Filthy Doctor(57)

The living room was nice enough, the space clean and modern, but the furnishings curvy in a nod to the faux-antiquated design of the house. “You have a nice house,” she said, as he went to the drinks cabinet. He looked at her questioningly. She nodded—a little liquid courage never hurt.

“Thanks,” he said, as he poured out her drink and handed it to her. “Any second thoughts?” he asked, pushing aside her bolero and taking a look at her tits. “It’s now or never.”

“If I back out now my parents will never let me hear the end of it,” she said, looking at him over the rim of her glass. “So never it is.”

“That’s not a good enough reason to want this,” he said.

“You promised me I could come,” she said.

“So I did,” he said. “But you’ll live without it—and with any amount of luck, you’ll soon have a twenty-something who’s hotter than fuck at your beck and call—so why me?”

“You said you knew what you were doing,” she said, starting to feel a little uncertain about this, now. Of course he had to make sure she really wanted it—but it just seemed cruel, now—dangling the promise of a sexual experience like none she’d ever had before, and then taking it away just because he chose to be careful. She was the one being reckless—shouldn’t her opinion count for something? “And I want to feel like I did in the movie theater—I want to feel like—you’re taking care of me,” she added, haltingly. “Like you know who I am on the inside and you don’t care that it’s not perfect.”

He nodded, and took a sip of his whiskey. “Then we’ll start you off with something light,” he said. “You will strip naked in front of me, and I will put you in this dog collar, and we will go down to the basement, where I have my little, ah, playroom.”

She gulped. But he’d already seen and touched her—any pretense at modesty now would be hypocritical. “And then?” she prompted, mostly to buy herself a little time to work up the nerve to strip in front of him.





“And then I will chain you, and whip you with a riding crop. We’ll stick with something simple—if it ever gets to be too much you can just say Coca Cola and we’ll end it, okay?”

She found herself nodding helplessly—part of her realized that this was incredibly stupid, trusting a guy she’d only known for three hours to whip her until she came. But that was exactly what she found herself wanting, and as she faced him and took off her bolero top the quivering excitement in the air was palpable, now.

“Fuck,” he murmured, as she peeled off the sequined top, and then worked her skirt over her hips. “I knew you were hot—but this—”

“I take it you’re happy?” she murmured, smiling.

“No speaking,” he snapped. “You’re mine, now, mine to do with as I please, do you understand? You don’t do anything unless I permit it, and you don’t speak except to answer my questions. Keep your eyes on the floor.”

She licked her lips but did what he said, feeling the first pangs of humiliation running through her—the first twinges of doubt. “Now,” he said, as she took off her shoes and worked her panties off her hips, “I know it’s rather disconcerting being a submissive for the first time. You still want to have some control, but that’s the whole point of submission—surrendering everything, trusting entirely—”

“How can I get past it?” she asked.

“Embrace it,” he said. “Suffer. And live.”

It seemed a little odd to her, but as he pushed her down to her knees and put a dog collar on her she began to feel a little better about it all, strangely enough. She was already naked, what more could being on her knees do?

He led her down the stairs, through a gap in the shelves. The room he’d prepared was small but it was clean and brightly lit—and there was an apothecary dresser, with its dozens of little drawers, standing in one corner. He pulled her over and took out a pair of handcuffs from one drawer, and a pair of leg irons from another—and two long steel chains from a third. Did all of the drawers have something kinky in them, she wondered, as he cuffed her hands together and raised them above her head, hooking the cuffs to one of the eyelets in the ceiling, and then spreading her legs apart and shackling them to the floor.

“Comfortable?” he asked.

She nodded.

He hit her.

Not very hard—her cry was more from surprise than from pain, because it was where the smack was that was so shocking, a long, sharp stroke up the inside of her leg. She hadn’t noticed the thin, flexible rod while he was chaining her, so the touch came as a pure surprise, not the least because it left behind a tingling sensation that somehow worked its way deep inside her--

Again—this time closer to her pussy. This time the tingling went deeper, and this time she found herself craving the next stroke even as she writhed from the initial sting. He was an artist with the rod, knowing just how hard to hit and where to hit and how long to wait—

Again—and she let out a groan as it smacked her right between her legs, kissing her clit with a sharp sting and then leaving her own body to work itself into a frenzy of pleasure—but this time he didn’t wait: he hit her again, and again, and again—almost letting the pain dissipate between each smack but not quite, so that even as the pleasure became more and more intense so too, did the pain, and as she cried and moaned and screamed he stepped into her and kissed her with a fierceness that matched her own. She felt his hands stroking her breasts again, and as he squeezed her nipples she felt herself clenching around his tongue, which only seemed to excite him more.

“Make me hard,” he said, letting her arms down and pushing her gently to her knees.

She gulped and whispered, “I don’t know—”



“Just like in the movie theater,” he said, stepping out of his pants. His cock was before her, shining and gleaming and impertinent in its erection. “What you did with my fingers—taste—”

She got the idea, even though his fingers were smaller. She licked it tentatively at first, wanting to please him, and she felt his hands clench her hair with glee. I can make you do things, too she thought, and she sucked on him just a bit, watching his body twitch. A little harder, and he began to swell inside her mouth, tasting strangely sweet as his cock pulsed inside her. A little more, and there came an animal groan from his throat and she was not the least bit surprised when he pushed her to the floor and thrust himself inside her—

It hurt, like no other pain she’d ever experienced—a searing, tearing kind of pain, and yet when he pulled himself out she wanted nothing more than it for to continue, because with the pain came a brilliant, scintillating ecstasy that made her cry out and whimper. It changed as he thrust inside her, each thrust bringing another wave of pleasure mixed with pain, and each time the pleasure became greater and greater, each wave higher and higher—and when she let herself go and rode it, it felt like nothing she’d ever had before. “Thank you,” she heard herself whispering, as every nerve in her body quivered and sighed with relief. Relief that it was over, relief that it felt so good.



She’d once thought that keeping the things Jack did to her at night a secret would be hard, and sometimes it was: sometimes her nipples were so sore from the night before that she could hardly stand the feel of a t-shirt over them—which wasn’t a problem on the weekends (Jack didn’t demand that she be naked but he did like it, and she liked to please him) but during class it was all she could do not to squirm, and she knew that some of the younger men snickered at her for not wearing a bra sometimes. But for the most part what took place in the basement, as they worked their way through the various clamps, vibrators, blindfolds, straps, chains, and ropes that were in that chest of drawers, was easy to keep secret, because it was something that she didn’t want to share with anybody.

It was an odd arrangement when she thought about it, which wasn’t very often, nowadays. Six months after that first date, she had her own room in his house, and her own car to take to and from classes. He paid for her classes at MontCo. She even managed to find a modeling agency that was not too far from Jack’s house, and even resumed modeling. It wasn’t glamorous work, to be sure—mostly catalog work—but it paid enough for her to pay for her own gas and go shopping and get her hair done—all the little things that she felt weird asking Jack to pay for, even though he probably would.

But what was their relationship? The question of whether she was a whore used to bother her immensely—there was no question that he was willing to keep her because she was willing to let him fuck her thirty-six ways from Sunday. But at the same time, she liked it—she liked pleasing him, she liked what he did to her, and she even liked him. They’d once spent a morning at the National Smithsonian discussing the virtues that got Michael Jackson’s glove into the exhibits but not David Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust outfit. He’d discuss business with her over dinner; she’d talk about her classes and how eerily similar programming and coding was to languages. And no matter how long the day was, how tedious their lives were, she would wait in the basement on her hands and knees for him every night, the collar around her throat, hoping that she could please him.