Naughty Doctor

by Vashti Valanti

  You don’t know me, Alexandra, but I know you. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to fulfill your darkest fantasies. The stalker’s words echoed her mind. How right he had been. He had brought her most hidden fantasies to life, even to the whipping and disgrace he had subjected her to at the end. Would she ever see him again? The thought made her shiver with anticipation.

  Was she insane? To be looking forward to their next meeting, when she should be terrified of the man? Wasn’t the stalker in black the embodiment of all the worst elements of her most abusive lovers from the past? What was wrong with her, that she wanted to run to him, not away from him?

  Xandra sighed into Chris’ chest. He stroked her hair, murmuring sweet nothings of comfort, as if to a child.

  “We should call the police, Xandra,” he said quietly.

  She stiffened. That was exactly what she should do. But…

  “No,” she said. “I can’t.”

  Chris pulled back, hands on her shoulders, to look her in the face. His blue eyes made her think of the stalker’s two bright blue eyes peering out of the black mask. Xandra had to turn her head away.

  “Xandra?” Chris asked. “The man deserves to be in jail for what he did to you.” Contempt and a deeper emotion, fiercer than she was used to hearing from gentle Chris, infused his words. “He deserves worse than prison. He deserves to die like a dog.”

  “I want to take a shower before I do anything else,” Xandra prevaricated. The stalker’s cum had dried on her naked body.

  “That’s the last thing you should do. The police may be able to get a DNA sample from his, er, effluent.”

  “I’m not going to call the police.”

  “Xandra, you have to.”

  “Have to?” She stood up. “You aren’t going to tell me what I have to do, Chris Jacobs.”

  “It’s the right thing to do,” he backpedaled. He wrung his hands together in his lap. “Xandra, what if this monster comes after you again? You said he took the key to your apartment.”

  “I’ll change the lock.”

  “Xandra—”

  “Look, Chris, can you just respect my decision? It’s my decision.”

  His lips thinned. But he surrendered, as she’d known he would—as he always did.

  “A shower,” Xandra repeated firmly.

  After Chris had untied her, she had put her tee and sweats back on, but not the panties or bra. She wriggled back out of the t-shirt and pants now, not bothering to hide from Chris. They had been on enough camping trips together by now that she had nothing to conceal, and it wasn’t like it turned him on or anything. Usually, he would politely avert his gaze for propriety’s sake.

  Today, he didn’t. His eyes stayed glued on her while she undressed. This break from routine surprised her, until Chris spoke.

  “You should let me put something on those bruises. Those welts on your gluteus maximus… and your wrists are abraded to the point of bleeding.”

  That he analyzed her with a doctor’s agenda aggravated Xandra for some reason. “It’s nothing,” she said. She hurried to the bathroom and turned on the hottest water.

  Xandra spent more than forty minutes in the shower. When she emerged, wrapped in a terrycloth robe, it didn’t surprise her to find that Chris had cooked her dinner.

  “I hope spaghetti is okay,” he said.

  “Oh, you wonderful man. I’m starved.”

  They ate mostly in silence. Chris, Xandra presumed, still moped over the fact that she refused to call the police. Unnervingly, he kept staring at her cleavage.

  “Now what?” she asked.

  “He left finger marks,” Chris said, subdued.

  Xandra glanced down. The pallid skin of her breasts did bear rosy imprints suspiciously the size of clutching finger. Xandra blushed, and pulled the robe tighter over her bosom.

  “You’re not even going to go to a hospital, are you?” Chris asked.

  “No.”

  “Xandra.”

  “Look, Dr. Jacobs, if you want to give me an exam yourself, that’s fine. But I’m not going to a hospital.”

  “After dinner, then. Let me look at you.”

  “Fine.”

  Yet, Xandra sensed that something else plagued him. He kept poking at his food, darting furtive looks at her, and shifting in his chair.

  “Chris, I’ll be fine. Honest. I had a scare, that’s all. Please stop worrying.”

  “Xandra, there’s something I think you deserve to know.” A sweat broke out on his brow. He moped it with his napkin. “That is, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “Chris?” This nervousness bothered her more than his overprotectiveness. “Chris, you’re my rock. Don’t fall apart on my now, of all times, baby. I need you.”

  Her words steeled him. He squared his shoulders and tightened his jaw. “You know I’ll always be there for you, Xandra.”

  “I do know it.” She touched his hand across the table. “You’re my best friend. What is it that you think I need to know?”

  “You know I work for the Center for Disease Control,” he began awkwardly.

  “Ah, Chris? It’s me, Xandra, not an alien from Mars. Of course I know where you work.”

  “Well, we see signs of new epidemics before most people hear about it in the news. There’s a bad one out there, Xandra. Never seen anything like it before. We don’t know how bad in terms of pandemic danger, but for those men it hits—the victims have all been male, so far—it’s an ugly one.”

  “That’s terrible,” Xandra said. She wondered what this had to do with her.

  “Have you heard of Kluver-Bucy Syndrome?” Chris asked.

  “No.”

  “Erotomania?”

  “No.”

  “What they have in common is that both disorders are defects of sexual interaction. An erotomaniac, for instance, may believe, against all evidence to the contrary, that some particular person is in love with him. Those kooks who stalk movie stars often suffer from erotomania.

  “Kluver-Bucy Syndrome is more generalized. The cortical area of the temporal lobe is damaged, causing inhibitory signals to the ventromedial nucleus in the hypothalamus to cease. This result is that the patient tries to either eat everything in sight—or to, er, make love to it. In one famous case, a man was arrested trying to screw a sidewalk.”

  “Creepy.”

  “Kluver-Bucy Syndrome is a neurological condition, caused by damage or deterioration. It’s not contagious. But this new disease that we’re seeing—it is contagious.”

  “And it has the same symptoms?”

  “No. Worse.” Chris paused. “There are some theories that if men didn’t have a conscience to stop them, they would all, by nature, be rapists. This disease is called Hyde’s Syndrome. After the fiction character. You know, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. It causes men, ordinary men, to lose their inhibitions and become insatiable sexual predators.”

  Finally, Xandra saw where this was going.

  “You think he may have had this syndrome.”

  Chris’ face contorted in agony. “It’s… a possibility. Which means he could be anyone, Xandra. Another reason the investigators dubbed the disease Hyde’s Syndrome is that it only manifests periodically. The rest of the time, the original personality is in control. However, as time goes on, the uninhibited personality may control the person’s behavior more and more often.”

  “Does the person’s face change? As in the fiction book?”

  “Not the person’s face, no. There are a few, ahm, physiological changes, only noticeable if the patient is undressed, but mostly just the brain chemistry changes. That makes such a man all the more dangerous, because you can never know.”

  “Wo, back up a step. What physiological changes are only noticeable if the patient is undressed?”

  “The changes in brain chemistry act like hyper-steroids on the body. The muscles bulk up and increase in strength.”

  “Like the Hulk.”

  “Not quite so obvious
. It doesn’t rip shirts.”

  “And no green skin, I suppose.”

  “This isn’t a joke, Xandra.”

  “I’m not laughing. Are there any other noticeable effects—under the clothes or whatever?”

  Chris’ whole face flushed redder than the spaghetti sauce. He mumbled something into his plate.

  “I didn’t catch that.”

  “There seems to be an enlarging effect on the genitalia,” he said, still crimson.

  A flashback hit her of the stalker’s oversized member plunging into her mouth, then plowing her breasts. A blush to match Chris’ suffused her face. She’d never seen a cock that size before, but apparently that didn’t mean she hadn’t met the man in the past. The stalker had called her by her given name, Alexandra, but not her nickname. Xandra. Could he be a man she knew, one of her exes, for example, or had he just researched her? Surely, if she had met him before, she would have recognized that sexy, gravel voice.

  “Do you want me to leave, Xandra?” Chris asked quietly. “If so, I’ll understand.”

  “Leave? Why would I want you to leave?”

  “Well.” He stared at her with tortured blue eyes. “What if I…?”

  Xandra burst out laughing. “You? A sexual predator? Ah, no offence, Chris, but I can’t even imagine you as sexual, never mind an insatiable sexual predator.”

  His mouth twisted.

  “Oh!” Xandra smacked her cheek with her hand. “I’ve hurt you. You know I have a condo in my mouth just for my foot. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that you weren’t a real man or anything. I just—“

  “Quit while you’re ahead, Xandra.” Chris winced. “I still haven’t forgotten the time you set me up on a blind date with a gay man.”

  It had been the first time she’d witness him lose his temper. Not only had he shouted at her, he hadn’t spoken to her for days afterward.

  “Well, you’d told me you had no interest in dating women, so—“

  “Never mind, Xandra.” Chris shoved back his chair. He cleared the empty dinner plates, rinsed the sauce from them and placed them in the dishwasher of her studio apartment kitchenette. “Take some pillows and lie down on your stomach on the rug, so I can take a look at those welts.”

  Xandra felt strangely self-conscious once she doffed the terrycloth robe and stretched out naked on the deep pile rug.

  It’s just Chris, she reminded herself. His talk about mysterious diseases and predators had spooked her, that was all.

  He brought over a bag and knelt beside her. In a moment, she felt his gentle hands on her skin.

  Chris had administered first aide to Xandra before, but never had he touched her in such intimate places. The welts on her derrière tingled and came alive as he traced them with his fingertips. She smothered a whimper in the rug.

  He froze. “Does it hurt?”

  Hurt? It felt delicious. Erotic and tantalizing. But she could never say that.

  “Xandra?”

  “No,” she managed to blurt. “No, it doesn’t hurt.”

  “The skin is not broken. It may be sore for several days.”

  Xandra would not have described it that way. To her, it felt as though the whipping had lifted her flesh to another dimension of sensitivity. The least stimulation made her pussy wet, even Chris’ mild, medicinal caresses.

  Xandra wished she had never agreed to this exam. It would be the final humiliation if she played the wanton before her best friend. A nice man like Chris could never understand. He might forgive her, because that was his nature, but secretly she would forever after disgust him.

  Something cool and creamy touched her. She jumped.

  “It’s just a lotion to ease the pain,” he said.

  The problem was that the stalker had used something similar on her, right after he’d whipped her. Face down on the rug, Xandra felt as though her captor had her in his power all over again. Fear coursed through her, but also arousal. In her befuddled mind, Chris’ hands merged with the stalker’s hands, massaging her, kneading her, owning her. She moaned and lifted her hips into his hands. Her thighs parted as if of their own accord.

  “Xandra, don’t be alarmed,” Chris spoke in low, soft voice, almost hypnotic. “I’d like to rub this everywhere he bruised you…”

  Hand on each of her hips, he lifted her rear into the air, almost doggie style, except that her face remained against the pillow on the floor. Chris reached under her torso and scooped her breasts into a languorous swirl of cream. Slow, circular motions around and around each breast he administered, taking several minutes before his inward reaching spiral touched her nipples. His hands left her at that agonizing point, only to return with fresh dollops of cold cream. Pleasure shot through her as he rubbed over and around her nipples, slowly, oh, so slowly.

  His hand retreated again. She stifled her disappointment.

  “Tell me if you begin to feel tense or afraid,” he said behind her.

  Xandra had never felt more relaxed in her life.

  His hands, slick with more cream, glided over the folds of her cleft. The lips of her labia and her clit received the same unhurried massage that her breasts had just enjoyed. He made no especial effort to highlight her clit, but his hands stroked the nodule of flesh with each languid pass up and down the slant of her crease. Nothing could have been more different from the flicker-fast jabs that the stalker had used to push her to orgasm this afternoon. And yet…and yet…the sensation built in her, a heat pooled between her legs, infinitely more gradual, but strong, as strong as before. This climax did not make her scream, it silenced her with inarticulate wonder. She clenched the pillow between her teeth and strove not to shut her thighs, not to let Chris know the terrible, glorious impact his innocent ministrations had on her. She feared he could tell, for the shudder of her orgasm vibrated through every muscle in her body. But he only kept up his slow strokes up and down her cleft, as if he had noticed nothing.

  Her flesh could bear no more. She wrenched herself from his grasp and rolled over on the rug. Her hair tossed across her face and the floor, and she stared at him with wild eyes. To have come at his hands! It frightened and bewildered her in a way that her wanton surrender to a total stranger had not.

  “Go home,” she rasped. “Go home, Chris.”

  “Xandra.” He reached for her with a hurt puppy-dog look on his face. “If I hurt you or frightened you…”

  “Just go home!” She shut her eyes. “I don’t know what I feel. I just need to be alone!”

  “I’m going,” he said at once. He gathered his things quickly. At the front door, he paused. “If anything happens. Or even if it doesn’t. You can call me. Anytime. Day or night. I’ll be there for you, Xandra. I hope you know that.”

  He shut the door quietly behind him on his way out.

  She locked it.

  Chapter 3

  Her hands and legs arrayed the bed, a limb to each post, a chain holding taunt each wrist or ankle. She’d been blindfolded and gagged as well. Her lover in black had returned, in her dreams, just as she had dreamed every night for the past two weeks…

  “Wake up, Alexandra.” That impossibly deep and raspy voice. She stirred. But she didn’t want to wake up. She didn’t want the dream to end. The words rolled over her nude body again, “Wake up.”

  Then, with a start, she did wake up, fully.

  …And found she still could not see.

  She had been blindfolded. She had been gagged. She had been chained. She was naked. It wasn’t a dream.

  The stalker had returned. He had bound her in her sleep, and now, by the sound of it, he stood at the foot of her bed, gazing down at her naked and helpless body.

  After two weeks, Xandra had stopped expecting him. She had also refused to see Chris. She went to work, jogged, and forced herself to maintain her daily routine as though nothing at all unusual had befallen her. Xandra refused to let one encounter with a psycho alter her lifestyle.

  And yet, she had dreamed of him eve
ry night.

  Now that he was here, Xandra suddenly remembered to fear him. Why had she not changed her lock? What about him inclined her to trust his underlying good intentions, despite all evidence that he was a crazed sex fiend, and according to Chris, probably suffering from a contagious neurological disease? Once again, he had her powerless and at his mercy; this time she had no one to blame but herself.

  Although she already knew it would do her no good, Xandra thrashed in her chains and screamed against the gag. From his low, lusty chuckle, she knew she had only succeeded in flinging her breasts and hips up and down for him in a vulgar show.

  “Are you happy to see me, Alexandra?” he asked in amusement.

  I can’t see anything, you bastard.

  What time was it? She sensed early morning, around the usual time she awakened, not the middle of the night or late in the day. She had to shower and dress for work. Several important clients had appointments with her today, she couldn’t blow them off. Not that she supposed stalkers cared about her career. No, men like that hated powerful women. Their whole kick was in dragging strong women down. Damn him, and damn herself for craving his touch. She couldn’t afford to throw away her whole career, her whole life, in exchange for being his sex toy.