Read Doctor's Orders: The Complete Series Online
Authors: Chloe Cox
Doctor's Orders: The Complete Series
D
OCTOR’S
O
RDERS
T
HE
C
OMPLETE
S
ERIES
by
C
HLOE
C
OX
Copyright 2012 Chloe Cox
License Notes
This eBook may not be re- sold or freely distributed without the author’s written permission, but feel free to share this eBook with the friends of your choice. But if you are reading this book and did not purchase it, please consider purchasing your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons living or deceased is entirely, absurdly accidental.
T
ABLE OF
C
ONTENTS
A
N
E
XCERPT
F
ROM
T
HE
W
OLF’S
C
APTIVE
When I masturbate now it’s always the same. I close my eyes, and all I can see are his eyes. His freakishly light, bright blue eyes.
What I feel is the touch of many. Many hands, many fingers, many mouths, wildly exploring every crease, every hole, every opening. An unknown dick in my cunt, filling me. The feeling of overwhelming intoxication, impossibly drunk on sex, soaring high above any normal feeling of self, the edges of my identity beginning to blur, to soften, to blissfully merge with the world around me.
All under the quiet gaze of those eyes.
If you’ve never felt anything like it, you haven’t lived. I wasn’t living, looking back on it. I never knew what I was until I met him.
This is how it all starts.
~ ~ ~
The invitation comes in a heavy black envelope, sealed with black wax. The card itself is black, too, with raised black writing. I almost have to touch it to read it, which I guess is the point: forcing a sensory, tactile experience on me. In the end I raise it close to my face, to make sure I have it right.
You have been given
an Appointment
with
The Doctor
Tomorrow, 6 pm. You will not be given another.
It’s all very dramatic. No clue where it comes from, or why, or who this Doctor is. On the back is an address on the other side of town, in a quiet, old money neighborhood, full of townhouses and wide, beautiful streets.
I guess it shows what kind of state I’m in that I actually consider not going.
I’ve tried to figure out what made me go, what got me out of my funk and moving towards the man that would change my life. I think it’s because when I get home from the temp agency the next day, just after five, still without a new job, I find my brother in my room, dumping out the milk crates that hold all my art stuff. He needs the crates for his records, he explains, now that he was going to be a DJ.
“Mom said I could,” he says when he sees my face. Then he shoves past me, milk crate in his arms.
Right after that I’m on my way to the Doctor. I think maybe he’ll give me some pills or something, anything to make this life seem better.
I have
no
idea what I’m in for.
~ ~ ~
It has been so long since I’ve had what could even remotely be described as a boyfriend, let alone actual sex, that it never occurs to me that the Doctor’s practice might be...unusual. Not even the strange invitation suggests anything to me. That’s how naive I am.
It’s not that I don’t have a sex drive. Believe me, I have a sex drive. But it’s all frenzied, angry masturbation beneath tangled sheets, after I think everyone else is asleep.
Pathetic, right?
This is just by way of saying that I’m entirely unprepared for what’s about to happen.
The Doctor’s office is in one of those fancy townhouses, a mansion, really, with a beautiful limestone facade set back from the street and guarded by a heavy iron fence and a locked gate. The fence itself is lightly covered with ivy, and through the curling tendrils I can see the suggestion of a lighted courtyard, and a path to a garden in back. It looks like a private home, not a Doctor’s office. I double-check the address on the black card to make sure, holding it close to my face in the fading light, and I’m about to press the doorbell when the speaker box crackles to life.
“Come inside, Claire.”
I startle, unaware that I was being watched. The voice is relaxed, but commanding, even through the distortions of the speaker, as though its owner has never even considered the possibility that he might be disobeyed. I find myself pushing eagerly at the gate, not even waiting for the telltale buzz. Already this is the most exciting thing to ever happen to me, and I want more.
I find the front door unlocked, and a sign indicating that I should leave my coat on the side table in the vestibule. It’s chilly in the house, with its high ceilings and marble floors, and I feel a little self-conscious as my nipples grow pert beneath my cheap blouse. My bra is unpadded, made of a thin white cotton, and will do nothing to hide my nipples if it stays this cold.
I cross my arms in front of my chest and make my way out of the vestibule. There is a light coming from a formal reception room to my right, and all the other doors are closed. Feeling inexplicably embarrassed, I creep into the reception room.
I am alone.
There’s a warm light, and expensive looking, stylish black furniture that nevertheless looks very uncomfortable. I perch awkwardly on the edge of a black sofa, smoothing my black skirt beneath me, and look around. I guess I expect to see the sorts of things you normally see in a doctor’s office: a reception desk, a secretary or something, magazines.
There’s none of that. Just this muted gray room, with its soft light and a mild chill in the air. My nipples are still quite awake. There’s a door in the far wall, besides the opening onto the main hall that I had come through, and it’s open just a bit. Not enough to see anything, just enough to tease.
It seems rude, somehow, that there’s no one here to greet me. To explain all this.
I’m debating whether to go sneak around, my arms wrapped tightly around me, when I hear it. A soft, light scraping noise. Awkward, arrhythmic. Scrape, scrape, scrape, followed by a shuffle, what might be a groan.
It stops for a moment. I’m looking around, certain I heard it, but feeling kind of crazy, when it starts up again, slightly louder this time. Scrape, scrape, scrape. Then the same pause, and the same shuffle.
I sit motionless in the cold, my arms tensed at my sides, heedless of my nipples poking through the thin fabric of my skirt. I’m usually able to identify sounds, but I have no idea what this is.
It’s come closer. This time when the scraping stops, a tiny little dustpan is pushed into view in the open doorway off the reception area. I giggle a little bit – a dustpan? I was afraid of a dustpan?
And then comes the girl.
She’s nearly naked, covered only in a thin black bikini, a leather collar around her neck. Her pale skin shines in the soft light. Her hands are bound behind her back with more black leather, and she carefully holds a small dust broom in her mouth. She’s gripping the handle with her teeth, her painted red lips stretched wide. Slowly she shuffles forward on her knees, until she’s in front of the dustpan, and then, with aching slowness, she sweeps a bit of dust forward, her breasts swaying heavily near the floor.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
I must gasp, or maybe I say something, because she pauses for a moment and looks up. She looks me in the eye, and it almost looks like she smiles with that broom handle stuck in her mouth.
Then she leans over, and pushes the dustpan forward with her nose.
I can’t help but stare at her. I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel. How are you supposed to react to something like that?
What I begin to feel, though, is a warmth down below. And my nipples, hard now, beneath my thin blouse, ache to be touched. I squirm a little in my seat, rubbing my bottom into the rough fabric, scraping my nipples against my bra and blouse, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.
I don’t know how long I watch her, but she’s nearly out of sight when I become aware of another presence.
A man. In the doorway that was only partially open, now fully open, his hands clasped behind his broad back. He wears a white dress shirt with a starched collar, tucked into a trim waist. Over six feet tall, with cold, bright blue eyes, and black, slicked back hair, with just a few streaks of gray. He must have been an athlete with that build, that confidence.
He’s the single most intimidating man I’ve ever seen, and I’m not sure why. I can’t read his expression, but he’s been watching me, watch her. Watching me get turned on.
I open my mouth to try to explain myself – how, I don’t know – and he cuts me off.
“Do not speak.”
I shut my mouth automatically. It was his voice over the speaker. There’s something primal about it. He studies me, as though evaluating me. I push my chest out ever so slightly, suck my tummy in a little. I look for a glimmer of a smile on his lips, but find nothing.
“I am the Doctor,” he finally says, like he’s giving me a gift. “Follow me.”
And without waiting for a response, he turns and strides down the hall, away from me.
I hurry up to follow, hearing his footsteps recede into the darkness. It takes me a moment to collect myself, to smooth down my skirt and my hair, to feel presentable. Then I have to hurry after him, tottering in my new black pumps, heels clicking on the marble floor.
I rush out into a great hall, and pause in front of a grand, sweeping staircase. I would see him if he’d gone up that staircase. It spirals lazily up at least four stories. Confused and slightly panicked – what if I’ve lost him already? – I look around wildly until I see another door. This leads to another staircase, going down, and I can hear the last of his steps at the bottom. I clatter down the steps in a hurry, anxious to catch up with him. It’s only later that I’ll think about how eager I am to please him.
When I find him, he’s seated behind a desk in a long, low room. There’s medical looking equipment along the sides of the room, a table on wheels with the familiar stirrups – I shiver at the sight of those stirrups, and look away quickly, hoping he doesn’t notice my reaction – various straps and things on the walls. There’s a single chair placed in front of his desk, a standing lamp next to it, beaming down a spotlight.
“Sit down,” he says.
I do. I can’t figure out what to do with my legs. I try crossing them, but that feels too seductive. Eventually I settle for crossing them at the ankle, in a demure fashion. He watches all this with curiosity.
“Why are you here, Claire?”
Confused, I stutter a little. “I, um...I received an invitation?”
“Why did you receive an invitation, Claire?”