Doctor's Orders: The Complete Series

by Chloe Cox

  I give up on poise, take a deep breath, and think of Cedric.

  “It’s in the front,” I whisper.

  His hands slide around my shuddering ribcage, brushing the tender skin just below my breasts, feeling the stiff wire encased by fine, soft lace. He flirts with the edges, with pushing his fingers under and up, ever so slightly, encouraged by the rapid rise and fall of my chest and the undulating contractions of my stomach. Finally his thumbs reach the clasp, and he pulls the hooks towards each other expertly, crushing my breasts together more than is perhaps strictly necessary, and just like that my bra is slipped around my back and off of my body.

  The man in leather has had some practice at bra removal. The crowd explodes.

  It’s only male voices I hear, and the loud ones at that. It sounds like the crowd has gotten bigger, as though I’m attracting an audience, and the blindfold allows me to imagine that audience as I wish. In my mind’s eye it has ceased to be just a performance piece; it is alternately a fantasy, of being bought and owned by and sought, and is more purely a love letter to the man who inspired it, to the man who has the truest claim on me.

  Please, Cedric. Please come.

  “Our next lot,” Gerald announces, quieting the crowd, “is for the last of Claire’s undergarments. You heard that correctly: we’re opening the bidding on Claire’s underwear, and the right to remove it!”

  One man calls out, “Everything I own!” The crowd laughs, but soon after someone calls out a number. Then another, and another. Gerald doesn’t have to do anything at all, from what I can hear. He remains mostly silent, until this:

  “You’d think none of you had seen a woman before,” he calls out teasingly as the bidding goes on. “Did you all just get out of prison?”

  The joke falls mostly flat, except with the one person who is meant to hear it: me.

  Cedric is here.

  Cedric is here.

  If I thought it took self-control to maintain my ice-princess facade before, it’s nothing compared to what it takes to maintain my composure now. As soon as I can quench the desire to rip off my blindfold, to see for myself, I’m beset by worry: why hasn’t he spoken? With the card I gave him, he could put a stop to everything right now. He could claim me for his own, right now, and supercede all bids.

  He does not.

  “Three-fifty!” Gerald yells. “Three-fifty to the best group of friends a guy could have. What’s the lucky guy’s name?”

  I’ve been sold. Suddenly I’m very attentive again.

  “Simon,” says a mildly embarrassed voice, accompanied by more laughter. My best guess is that Simon’s friends pooled their cash for him, on his birthday. That or he’s a stockbroker or something; who else carries that kind of cash for no reason?

  Well, Cedric might. Goddammit, why didn’t he claim me?

  This is where my mind wanders as Simon makes his shy way to me, buffeted by the encouraging shouts of his buddies, the unsteady applause of the crowd at large. I should be fully present for this moment, for this stranger who is about to remove my clothing, but I am with Cedric, wherever he is standing. In full view of me? He must be. Watching. And suddenly it’s clear: this is my final lesson with the Doctor.

  I think – I hope – that it’s a lesson in faith.

  Or maybe he knows me too well, and he just wants me insanely turned on before he finally comes and gets me.

  The catcalls and claps intensify, and a sharp breeze cuts through the plaza, ruffling my flimsy dress and lashing my sensitive breasts. When my dress settles back down, already practically transparent, it rests on the hard points of my nipples. I must verge on the obscene.

  Suddenly there is a warm hand flat on my back.

  “Simon’s not my real name,” he says.

  What is meant as a confessional only adds a hint of danger, and my pulse thuds harder against my clit. I wonder at the kind of man who’s embarrassed enough to give a fake name to the crowd, and how I can possibly reconcile him with the confident, aggressive hands that swarm over my body, out of sight of the crowd. They roam down the ridge of my backbone to where I begin to curve, teasing the border of my ass before veering off to the swell of my hips, down the sides of my thighs to the hem of my dress.

  The crowd applauds. Simon is making a show of it. Of me.

  And Cedric is watching.

  The man who isn’t really called Simon lets his fingers flick playfully at the hem of my dress, then slip inside next to my bare skin. Slowly he trails upward and behind, so that the hem of my dress rises in back, out of view of the audience. His fingertips dance lightly on the backs of my thighs, and I bite my lip, hard, to keep from moaning. I want to cry out for Cedric, I want him to come take me, wherever he wants, right here if necessary, just to give me some release.

  Instead I have Simon’s slow, slight torture.

  He traces delicate lines up to the curve of my ass, and then gently cups it, his fingers roaming close, dangerously close. For a brief, wild moment I think he will try to put a finger inside me, but he edges away, moving his hands up and curling his fingers over the waist of my panties. He pauses there for a moment, and then strips them down to my ankles in one fell swoop.

  I step out of them, obligingly, the only acknowledgement I’ve made of what is happening. Simon must hold them aloft, like his predecessor, because he gets the same crowd reaction.

  I can’t pay attention to any of that. I’m too focused on what comes next.

  “May I have your attention please,” Gerald intones. “Our final lot. . . .”

  And for the first time Gerald pauses with a hint of uncertainty. I know, know, somehow I know, that he is looking at Cedric. That he is wondering if he is to proceed, or if Cedric will stop him. And for that moment I swear my heart levitates between beats.

  “. . .Our final lot, the most precious item of all. . . .” Gerald lets his voice ring out loud and true, and then he waits. I wait. It feels like the whole universe waits.

  “Claire Donner herself. No further explanation necessary.”

  A murmuring current spreads through the crowd below me. My heart doesn’t quite break, but it rattles a bit. There are many possible explanations. And this is my piece; this is the heart of my piece. I have to see it through.

  And have faith that the rest will work itself out.

  “I’m going to open the bidding at three hundred. Do I hear three hundred?”

  Silence.

  Aching, lonely, tormented silence.

  “Is this for real?” someone asks.

  The wind whips the edges of my dress, and I realize there is a very good chance it might expose my nakedness. I wonder if I’ll be arrested. I wonder if Cedric will intervene then. I wonder if he knows how much I crave him at this moment, how all I can think about is his dick inside me. How his control over me, even now, when I’ve put myself up for public auction, is completely fucking intoxicating.

  “Do I hear three hundred?” Gerald says again, louder this time.

  Oh, God, Cedric. My clit pulses for him, no matter where he is, no matter what he’s doing.

  “You sir? Do I hear three hundred?”

  “I have a claim on this lot.”

  My heart, my breathing, I swear even my blood circulating in my body just stops. And then it all starts up together, like a fevered, spastic orchestra. My body riots for him, if it’s him, please, it can only be him.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Gerald announces, “I’ve just received a card entitling the bearer to a claim on this particular lot.”

  More murmurs from below. I will him to speak again, so I’ll know his voice, but nothing. I will the crowd to react, to somehow give me information, but nothing. I am still alone, nearly naked, exposed on this marble pedestal, with nothing to do but wait.

  Even the crowd below is silent now. It feels as though everything hovers in this moment, delicately balanced on a single point of decision. My heart crashes against my chest, my muscles ache, but I cannot bear to move...


  A hand. On the small of my back.

  His warm, steadying hand.

  And then he lifts me up, and I collapse into his arms and against his neck where I can breathe his particular scent, and I feel relief like I’ve never quite experienced. Relief, and also triumph. In claiming me he shows me that he’s mine.

  Dully, I hear appreciative applause from the crowd, but I couldn’t care less at this point. He is carrying me down the stairs, which is just as well; I didn’t realize how intense this would be. I understand now why performance artists often collapse, or cry, or otherwise appear to lose their minds. But I want to see him. I paw at my blindfold.

  “No.” The word rumbles in his chest. “It stays on until I take it off.”

  Yeeesss.

  I don’t know how long he carries me. I feel drugged, disoriented by the blindfold, by the adrenaline, by the whole experience. I know we get into a car, probably the limo I’ve been in before, and he somehow manages this without putting me down or bumping my head on the door.

  I know that once we are in the car he shifts me onto his lap, my back to him. There are so many things I want, and I want them all at once, right now: I want to see him; I want to touch him; I want to finally, finally, kiss him. But his hands tell me no. His hands hold me in place.

  And I am so glad to submit.

  He takes my hands in his, and squeezes them. Then he places them at my sides. His own hands slide down the length of my thighs, pulling my gossamer dress taut over my hard nipples, curving around to the underside of my thighs at the edge of his reach. He leans into me, pressing his chest into my bare back, and lifts my legs, spreading them over his own. I lean my head back, feel his mouth draw down, his breath hot on my neck, and enjoy the feeling of being blindfolded and spread. He knows I can’t know if the divider is down, if his driver can see. He knows how much I liked it last time.

  Slowly he draws his hands back up my thighs, pushing my useless dress up to my waist. It’s too much; I arch my back, pushing myself into his groin. His dick is hard and insistent against me, and if I have to suffer, dammit, he will too. I grind against him, but he casually palms my pussy and bears down, pressing me into him and forcing me to stop at the same time. I go motionless, but not calm. I am at great tension, like a string pulled too tight. I am positive he can feel my pulse thundering in my pussy, his palm flat against it, and I am afraid I’m about to snap.

  “Do not move until I tell you to.”

  Oh. God. I don’t know if that’s going to be possible.

  His one hand keeps its grip on my pussy while the other begins to slowly roam the length of my body. Up and down my thigh, the curve of my hip, the flat of my stomach, until he gets to the fullness of my breast and my hard nipple that is screaming for attention. He toys with it, rolling it between his fingers, pinching, flicking, kneading. Bastard. My hands at my sides are balled into tiny little fists, and my breathing is raggedy and desperate, and he must know exactly what he’s doing to me.

  “Please,” I gasp. And I press myself into him.

  Immediately his grip tightens, and for one blissful second I think he’ll put his fingers inside me. Instead I can hear him smile when he speaks.

  “I told you not to move, Claire.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You will be.”

  I can only hope. I grin, and grind my ass into his erection one more time. I know how to provoke a punishment when I want it. I hear his quick intake of breath, and know I’m in for something good.

  “Get on your knees.”

  And he lifts my legs back over his, closed in front of me, and forces me to the edge of the seat. I’m unsure what he means, exactly; there’s more than one delicious way for me to get on my knees for him.

  “I said, on your knees, Claire. In front of me.”

  He pushes me off the seat and keeps hold of my arm, turning me around to face him, between his legs. He takes a moment to fondle my breast, almost as an after thought, and then I feel his hand on the back of my head, pulling me forward.

  I can’t help but lick my lips.

  His fingers thread through my hair and he draws my head down. He makes me wait at an awkward angle, and I hear a zipper come undone. I love being kept here, at his convenience, blind, burning with desire. The man can dominate.

  He pulls my head down further, and taps my lips with something warm and hard and silken.

  “Open your mouth.”

  I smile, then do as I’m told.

  His cock is big, warm, and smooth. I try to dally over the head, laving it with my tongue, but he draws my head down, pushing the length of him in further. Not so fast that I gag, but almost. His hand stays enmeshed in my hair, and he’s got complete control of my head. He pulls me up, down, up, down, and I try to catch his rhythm and caress every inch of him with my lips and tongue, whatever he’ll let me do. I smile inwardly at his building thrusts, at the idea that I have this power over him, even while he has so much power over me. I want so badly to make him come. I want to make him come over and over again, but I want it to start now, while he fucks my mouth, leaving me speechless and blind. The thought sets my pussy to pulsing again, a ragged drumbeat that makes its own demands. I suck him harder for it.

  I dare to move my hands up his thighs, slyly drifting towards the base of his cock, towards his balls, but he’s figured me out. His grip tightens on the back of my head, and he pulls me back, away from his cock. The car, running so smooth thus far, hits a bump, and I stumble back on the floor, my legs indecently spread in his general direction.

  So we’re in the limo, then.

  I lie like that for a moment, hoping that the site of my spread pussy will be too much, and he’ll take me right here, right now, on the floor of his limo, on our way. . . somewhere.

  And just like that the car comes to a stop.

  “Put out your hand.”

  I do. He pulls me up, back onto the seat, next to him this time. I lick my lips, missing the taste of him, the feel of him in my mouth. He pulls his hand away and it becomes even worse: I miss all contact with him now. Instead I feel him arranging my barely-there dress, as though that could possibly make much of a difference, and I wonder if I’m about to go out in public. Again.

  I have no idea. He hasn’t removed the blindfold. I sense that he won’t until. . . I don’t know. It’s a gesture of faith, and of trust. Not that I’m complaining. Not knowing where I am or what’s about to happen to me heightens everything.

  I hear the door open, and feel him get out. A thin strip of light is still visible just below my eyes, where the blindfold doesn’t quite meet my cheek, and I’m suddenly very conscious of being in public again. Embarrassed, I try to arrange my dress myself, blindly; there are a few things he didn’t think of – the thin material is stuck to the wetness between my legs, for one. I try to pull everything away and smooth it down as best I can, unaccountably anxious about emerging into the unknown sunlight in such an obviously near-ravished state.

  “Put out your hand,” he says again.

  I do, and he leads me out of the car. I’m unsure, unsteady on my feet like a new foal, but his hand is strong and he is patient. He leads me a few steps, away from the car now, and I am once again disoriented when he lets go of my hand. I listen for the creak of a gate, but hear nothing; a swift breeze surprises me, billowing out my dress, stinging my nipples. So we are outside, and not in a garage. I place my hands at my crotch, trying to contain my dress as it whips around my hips and ass, but even I can tell I’m not entirely successful.

  “Remove your hands.” His voice is stern. I remove my hands, and shudder a little as the wind reminds me of my vulnerability, out here in the open, wearing next to nothing at all.

  He rips my dress off.

  I think I gasp in shock. My first instinct is to pull my blindfold off, but I remember just in time, my fingers curled around the edge of the soft, rich fabric, my palms resting on my cheeks. Instead I straighten the blindfold, tighten it in bac
k, and let my arms fall to my sides.

  I am naked. Somewhere. Outside. Exposed. For him.

  I tremble, not entirely from cold.

  I feel one finger brush my cheek. It traces a line down my jaw, my neck, to my first full, pert nipple, and flicks it. I sigh, feeling the chill of more wetness between my legs spread to my thighs. A hand returns to cup my breast, to heft it, to rub the nipple with a thumb. Carelessly he lets it fall, and the hand continues its idle exploration, first my other breast, then down my side, around to my ass. I feel him follow his hand, walking around till he’s behind me. He caresses the smooth skin of my ass with that hand, as though testing it, appraising it.

  “Bend over,” he says. “Hands on the ground.”

  Another gasp catches in my throat. Is he going to fuck me here, like this, blind? While we’re outside? His hand comes down on my ass with a resounding slap, snapping me back to attention.

  “Now.”

  I double over, palms flat on the ground, breasts pushed into my legs. My pussy is completely exposed to the cool air, the sun, and whoever happens to be around. His fingers dance over the very top of the back of my leg in a cruel tease, and I feel my juices leak out further over my compressed thighs. He never asked me to spread my legs; without his command, I didn’t think to do it.

  He has me trained.

  “Claire.”

  He sighs as he runs a finger down the length of my slit, drawing away juice, feeling how wet I am. That finger teases around the entrance to my pussy in slow, probing circles, circling round and then down to press my clit, circling round and then down to my clit, again and again until the heat throbbing through me from my pussy to my head makes me think I’ll pass out.

  I exhale, gulp down some air, try to steady my breathing. I’ve almost found a rhythm, almost felt like I could ride this, be in control of it, when I feel cold lube fall onto my asshole. I clench reflexively.

  “Shhh,” he says behind me. “Relax.”

  I remember that night in the car, when he pushed a remote controlled butt plug into me while the driver watched, and a new flood of juice gushes forth.