by Sue Margolis
The more Anna made Alex laugh, the more he relaxed. By the time she had finished telling her story, he was almost gasping for breath. Wiping his eyes, he reached for the plate of cream cakes and held it towards Anna. She shook her head.
“Well, I think I shall, even if you won't.”
“That must be your fourth,” she said in mock horror as he reached for a strawberry tart. “I always assumed doctors were into healthy eating. It seems to me, Alex, that you exist on a diet of curry, cream and Southern fried chicken.”
Alex patted his flat stomach and chuckled.
“Work it all off on the squash court. I'm the same weight now as when I was at medical school.”
Anna grunted and said she still thought he should watch what he ate. She then laughed as she spread her teacake with thick butter. As she bit into it, some melted butter trickled down her face. Alex reached into his pocket and took out a freshly ironed white handkerchief. He leaned towards Anna and wiped the corner of her mouth. Anna giggled and said thank you. Then, slowly, he moved his hand onto her cheek and kept it there. Anna smiled at him and didn't attempt to move it.
After a moment or two, Alex put his handkerchief back in his pocket and Anna took another sip of tea.
“Listen,” he said brightly, a thought suddenly occurring to him, “it's almost time for a real drink. I've got this flat that I use sometimes when I'm working late. It's over my consulting rooms. Do you fancy coming back for a glass of wine?”
Anna started choking and spluttering on the last of her orange pekoe. That was a tenner she owed Brenda.
“Sorry, I didn't mean to put pressure on you. Maybe another time,” Alex said, clearly embarrassed and disappointed.
“No, no,” she said, still coughing and covering her mouth with a napkin. “Tea went down the wrong way . . . that would be great. I'd love to come back for a, um, glass of wine.”
“Or two,” said Alex, grinning.
They'd got as far as Cavendish Square before alex got round to repeating the question he had asked her in the Bhaji on the Bush.
“You never told me, Anna, about why you decided to join Liaisons Dangereux.”
Anna knew there was no getting out of it. Finding it impossible to look him in the eye, she gave him her spiel about boredom and twelve-year itches. She sensed from his expression that he knew she wasn't telling the truth, but he was too polite to push her any further.
Alex unlocked the front door to the Grand Harley Street house, which had been divided into consulting rooms. He went in first.
“Come on in. Lights are off. It looks like everybody's finished early.” He reached for the switch. Anna followed as he made his way towards the stairs.
“I can never get over how these places always look the same,” she said, turning her head to look round the hallway. “I reckon there's some central depot where all you posh doctors buy your Regency-striped wallpaper and worn cherry-red carpets. I bet your room has got one of those chandeliers which drip fake wax.”
Smiling and raising his eyebrows, Alex put his arm round her shoulders and began marching her away from the mahogany staircase.
“Why don't you come and see? It's down here on the left.”
He led her back along the hall towards the entrance. He held open a tall paneled door. Anna walked in. The room was surprisingly bright and modern. The walls had been painted in brilliant white emulsion. Gray fitted carpet covered the floor. All the furniture was black. Alex's huge black ash desk stood in front of the grand Victorian fireplace; the chairs and the sofa along one wall were all made of black leather. Anna looked up to the ceiling. There were several rows of inset spotlights.
“Mmm, why do I get the feeling that eighties style had a really profound effect on you?” she said with just a hint of sarcasm. She bent down towards the smoked-glass coffee table and released two balls of a Newton's cradle, one of those irritating “executive” playthings which people used to buy and then wish for years they hadn't. Looking up she noticed the screen at the far end of the room. It was the only item there which gave a clue that this was a doctor's consulting room.
Feigning hurt at her observation about his taste, Alex picked up a copy of Elle from the coffee table, rolled it up and tapped her playfully on the head. Anna stood up and turned towards him. Very softly, without any conviction, she said, “Ouch.”
The smile had gone from Alex's face. He dropped the magazine onto the floor and drew her towards him. For a moment they simply looked at each other. Then he cupped her face in his hands and began kissing her on the lips. It was a while before she felt his mouth open and his tongue push gently into her. She kissed him back. Afterwards, Alex reached to stroke Anna's hair, but she pulled away.
“Alex, there's something I need to tell you before we go any further.” She turned her back on him and walked over to one of the fireplace alcoves, which was covered with dozens of ten-by-eight black-and-white prints in Perspex clip frames. They were pictures of some of Alex's patients before and after surgery. Anna stood with her back to him, studying a photograph of a woman whose particularly gruesome postchildbirth tummy flap almost reached her knees.
“You see,” she said and then hesitated as her eyes alighted on a photograph of a woman with saggy breasts similar to her own. She clenched both fists and turned back towards Alex.
“You see . . . Oh, what the hell, I'm just going to come right out with it.” She took a deep breath. “The point is, I've had two children. I breast-fed both of them and, well . . . I look a bit like her.” She pointed to the picture behind her.
“And you're frightened,” Alex said kindly as he moved towards her, “that because of what I do, I will judge you and humiliate you.”
Anna nodded. He took her hand and led her to the sofa. He sat her down.
“I promise I would never, ever do such a thing.” As he kissed her, his hand reached under her short pink suit jacket and moved up to her breasts. Anna could feel her anxiety beginning to melt.
“You know,” she said when they'd finished and she was resting her head on Alex's shoulder, “I've never told anybody in the world—not even my husband—but I sometimes have these really depraved sexual fantasies about doctors.” No sooner had she said the words than her hand shot over her mouth. “Oh, God, I'm sorry . . . I have absolutely no idea what made me say that.”
Alex burst out laughing. He was clearly unperturbed by her revelation.
“What, being tied down by men in white coats, legs in stirrups, that kind of stuff? Loads of women do. It's quite common.”
They were quiet for a while. Alex spoke first.
“I've got an idea.” His voice was brimming over with sexual promise.
Anna had thought several times since they first met that Alex, with his conservative gray suits and polite, diffident manner, might not be the most imaginative of lovers. She sensed she was on the point of being proved wrong. Not only was she about to be taken to rebellion's very pinnacle by committing adultery with a man who looked like a Nazi, but it appeared that he was going to insist they took a scenic detour round debauchery heights. Excitement gushed through her like millions of gallons of water filling a dam. She got the feeling the glass of wine he'd suggested in Whittaker's was never going to materialize.
“Stand up,” Alex ordered. There was an almost harsh edge to his voice. Without asking why, she did as she was told.
“Take off all your clothes. I want to take a look at you.”
Anna took off her jacket and stood in front of him in her white top and short skirt. She could feel her face going red, humiliation beginning to overtake her. At the same time she was feeling indescribably horny.
Realizing she was wetter than a rainy Sunday in Frinton, she unzipped her skirt and stepped out of it. Alex didn't move from the sofa. His eyes were on her legs and crotch. There wasn't a trace of emotion on his face.
As she stepped out of her shoes and rolled down her pantyhose, Alex yanked at his tie and undid the top button of his shi
rt. Anna pulled the top over her head and then stood there in her creamy lace bra and panties. She unhooked the bra and pulled it away. Finally she pulled down her panties and stepped out of them.
Alex still said nothing. He just stared at her dispassionately. After what seemed like ages he got up and came towards her, but didn't touch her. He began walking over to the surgical screens. Anna followed him, feeling that her legs were about to give way. He folded back the screen to reveal an examination couch.
“Climb up.” His voice was cold and matter-of-fact. Once again Anna did as she was told. As she lay on the couch, her head on a pillow, he caressed her belly. Then, taking his time, he stroked each of her breasts in turn. Anna could feel moisture seeping from between her legs.
Brushing past her pubic hair, he moved his hand down to the insides of her thighs.
“Please, please, touch me,” she begged.
“Ssh, relax. What I want you to do now is bend your knees and bring them onto your chest.” She did as he asked.
Alex picked up a doctor's rubber glove from a small cart next to the couch. He pushed his hand into it. Anna heard it snap round his wrist. Then he reached for a tube.
Christ, she thought. It's K-Y jelly. What the fuck does a cosmetic surgeon want with K-Y jelly? He must make a habit of this. She didn't have time to pursue the thought. Slowly, Alex was running his finger back and forth from her bottom to her clitoris.
“You know, Alex,” she said, gasping through the ecstasy, “you are a power-crazed pervert. And I'll kill you if you say “Yes, but you're loving every minute of it.' ”
A brief shadow of a smile crossed Alex's face. He turned back towards the cart and from the bottom shelf produced two lengths of what looked like washing-line cord.
“Lift your hands above your head,” he ordered. She moved her hands.
“That's good,” he said. “Very good.” He moved to the head end of the couch. She whimpered as he began gently twisting the cord round one wrist. He wound the last six or seven inches of each piece of cord tightly round the top of the couch leg so that she couldn't move her arms.
Finally he pulled out some kind of extension at the end of the couch. Anna realized the couch was now Y-shaped. This meant there was a gap at the bottom where Alex could stand and have easier access to her. From nowhere he produced a pair of stirrups. For a second or two Anna found herself losing concentration.
“Christ, you're like bloomin' Mary Poppins. I suppose you've got a lamp stand and a mirror stashed away down there as well.”
Ignoring her, he began pushing her feet into the stirrups. Spread-eagled now, she was completely helpless. Then he picked up the tube and put some more jelly on his fingers. By now Anna was arching her back and writhing with the sheer wantonness of it all.
“Just let your legs flop open.”
“I haven't got much choice in these bloody things.” But she made a conscious effort to relax the muscles in her vagina. She felt him gently prise open her inner labia. As he slipped two fingers up inside her she cried out.
“Good. That's excellent,” he said, pushing into her a little harder and turning his fingers.
Rhythmically he moved his fingers inside her vagina. With his other hand he went back to stroking her anus and clitoris in turn. She begged him to put more pressure on her clitoris, but he ignored her.
Anna moaned in protest. Then Alex produced two metal phallic-shaped objects. One was much thicker than the other. The thicker one he inserted expertly into her vagina. With extreme gentleness and care he pushed the second one a centimeter or so into her anus.
By now Anna's eyes were closed and she was taking sharp, shallow breaths. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he increased the pressure on her clitoris. Anna felt herself floating. Alex continued to stroke her. Then, as she felt she was about to lose consciousness, she felt the first tiny tremor inside her. She opened her eyes for a few seconds and focused on Alex's blue eyes and flaxen hair, the continuing cold indifference in his Aryan face. She heard herself cry out:
“Liebchen, liebchen, oh . . . oh . . . das ist so wunderbar, mein liebchen. Du hast ein Blitzkrieg between mein thighs gemacht.”
She came in short, electrified jerks which made her whole body go rigid. For a few minutes, as she lay there warm and relaxed, Alex stroked her hair. Then he took her feet from the stirrups and began untying her hands. Finally he covered her in a pale-blue sheet, kissed her on the mouth and whispered:
“Anna, you're the first woman I've met who can come in a foreign language.”
“German's nothing. . . . In Latvian I really let rip.”
Anna reached for his hand and pulled him towards her. As they kissed, she moved her hand down between his legs and traced the outline of his erection.
She sat herself up and let the sheet fall. She undid his belt, but he stopped her.
“Let's go over to the sofa. There's a bit more room.”
As they stood in front of the sofa, Anna helped him off with his jacket and shirt. Then she unzipped his fly and lowered the front of his pants. Kneeling down, she took his penis in her hand and brought her mouth down towards it. As she ran her tongue over the length and tip of his penis, he let out a series of long, slow moans.
All of a sudden his voice became urgent. “I want to feel you again. Now. Sit on the sofa.”
She sat down while he pulled off his trousers and underpants.
“Bend your knees and bring your feet onto the sofa. That's it. Now open yourself wide with your fingers.”
Anna spread open her labia. He knelt down and made her lean onto the back of the sofa. Bringing his head between her legs, he began flicking her clitoris with his tongue. Then he turned her round so that she was lying along the length of the sofa and pulled himself on top of her.
Anna reached for his penis and rubbed it over the entrance to her vagina. Urgently he kissed her face, pushed his tongue into her mouth and pleaded with her to let him come inside her. This time it was her turn to make him wait. Finally she relented. He let out a long sigh as he entered her. His thrusts were long and hard.
After a few minutes Anna insisted they change positions. She eased herself from under him. On top now, she rose and fell on him he while he cupped her breasts. His breathing became faster and faster. Anna watched him as he finally held his breath and his body quivered and shook. His orgasm seemed to last for ages. Finally he half opened his eyes and kissed her.
They lay with Anna still on top of him for several minutes. Then he moved himself to one side.
“Open your legs again.” He ran his fingers over the moisture on the insides of her thighs and then parted her. She came in seconds. Afterwards Alex covered her face and breasts in kisses.
“You are very, very beautiful. Promise me you won't ever try and change your body. It's perfect just as it is.”
Anna was about to quote from Shirley Valentine and declare that “men are so full of shit,” but she thought it might be ungracious. Instead she smiled, promised and pulled herself back on top of him, as she was about to fall off the edge of the sofa. For a while they lay there saying nothing. Anna rested her head on Alex's chest and he stroked her hair. After a while her gaze was drawn back to the before-and-after pictures on the wall. She began studying the face-lifts. She couldn't quite put her finger on why, but the surgery seemed to have given the women a strange, timeless quality. Anna decided there was something unnatural, even mutantlike, about their faces. Lacking both the character of middle age and the filled-out plumpness of youth, it was as if they existed in some kind of strange, ageless limbo.
She turned her head back towards Alex. She couldn't help noticing he looked a bit pale.
“You OK? You look like the excitement's been a bit too much.”
“No, I'm fine.” Alex was rubbing the center of his chest with his fist. “I think I may have a bit of indigestion from all those cream cakes.”
Anna thought it best to climb off him. She stood up and walked across the room to pick up
the sheet she'd dropped on the floor next to the examination couch. She wrapped it round her. She found another one folded on a chair next to the couch. Perching on the edge of the sofa, she covered Alex with it. He was still rubbing his chest.
“So,” she said, “have you operated on anyone famous? Are there any soap star secrets a tabloid hack should know about?”
“Even if there were, you know full well I'm not allowed to tell you.” He tapped the end of her nose with his forefinger.
“Anyway, to tell you the truth, I haven't really done anyone famous,” he went on. “The nearest I got was last year. An American writer, some sort of feminist academic I think she is, came to see me and ended up having a whole load of work done. If I remember she had breast, cheek and chin implants, a bottom lift, liposuction, the lot. Why she didn't have the work done in the States, I've no idea.”
As her brain suddenly lurched into top gear, Anna leaped up from the sofa. Her mind and heart were racing. It couldn't be. Then again it just fucking might be.
“This woman,” she said, trying to sound as casual as she possibly could, “I think I might know who she is. Alex, I know you can't tell me her name, but if I say who I think it is, do you think you could just wink at me if I'm right?”
“Can't imagine why you're so interested in some obscure Harvard academic. She's not exactly tabloid material.”
“Alex, if this is who I think it is, she writes these shrill, severely holier-than-thou books denouncing women who've had cosmetic surgery and calling them traitors to the feminist sisterhood. She's due over here soon to publicize her latest book, which is on adultery. Alex, please, please, this is really important for me to know. Just blink if I'm right. . . . Is her name Rachel Stern?”
He blinked.
“Hang on, was that a blink blink or a yes-it-was-Rachel-Stern blink?”
Alex blinked both eyes like Benny Hill, making a funny face at the same time.
Anna hugged him tightly and kissed him on the forehead. “Gotcha, you hypocritical bitch,” she muttered, punching the air. Running her fingers through his hair, she began turning over in her mind how and when she would release the story. Curiously, Alex had said nothing; she was expecting him at any moment to start blustering about patient confidentiality.