by Chloe Cox
“Are you?”
And from behind I feel someone hook their thumbs into the waist of my skirt. My expensive, fitted black skirt. The material is pulled back from my body, and I hear the methodical sounds of man, probably a man in a hooded cowl, slowly sawing away with a knife.
“Claire.”
What will I do if this hooded man destroys all of my clothes? In a flash of fantasy I let myself imagine that the Doctor will ask me to stay with him; that he’ll take me, naked, into his bed, and ask me never to leave, and I only realize that I’m smiling when I hear the Doctor’s tone.
“Claire, what must you know before you can pursue the things you want in life?”
My skirt falls down around my ankles, and without being asked I step out of it. The hooded man’s hands rest on my round hips, and I feel his fingers dig into my flesh as I move. The skirt wasn’t enough – his thumbs work their way under the waist of my panties, reminding me of just how close I am to completely naked.
“Claire! Answer the question!”
The Doctor’s voice is sharp, and demanding. He wants information, he says. Well, now I want to be stripped naked in front of this anonymous audience. The thought blazes across my fevered brain, and instantly I feel moisture gush between my legs.
“No,” I say wickedly, unable to conceal my satisfied smile.
I hear him grunt over the loudspeaker. I’ve surprised him. I’ve only a second to congratulate myself before the hooded man reaches around and presses his hand into my belly. He pushes me back, braced against him, hard enough that I feel a large erection pressing into my back, and uses the leverage to kick my legs apart without causing pain. Then he reaches around and twists my panties in one visible fist, and rips them off of my naked body.
This time, there are cheers.
The man continues to steady me with one hand planted firmly in the flesh of my lower abdomen, as though his touch there didn’t incite my primeval lizard brain, as though it didn’t set my whole body on fire. I hear the scrape of metal on wood, and the expensive Scandinavian chair swings back into view on my left side. Then a hand grips my soft thigh from behind, wrenching my leg upward. He’s strong enough that he can do what he wants, but I know what he’s after, and I help. He slings my leg over the back of the chair, spreading me wide for the audience.
He lets me plant my foot firmly on the seat of the chair so I can hold myself up without his help, and drags his hand slowly over the bulge of my hip to the round of my ass. He pauses there, for a second, just out of sight of the audience, and then darts between my legs, squeezing my pussy just once before pulling his hand away to await instructions.
I almost come right there.
“Claire.”
The Doctor’s voice almost sounds ragged now, worn out.
“I don’t know!” I say again, but this time I realize I do know. It clicks into place. I know why the audience is here, why I’m being interrogated, why it’s so important for me to say it out loud...
“You must admit what you want, Claire. You must be able to declare it without fear, before you can pursue your goals. You must not be ashamed, not even in front of strangers.”
I bite my lip to keep from screaming. If I admit what I truly want, if I declare that I want him, he’ll push me away forever. I can either lie or risk losing the Doctor. I can’t bear it, and I can’t make myself speak.
But then I feel the man close behind me again, the heat from his chest a welcome reprieve. I am so ready to lose myself in physical sensation, so ready to forget the impossible choice in front of me. All I want is to come.
His hands begin to work their way around my body, first at my waist, then up towards my breasts. He toys with them for the sake of the audience, like a true showman, lifting and squeezing, rubbing and pinching. Somehow he knows all my sensitive spots, and he works them mercilessly. I moan, and he squeezes left, right, left in quick succession. The audience laughs.
“You dick,” I mutter, but my hips have begun to move against him of their own free will. God I want him to take me from behind. I want to get fucked, I want to come. I can feel his erection pressing into me, teasing me.
Suddenly he stops, and pulls away. My eyes fly open in anger.
“What is it you want out of life, Claire?” The Doctor’s voice over the speakers is urgent, almost pleading.
Red faced, I shake my head. I can’t. I can’t risk it.
I hear footsteps, and the man reaches around and pushes his hand into my belly again, pressing his hard on to the small of my back. My leg is still spread over the side of the chair, my cunt spread for the audience. This time one hand heads north, to fondle my tortured breasts, and the other south, to spread my lower lips wide. He dips his fingers down along the length of my crease, and I can feel him look over my shoulder to make sure they come away wet. The crowd can see it, too; they clap in appreciation. No one would be so uncouth as to yell, but I imagine I can hear them lean forward in their chairs, their necks tense, eyes straining.
My pussy pulses.
“Please,” I whisper, my voice unexpectedly hoarse. The man backs away, and I’m almost grateful.
“Do you know what you want, Claire?”
Why is the Doctor’s voice somehow everywhere and nowhere at the same time, when all I want is him, the man, in front of me? I want to rage at the universe for this diabolical irony, for this profoundly unfair fuck up in fate, but I resolve to lie as little as possible to the disembodied voice of the man that I love.
Oh, shit. I do love him.
“Yes,” I say. My chest heaves.
“What is it?”
“I can’t!” And this time I scream. “I can’t!”
The man in the hooded cowl appears on my right side. His hand snakes out and grips the back of my head, turning it towards him. I stare into that eyeless shadow, and silently plead. I don’t know how I’m going to get out of this mess. I don’t want to risk telling the truth, and I don’t want to use my safeword because it feels too good. I just don’t want to lose the Doctor.
My dilemma is lost on him. He lets his hand wander again, down my chest, around my nipple, across to my back, where he drops further and grips my plush ass. My skin has a life of its own, buzzing with arousal. It is torture. And just when I think I can’t bear any more, he drops to his knees in front of me, and lifts my standing leg over his shoulder.
There is enthusiastic applause.
I’m supported by my foot planted on the seat of the chair, my leg over its back, my leg on his shoulder, my arms tied above me. Under normal circumstances, this would probably be incredibly uncomfortable. Right now, in this moment, all I can think about is the mouth, the lips, the tongue, all so tantalizingly close to my pussy.
There was a time when I was afraid to let a man go down on me, when it felt too vulnerable. I didn’t realize I was past that fear until just now. Another thing I can thank the Doctor for, I guess.
His tongue buries itself in my cunt, and all thought is cut short. Slowly, in one, long stroke, he works his way up, between my lips, all the way to my clit. I let out one long, low cry, a sound I can’t pretend to recognize, and the tittering crowd goes silent.
The hooded man grips my ass and effortlessly lifts me to his mouth, as though he were drinking from a delicate bowl. His lips wrap around my engorged clit, and he sucks on it, gently at first, then increasing the pressure. I feel like a trapped zoo animal, an enraged beast. In another minute the adrenaline will give me the strength to break my restraints, to throw this man down on the floor and have my way with him.
To hunt down the Doctor, and tell him how I feel.
Again, I cry out. Again, there’s no answer.
I pull the hooded man and his wonderful mouth, attached to an unknown face, hidden so deep within that fucking hood, I pull him further into me with my leg. I can’t help it. I am beginning to shake; the pressure is building, the confusing summary of emotions and sensations condensing down to a single, glowing point, embedded deep in the str
aining muscles just above my pussy. I am so, so close, and a faraway part of me knows that this will all be easier, that it will all seem less urgent, less impossible, once this hooded angel grants me release and I can come...
He stands up, and steps away.
The whiplash is physical. My muscles begin to cramp. It takes my brain longer to catch up.
“Confess to what you want, Claire!” the Doctor’s voice rings out.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I scream.
The hooded man seems to pause. I take the opportunity to hook my leg back around his waist, and do my best to draw him to me, though now he resists.
“I can’t tell him,” I whisper, and am surprised to find a tear roll down my cheek. I suppose I have to confess to someone. “I can’t tell him, or he’ll never want me again.”
The hooded man pauses, and then dips his head into my chest. His grip on my ass tightens, and I can feel his body go stiff.
“Tell him what?”
The Doctor’s voice echoes softly through out. I can’t bear it any longer. I just can’t.
“Tell him that I love him,” I shout, knowing he can hear me.
The hooded man doesn’t move, his head still bowed. Then he reaches one hand behind his back, and with an iron grip unwinds my leg and pulls away from me. I want to wail; I want to just completely lose it; I’m sure this is it, that I’ll be asked to leave, that I crossed too many boundaries. I might as well go out honest.
“I know about your wife!” I yell into the silence. “I read your letters. I’m...I am so sorry. I still want...”
But I can’t finish. Nothing I can say will make up for it.
Nothing moves. There is an awkward cough somewhere in the audience, a general uncertainty in the air. And then the speakers boom.
“Everyone out!” the Doctor commands. I can’t tell if his voice cracks, or if it’s the speakers crackling. There’s a hurried scramble while however many men push their chairs away and put unfinished drinks on tables as they rush out of a loudly creaking door. The hooded man, however, stands motionless in front of me.
And then the light goes out.
I hang there, naked, listening to the sound of my own breathing, willing my eyes to adjust. The hooded man makes no sound, offers no comfort.
I don’t even hear him approach. I only know that one moment I’m alone, and the next I feel his breath on my cheek. The first sound I hear is that of a zipper. The second is his quick inhalation; the third the sound of the chair tipping over as he reaches behind me, grips me by the ass, and lifts me up. I pull on the cord above me, arching my back, my body reaching for him in any way it can. I’m completely in his power.
As, I’m starting to suspect, he’s in mine.
Slowly, he begins to lower me down. I feel the head of his cock press against my wet folds, and together we shudder. He stops, pulling away slightly – another tease. I wrap my legs around his torso, my hamstrings straining to pull him closer, to pull him into me. He doesn’t relent. Instead he lifts me further away from his dick, as if to remind me of how the game is played, of who, exactly, is in control of this scene. I bow my head into his shoulder, and nuzzle his neck, his ear, ignoring the rasp of the coarse hood, feeling for what I know I’ll eventually find pressed against my cheek – a wireless headset, hooked into his ear.
The Doctor, hidden behind a hood.
He doesn’t move, holding me in the air as though I were weightless. All I want is to crush him to me, to feel him inside me, to make him come as hard as I’ve come for him, so many times. To make him feel like he’s made me feel.
But I need him to come to me.
I run my lips along the coarse fabric of his hood, navigating in the dark until I find his skin. Both of us frozen, and yet on fire, afraid to move, breathing together in the dark.
I kiss his forehead, and he plunges into me.
He buries himself deep, deep inside me, straining and stretching me almost to the point of pain. I’ve learned to love that with him, riding the knife’s edge between pleasure and its counterpart. He lifts me and pulls out nearly all the way only to drive in again, my pussy opening to take him in further. I yell out in triumph, and it spurs him on, driving his dick deeper and deeper, pistoning his hips in an ever increasing rhythm. My back arches and my breasts reach out to him even as I crash my hips forward, and I pull on my restraints, forgetting I’ve given up the use of my arms. I nearly lift myself, with a strength I didn’t know I had. The Doctor’s iron fingers dig into my soft skin, his cock straining to hit my cervix, filling me to the balancing brim, and the reminder that I am physically under his control, that I’ve willingly submitted and am his, his, his, sends me spilling over the edge.
He feels it. He fucks me like a mad man, like he can’t stop, like nothing in the physical world could compel him to stop. My lips go numb, my legs tingle, and my entire being distills down to one ferocious, animal coil of muscle that grabs onto him like a vise.
I lose my damn mind.
I’m sure I’m loud. It almost hurts. I am overwhelmed, and there’s a part of me that wants it to stop, that is still frightened of losing control completely. It’s the part of me that used to rule my mind, and now, because of the Doctor, I can ignore it and ride him to the most powerful orgasm of my life. I bite his shoulder like a feral animal, and he comes hard inside me.
Somehow, he recovers first. I’m not fully back in my own head as he holds me up with one arm while undoing my restraints with the other, and I’m not totally able to form words as he carries me across the darkened stage, up the back stairs, and into a small, comfortable dressing room. I’m not even sure what I would say, if I could. But by the time he sets me down on a soft, cotton couch, kneeling in front of it gingerly, cradling my naked body with care, I’m ready to talk it out.
I reach for his face, still covered in hooded shadow in this dimly lit room.
He balks, his head dodging to the side.
I don’t know what to say, or do. In this moment so many things clamor for attention in my overheated brain. That I’ve crossed many boundaries in one night; that perhaps he doesn’t yet possess the strength to be vulnerable, the same strength he’s given me; that if I love him, I have to let him choose to be open with me – or not. I feel wizened, and aware, and so grateful to him for helping me to become this person.
I just wish I could help him.
Instead, I put my outstretched hand on his bare chest. Impulsively, I dart forward and kiss him there, resting my forehead briefly against his warm skin. I feel lips on the top of my head, and then he rises and is quietly gone.
There are clothes, neatly folded in a pile, at the end of the dark red couch. A bathroom off to one side, a plush bathrobe that I gratefully snuggle into. My coat, hanging on a hook. I suspect there will be a back entrance, and a car waiting to take me home, whenever I’m ready. Just like all the other times – this is how appointments end.
What I cannot find, no matter how hard I look, is a little black card telling me when my next appointment will take place.
I wonder if this is it. If he really has cut me off, if there will be no more appointments. I want to march back into his home proper, to demand...I don’t know, resolution, of some sort. It’s this weird conquering instinct I didn’t even know I had, and while I like it – I really like it, I feel powerful, and in control, and...but I can’t. He has respected my boundaries this entire time. He has been all about me and my boundaries and my desires, this entire time.
He has really been in service to me, this entire time.
The thought is stunning. One of those things you instantly know is profoundly true. It obliterates my own selfish needs and wants in one bright flash, and leaves me with this: I have to reciprocate. I have to find a way to be of service to him, too.
I have to find a way to show him how I feel. I have to find a way to show him that he, too, is deserving of love.
Respecting his boundaries is probably a good place to start.
Quietly I go about the business of cleaning myself up. I shower in his bathroom; I wash with his soap. I dress in the comfortable clothes that he has provided, I make myself presentable for the drive home. And I do it all with a zen-like calm that is new to me, but feels natural.
I am now a woman on a mission.
PART 4:
CLAIMED
After the man in the hooded mask fucked me senseless, I was sure I would get another card.
I was sure.
I’d been seeing the Doctor by appointment, each session an instructive lesson in dominance, submission, orgasms, and life, not necessarily in that order. The appointments were announced via black embossed cards that were all at once stylish, commanding, and, of course, instructive. They told me where to be, what to wear, and gave me some hint of what to expect. Most of all, they’d assured me that I’d get another chance with the Doctor.
With Cedric.
So, during my last appointment, I’d made a few discoveries. First, that the man I’d only known as “the Doctor” is actually Cedric Durant, heir of the Durant family. Then I’d discovered that his dead wife had been his first submissive, and that she’d killed herself years ago, leaving the Doctor guarded and closed off from love. Which made the next discovery kind of tough: I’d discovered that I’d fallen in love with the Doctor – with Cedric – and I’d done all of this discovering by profoundly violating his privacy and reading his love letters from his dead wife.
Then I confessed to all of it.
Well, I confessed after I’d discovered that the man hidden behind that hooded mask, who had stripped me bare in front of an appreciative audience, who was working so hard to keep his identity a secret, was, in fact, the Doctor himself. I confessed, and he’d given me the best sex of my life.
So that last appointment had been. . . eventful. And even though I had no right to expect that another card would arrive, or that the Doctor would ever forgive me, or that I’d ever even see him again, I was absolutely sure one would arrive. I had complete faith.
A week later, I still hadn’t gotten that stupid card.
