my belly. It’s as though he’s warning me.
My curiosity is overwhelming, but in these few minutes I realize that I’m tired
of being scared all the time. I’m tired of being boring, of being scared to
explore because of what I might find. He’s already given me a taste of what it
feels like to be brave. And I want more.

“Yes.” I say.

“You wish to pursue this treatment?”

“Yes, sir.”

He leans back in his chair, his eyes glittering with
satisfaction.

“Your safeword is ‘prison,’ Claire. Now stand up. It is time
for your exam.”

I can feel my eyes go wide as he gets up from behind his
desk and makes his way towards me. Immediately I remember all that medical
equipment, the rolling table, the stirrups, but I won’t turn my head to look. I
don’t want to appear afraid.

What have I gotten myself into?

I rise, slowly, again trying to smooth my appearance as much
as possible. I run my hands through my long dark hair, tussling it a little,
and wish I’d changed before I’d come. My thin blouse, tight black skirt, and
nameless black heels look cheap, and not in a good way.

He comes around to my side, opposite the lamp, and steps
very close to me. Suddenly I feel his fingers in my hair, and it’s all I can do
not to sigh. He hasn’t even touched me yet. I have no idea what he’s going to
do.

“This exam will be very thorough, Claire.”

I nod, wondering if I should look at him.

“Take off those clothes.”

There’s a hitch in my breath, and I hesitate just long
enough to irritate him. He reaches out his hand as if to undress me, but I
quickly move to obey. I’m clumsy with the buttons, not wanting to see if I’ve
disappointed him already, blundering through my fear. In no time I’ve hung my
blouse on the chair behind me, and I’ve shimmied out of my skirt, my heels
tucked under the chair. I try to stand proudly in my white bra and white cotton
panties.

“All of your clothes, Claire.”

I should have realized. I should have known. He sounds
annoyed, and that’s almost worse than the idea of being naked - almost.
Trembling, I slide one bra strap over my shoulder, then the other. I fumble
with the clasp in the back, my fingers numb with embarrassment, and with an
impatient gesture he reaches up and snaps it open. My bra falls to the floor,
releasing my breasts. I’ve always had large, round breasts, ever since middle
school. My nipples are already hard, and getting harder, like two mini
erections. I’m sure he notices. I can feel a deep red flush begin on my cheeks
and neck, and begin to work its way down to the top of my breasts.

He doesn’t say anything. That’s almost worse. He’s the first
man to see me like this in a long time, and I want to know if he likes the way
I look.

I almost ask if everything is ok, like an idiot, when I
remember I’m not done. I hook my fingers under the thin cotton of my panties,
and feel the material stick to my wet pussy as I peel them off. I step out of
them and scrunch them up into a little ball, bizarrely embarrassed that he
might see how wet I am.

“No,” he says. “Show me.”

It really is like he’s in my head. Gingerly I unwrap the
panties and turn them inside out, so the damp patch where I’ve leaked all over
them is clearly visible. He looks at it for a moment, then at my breasts, and
my nipples, still rock hard.

“You find this very arousing, Claire.”

“Yes.” I mumble. There’s no point in trying to hide it, no
matter how embarrassing it is.

“Look up.” He orders. I do. “Close your eyes.”

Swallowing, I do this, too. He makes me wait just long
enough for me to get nervous, to be on the brink of opening my eyes, when I
feel a finger on the tip of my chin. That finger begins to trace the line of my
jaw, down, gently, to my neck, to the hollow at the base of my clavicle, where
he presses down with the slightest pressure. I can’t suppress a shiver. From
there, more finger tips, so light, and then two hands cupping my breasts. He
lifts them, squeezes them, toys with the nipples. I’m trying so very hard not
to moan, to keep my breathing regular. I think it amuses him.

“You will start taking better care of yourself, Claire.”

I catch my breath involuntarily, indescribably wounded by
this.

“You will buy the expensive lotions and cleansers. You will
go to a spa, once a month.”

“But –”

“I will give you the name of the right place.”

His hands drag down the skin of my stomach, my muscles
shuddering beneath the skin in their wake. I can’t control my breathing
anymore. My entire body tingles.

“What do you do for a living, Claire?”

His hands are tracing the curves of my hip, my lower
stomach, coming so close, so close. I’m grateful that he hasn’t asked me to
open my eyes. I don’t know that I could take it.

“I asked you a question.”

“I don’t have a job.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“My last job was as a receptionist.”

His hands have traveled around to my lower back, and they
reach down to cup my ass. I shiver again, and I try to ignore the pounding in
my pussy. I’m suddenly aware of the ridiculousness of the situation. What kind
of doctor is this?

“You receive.” He says.

“No, I answered phones.”

The rational, normal part of me is screaming loud enough to
be heard now, though it’s a struggle over the pulse of my blood, my desire. I
don’t really have any idea what I’ve walked into.

“You receive, Claire. Your answer was more honest than you
intended.”

And one hand snakes around and grabs hold of my pussy, and
pulls me close to him. I gasp, and my eyes fly open before I remember they are
supposed to be closed, and I shut them tight with relief, not wanting to have
to look at him. He’s just holding me like that, one hand grabbing my ass, the
other clutching my pussy, so close I can feel his even breath on my face. I can
smell him. Spicy, with a little hint of sweat.
 

I can hear my heart beat, can feel it all the way in my
finger tips. It takes all of my self control not to rub myself against him like
an animal, breasts pressed up against his shirt, pussy in his hand.

“Did you always want to be a receptionist, Claire?”

“What?” I can barely choke the word out.

“When you were a little girl, did you dream that you’d grow
up and answer the phone for other people?”

Why is he doing this? Why is he asking me these questions?
Tears spring to my eyes before I even know why I’m sad, and there is a tight
little fire building in me that only wants him inside me, fucking me, however
and whatever he wants, and between the two warring desires there’s no room for
lying, for subterfuge.

“No.” I sob.

The truth is I did have dreams. My parents paid lip service
to the whole “follow your dreams” crap, but when it came down to it they
favored my brother. And when I told them what I wanted, they refused to pay,
said they had to save their money for someone with a useful career. Like my
brother, who then decided he wanted to be a DJ. I’ve been living with them,
paying rent, because I can’t afford to live anywhere else. It’s so lonely
there. They don’t really see me. They don’t want to. They want me to be someone
else.

But the Doctor is asking about
me
. What I really want.

Suddenly he releases his grip, and I almost cry out, it’s
actually painful to feel his sudden absence. I open my eyes as he smoothly
pulls the wheeled table out into the center of the room, pushing the chair
aside, adjusting the light. He pulls a length of sterile paper over the vinyl
cushions, and raises the back, so it’s angled like a recliner.

“Get on the table, Claire.”

I look at it dumbly for a moment, eyes wide. He narrows his
eyes and I remember our arrangement. Complete submission. I clamber up on top
of the table, trying to remain graceful in this graceless position, seated
between the stirrups that rise like wings from the sides, my legs dangling over
the edge. I cross my ankles again, push out my naked breasts, and wait.

He stands in front of my crossed legs, and swings the
stirrups around.

“Give me your leg.”

Tentatively I raised my left leg, and he grasps my ankle,
lifting it. He runs his hand, still damp from where he clutched my pussy, up
the length of my calf, to the inside of my knee and back. My eyes flutter, and
he places my foot securely in the stirrup. My legs are half spread now, and
already it’s overwhelming. I have never felt so naked, so vulnerable. So
exposed.

“Now the other.”

I breathe deep and exhale, my chest fluttering, and give him
my other ankle. Quickly he has my foot in the stirrup, and now I’m spread
before him. My face and chest burn with embarrassment. But that’s not enough.
He angles the light so that it shines fully on my exposed pussy, my naked,
naked pussy. Then he pushes the stirrups wider apart, and closer to me, bending
my legs towards me. Spreading me even further, my pussy and my ass now totally
served up to him.

My breathing has gotten quick and shallow, and I’m starting
to feel hot all over. Not just turned on, though I am more aroused than I can
ever remember being. It’s more like I can’t get enough air, and suddenly the
room starts to feel small, oppressive, the light glaring. He angles the light
down again, still on my pussy but not in my eyes, and watches me.

Just watches.

“What’s wrong with me?” I gasp.

And he puts his hand back on my pussy.

Instantly I feel calmer, a warming glow spreading out
through my limbs. His eyes lock with mine as his fingers start to explore my
folds, slipping between them, running his fingertips up and down, up and down.
I struggle for breath, but somehow I know it’s important not to lose focus when
he’s holding my gaze like this. I know I need to pay attention for him.

“What did you want to be, Claire?”

“I don’t know.” I rasp.

“Yes you do.”

“It doesn’t matter.” I don’t know if I’m lying to him, or to
myself, but as soon as I say it I know it’s not true.

His fingers pry apart my lips and toy with the borders of my
opening. I can feel my wetness drenching his hand, leaking down my crease,
smearing all over my inner thighs. The air is cool where I’m wet, but still his
fingers don’t stop. I think I might go insane.

“You are closed very tight, Claire.”

“I know.”

My fluttering eyes pop wide open as he stops for a moment,
and I see his cold blue eyes staring into me.

“That is not how the treatment works, Claire.” He says, and
thrusts two fingers into me, deep. I gasp at the sudden intrusion. Even though
I’ve needed him to fuck me, the sensation is so quick, so powerful, and I’m not
ready for it. I am closed tight, and he is forcing me open. It’s so
overwhelming that I want to run from it, like the first time I masturbated,
frightened by what I felt just before orgasm. But I can’t run from him. He puts
a hand on my chest, between my breasts, keeping me down, and pushes another
finger into me, spreading me out and opening me wide.

“What are you?” He demands.

His fingers are fucking me hard, and the tight coil of
tension I held within me is unfurling in a flourish of pleasure, of heat and
life, that’s spreading through out my body. He still looks directly at me. No
one has ever seen me like this.

“Art. I wanted to go to art school.” I choke on the feeling
building in my core, tears coming to my eyes. “I wanted to be an artist.”

His fingers curl inside of me, pressing on my g-spot,
twisting against the sensitive nerves around my entrance. I moan, I just can’t
hold it in any longer, and with his free hand he grabs me by the chin and
forces me to look directly at him, directly into those blue eyes that see
everything. All I want is for him to fuck me until I come all over him, again
and again. I didn’t know I could feel things like this, but in his hands I am
just this animal, this driving need to be fucked, to come.

“Please,” I whisper, just as I feel his thumb on the hood of
my clit, pressing down. After that I can’t talk. I try to shut my eyes, but he
squeezes my cheeks, reminding me of my obligation. I must look at him. Let him
look at me. His thumb rubs in little circles on the hood of my clit, the
pressure and the friction from the flesh sliding over the hard little nub
pushing me into tiny little convulsions, jack-knifing against him, while his
fingers press inside me.

The charge is building inside of me, in a hard little ball
around my pussy, in a way that I haven’t ever felt before. I’m almost afraid of
what will happen when it explodes, and I think I’ll die if it doesn’t. I can
feel the walls of my passage close down on his hand and then bloom open, trying
to suck him in as far as he’ll go. I’m so close, so close, I reach out and grab
his arm, my fingers digging into his flesh...

“Please!” I shout.

And he pulls his hand away.

For a moment I grab at him desperately, not capable of
words, panting like a beast, but he calmly untangles himself and walks to the
other side of the room. He doesn’t even look at me. I’m left sitting, naked,
humiliated, frustrated, soaked in my own juices. The sterile paper beneath me
is soggy, and has torn a bit with my writhing.