by Lund, S. E.
I nodded. That's why he kept it to his submissives. No love. No romance.
"What happened in court? Lara said you got off really lightly."
"Lara helped me. She's very rational and saw what was happening and set me on the right path. I started training with Lara at that point."
"You already knew her?"
He nodded. "Yes. We were old acquaintances and took classes together during our undergrad years. When I needed a lawyer, I called her. When I needed to be taught how to do this properly, she trained me. Kate, I've never hurt anyone purposely except during training and that was consensual. If anything's happened otherwise, it was an accident. Incidental to what was happening."
"What happened?"
"A binding a bit too tight. A bruise or abrasion on a wrist or ankle. Nothing permanent. Nothing inflicted on purpose. I've always chosen my subs very carefully. I don't want anyone into pain. If a sub needs pain, I refuse to sign. Just D/s. Just pleasure. You can ask Lara for more details if you need them. I'll tell you anything you want to know." He glanced at his cell. "Look, I hate to rush this. I know you need to process this but I have a surgery in a very short time. I want you to come with me. I don’t want to leave you alone right now."
"Come with you where?"
"To the hospital. You can sit in my office while I take care of this procedure. It’s pretty short – only about forty-five minutes. Then I have an hour off before my final surgeries of the day. I want to figure this out."
"I can go back to my apartment and wait there."
"Come with me. I don’t want you out of my," he said and hesitated. "Out of my reach right now."
"I'm not going to disappear…"
"Kate, for all I know, you might. Come with me. Wait for me. Then we'll figure this all out."
I sighed. "I shouldn't go anywhere with you. If anyone saw us."
"No one is going to see us."
I exhaled. "OK."
He still hadn’t let go of my hand. He squeezed it, and then he leaned in and kissed me. I let him and a stab of desire filled me at the touch of his lips on mine.
"Come," he said, standing, pulling me up. He wouldn't let go of me as if I'd dematerialize in front of his eyes. We walked to his car, our fingers entwined, and he opened the door for me. I got in and we drove to NY Presbyterian, to the wing where his office was located and parked in a spot marked "Doctors Only". He was quiet on the way there as if he was deciding how to handle this – how to handle me.
We walked hand in hand through a maze of halls to his office, which was very comfortable but clinical looking with a window, a desk with two computers and a filing cabinet, and a huge flat screen television on the wall. A small couch and two chairs on either side of a coffee table. I imagined that's where he met with patients and family members.
"Here," he said and pointed to the couch. "Have a seat and make yourself comfortable. I have a collection of out of date magazines to read." He went to the huge screen, turning it on. "There's a coffee and vending machine down the hall if you get thirsty or hungry. You can watch the surgery on the screen if you want. We're recording all procedures and you can watch live feed here."
"I can watch you operate?"
"Yes," he said. "I do really specialized robotically-assisted procedures and record every case for my clinical course in neurosurgery." He held up a remote. "You can use this to turn the volume up or down. If you get bored, you can switch to cable and watch television." He brought up a screen that had three views, one with a slightly elevated view of a high-tech looking OR theatre, another directly above a gurney, and a third staring at what resembled an open CT scanner. A number of gowned and masked people walked around, moving equipment.
"That's your OR?"
"For the procedure this afternoon, yes. It's a really advanced OR suite equipped for neurological procedures like I'm doing this afternoon." He pointed to a machine that looked like a CT scanner. "That does real-time images of the brain for really delicate surgery."
"What are you doing?"
"Implanting electrodes in a man's brain to stop Parkinson's tremor. That's for imaging the brain during the procedure. The patient will be sitting with his head inside the machine so we can watch as the electrodes are inserted to make sure we get them in the right location. Speaking of which, I have to get ready or I'm going to be late. Gotta go scrub in."
After he handed me the remote control, he bent down to kiss me. I raised my head and let him.
He touched my bottom lip, my scar, and then stared into my eyes, frowning. "Wait for me?"
I nodded.
"I'll be forty-five minutes, maybe an hour, depending on how things go. OK?"
"I'll be here."
He went to the door and looked back at me. "I won’t be long."
I smiled and I waved at him.
He closed the door and left me alone.
I removed my shoes and tucked my feet under me, stretching out on the couch to watch Drake perform brain surgery.
As I watched, activity began to increase in the OR. A couple of gowned, masked and gloved technicians moved equipment around, positioned tables and trays, and arranging implements. I heard music start and turned up the volume. In the background, I just made out Led Zeppelin. Black Dog played over the speakers, and I remembered what Dawn said that first night in the pub when she pointed Drake out. He played Brit Invasion music in his ORs during surgery. I thought that was just TV surgeons, expecting that real ones needed quiet for their very delicate procedures.
Apparently, not.
Soon, a patient was wheeled in and then several people transferred him to a chair like structure. He already had this metal halo-like device on his head. They leaned him back into a semi-reclining position, his head between the arms of the CT. On the walls were monitors that showed various perspectives on his brain.
Several people in full scrubs milled around, moving things into place around the patient, speaking to him in low calm voices. I imagined they were OR nurses and surgeons for they worked on the patient, getting him into position, checking over his shaved head. Then, one of the surgeons started to cut his skull with a drill, the high-pitched whine audible over the music. It wasn't Drake – the man's voice was foreign sounding – East Indian.
Then, two gowned and masked figures entered the OR, holding their gloved hands up and in front of their bodies. They had safety glasses on and what looked like binocular lenses attached.
Drake must have been one of them. I watched, wondering if I could tell which one. One of the two approached the patient and spoke to him, and it was then I knew that was Drake.
He spoke to the camera for a moment, describing the procedure to treat Parkinson's Disease. Mr. Graham was a sixty-two year old man otherwise in good health who began to experience tremors on the left side of his body. Since that time, the tremors increased, and now, he was unable to carry out the most simple tasks of everyday life. He went on to describe the surgery, using lingo I couldn't quite catch. Finally, he went to the patient's side.
"How are you doing, Bob?" he said, his voice firm but warm. "Ready?"
"Cut away, Doc. Great tunes, by the way," Mr. Graham said. "When you asked me, I didn't really believe you'd play Led Zeppelin in the OR."
"I find music relaxes patients. Luckily, we have the same taste in bands."
"You're too young to like this music."
"It's my father's music. I love it, too."
The music was loud, but not too loud so that the audio picked up every word Drake and his team said. Drake consulted the CT images, checking to make sure everything was in proper alignment. He described what he was doing, his voice firm and warm, instructions given for the benefit of his students. As I watched, he explained how he was threading an electrode into a precise position in the brain, guided by a CT-generated image on a screen beside the operating table.
"When I stimulate the section of the brain where the electrode has been placed, Mr. Graham's hand should stop shaking. S
lowly at first, maybe not completely, but there will be noticeable improvement."
I watched Mr. Graham as Drake worked. His head was imprisoned in a metal cage. He lifted his hand at Drake's instruction and it shook wildly. It was clear he could do nothing with it.
"We are now going to send a charge down the electrode to the subthalamic nucleus and the globus pallidus interna, the structures responsible for motor movement."
In a few seconds, Mr. Graham's hand stopped shaking. Slowly at first but in about ten or fifteen seconds, it was almost perfectly still.
"Oh, God, oh God," Mr. Graham said, his voice breaking. "Oh, God I can't believe it."
I couldn't help but smile to myself, the emotion in his voice bringing tears to my eyes.
"Thank you, Doctor," Mr. Graham said, his voice breaking. "Thank you, God."
Drake bent over Mr. Graham, but he kept his hands away from the man. I had the sense he wanted to touch Mr. Graham but of course, he had to keep sterile.
"I love my job," he said, his voice soft. "I can't believe they pay me to do it."
About twenty minutes later, after they sewed up Mr. Graham's incisions and wheeled him out of the OR, Drake entered the office in his scrubs, his cap still on his head. He glanced at the screen and saw the technicians cleaning the OR. Then he turned that intense gaze to me.
"How are you?"
I went to him where he stood beside the door and put my arms around his waist, squeezing him.
"What's this?" he said, smiling, his arms slipping around me, a bit of a surprised look on his face.
"That was amazing."
He closed the door to his office and removed the cap off his head, throwing it on the trashcan by the desk. Then he pressed me against the door.
"Mmm, Ms. Bennet," he said, his voice low and sexy, one of his knees between mine, his hips pressed against me, his arms on the door beside my head. "I hope this show of affection means you’ve reconsidered and you're planning on giving this a chance."
"I still want you," I said, running my hands up his chest, his muscles firm under the blue scrubs. "I never stopped. If anything, I want you even more. But if this person finds out that we're seeing each other, they'll tell my father about your involvement in the BDSM community and send the restraining order to your boss."
He just watched me, his gaze moving over my face. "You won't tell me who?"
"I can't."
"If I talk to them, maybe I can assure them I won't hurt you and…"
"I can't. You don’t understand. They're serious and completely irrational about this."
He pulled me over to the couch and we sat down. He moved next to me, his arm around me.
"So, it's back to the secret affair? We can't see each other in public?"
I nodded.
"Well, at least you want to try."
"I do."
A look came over his face at that, like relief. "I have a jam session tonight but I'm done at 9:00."
"I can't be seen with you, Drake. I can't go to your apartment. You can't come to mine. I don't know where we'll meet. A hotel?"
"No, that's too…" He brushed hair off my cheek. "Too cliché. I have a small apartment on 8th Avenue near Columbia from when I was in school. It was my dad's when he was a student. He bought the whole building when he started to make serious money and I decided to go to Columbia. We could use that. I spent a lot of years there and it has some of my old junk from when I first lived away from my father. I store a lot of his stuff there as well."
"This person works three nights a week. Every Tuesday and Thursday for sure. One night on the weekend. On those nights, I could probably go there. I might be able to make excuses for a night now and then, but this person is determined to watch me. I have to make them think we've truly broken up so they stop."
"You seem so much more positive about this. What happened?"
I shook my head and just looked at him – at the blue eyes, the jaw, the mouth… I thought about what my father said to me about Drake. I thought about Drake's letters to his subs and how much they aroused me. I wanted to feel that excitement waiting for him to show up.
"This made me face up to what it was that I wanted. Having to say goodbye to you made me realized that I want this," I said and ran my hands up his chest to his shoulders. "I want you."
He leaned closer and kissed me, softly.
When he pulled back, he stroked my cheek. "Look, I only have an hour. Will you come with me? Surely this person isn't tailing you? We could go to my place on 8th Avenue but we'll have to hurry because of traffic."
"Why don't we just stay if you only have an little while. We can talk here," I said and brushed hair off his forehead.
"Ms. Bennet," he said, grinning. "I don't want to talk." Then he leaned down and kissed my throat. Desire washed over me at that and I felt a bit lightheaded, gasping as his mouth moved over the tops of my breasts.
"Do you think it's advisable?" I said, when he pulled me over to the couch and onto his lap so that I lay across him, my arms around his neck. "I mean, do you think someone might come in? One of your nurses? Or maybe…"
"Enough talking." He pressed me down on the tiny couch and kissed me, his kiss starting off tender, but slowly building in passion until we were both breathing hard. His hand searched my body while his tongue searched my mouth, his fingers slipping under my sweater to cup a breast through my bra, stroking the flesh that spilled out above the fabric. Then his hand travelled down over my belly and down my thigh, pulling up my jean skirt until he found my mound.
"I'm going to lock the door and fuck you right now," he whispered, pressing his fingers against my clit through my tights. I gasped and couldn't help but press against him. Then he got up and went to the door, turning the lock. He came back and lay beside me again, kissing my neck, pulling open my sweater, running his tongue over the tops of my breasts. When he pulled the fabric down to expose one nipple and sucked on it, sending a thrill through my body, I gasped.
He stopped sucking and pulled on my nipple. He took my hand and ran it over top of his scrubs so I could feel his erection.
"See what you do to me?"
I smiled coyly. "That was your own doing." Then, I heard voices outside the door. "Drake, is this a good idea? Will you get in trouble if someone comes? Maybe we should stop?"
"Shh," he said. "You signed the contract. No resistance." He kissed me again, leaning over me, stroking my cheek, his fingers running over my bottom lip. "I want you now."
"Do you," I said, barely able to speak as he nuzzled my neck. "Do you think it's a good idea before surgery? Won't it, like, sap your vital essence or something?"
I felt his cheek raise in a smile against my neck, then his mouth moved back down to my breasts.
"Quiet. You talk far too much. I'm going to eat you," he said, taking my hand again and moving it down over his balls. "Right now."
Then he pulled away and bent down, taking my feet and removing my shoes, before unzipping my jean skirt and pulling down my tights and underwear. He finished undressing me so that I was completely naked, sitting on the couch. Still fully dressed, he knelt down and examined me.
"I'm going to have to shave you again tonight," he said. "I look forward to it."
Then he buried his face between my spread thighs, his fingers opening me up, his mouth and lips and tongue finding my clit. I leaned back and just closed my eyes, for he was an unstoppable force. My last coherent thought as he slipped two fingers inside of me was that I tried to warn him, so if anything happened, I did my part. Then, I just let myself feel what he was doing to me.
He worked me up, his tongue stroking all over my aching flesh until my heart was racing, my breathing fast and shallow, pleasure building in me. Just when I thought I might come, he withdrew his fingers. He pulled me up and turned me around so that I leaned over the couch, my knees on the seat and my body over the back. After unzipping, he stroked me with the head of his cock for a few moments. When he entered me, moving slo
wly inside of me, just a few inches, it felt so good I gasped. Then, he bent over me, one arm around my waist so that he stroked me with his fingers.
"Tell me when you're close."
He kept his fingers on me as he thrust and soon, I was ready, the sweetness growing in my groin.
"Drake, I…"
He increased his tempo, and soon, my orgasm started, the pleasure building and then almost exploding through my body, my face hot, my thighs quaking. He thrust even harder as if he could tell I was coming, and it wasn't long after my own pleasure subsided that he came as well, thrusting deeply, his mouth at my ear, grunting as he did.
He leaned against me, breathing hard, his hands covering mine on the back of the couch.
"Fuck, I needed that…" He kissed my shoulder and bit it gently. "I needed you." Finally, he slid out of me but when I tried to turn around, he stopped me.
"No, stay like that so I can admire you. My come is running down your leg."
I smiled to myself. Drake Morgan, MD, neurosurgeon, bass player, philanthropist, enjoying the evidence of his orgasm inside of me. No matter how intelligent and accomplished he was, he was still a man. A kinky man.
I said nothing, waiting for him to have his fill of examining me in that position. He sat on a chair across from me and just stared.
"Um, my legs are a bit shaky," I said.
"I know. I like seeing you shake because of what I did to you."
Finally, he turned me around, using several tissues to wipe me up. Then he pushed me down on the couch, lying on top of me.
"This won't affect your surgical performance, will it?" I said, unable to keep a grin off my face.
He laughed out loud at that, his eyes crinkling in the corners. "Probably. Might improve it."
"I thought men got all sleepy after an orgasm."
"Sometimes, but it depends on the time of day. Right now, I feel great. I was feeling very deprived, Ms. Bennet. Very unhappy so a few extra pleasure endorphins will only help." He closed his eyes and sighed, pressing his forehead against mine. "You just have no idea how relieved I am. When I went up to your apartment, I made poor Mrs. Kropotkin so frantic I thought she was going to call the police. It took every neuron I ever made studying Russian to convince her I didn't have ill-intent. I was really worried about you."