Tousle Me (13 page)

“Cammie,” says Hunter, his cheeks flush and his eyes glassy, “I want to lick your magic daffodil.”

“Um…is that a British thing?”

He doesn’t answer; he just starts yanking off my panties. Farewell, Kermit. Farewell, hymen. But no time to dwell on the sheer horror of that association—Hunter just started sucking my jelly bean!

“Ooooooooh!” I sound like a melting snowman. I’m dripping like one too.

“Mmnphgh,” he mumbles, his mouth full of taco meat. “Tastes like plum jam and kittens.”

My knees keep jerking, my hips keep bucking. I put my hand on Hunter’s tousled head. It’s like that force-feeding scene in
Se7en
, except for the part where he doesn’t suffer a horrendous death and shit himself.

“Oh Hunter,” I moan. “I’m going to…”

“Not so fast.” He wriggles back up, pulling his Calvins down in the process.

His beast baton thumps against my inner thigh. Jesus—it’s even heavier than the chocolate version.

“Hunter,” I whimper, “you’re so big. I’m scared.”

“I get that a lot.” He pauses to toss his hair, and then climbs back up over me, kissing me gently. Then he takes my hand and guides it down to touch him. “Gosling, I’d like to introduce you to my WOMOC.”

I curve my trembling fingers around his substantial length. “W…whuh?”

“Weapon of mass orgasm construction,” he quips, grinning.

“
Oh
.”

“What did you think of the advance review copy? Five stars?”

“Five…uh…five something…”

“Five minutes of pure pleasure, more like.” He pauses to stroke my hair sympathetically. “Or should I say, five and a half. Would you like a Xanax first?”

“I’m good,” I whisper. “Hunter, you’re all the Xanax I need.”

“Oh baby.”

We’re kissing and rubbing up on each other, his WOMOC bouncing around between my legs and bashing out a jungle beat on my tuna garden. Our passion is epic; our heartbeats dance in erotic mayhem. And just when I think he’s going to push into me…he stops.

“You know how you said you were clean,” he pants. “Did you check for thrush?”

My mind races. I’m too aroused to function properly. “What?”

“Candida, yeast infection. Discharge o’clock. Did you check for that?”

I frown. “I guess I didn’t.” WHO CHECKS FOR THRUSH?

“Huh.” He gets up a little, lies next to me instead. “How about oral thrush?”

“Is that even a thing?”

“I’m afraid so.” He wipes his sweaty brow. “We can’t go any further until you’re thoroughly examined.”

My girlcore throbs with disappointment. “Maybe…
you
could examine me?” I say hopefully.

“Gosling. I’m a man of many talents, but I’m not a gynaecologist.” He pauses. “Yet. Now.” He pats my naked inner thigh. “Let’s get you to the late night VD clinic before my cock goes back down.”

* * *

The clinic is held in a back room at Gabriel’s Wrapture, which is handy because it’s right on campus. It’s clearly signposted, but no matter—whichever entrance you use, turns out you can still find a taco smothered in sour cream.

“So how do these tests work, exactly?” I ask as we wait by the clinic door.

Hunter shrugs. “I dunno. You’ll have to ask Dr Emuson.”

A few seconds after we ring the doorbell, a nurse welcomes us into a poky little waiting room complete with plastic chairs, a PC from the early 1990s and tinny Lighthouse Family music on the stereo. “The doctor will be with you shortly,” she says in a high-pitched voice.

Hunter gestures for me to sit down, and I comply.

“Why do I feel like I’m waiting for a backstreet abortion?” I mutter.

“There is no shame in thrush, gosling,” Hunter says, wrapping an arm around my shoulder and rubbing gently. “In sickness and in health, and all that.”

“Oh, Hunter,” I whisper, turning to him. “Really?”

“You know how much you mean to me.”

A shadow falls over us, and I look up to see a handsome man in a white coat. “Cammibelle Hicks?” he reads from a clipboard in a soft Mexican accent. “Right this way,
mi pequeno conejo
.”

“How come we’re not testing
you
for thrush?” I hiss at Hunter as we follow the doctor.

He scowls at me. “Because, ew.”

Dr Emuson opens the door to the examination room and ushers us both in. Inside, there are more plastic seats, posters of genital diagrams, posters of the Gabriel’s Wrapture $3 Meal Deal, and a bed with what appears to be a selection of medieval torture instruments.

I freeze on the spot.

“Now now,” says Dr Emuson with a sympathetic smile. “There’s really no need to be nervous.”

“She’s just being silly,” Hunter explains. “You know how women get sometimes.”

The doctor nods. “Ah yes. Silly…and quite often, confused.”

I feel myself blush. “How did you guys guess?”

Hunter grins The Grin. “Just a little cock-led intuition.”

He knows me so well, and it makes me feel safe. Protected. What more could you ask for than a guy who’s actively concerned for your gynaecological health?

As we take our seats, Dr Emuson joins us at his desk. “So what can I do for you two lovebirds this evening?”

“Cammie may have thrush—up above and down below,” Hunter announces. “Obviously, being the responsible hero I am, I think it’s important to beast the yeast before I ram the ham, if you know what I’m saying.”

Dr Emuson gives an understanding smile. “Absolutely.”

“So…uh…what happens now?” I ask, glancing nervously at the bed and the table of…implements.

“Thrush is generally diagnosed with an examination,” the doctor explains. “I’ll have a look inside your mouth, and then you’ll need to pop off your panties so I can have a peek at your flower.”

I suppose
flower
is better than Vaj Mahal, huh. And the good doctor is kind of hot, so maybe he’ll make my petals blossom.

“I’m just going to the loo,” says Hunter in his delightfully British way. “Back in a few minutes. Just carry on, get it all sorted.”

The door closes with a click, and Dr Emuson and I are alone.

“Do you mind if I put on a little Chopin?” he asks, motioning to his iPod dock. “It helps to relax my patients.”

“Uh…sure. Why not?”

“Wonderful.” He presses something on the remote, and a melancholy piano piece begins to play. “Now let’s check your mouth first, shall we?”

He scoots over on his office chair, cups my chin, and shines a bright light down my throat. Good thing I refrained from garlic this evening.

“Okay…turn a little to the left…say aaaaaaaaah.”

“Aaaaaaamppphhhggghhh,” I say obediently.

“Well done,
conejo
.”

I wonder if
conejo
is the Spanish word for snatch?

“Now I’ll need you to take off your pants and lie on the bed, with your feet in the stirrups,” he instructs.

I gulp. I mean, sure, girls get pelvic exams all the time, but I never got around to it and that bed looks like something from
SAW.

Still—Hunter needs me to do this. And who am I to say no to two educated and experienced men? The gentle lull of the Chopin track seeps into my ears…pliiiiinky plinky plinky…and I find myself walking toward the bed.

“Just pull the curtain around while you get undressed,” says the doctor. “I’ll do my best not to look, but hell knows, I’m only a man.”

For the second time that evening, I wriggle out of my Uggs (now dry), leggings and Kermit panties. The bed is covered in that cheap paper lining you get on examination tables, the stuff that always rips a little as you try to get comfy.

“Um…what do you do with the stirrups?” I call, confused.

“They’re just like foot rests. Let your knees fall open and put them in. It’s like riding a bike, only just before you’re needlessly violated.”

“Aha!” I slip my feet into them. Wait. “Isn’t there meant to be, um, a blanket or something? For my modesty?”

He puts his dark and handsome head around the curtain. “Your what?”

“My modesty,” I repeat, blushing.

“Ah yes,
conejo
.” His eyes dart left and right. “Nice try.”

At this point, I realize I’m looking at him muff first. And he’s gazing right back. Oh my God.

“W-what happens now?”

He strides through the curtain, yanks on latex gloves with a loud snap, and flicks on a lamp which he swings between my thighs like a spotlight. “The moment of truth.”

So I’m lying here an hour after the slave auction with sexy man number two between my thighs. Who am I, Enid? And how does this work when I’m a virgin, anyway? Should I be a little more worried about this?

The delicate sound of Chopin still floats through the air. Dr Emuson’s cheeks have gone kind of pink, and his eyes are bulging. He loosens his tie and mutters something about needing a drink. You and me both, my friend. Then he closes his eyes, raises his gloved hands, takes a dramatic pause and then lets them descend between my legs until—Hunter’s fist collides with his face!

“Bollocking bloody hell cor blimey, guvnor!” Hunter growls Britishly.

“Dios mio! What are you doing?” shouts Dr Emuson, clutching his jaw.

“You’re meant to be examining her!”

“I
am
examining her! How else am I meant to check for thrush?” the doctor protests.

Hunter glances at my jelly bean, which began to protrude as soon as I caught sight of him. “I don’t know, stick a needle in somewhere? Scanny…thing? This is just sick!”

“It’s how we normally do it, Mr von Styles—”

“Fucking liar!” Hunter smacks him across the nose again.

Then I just lie there, my knees still a good two feet apart, while this pair of brutally handsome but well-dressed men battle it out in front of me to soft classical music. I’m guessing it would be inappropriate to masturbate right about now, but it sure is tempting. This must be why black widow spiders eat their mates; it saves having to watch this kind of thing while you wank yourself to death.

Dr Emuson is thrown for a second, but dude can pack a punch. He gets Hunter on the ground and starts kicking him in the stomach.

“You don’t want to see my rage, boy,” he sneers.

Hunter projectile-spits a mouthful of blood at him. “Is it as small and pathetic as your penis?”

“No smaller than yours!”

“Why don’t you go back to making tacos, you pretentious—”

“Boys!” I shriek.

They both freeze, Hunter now on his knees while Dr Emuson holds a fist aloft, ready to smack down. I remember to close my legs and then clamber off the bed. If I don’t do something, I really will have to masturbate.

“Seriously, both of you,” I plead. “It’s not worth it.”

“She’s right,” Dr Emuson pants, dabbing at his blood-spattered lab coat. “A truce?”

Hunter gets to his feet, clearing his throat. “Hmm,” he says. “Okay.”

“Well then. Let’s complete the examination.”

I glance at the bed. “Uh…I get back up there?”

“Yes.”

“In the stirrups?”

“Please,” he says.

Hunter, standing beside him, raises his eyebrows and gives me a thin-lipped smile. And then decks Dr Emuson right between the eyes.

“Hunter!” I shout, clasping my hands to my mouth. “What have you done?”

“Changed my mind,” he says gruffly. “No truce.”

The doctor staggers backwards and crumples to the ground.

At that moment, the nurse flies in, battering the curtain away to drop to her knees beside the doctor. “Oh, my goodness,” she exclaims, mopping up the blood with her own sleeve. “Gabriel’s ruptured!”

“Gosling,” Hunter says, his hand on my shoulder. His lip is bleeding and he’s a little short of breath, but is otherwise okay. “Get your knickers back on. We’re out of here.”

“Okay.”

He turns to the nurse. “So when do we get the results?”

She blinks up at him. “What?”

“The thrush test. When do we find out?”

“I suppose you’ll have to wait until he wakes up.” She strokes the dark hair from the doctor’s forehead, which is rapidly turning purple. “That’s
if
he wakes up,” she snaps.

Hunter looks pained. “God damn my violent and unpredictable possessive tendencies. Damn them to hell!” He casts me a stoic look. “I won’t let him take the secret of your yeast situation to his grave, gosling.”

“Oh Hunter.” I pull my leggings up and reach for my Uggs. “You’re so sweet.”

He takes my hand, leading me away from the struggling heap of doctor and nurse, and toward the exit. “Fancy some enchiladas on the way out?”

“Y’ellow?”  I say into my cell as the limo pulls away from Gabriel’s Wrapture.

“Cammie? Oh my God!” Enid gasps in a raspy voice. “Why haven’t you been picking up?”

“Emergency trip to the VD—I mean, uh, I was talking to Hunter,” I manage. “Where are you?”

“I don’t know,” she whimpers. “A warehouse. I think. Cammie, you have to come get me!”

“Whuh?” I sit bolt upright. “Is something wrong?”

Hunter glances up from his own cell, his super sexy green eyes narrowing in concern.

“They’ve tied me up. I think they’re going to…I don’t know, but it’ll be bad, I’m sure of it. One of them looks like McKenzie Crook and the other one’s really fat. You know what that means.”

“Oh shit.” I lean in to Hunter. “We have to do something. Enid’s been captured by a dastardly duo!”

He frowns. “What can we do?”

“It was Anonymous,” she wails. “We were, you know, having the sex…and then he’s drawing me, that’s what he does, you know? Until he gets this weird look on his face and he’s like,
duty calls
! Next thing I know he’s got this cape on and we’re driving to this warehouse…and then they have kryptonite, only it looks like bananas—”

“Creeptonight,” I say, sighing. “It’s Creeptonight. Enid, there’s something you need to know about Anonymous.”

“Oh
really
? Is there? Could have fooled me!”

“Okay. You need to stay calm, let us find out where you are—”

“Calm? I’m tied to a chair in the middle of rapesville and you want me to stay calm?”