Doctor's Orders: The Complete Series (4 page)

When I finally come fully to my senses, the mystery man is gone, and the Doctor is gently stroking my cheek. My whole body is achingly sensitive. I can’t talk yet, can’t fully feel my face. The Doctor walks around and tenderly wipes me down before he frees one ankle, bending my leg under me and back, getting the circulation going for me before placing my foot on the ground. Gently he does the same with the other leg, and lowers my harness before freeing my hands. I can’t stand yet, and I simply collapse into the harness, where he catches me, softly.

He fondles my breasts, and I don’t care that it hurts, even in this debilitated state. I want his hands on me. But it only lasts a moment before he helps me up and out of my harness, and then he’s walking me over to the chair, where my clothes are in disarray. He’s silent as he helps me dress, gentle and considerate, anticipating my movements without asking me to speak. Which is just as well, since I think it will be a while before I can.

Finally I’m clothed, presentable, no outward sign of what just happened. He touches his fingers to my chin, and my cheek, and he brushes a tendril of hair behind my ear.

“A productive session, Claire?” he asks softly.

I nod. It’s all I can do. But suddenly the thought is quite clear in my mind: I think I am his.

The thought stuns me. And I don’t know what to do with it. I realize I don’t know anything about him, or his life, or whether this is the treatment that everyone gets. It nearly pains me as he walks away, back to his desk, and I have to restrain myself from ripping off my clothes again, the fabric coarse and unnatural against my skin now, from throwing my naked body on his.

This is insane. I’m trapped in my own little insanity now, because of him. I don’t know what to do, and I’m debating what to say, how to say it, when he walks back to me. He puts a hand under my chin, and lifts my face to his, his blue eyes shining as always. I don’t know what I expect to happen, but it isn’t this.

“Our next appointment,” he says, and flourishes another black card by my cheek. And then he grins. “I think it will surprise you.”

P
ART 2:

R
EMOTE
C
ONTROL

I feel absolutely naked.

I’m not, not really. Technically I’m covered up. But the dress that he told me to wear doesn’t cover much, and what it does cover it hugs so tightly that it might as well be see-through.

I felt so out of place in that store, buying that dress. I was secretly relieved that he’d left such specific instructions on where to find it, so that I could just get in, get the dress, and get out. Everyone else was so fashionable, so made up, so sure of themselves, just standing there, looking cool, while that weird music played in the background. I felt like Pinocchio hiding among the real children; as though the salesgirl, with her asymmetric haircut and her dramatic eye makeup and her sexy cleavage, would somehow know I wasn’t one of them. But no one said anything. I mean, of course no one said anything. They took my money, and I walked out with the dress that he told me to wear for our next appointment.

And now I’m standing on a street corner in my slutty red dress and high heels, as ordered, feeling naked to the world, and waiting for the Doctor.

My first appointment with the Doctor changed my life. I think. I’m still not sure how, exactly, but I’m definitely a little different. Things are different. I agreed to his treatment, even though I’m not sure what he’s treating – malaise? Boredom? Depression? But I agreed to submit to him completely for its duration, unless I use the safeword and quit. I’d never done anything like BDSM before, never thought about submission, and what it meant. He told me it would make me free. I mean, sure. Fine. I’m not so sure of where it will all lead, but I can’t stop myself from wanting to find out. Possibly this is because I was fucked nearly unconscious while tied up and strapped in a harness, just after he told me some things I needed to know about myself, but I think it might be about more than the sex. About more than my desire for the Doctor.

That was our first appointment, anyway.

I have no idea what he has in mind for our second appointment, but I’m already turned on by the soft breeze against my mostly exposed skin, and by the thought of the Doctor. Wherever he is.

An old woman passes me on the street and mutters something that sounds disapproving. I feel myself start to blush again, and I’m glad for the growing darkness. My schoolgirl embarrassment must clash terribly with this outfit.

Just as I’m starting to fret that maybe I’ve got the wrong street, that I mixed up the time or something, a black limo with dark windows pulls smoothly up to the curb. It would be cheesy if I weren’t thinking about how hard I came last time. There’s a pause, as though someone inside were looking me over. Instinctively my hand goes to my hair and tucks a strand behind my ear. I want to kick myself for making such a childish gesture. But then there’s the audible click of the door unlocking, like I’ve passed a test or something, and I’m only a little embarrassed by the relief that I feel.

I open the door, and try to slip in with as much grace as possible.

The interior of the limo is only dimly lit. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the soft, uniform light in the car. But there he is, looking out the opposite window.

The Doctor.

He’s wearing the same sort of outfit that he was the last time I saw him. A stylish suit, a nice crisp shirt, and slacks that crease just right. He must get everything custom tailored; it’s the only way a man looks that good in clothes.

Did I mention that he’s beautiful?

He’s still looking out the window as the limo pulls away from the curb, so I get an eyeful of the corded muscles in his neck, the salt and pepper hair curling softly at the nape of his neck. Nothing ridiculous, but very trim, very masculine. I’ve dreamed about him since that first appointment in his office. I want it to be him who fucks me this time. I want
him
.

He’s the first thing I’ve really wanted for myself in a long time.

I want to speak – I want him to speak to me – but the game has already started. We have our respective roles. I tug at the hem of my dress, marveling again at the deep, dark red against my very white thighs, and wait for him. I’ve never been good at sitting still and waiting. I can’t help but look around, curious. I’m drinking in the surprisingly understated interior, the leather seats, the full bar, when suddenly I see that the divider is down and there’s a flash of smiling eyes in the rearview mirror. It’s the driver, getting an eyeful.

“Give me your leg,” the Doctor finally says.

I hesitate for just a moment, knowing I’m visible to the driver, but I push forward. It’s about trust, I learned the last time. I trust the Doctor, so I shift in my seat, spread my legs slightly, and hook my left leg over his right. He puts his warm hand on my exposed leg. Casually he traces the curves and hollows of my knee with his thumb, and my skin starts to come alive in his wake.

“What is the thing that you feel most often, Claire?”

His hand is slowly inching up my leg, each caress pushing gently further up my thigh, defining a new border, a new line that I want him to cross. I don’t know how he does this to me. Already I feel wetness leaking between my thighs. As instructed, I’m not wearing any underwear.

“Claire, I asked you a question.” He says. I grip the leather seat with my open hand, and try to calm my breathing. I can’t help but check the rearview mirror again, and my eyes meet the driver’s. He doesn’t look away.

“What?” My voice shakes a little.

“As you go about your day, Claire,” the Doctor says with an air of tested patience, his hand pushing at the hem of my very short dress, “what do you feel most frequently? What is the emotion that guides you? That dominates you?”

My eyes are locked on the driver’s. He looks away only when necessary. My head is full of the Doctor’s lightly accented voice, my body full of his touch. My nipples strain at the thin material of my dress, and I can feel my pulse everywhere.

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

The Doctor slips his hand around my waist and roughly pulls me onto his lap. I put my arm around his neck, and relax into his chest. He smells...warm. I could get used to this, the feel of his arms around me, his scent. His hands. My eyes half close as his hands begin to roam over my body, one hand slipping between my legs, still toying with the hem of my dress, the other curling around my torso and palming my breast. Suddenly he squeezes my breast, pressing down on the nipple, and I moan, wriggling my ass into his leg in appreciation.

When I open my eyes I see the driver. Watching. The Doctor must feel me tense up.

“Claire. You do know. Tell me.”

His hand leaves my breast and moves to my back. The sound of a zipper slowly unzipping is surprisingly loud in the rich silence of the limo, loud enough that even the driver can hear it. I know this because I see the corners of his eyes turn up in a smile.

The front of my dress falls forward a little, barely held up by my breasts. If I breathe too deeply...

“What do you feel right now, Claire?”

“Besides turned on?”

The Doctor looks directly at me for the first time, and smiles briefly. I think part of him likes my spunk, sometimes. He slides a hand further up, under my dress, and squeezes my thigh, hard. Reminding me who’s boss.

“Yes, Claire. Besides that.”

The eyes in the rearview are still watching me intently, barely watching the road. If there were more traffic it would be dangerous.

“Afraid,” I say softly.

“You feel fear?”

“Yes.”

His hand leaves my thigh, moves up to brush the loose strap away from my shoulder, to tease the front of my dress away. Slowly, so slowly.

“Of what are you afraid, Claire?”

“Being seen,” I whisper. Not low enough: I think the driver heard anyway. It doesn’t seem to deter him. His eyes stare back at me without shame.

“Why should that frighten you?”

“I don’t know.”

He pulls the front of my dress down in one swift motion, and my breasts burst forth, nipples already hard, skin flushed. The driver stares. I’m humiliated by my own arousal, but I can’t keep myself from pushing my breasts forward, begging for them to be touched.

The Doctor absently toys with one nipple, then the other, before dropping his hand to my lap. He shoves past the hem of my dress this time, and finally, finally, I feel his fingers dip between my folds, idly working the length of my slit, still toying with me. My skin flushes hot, and my breath hitches as desire coils tightly around his touch. I want him so badly.

“Of what are you afraid?” he asks again, slightly amused. I can barely focus with his fingers so close to my entrance, his palm pressing into my clit. I open my eyes to try to clear my head, and there he is again: the driver, watching in the mirror.

The Doctor doesn’t make mistakes. None of this is an accident.

“That he’ll think I’m a slut,” I say between panting breaths, nodding toward the front of the limo. “That I’m stupid.”

“So?” the Doctor asks.

He slips two fingers deep inside me, curling them as he does so. I shudder and grind my hips into him, my head dipping as I hold onto his neck. I wish I could answer him, but I can’t, and it’s not just because he’s begun working his fingers in and out, fucking me with his hand like he did last time, his palm pressing into my clit in the same rhythm.

“Claire.” There’s a hardness to his voice, and when I don’t reply, lost deep beneath the surface, swirling around the sensation of his fingers inside me, he grips my hair, close to the scalp, and tilts my head up to look at him. “You will come for me as he watches.”

Oh, God, I think I will.

I nod dumbly, biting my lip to keep from moaning. His fingers probe deeper into me, circling my g-spot, playing the bundle of nerves expertly. My grip tightens on his shoulder, but he doesn’t react except to let go of my hair, and cradle my back in his arm. He knows it’s coming. I know it’s coming. I haven’t forgotten all about the driver, but I’m beyond caring; I’m just desperate to catch the tail of this orgasm, to ride it to the end. My hips begin to buck in short, sharp little thrusts, and for the first time it feels like I’m chasing down my orgasm rather than letting it fall upon me. I chase it down hard, and I come in short, explosive beats that echo up into my chest and throat, escaping with a low cry.

It’s quick, and short, and powerful, and as I slump into the Doctor’s chest, I know it doesn’t feel like the end. It feels like a warm up.

The Doctor rubs my back, and as I come down I cringe to think of the driver. Do I look at him? I’ll have to look at him. I know he’s looking at me. I set my jaw and resolve to own it, to chase it down, like I chased down that orgasm.

I don’t have a chance.

“Claire,” the Doctor says sternly. Obviously my attention has wandered. “Lay across my lap. On your belly.”

I hesitate only a moment, thinking of the driver again.

“Claire.”

He grabs me by my neck and pushes me down. I’m on my belly and over his knees in a second, my naked breasts pushed into the cold leather seat. I want him again already. I arch my back slightly, offering myself to him, hoping to do better.

“Good girl,” he says, and pulls my dress up, exposing my bare ass. “Spread your legs a little. Ass in the air. Yes, like that.”

He leaves me there for a moment, ass up, face pressed into the leather seating, dress bunched uselessly around my waist. Obviously the driver can see all of this, and the now familiar mix of humiliation and arousal rushes back. I can hear the Doctor rustling around, opening a compartment I didn’t know was there. Just not knowing what he has planned for me already has me wet and ready again.