by Kerri Sharpe
These games they had played. A contest of power and submission. And even at this latest meeting, somehow he still had the advantage. Yet eight years had passed. Surely he couldn’t be allowed the upper hand any more. She had stockings somewhere didn’t she? Somewhere in the wardrobe were high fuck-me heels. And she had a white coat. She had a uniform. She would be let in anywhere.
His uniform, by contrast, made him anonymous. As she watched through the window of the restaurant, she saw how the diners failed to even recognise him as a person: he was just one of many in a white shirt and a black tie. He merely brought them food, filled their glasses, moved their chairs. Strangely, it excited her, seeing him in a position of subservience: it made her new purpose seem clearer, despite the fact it was a cold night, and she was wearing nothing but stockings, heels, a stethoscope and a white coat beneath her short belted mac. She grasped her doctor’s bag for reassurance, it was like a talisman to her, part of the costume. It also contained her mobile phone, which she glanced at, saw four messages from the man she was avoiding, and switched it off. She didn’t know yet what she was doing, but she didn’t need any distraction.
It took all her courage to push open the restaurant door and stride towards the maître’d, who eyed her curious outfit with distaste. She gave him her best worried doctor face.
‘I apologise for the intrusion – I’ve come straight from the hospital,’ she said, the words falling magically from her mouth even as her brain skittered in panic. ‘I saw a member of your staff earlier this week and I’m afraid one of our junior doctors completely misread his X-ray and this man – Jon Adams is his name – shouldn’t be working at all. I’m here because … well, basically it’s my responsibility – the junior is under my charge – and if this man damages his knee by walking on it when he shouldn’t, it will be my fault.’
The maître’d dropped his air of superciliousness and gestured to another waiter to fetch Jon.
Emma continued: ‘I do apologise for interrupting your evening like this, but he needs to come back to the hospital.’ She could feel the eyes of the restaurant customers on her, felt the respectful hush of people who had seen a doctor enter the room. The power of her position filled her with confidence like a straight shot of vodka.
And suddenly, Jon was there, standing in front of her, looking down on her, mild confusion knitting his brow. She looked him straight in the eye. ‘Ah, Mr Adams, if you’d like to come with me.’ She gestured to the door.
Jon’s eyes flickered, trying to read her, then he took off his apron and handed it to his colleague. ‘Of course,’ he said, his voice oddly hesitant. But he followed her out.
‘I have a car,’ she said over her shoulder, as she strode down the pavement on her precarious heels. She reached it and opened the passenger door for him. ‘Get in,’ she said. He did.
She drove him to her flat, saying nothing, letting him wonder. The night road passed beneath them, the small blue lights on the dashboard glowed. Once, he opened his mouth as if to speak but said nothing. She felt the naked skin of her arse resting against the cool cotton of her white coat and tensed her inner muscles with gleeful anticipation, flashing him a reassuring doctor’s smile as she swung the car expertly up her drive.
He followed her inside as she walked ahead of him, hitting all the light switches till the whole apartment was bathed and glowing, and then she stood in the centre of her living room, hands on hips.
‘What’s this about?’ he began, but she pressed a finger to her lips, feeling like an actress in a film as she unbelted her mac. It could all go wrong, she thought, but she would give it a shot.
Standing before him in her white coat, she said: ‘I’m your doctor. And I want to physically examine you.’
‘Emma, you –’
She silenced him with a sharp tilt of her head. ‘It’s Dr Cooper to you. And first, you should bring me a drink … waiter,’ she said, and she let her gaze idle up and down his demeaning restaurant uniform.
Jon opened his mouth slowly, his eyebrows raised. She held her ground. She knew – or at least, she hoped she knew – that he couldn’t resist a dare. The silence hung between them. She could hear her own breath.
‘Gin and tonic?’ he said. His voice was strangely meek.
‘Ice and a slice,’ she replied, nodding to the kitchen.
By the time he had returned bearing her drink she had undone the top buttons of her coat, revealing the skin between her breasts down to just above her belly button. She accepted the drink and took a gulp, savouring the bitter cool liquid in her throat, before saying: ‘Undress.’
‘What?’
‘I said undress.’
Again his eyes flickered, but he was intrigued now. He stared at her, appreciatively, admiring the contrast between her sensible white coat and the exposed flesh it revealed, as he undid his tie and slowly took off his shirt. She inhaled deeply at the sight of his chest, the line of dark hairs that ran down from mid-chest past his navel to his groin like a road map. He paused then, half-naked, but she raised an eyebrow and that was enough. Obediently, he unbuckled his belt, took off his trousers, shoes and socks and stood before her in his boxer shorts, which, she noted approvingly, were straining at the fly.
‘Those too,’ she said.
His half-smile was rueful but he complied, pulling his boxers off, and he presented himself for her, stripped, his erection quivering slightly as it stood up before him. She eyed him from a professional distance and took another slug of her drink, keeping an ice cube in her mouth. Then, in a slow casual movement, she stepped forwards, bending from the waist and took his cock between her lips, running her tongue along the underside, letting the ice cube run with her. Jon gasped and shuddered, clasped her head, but Emma shook him off and after one quick up–down stroke, let him go, stood upright and spat the ice cube back into her glass.
‘I want you to kneel, Mr Adams,’ she said, becoming more aware of the nagging between her legs. He did as he was told, his lengthy cock bouncing almost comically. She set down her drink and slowly unbuttoned her white coat all the way down, revealing a long bare strip of her body, from collarbone to stomach to the neat strip of her pubic hair to the ripe flesh that bulged over her black stocking tops. Emma moved away from him slowly until she could lean back against her living room wall, and then she spread her legs to reveal herself, stepping out of first one high heel, then the other, then tipping her pelvis out and reaching down to part herself for him with the fingers of one hand. With her other hand, she reached up to hold onto the stethoscope that hung round her neck. ‘I want you to stick out your tongue,’ she said, ‘and say “ah”.’
A brief smirk passed across Jon’s face as he shuffled forwards on his knees. Eagerly he grasped a stockinged thigh in each hand and pulled her towards him as his face buried itself between her legs. His tongue delved immediately inside her – like a substitute cock, he pushed it in repeatedly until she grabbed hold of his hair and slowly pulled him a few inches higher.
‘Start here, please, Mr Adams,’ she said, moving his mouth to her clit. ‘I’ll monitor your results and tell you when you’re done. Doctor’s orders.’
As his hot tongue lapped at her, Emma felt her legs weaken. She tipped her head back, gripped the stethoscope harder, her nails digging into the flesh of her palm. He was eager, rushing almost. It was like he wanted to consume her. He opened his mouth wide, taking all of her in, sucking and licking, groaning with muffled pleasure. His hands let go of her legs to join him at the front, his fingers gently pulling her lips apart to open her and allow him to suck her swollen clit like a nipple, then slowly sliding a single finger inside her to make her aware of her slippery inner passage and its delicious ache to be filled.
Emma roused herself. Pulled herself up. ‘I want you to lie down over there, Mr Adams,’ she said gesturing through the living-room door to the table in the kitchen, aware that her authoritative gaze had melted somewhat, her eyes muddied and unfocused. He did as he was told, l
ay his long muscled body down and stretched out under the lights, as if he were on an operating table.
As Emma pulled up a chair so she could get up on the table and straddle him, she caught sight of her reflection in the kitchen window, her white coat flowing out behind her semi-naked body like a cape, her full breasts bobbing as she moved, the tendons in her thighs visible as she swung her leg across him, her eyes dark and giving away nothing. I’d like to fuck you, she thought, watching as she lowered herself till she hung just above him.
She turned to him, fearless now: ‘I’d like you to fuck me, Mr Adams, would you?’
He smiled, fully this time, no half-measures. ‘Dr Cooper, I’d like to fuck you very much.’
Emma knelt on the wooden table above him, her wetness just inches away from his upright cock. His eyes were fixed on her. She sat back on her haunches and took him in her hands, then moved forwards to rub herself against him. She pressed his cock against her so it pushed up along her clit and parted her lips, coating him in her juice, then she moved him back down and did it again.
‘Emma, let me –’
‘Shh. I’m concentrating.’
She was busy now, a doctor at work, a sexual surgeon, involved only in her own gratification, that urgent clitoral buzzing that required her to pull him up and down against her, there was nothing else like it, she thought as she threw her head back, and right now, he was her masturbatory tool.
But the more she did it, the more she wanted that solid, straining piece of flesh inside her. She wanted to feel his length knocking against her cervix, pushing her body over the edge. So, looking down at him, she pulled off her white coat, leaving herself bare but for her stockings under the neon kitchen lights and she positioned herself so that she was teetering on the end of his cock and she stayed there, while he writhed beneath her, for as long as she could before eventually sinking down on him, enveloping him exquisitely, both of them gasping with release. Then, as she slowly circled her pelvis on top of him, she reached forwards and placed his hands over his head, holding him down with one hand, using the other to take the stethoscope from around her neck so she could tie his wrists with it. Then, when he was bound, she leaned down slowly, letting her breasts graze his chest, to place one hand around his throat, a caress with a threat, gave him a familiar half-smile, and opened his mouth with hers so she could fuck him, again and again, with her efficient doctor’s tongue.
Afterwards, she sat on the edge of her kitchen table, feeling pleasantly groggy, sleepily sated, swinging her legs to and fro, perusing the rips in her stockings. Jon pulled on his regulation black trousers and watched her.
‘So,’ he said, zipping himself back in.
‘So,’ she replied, and paused to push her tangled hair back from her eyes so she could look at him equally.
‘Do you think I’ll need another examination?’ he said.
‘Wait to hear from me,’ she said. ‘I’ll be reviewing your case.’
‘Yes, Doctor,’ he replied, picking up his shirt, adding: ‘Although, I may have to contact you at some point, if there’s an emergency, for example, late at night. You never know, these things happen.’
Emma smiled and gently sucked on her own bottom lip for a moment, tasting him there, the salt of his sweat, the sweet earthiness of his cock. ‘We’ll both just have to wait and see, then, won’t we?’
Jessica Donnolly’s short stories have appeared in the Wicked Words collections Sex in the Kitchen and Sex in Uniform.
Pumps Monica Belle
I HAVE A confession to make. There’s a naughty habit I picked up in college, or maybe I should say a nasty habit. Yes, a nasty habit, as the Americans put it, because it’s something that respectable women very definitely do not do – but it is delightfully sexy.
The first time was at the beginning of my second year. I’d bought an ancient Metro, my first ever car, to get my stuff up to college. It was nearly two hundred miles, so I decided to fill my tank right up and make sure I didn’t run out of petrol. After buying the car I had to watch every penny, so I went to the supermarket pumps the night before I left. It was two in the morning and nobody was about except for a bored attendant reading a magazine in his booth. I’d parked a bit too close to the pumps, and when I put the nozzle in the hose pressed to my leg, just a couple of inches from the V of my jeans, so that when I squeezed the trigger …
I had never realised a petrol pump vibrated like that, so fast, and so powerful, the thick green hose sending shivers right through me, and right where it matters. Of course I snatched it away immediately, sure I’d been seen, but there was nobody there to see me, and that single jolt of pleasure had been far too good to ignore. My car was between me and the booth, and it was more than I could resist not to push the hose against me again, this time right between my thighs, with the trigger squeezed full on.
It made me feel guilty, and slightly silly, but it made me feel daring too, while those vibrations were far, far too good to let me stop. I had to close my eyes, the feeling was so strong, jolting me into a sudden arousal far more quickly than anything I’d known before, and made stronger still by my sense of being naughty and my fear of getting caught. All anybody needed to do was drive up behind me and they’d see, see what I was doing with the thick green hose between my legs, see how improper I was being, masturbating in public, how naughty, how dirty.
I squeezed my thighs tighter, biting my lip in a vain effort to stop the pleasure showing on my face as it rose higher and higher still. A little more and I was going to come, right there on the garage forecourt, to come in public. How bad could I get? I was masturbating in public. I was going to come in public. I was …
… not going to do anything of the sort, because the tank was full and the automatic cut-off had worked perfectly for once, leaving the hose still thick and firm between my thighs, but not vibrating. I had never, ever felt so frustrated, and, short of rubbing myself on the hose, which was far too blatant, there was nothing I could do. My hands were shaking, and the sense of urgency between my thighs was every bit as high as it had ever been before, even during those exquisite moments an instant before penetration, when you know your lover’s cock is going to go in at the next instant.
I was so aroused I even considered propositioning the attendant, something completely outside my experience. He wasn’t very attractive, or maybe I would have done, although I doubt it. I’d have lost my nerve, anyway, back then, after just three lovers and all of them very conventional – rather like me really, until then.
There was nothing conventional about what I did when I got home. I desperately needed to recreate my experience as soon as possible. Everyone else was asleep, my room quiet and almost dark, with just the dull orange glow of the street light outside to illuminate me as I stood by my bed, stroking myself through my jeans and struggling to focus my mind on what I’d done.
It wasn’t easy. I needed to be clothed and I needed to be standing, but I also needed something thick and rubbery between my thighs, something that vibrated. There wasn’t anything. Even if I’d had a boyfriend to hand he’d have needed at least three feet of impressively thick, vibrating cock, and they just don’t make men like that. I was going to do it, though, one way or another, and in the end I nipped downstairs to fetch a bottle of salad dressing from the fridge.
I held it between my thighs as I rubbed myself on it, thinking of how rude it had felt to secretly masturbate in public. It did feel good, and naughty, and it got me there in the end, but the thrill was very pale indeed compared with the real thing. Even as I came down from the peak of my excitement I knew I’d be doing it again.
The trouble was, that no matter what, the petrol tank of my Metro was simply not big enough to take me all the way. I tried again and again, all that year and always to much the same routine. Half my money went on petrol, and I was the most popular girl in my hall because I was always willing to give lifts, help people move their things and generally put my car to use whenever I possibly cou
ld.
As soon as my tank was empty I’d stay up late, then drive out to one of the big, anonymous petrol stations on the ring road. Sometimes I’d be unlucky and there would be too many people about, but more often than not it would be OK and I would get my moment of mounting ecstasy before driving home to bring myself to climax under sticky fingers.
I soon became something of an expert. For instance, it’s always best to go to the right-hand pump, because then there’s the best chance of being shielded from the prying eyes of both the attendant and fellow motorists. Unless, of course, your petrol tank is on the left, in which case the reverse is true. Always wear dark clothes, because believe me, walking into a student accommodation block in white jeans with the outline of your sex lips set off with oily black lowlights takes quite a bit of explaining.
Otherwise jeans are good, because nobody comments if you wear them tight, but if I get too excited I make a damp patch, which can be awkward. Slacks are more embarrassing still, because the damp patch shows more easily, but they let the vibrations right through, especially with no knickers on underneath. Skirts are awkward, unless you dare to lift them up, but I’m getting ahead of myself.
All that year it was the same, and most of the next. I did feel guilty about it, sometimes, and that it somehow made me abnormal, but then I’d tell myself it was just harmless fun. Twice I gave it up, once during a brief fling with a fellow student, a law graduate who’d already been through Yale. He was nice, and maybe I even loved him a little, but I knew I could never share my nasty little secret with him and stopped it until we split up. The day after I’d dumped him I was back at the pumps.