by Chloe Cox
DOCTOR’S ORDERS
THE COMPLETE SERIES
by
CHLOE COX
Copyright 2012 Chloe Cox
License Notes
This eBook may not be re- sold or freely distributed without the author’s written permission, but feel free to share this eBook with the friends of your choice. But if you are reading this book and did not purchase it, please consider purchasing your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons living or deceased is entirely, absurdly accidental.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Part 1: The Exam
Part 2: Remote Control
Part 3: Stripped
Part 4: Claimed
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
AN EXCERPT FROM THE WOLF’S CAPTIVE
OTHER WORKS BY CHLOE COX
PART 1:
THE EXAM
When I masturbate now it’s always the same. I close my eyes, and all I can see are his eyes. His freakishly light, bright blue eyes.
What I feel is the touch of many. Many hands, many fingers, many mouths, wildly exploring every crease, every hole, every opening. An unknown dick in my cunt, filling me. The feeling of overwhelming intoxication, impossibly drunk on sex, soaring high above any normal feeling of self, the edges of my identity beginning to blur, to soften, to blissfully merge with the world around me.
All under the quiet gaze of those eyes.
If you’ve never felt anything like it, you haven’t lived. I wasn’t living, looking back on it. I never knew what I was until I met him.
This is how it all starts.
~ ~ ~
The invitation comes in a heavy black envelope, sealed with black wax. The card itself is black, too, with raised black writing. I almost have to touch it to read it, which I guess is the point: forcing a sensory, tactile experience on me. In the end I raise it close to my face, to make sure I have it right.
You have been given
an Appointment
with
The Doctor
Tomorrow, 6 pm. You will not be given another.
It’s all very dramatic. No clue where it comes from, or why, or who this Doctor is. On the back is an address on the other side of town, in a quiet, old money neighborhood, full of townhouses and wide, beautiful streets.
I guess it shows what kind of state I’m in that I actually consider not going.
I’ve tried to figure out what made me go, what got me out of my funk and moving towards the man that would change my life. I think it’s because when I get home from the temp agency the next day, just after five, still without a new job, I find my brother in my room, dumping out the milk crates that hold all my art stuff. He needs the crates for his records, he explains, now that he was going to be a DJ.
“Mom said I could,” he says when he sees my face. Then he shoves past me, milk crate in his arms.
Right after that I’m on my way to the Doctor. I think maybe he’ll give me some pills or something, anything to make this life seem better.
I have no idea what I’m in for.
~ ~ ~
It has been so long since I’ve had what could even remotely be described as a boyfriend, let alone actual sex, that it never occurs to me that the Doctor’s practice might be...unusual. Not even the strange invitation suggests anything to me. That’s how naive I am.
It’s not that I don’t have a sex drive. Believe me, I have a sex drive. But it’s all frenzied, angry masturbation beneath tangled sheets, after I think everyone else is asleep.
Pathetic, right?
This is just by way of saying that I’m entirely unprepared for what’s about to happen.
The Doctor’s office is in one of those fancy townhouses, a mansion, really, with a beautiful limestone facade set back from the street and guarded by a heavy iron fence and a locked gate. The fence itself is lightly covered with ivy, and through the curling tendrils I can see the suggestion of a lighted courtyard, and a path to a garden in back. It looks like a private home, not a Doctor’s office. I double-check the address on the black card to make sure, holding it close to my face in the fading light, and I’m about to press the doorbell when the speaker box crackles to life.
“Come inside, Claire.”
I startle, unaware that I was being watched. The voice is relaxed, but commanding, even through the distortions of the speaker, as though its owner has never even considered the possibility that he might be disobeyed. I find myself pushing eagerly at the gate, not even waiting for the telltale buzz. Already this is the most exciting thing to ever happen to me, and I want more.
I find the front door unlocked, and a sign indicating that I should leave my coat on the side table in the vestibule. It’s chilly in the house, with its high ceilings and marble floors, and I feel a little self-conscious as my nipples grow pert beneath my cheap blouse. My bra is unpadded, made of a thin white cotton, and will do nothing to hide my nipples if it stays this cold.
I cross my arms in front of my chest and make my way out of the vestibule. There is a light coming from a formal reception room to my right, and all the other doors are closed. Feeling inexplicably embarrassed, I creep into the reception room.
I am alone.
There’s a warm light, and expensive looking, stylish black furniture that nevertheless looks very uncomfortable. I perch awkwardly on the edge of a black sofa, smoothing my black skirt beneath me, and look around. I guess I expect to see the sorts of things you normally see in a doctor’s office: a reception desk, a secretary or something, magazines.
There’s none of that. Just this muted gray room, with its soft light and a mild chill in the air. My nipples are still quite awake. There’s a door in the far wall, besides the opening onto the main hall that I had come through, and it’s open just a bit. Not enough to see anything, just enough to tease.
It seems rude, somehow, that there’s no one here to greet me. To explain all this.
I’m debating whether to go sneak around, my arms wrapped tightly around me, when I hear it. A soft, light scraping noise. Awkward, arrhythmic. Scrape, scrape, scrape, followed by a shuffle, what might be a groan.
It stops for a moment. I’m looking around, certain I heard it, but feeling kind of crazy, when it starts up again, slightly louder this time. Scrape, scrape, scrape. Then the same pause, and the same shuffle.
I sit motionless in the cold, my arms tensed at my sides, heedless of my nipples poking through the thin fabric of my skirt. I’m usually able to identify sounds, but I have no idea what this is.
It’s come closer. This time when the scraping stops, a tiny little dustpan is pushed into view in the open doorway off the reception area. I giggle a little bit – a dustpan? I was afraid of a dustpan?
And then comes the girl.
She’s nearly naked, covered only in a thin black bikini, a leather collar around her neck. Her pale skin shines in the soft light. Her hands are bound behind her back with more black leather, and she carefully holds a small dust broom in her mouth. She’s gripping the handle with her teeth, her painted red lips stretched wide. Slowly she shuffles forward on her knees, until she’s in front of the dustpan, and then, with aching slowness, she sweeps a bit of dust forward, her breasts swaying heavily near the floor.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
I must gasp, or maybe I say something, because she pauses for a moment and looks up. She looks me in the eye, and it almost looks like she smiles with that broom handle stuck in her mouth.
Then she leans over, and pushes the dustpan forward with her nose.
I can’t help but stare at her. I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel. H
ow are you supposed to react to something like that?
What I begin to feel, though, is a warmth down below. And my nipples, hard now, beneath my thin blouse, ache to be touched. I squirm a little in my seat, rubbing my bottom into the rough fabric, scraping my nipples against my bra and blouse, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.
I don’t know how long I watch her, but she’s nearly out of sight when I become aware of another presence.
A man. In the doorway that was only partially open, now fully open, his hands clasped behind his broad back. He wears a white dress shirt with a starched collar, tucked into a trim waist. Over six feet tall, with cold, bright blue eyes, and black, slicked back hair, with just a few streaks of gray. He must have been an athlete with that build, that confidence.
He’s the single most intimidating man I’ve ever seen, and I’m not sure why. I can’t read his expression, but he’s been watching me, watch her. Watching me get turned on.
I open my mouth to try to explain myself – how, I don’t know – and he cuts me off.
“Do not speak.”
I shut my mouth automatically. It was his voice over the speaker. There’s something primal about it. He studies me, as though evaluating me. I push my chest out ever so slightly, suck my tummy in a little. I look for a glimmer of a smile on his lips, but find nothing.
“I am the Doctor,” he finally says, like he’s giving me a gift. “Follow me.”
And without waiting for a response, he turns and strides down the hall, away from me.
I hurry up to follow, hearing his footsteps recede into the darkness. It takes me a moment to collect myself, to smooth down my skirt and my hair, to feel presentable. Then I have to hurry after him, tottering in my new black pumps, heels clicking on the marble floor.
I rush out into a great hall, and pause in front of a grand, sweeping staircase. I would see him if he’d gone up that staircase. It spirals lazily up at least four stories. Confused and slightly panicked – what if I’ve lost him already? – I look around wildly until I see another door. This leads to another staircase, going down, and I can hear the last of his steps at the bottom. I clatter down the steps in a hurry, anxious to catch up with him. It’s only later that I’ll think about how eager I am to please him.
When I find him, he’s seated behind a desk in a long, low room. There’s medical looking equipment along the sides of the room, a table on wheels with the familiar stirrups – I shiver at the sight of those stirrups, and look away quickly, hoping he doesn’t notice my reaction – various straps and things on the walls. There’s a single chair placed in front of his desk, a standing lamp next to it, beaming down a spotlight.
“Sit down,” he says.
I do. I can’t figure out what to do with my legs. I try crossing them, but that feels too seductive. Eventually I settle for crossing them at the ankle, in a demure fashion. He watches all this with curiosity.
“Why are you here, Claire?”
Confused, I stutter a little. “I, um...I received an invitation?”
“Why did you receive an invitation, Claire?”
I look down at my hands.
“I don’t know.”
“That will be the last time you lie to me, Claire, or you will never see me again.”
I look up with obvious worry. I can’t bear the thought of that. Ridiculous, I know, but already this has been the only thing in my life that’s truly mine, the only thing that’s the least bit special. No one even knows I’m here.
“Because there’s something wrong with me,” I whisper.
He cocks his head to the side, as though listening for something only he can hear. Finally he puts his hands together, fingertip to fingertip, and looks down at me.
“That is one way of putting it. You are trapped, Claire. You are unhappy. You are not free. The only path to freedom is through surrender. Did you know that, Claire?”
I shake my head. I have no idea what he’s talking about, except that he’s right about one thing: I do feel trapped.
“Different people find freedom in different ways. They surrender to different things. I suspect that your way, Claire, is to surrender to me. That will be your treatment, if you choose to pursue it.”
On some level, I know that this is insane. But it’s a very far away, abstract kind of awareness. The rest of me, the flesh and blood and driving animal part of me, the part that can still feel things, wants to scream its relief: finally, something feels right. It’s like he’s in my head already.
“Yes,” I say.
“You will submit to me completely during the course of your treatment, Claire. I will give you a safeword. If you choose to use it, treatment will immediately, and permanently, cease. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“You will submit to me completely.”
This is the first thing he’s said with any sense of urgency, and I feel the stirrings of nerves in my belly. It’s as though he’s warning me. My curiosity is overwhelming, but in these few minutes I realize that I’m tired of being scared all the time. I’m tired of being boring, of being scared to explore because of what I might find. He’s already given me a taste of what it feels like to be brave. And I want more.
“Yes,” I say.
“You wish to pursue this treatment?”
“Yes, sir.”
He leans back in his chair, his eyes glittering with satisfaction.
“Your safeword is ‘prison,’ Claire. Now stand up. It is time for your exam.”
I can feel my eyes go wide as he gets up from behind his desk and makes his way towards me. Immediately I remember all that medical equipment, the rolling table, the stirrups, but I won’t turn my head to look. I don’t want to appear afraid.
What have I gotten myself into?
I rise, slowly, again trying to smooth my appearance as much as possible. I run my hands through my long dark hair, tussling it a little, and wish I’d changed before I’d come. My thin blouse, tight black skirt, and nameless black heels look cheap, and not in a good way.
He comes around to my side, opposite the lamp, and steps very close to me. Suddenly I feel his fingers in my hair, and it’s all I can do not to sigh. He hasn’t even touched me yet. I have no idea what he’s going to do.
“This exam will be very thorough, Claire.”
I nod, wondering if I should look at him.
“Take off those clothes.”
There’s a hitch in my breath, and I hesitate just long enough to irritate him. He reaches out his hand as if to undress me, but I quickly move to obey. I’m clumsy with the buttons, not wanting to see if I’ve disappointed him already, blundering through my fear. In no time I’ve hung my blouse on the chair behind me, and I’ve shimmied out of my skirt, my heels tucked under the chair. I try to stand proudly in my white bra and white cotton panties.
“All of your clothes, Claire.”
I should have realized. I should have known. He sounds annoyed, and that’s almost worse than the idea of being naked - almost. Trembling, I slide one bra strap over my shoulder, then the other. I fumble with the clasp in the back, my fingers numb with embarrassment, and with an impatient gesture he reaches up and snaps it open. My bra falls to the floor, releasing my breasts. I’ve always had large, round breasts, ever since middle school. My nipples are already hard, and getting harder, like two mini erections. I’m sure he notices. I can feel a deep red flush begin on my cheeks and neck, and begin to work its way down to the top of my breasts.
He doesn’t say anything. That’s almost worse. He’s the first man to see me like this in a long time, and I want to know if he likes the way I look.
I almost ask if everything is ok, like an idiot, when I remember I’m not done. I hook my fingers under the thin cotton of my panties, and feel the material stick to my wet pussy as I peel them off. I step out of them and scrunch them up into a little ball, bizarrely embarrassed that he might see how wet I am.
“No,” he says. “Show me.”
> It really is like he’s in my head. Gingerly I unwrap the panties and turn them inside out, so the damp patch where I’ve leaked all over them is clearly visible. He looks at it for a moment, then at my breasts, and my nipples, still rock hard.
“You find this very arousing, Claire.”
“Yes.” I mumble. There’s no point in trying to hide it, no matter how embarrassing it is.
“Look up,” he orders. I do. “Close your eyes.”
Swallowing, I do this, too. He makes me wait just long enough for me to get nervous, to be on the brink of opening my eyes, when I feel a finger on the tip of my chin. That finger begins to trace the line of my jaw, down, gently, to my neck, to the hollow at the base of my clavicle, where he presses down with the slightest pressure. I can’t suppress a shiver. From there, more fingertips, so light, and then two hands cupping my breasts. He lifts them, squeezes them, toys with the nipples. I’m trying so very hard not to moan, to keep my breathing regular. I think it amuses him.
“You will start taking better care of yourself, Claire.”
I catch my breath involuntarily, indescribably wounded by this.
“You will buy the expensive lotions and cleansers. You will go to a spa, once a month.”
“But –”
“I will give you the name of the right place.”
His hands drag down the skin of my stomach, my muscles shuddering beneath the skin in their wake. I can’t control my breathing anymore. My entire body tingles.
“What do you do for a living, Claire?”
His hands are tracing the curves of my hip, my lower stomach, coming so close, so close. I’m grateful that he hasn’t asked me to open my eyes. I don’t know that I could take it.
“I asked you a question.”
“I don’t have a job.”
“That’s not what I asked.”