by Lana Brazen
“Strong heart,” he states. “Your walking pays off.” It’s the first hint to his memory of our last time, but then I recall him studying a clipboard afterward, and I wonder if he makes notes of his patients. Their flexibility. Their willingness. Their performance. My brain struggles to erase the idea of others.
After placing the flat of the scope on various places along my chest, he licks the end of it and sets the cool, wet metal over my nipple, which instantly nubs to an even harder peak. I respond with a hiss.
“I’d like to listen closer.” Without waiting for a response, he lowers and rolls the tip of his tongue over a hard nub.
Oh. My God.
The flat of his tongue laps over the stiff point before he opens, sucking the heavy globe inward and drawing to a sharp tug. His tongue twirls and swirls inside his mouth, and I arch my back, forcing more of me into him.
“Do you like that?” he asks, and I remember how he asked me to touch myself last time to prove how much I enjoyed him stimulating my breasts. But with my hands cuffed by the wrap, I can’t do that in my current position.
“Yes, Dr. Lubton,” I reply, breathlessly waiting for what will happen next.
“I’d like to perform an internal exam today. Can you tell me…how often do you fuck yourself with sex toys?”
Good God. How do I answer him? “I…I haven’t had the pleasure.” Practically unheard of in this modern era, it seems I’m a dinosaur in the sense of sexual devices and the use of them among contemporary women.
He stills when I reply and lowers his hands for a drawer in the table. Holding up a device, similar to something used for an internal ultrasound exam, he explains, “I’m going to set this inside you to assess your response.”
He slips a condom over the object and then reaches for the lights, dimming them a bit. For a silly second, I turn my head, looking for the actual ultrasound camera necessary to inspect my insides.
He pulls out another section of the table near my legs, allowing my limbs to lay extended and flat versus dangling off the end of the platform or hoisted up in the stirrups.
“Would you mind scooting to the edge of the table?” he politely asks, reaching out for my hip and guiding me to the edge of the main portion, rubbing his hand down the outside of my leg to position it on the second platform.
“Relax, please,” he suggests, very doctorly, very professional, and I take a deep breath while he inserts the thick tip of the device inside me. He seems to know how far to set it. “Another deep breath, please,” he recommends. “You’re going to need to hold still so the device doesn’t shift.” Then a humming sound fills the room, and a vibration begins between my thighs.
Oh.
My eyes close at the sensation. My legs tremble at the stimulation as it’s like nothing I’ve felt before.
“I’m going to return to listening to your heart,” he states, reminding me of where he was prior to the internal exam. He lowers his mouth to a breast and sucks hard. Between the vibration inside and the ministration of his mouth, I’m coming out of my skin. With hands cuffed, I can’t grip anything for support, and I feel myself falling as the tension builds.
“More,” I whimper, not certain what I’m asking for. I’m so close, the tremor rolling toward my belly, and my toes curl. While his mouth laves a breast and the vibration massages my pussy, his hand moves down my stomach, curling over my pelvis, and his fingers brush my clit. My hips buck upward, but his forearm steadies me. Two fingers rub a soothing circle on the sensitive nub. My channel purrs, and my breasts ache. The sensory overload is too much, and I break, but he doesn’t quit.
“One more,” he commands, and my body folds under his sharp voice. My knees fall to the sides, letting the device work its magic as his fingertips work theirs, and his tongue continues its attention to my nipple. He nibbles on me softly, and I snap. My back arches, and I bite back the scream when a second orgasm as strong as the first rips through me.
He releases my breast with a strong suction pop and stands to remove the device, setting it on a paper towel on the desk. The stirrups come out next, and he guides my limp legs to the metal cradles, then slides the drawer back into the exam table.
“Your pussy made a mess, my little slut.” The words shock me, but a thrill runs up my center. Juices drip from me, and the heady scent of arousal fills the dim room. He lowers his scrub pants, and I hear the sound of foil ripping. “I don’t want to waste all this lubrication, so I’m going to wipe it up.”
Controlled. Crisp. Confident. His tip comes to my entrance, and I understand. His dick will be the absorbent. He doesn’t work as slowly as he did the first time, but rushes forward, sliding into me.
I gasp at the intrusion, but it isn’t sharp. It’s fulfilling and deep. Gripping my hips, he tugs me to him, a light tapping of something against the metal base of the table.
“You’re so wet. I can hardly control myself with your hot juices sliding over me.”
I don’t respond. I can’t respond. I’ve lost control of my senses and my body, which falls under his will. His fingers dig into my hips, and the wet sound of our friction fills the room. With feet supported and knees relaxed to the side, I’m more open than I’ve ever been, and he thrusts deeper and deeper with each roll of his pelvis. Harder, faster, the slamming truly begins, and the table jolts under me as we rock together, chasing and crashing, slipping and sliding.
“I’m going to come,” he mutters. The strain in his voice is finally evidence of him losing control. With a quick withdrawal, he tugs off the condom and grips himself. Ramming two fingers back inside me, he continues to jerk and pull at his erection until his release begins to shoot over my lower belly. With his fingers still paying attention to my slick inside, he doesn’t miss a beat as jerky ropes of white spill from his thick dick. His thumb flicks my clit, and I break apart once again. The scene is too much. Him losing control, milky evidence over my skin. His fingers inside me, working through my slickness. I groan as I curl, my back arching like a satisfied cat, like the pleased pussy that I am.
As I slowly return to the table and his jerky motions lessen, he removes his fingers, which releases an embarrassingly loud sound.
Dear God. I chuckle at the noise, humiliated. “It’s the suction,” he admits. “You were drenched.”
He tugs up his scrubs and reaches for a wipe from a container to clean me off as he did the last time. He lowers the stirrups and my limp limbs, then circles the table for my wrists. The sharp rip of Velcro should restore my reality, but I can’t muster any thoughts. This experience has been pure pleasure. My skin prickles, and my body hums as I’m the most relaxed I’ve ever been. I want to nap once again.
A firm hand comes to my shoulder, implying I must sit up, and he guides me to a seated position.
“I’ll let you dress and meet you in the outer office,” he states before turning the lights back to their initial brightness and closing the door behind him.
My breath still comes ragged. My heart rate lowering quickly. The question of what have I done rushes over me. This experience was amazing, but I instantly feel off-kilter from his quick retreat.
No emotion, I remind myself as I twist my body for the side of the table and hop down. My legs, unfortunately, won’t hold me, and I wobble a step before reaching the chair. I sit to dress, too unstable to trust standing.
Once dressed, I feel confident enough to exit the room without adrenaline-caused tears. Suddenly, I long to flee from the office.
“My prognosis, Dr. Lubton,” I tease without humor as I find him sitting in a plastic chair in the outer room, an ankle over his knee and an arm draped along the back of the seat beside him. His face is turned away from me. The clipboard rests on the chair beside him.
“I recommend another visit. Would ten days work for you?” He doesn’t look at me but glances down at the board.
I’m surprised by the request but know better than to ask about his schedule.
“You mentioned an assistant?�
�
His head turns to me, his face one of calm resolve, but his eyes spark. The pale blue is the color of shallow seas.
“I’d recommend one more visit, and then we can assess the need for a second opinion.” His brow tweaks, prompting me for my decision.
“That sounds reasonable.”
“I’ll need to know if you have a preference in gender once my assistant is available. I’ll admit I’d prefer a male, but this isn’t about me.”
My first thought: is he gay? I don’t think playing with a woman as he has with me works, if he is.
Second thought: is he bisexual? I don’t know anyone who is. At least, no one who has ever admitted such a thing to me. Then again, I don’t go around introducing myself as a heterosexual. It’s just not an appropriate conversation starter. Neither would be a discussion on swinging, yet here I am. But are we still swinging? What are we doing? We aren’t even friends enjoying benefits. I don’t know this man.
“Whatever you recommend. You’re the doctor,” I muse. He doesn’t break from form, but a small smile crosses his lips, and it occurs to me that we’ve never kissed.
3
“You seem awfully chipper lately,” Annette Flick addresses me. She’s another real estate agent in the office, and we’ve become friends over the years due to age and circumstance. Both divorced. Both mothers.
I shrug in response to her comment but can’t help the smile on my face.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were dating someone.” She pauses to lower her reading glasses. “Are you seeing someone?”
Am I? No, absolutely not. “No, I’m not dating anyone.” I snort, dismissing the possibility. Annette and I have had extensive conversations about dating in the after-life.
After marriage, after motherhood, after maturing.
“Are you having sex?” The question stiffens my back, and I blink in surprise at her directness. Maybe I startle more from the truth, and my tongue ties. I don’t know how to answer her.
I have had sex, but the process has been rather unconventional.
“Maybe it’s my new diet.” I shrug, holding up a fork filled with lettuce and dripping with salad dressing.
“Have you lost weight?”
I should be taken aback by the question almost as much as the first. I’d hope if I did lose weight, it would be more noticeable. Instead, I laugh at the inquisitive expression on her face.
“Don’t I look it?” I joke again, and she stammers. I save her from a response. “Don’t answer that.”
“I’m sorry. You just seem different lately.”
I shift in my chair. “Maybe I’m just finally letting it all go. I’m not thinking of Stan and what I lost. I’m thinking more about me. What do I want, now that it’s after.” For the longest time, people wanted to concentrate on how my marriage was over. How could things fall apart as they did? When did it happen? When did I know it was over? But the thing is, my marriage was only a portion of me. Albeit, a large part of my existence but I shouldn’t have let it define me. I was a piece of my marriage, and so was Stan. He was the part that broke off.
“Well, whatever you’re doing, I want a swallow of it.”
I laugh with hesitation. Could I share the good doctor with another woman? His questions about an assistant return to me. A third person in the room. I don’t know how I’d feel watching my man with another woman. Not that Dr. Lubton was mine, but I tried very hard not to consider him with other women, doing to them what he has done to me. Of course, he’s obviously done things to Jessica DeMarco, as she recommended him, and I really should give her a call. Thank her for the recommendation.
Considering my husband cheated on me, I have a stern battle accepting that the doctor wasn’t cheating on me. We were not married. We were not in a relationship. This was his lifestyle. This was becoming my lifestyle. I was choosing to experience a man who was most likely entertaining other women. It seemed like a dangerous game, especially with another appointment on the horizon.
“Hey, let’s go for drinks tonight and celebrate. It’s Monday, and we’re surviving it.” Good enough reason, but I couldn’t do drinks.
“I’m sorry I have a doctor’s appointment later today.” Dr. Lubton’s request for ten days had to be eleven, as the tenth fell on a Sunday. He doesn’t hold office hours on the weekends, which makes him sound strangely legitimate as a doctor. Late Monday afternoon is our newly scheduled time.
+ + +
Our appointment begins as it typically does. The distant professional manner. The stoic questions with dirty vocabulary. And then he asks one which surprises me.
“Are you fucking someone between our appointments?”
It’s embarrassing to admit that I’m not. Should I be? Is that part of the practice? Should I be passing myself around and experimenting with others?
“I don’t want anyone else.” The words sound wrong, too intimate, and I clear my throat.
“Lana.” My name is a warning. Do not become attached. This isn’t a relationship, but isn’t the very definition of relationship a shared connection with another, be that connection what it may?
I shake my head to dismiss his alarm. I don’t want to explain how I feel more comfortable navigating this strange adventure by remaining with a consistent partner. Maybe I’ll branch out eventually. Maybe I won’t. Maybe this needs to end.
“I don’t have the opportunity to meet others,” I clarify, not confident with this excuse. I meet plenty of people in my industry but haven’t accepted a date in a while. Xavier Russo from the office has been asking me casual questions lately—like what am I doing later and would I like to grab a drink sometime—but I don’t respond with firm commitments. Maybe it’s time to give him a real answer.
Dr. Lubton doesn’t respond to my statement. I’ve already said too much that sounds too personal when our meetings normally remain clinical in a role-playing nature. Today, he’s asked me to wear the gown with the opening in the back. As I sit on the exam table, my ankles cross and sway a bit as my nerves begin to grow.
Will he ask me to leave?
Instead, he stands from the stool.
“I’d like to examine your posture today.”
I don’t reply as he walks to the side of the table and begins to open the back of the paper gown. His fingers are long and warm despite the cool temperature of the room. As he runs a finger down my spine, I sit straighter, shivering at the ticklish touch. As I straighten, he brushes my hair over my shoulder, and then his mouth latches onto the nape of my neck. The kiss surprises me, and there’s not another way to describe it, than an intimate caress. He isn’t laving a breast or licking my sex, but openmouthed sucking at my skin, dragging his tongue down my spine, and I’m instantly turned on.
My hands rest between my open legs, balancing my body to hold firm as he works his way down my back. His mouth moves back to the nape of my neck and works to my shoulder, brushing the paper covering off it. His mouth open, his teeth scraping causes me to shiver.
“Could you please assist again? I’d like to assess your reaction.”
Without having to confirm his direction, I slip my fingers forward, brushing myself. Two fingers, flat and circling, begin to heighten the ache. He travels to my other shoulder, teeth and tongue and lips, devouring my shoulders and neck and massaging them in a most deliciously unconventional way. Once more, he travels down my back and then returns upward.
“May I see your hand please?” Lowering my shoulders at the withdrawal of my fingers, I hold up my hand. He circles my wrist with long fingers and steps forward. Drawing my fingers to his mouth, he sucks at the stickiness, licking over the digits to clean them.
“I think I need a closer examination.” He lowers to the stool but doesn’t request I lie back. Instead, I remain upright as he draws his fingers around my pussy, circling, outlining, before entering me. I watch as the length disappears and whimper at the touch.
“Do you like that?” he whispers, his voice lowe
r than his typical control. “Watch. Witness how wet I make your pretty pussy.”
Sweet Jesus.
He adds another finger, and I watch until I can’t look anymore. My eyes close as I rock, and then he lowers, covering my view as he licks at that pretty pussy. Stars dance, and I grip his head as my knees come upward, and I press myself against his lips. He sucks my clit hard, drawing out the orgasm that drips down to my backside. Pulling back, he aims his attention at my face, so I see his glistening lips, and he directs me, “Please stand. I’d like to see you walk across the room.”
It’s a strange request, but he helps me off the table, and I walk the short distance, juices dripping down my inner thigh as I angle across the cool tile flooring. He’s right behind me as I walk and stills my hips with a light touch.
“Please bend forward as far as you can, touching your toes if you are able.”
I dangle forward, fingertips brushing the tile as his hand slips up and down my spine, checking the curvature and then continuing between the cheeks of my backside. The position seems compromising and humiliating. My ass is in the air, gown slipping forward, until his hand continues lower, reaching between my legs, and two fingers enter me.
I gasp, pitching forward a bit, flattening my palms on the ground as the paper gown slips to my wrists. Releasing his fingers, he grips a cheek with each hand and manipulates them apart, separating them, and I can only imagine he’s taking a good look at the opening back there.
“Lana, I think it’s time we exercise this spot.” His thumb brushes over the puckered hole, the pad positioned just outside but not penetrating. “Could you hold this position, please?”
“Yes.” My voice comes out strained as my head remains lower than my heart. The cap of a tube snaps open, and then warm liquid drizzles along the seam of my ass. Massaging the two sides together with his fingers, he spreads the lube back and forth before a finger returns to the hole and slowly presses forward.
