Doctor Dom Series Sequence One (Triage | Observation | Diagnosis): A BDSM & Medical Play Series

by Tara Crescent

  We’d talked about jobs a little last week. That wasn’t what I was interested in. “Incredibly awkward teenage years; elaborate.”

  She made a face at me. “I had acne. Horrible, disfiguring acne; I was teased a lot through middle school; it got a bit better in high school, but things only really cleared up when I got to college.”

  I reached across the table, took her hands in mine. I’d led a charmed life through my school years, but I knew how brutal kids could be. She took my hand, put it against her cheek for an instant. It was a simple but intimate gesture, and it made my heart beat like a teenager.

  Right there, I wanted to blurt out that I really liked her. That she was rapidly becoming important. But there was her submissiveness; that thing that I was deliberately ignoring until the time seemed right. Until we understood where we came from and what we wanted, I couldn’t say anything.

  We ate our dumplings and talked about things that weren’t of consequence.

  Chapter 12

  Lisa:

  “Your place or mine?” he asked when we were done; his eyes dark, every pore of him radiating sex appeal. My entire body clenched. He had left me aching with need earlier in my office; he’d stroked my hands all evening as we ate dinner, and I barely tasted the dumplings, though they were delicious. I was overflowing with lust; the heat pooling between my legs, till all I could feel was my pussy, throbbing and impatient and wet.

  “Mine?” I asked. He’d been to my place once, last week after dinner, but he hadn’t touched me then; he had surgery scheduled early the following morning; sleep was a necessity. But it was Friday night, and he had a clear schedule the next day and I did too.

  We rose; I was trying not to touch him, and he knew it. His eyes were dark; intense. “Be a good girl,” he said softly.

  I nodded. Heat had flared in me when he said that; the words a pulsing trigger that opened the floodgates of my pussy. I bit my lips and waited as he came around to open the door of the car for me; to buckle me in, his hands brushing against my breasts as the seat belt clicked in place.

  I stayed quiet in the car; in the elevator as we rode up. He stood behind me; he drew my body into him so that my back was at his chest; and I could feel his hot breath at my neck; his fingers pushing my hair over one shoulder as his lips grazed the base of my neck.

  I felt like a gazelle, like prey before the hunter, and yet I felt safe and protected leaning against him. The elevator dinged on my floor; I reached for my keys with shaking fingers. All I wanted to do was throw my arms around him and pull his body into mine, but I knew without him saying it that that wasn’t going to be allowed.

  He pulled me into my tiny home office. My desk was clean; mostly from lack of use; I preferred to go into the office if I needed to work.

  I kept my eyes lowered; I could feel him shake his head. “No, look at me,” he said quietly. I looked into his eyes. “Play with me?” he asked. It was a question, not an order, there was some comfort in that. I nodded silently.

  His hands were on the waistband of my skirt; undoing the button, sliding down the zipper. He shimmied it down my legs, and I stepped out. His hands moved to my shirt; he quickly unbuttoned it and pushed it off my shoulder, kissing me at the point where my shoulder and neck met. My purple panties and bra came into view; as did my garter belt and stockings. I heard his hiss of pleasure, and I grinned to myself.

  He stood back, looked at me. His eyes were warm with pleasure as he took me in; watched me stand in front of him in just my underwear. My skin tingled all over; my pussy was heavy with need. I loved that I could bring this look to his eyes; give him the same pleasure he gave me.

  “Bend over the desk,” he said finally.

  I did as I was told.

  “Give me your hands.” He took my hands in his; stretched them out in front of me, so that I was clasping the edge of the desk. “Don’t move them.”

  “Yes, Dr. Anderson,” I said quietly, engulfed in flames of lust. Forming words was difficult; the need and wetness in my pussy was preventing me from thinking straight.

  His fingers traced the outline of my panties, slid under them to cup my ass. I hissed in pleasure as I felt the warmth of his hand against me.

  Spank. His hand came down sharply on my butt, and I shuddered as the waves of pain and pleasure went through me. I shifted restlessly. Another spank went through me. “Keep still,” he said.

  The last time we’d done this, I had been a stranger coming home from a club with him; he had spanked me because I’d asked him to, and even though he’d tied me up and spanked me well, there had been a sense that he’d held himself back. This time, spanking me over my desk because he wanted to, he wasn’t holding anything back; and the nature of his dominance wasn’t in how hard he spanked me, but in the way he wielded control. He didn’t restrain me, he didn’t press me down on the desk. He positioned me the way he wanted, and trusted I would hold that position simply because he wished it. That was control.

  Spank. Stroke. Kiss. Spank. Lick. He was playing me expertly, and I groaned, longing to push back into his hands and his mouth, and knowing with utter certainty that he would stop as soon as I moved.

  “You know, Lisa,” he said, his voice thoughtful. “We’ve been somewhat remiss here.”

  “We have, Dr. Anderson?” I asked, my voice soft and pliable. His fingers slid under my panties, and rested on the slit of my pussy, stroking up and down the slit, and my brain ceased to function; everything narrowed to those fingers; to my unspoken plea that he please, please push his fingers deep into me, thrust into me, and rub my clitoris until I exploded.

  “Mmm. My fault, really, for rushing into a safe word situation on Wednesday. But we should have had a talk about prior experience first.”

  I went absolutely still; the blood in my veins turned to ice. He noticed, how could he not? His hands were on my body as I processed what he said.

  Spank.

  “What’s your safe word?” His voice was level.

  “Red.” Mine was so low I couldn’t really hear myself. But he heard me.

  Spank. Stroke. Kiss.

  “Here’s how this is going to work,” he said. His voice was implacable. “I’ll ask questions, you answer. You stop answering, and I’ll stop touching you.” he said, flicking his fingers over my clitoris in a touch of such pleasure-pain that I moaned loudly and almost moved right off the table.

  I couldn’t think with him touching me; which seemed to be his plan. “Do I get to ask questions too?” I asked.

  Another flick of my clitoris, and his hands were at my hips, pushing the panties down until they were at my ankles. He helped me step out of them, as he answered my question. “Not right now, I’m doing the asking first. But I promise, I’ll answer your questions after.”

  I could do this. There was a way I could answer his questions without exposing my fears, my weaknesses and my secret shame. I had to do this. Because, I was sure, as sure as I was about my own name, that if he opened me up, layer by layer, he’d eventually get to that innermost, broken Matryoshka doll. And then he’d run for his life, and I’d never see him again.

  His fingers slid inside my wet pussy, and I moaned aloud, he felt so good. “Have you been in a Dom/Sub relationship before?”

  I groaned. He had cut right to the chase. “Yes.”

  His fingers thrust inside me; his thumb rubbed my clitoris. A reward for an honest answer; I could see how this was going to play out.

  Spank. Rub. Stroke.

  “For how long?” His voice was absolutely steady.

  I whimpered. “Patrick,” I groaned. The wetness was trickling down my thighs.

  His fingers stilled. He was waiting.

  “Eight months,” I ground out. I needed his fingers on my clitoris again; I needed it with a shocking desperation.

  “Just the one relationship?” he asked, his fingers moving inside me, twisting and thrusting at the same time, curving to find my g-spot.

  I clenched my teeth to s
top myself from screaming as the pleasure from his touch cascaded through me. I nodded to answer his question, my head sideways on the table, my eyes empty with lust.

  “Why did it end?” His tongue traced an idle circle around my clitoris, his strong fingers pushed into me.

  “Patrick, please,” I begged. I couldn’t hold on; I couldn’t form a coherent thought, and I couldn’t answer his question.

  His hands stilled; his mouth left me.

  “Why did it end?” he repeated.

  I almost sobbed; my need was so great. “It just didn’t work out,” I whispered.

  “Did he hurt you?” His hands stroked my ass gently, kneading the cheeks, exposing my asshole to the cool night air. I clenched; he stroked me to relaxation.

  “Not in the way you mean,” I answered, through the haze.

  “In what way then?” he asked. His tongue rubbed again at my clitoris; his fingers pushed inside me all the way, thrusting me forward.

  Fuck. I needed to think carefully here, not have my mind be numb with pleasure. “Patrick, please, please let me come,” I groaned.

  “In what way then?” he repeated; fingers still, mouth pulled away.

  “There wasn’t much to the relationship apart from the Dom/Sub dynamic,” I said, through a growl of need.

  He resumed his assault on my pussy; his hands pulling my inner thighs apart; his mouth unerring in its aim, his tongue finding that spot and stroking it repeatedly till I was lost, falling, falling into my orgasm, and I shattered on impact, flailing and screaming and twisting off the table.

  He held me down; his mouth didn’t leave my pussy as I thrashed and twisted, until I finally became limp, and his tongue eased its stroking. I breathed in and out, my mind blank. He picked me up and carried me to my bedroom, set me down gently on my bed, lay down next to me, his hand taking mine.

  “How long ago?” he asked.

  My voice was very soft. “Twelve years ago; I was twenty-three.”

  “And you’ve never wanted to be in that type of relationship again?” His voice was questioning.

  I shook my head. How could I tell him that I didn’t trust myself not to drown in the needs of my Dominant; I didn’t trust that I would take care of myself. I couldn’t tell him how weak I was; it was easier for him to believe that I just didn’t want to be submissive again. But I’d underestimated him; he wasn’t an idiot.

  “All the times I’ve asked you not to masturbate, did you obey?” he prompted.

  I flushed; nodded.

  “Why did you obey? Why are you submissive to me?”

  “I don’t know,” I whispered. This time, my words were truth. I didn’t know why I was submissive to Patrick; after all, I’d gone twelve years without feeling this need. I didn’t know what it was about him that made me want to obey; to cede control; to please him.

  He was still next to me, processing my words. I shifted, curved into his body. His hands reached out automatically and drew me in so that he was spooning me, my back pressed against his chest, his arms around my waist. He kissed the spot where my neck met my shoulders, and I moved against him; overwhelming gratitude rising in me that he was still here; that nothing in my story had made him run. Yet.

  I wanted him so badly. Again.

  “Are you looking for a submissive?” I asked him softly. We were at an inflection point. I was terrified of being his submissive; yet I obeyed his every order willingly.

  He took a deep breath. “No, not in the way you think,” he said. I could tell he was trying to tread carefully, to be thoughtful about the words he was using. “I like control; it gives me great pleasure when you obey me. But life is about more than sexual dynamics.” Another kiss at my neck; a warm caress at that spot that was connected to my pussy. I pushed down the lust; what he said next was important.

  “I want you to sit at my table, and laugh and tell me outrageous stories about your day, while I pour you a drink. I want us to bicker about who makes the coffee in the morning. I want to grumble as you are dragging me into yet another mall. I want normal.”

  Emotions were erupting in me as he spoke; what he was describing was so mundane, so prosaic, so reassuring. “I don’t really like malls,” I whispered, through the tide of rising gladness.

  He laughed. “Good. Because I really don’t want to be dragged into a mall at all.” He bent his lips to my neck again, trailed small kisses down my shoulder; his arms moved from my waist to slide a finger under my bra, trace a circle around my nipple, then to pinch it between his thumb and his forefinger. Delicious pain shot through me, followed swiftly by pleasure.

  “Again,” I groaned.

  He repeated the movement on my other nipple, and I turned so that I was lying on my back. “Patrick,” I whimpered. He swiftly removed the bra; and then his fingers were at my nipples, stretching, pulling, pinching, and I was lost in the pleasure-pain, arching upwards to offer him my breasts, begging him to keep going.

  “What do you want from me, Lisa?” he asked, his eyes dark as he moved to straddle me; his cock brushing against my pussy.

  “Don’t hold back,” I begged. “Please, Patrick…”

  He rolled a condom on top of him, and thrust into me with a swift, deep move. Every muscle in my pussy clenched. He groaned; I could hear him suck in a breath. “Fuck, Lisa,” he whispered. “I can feel every bit of you around me …”

  I parted my legs wide; clenched the muscles in my pussy again. He growled against my neck; a deep mumble that send my nerves tingling. My hands grabbed his biceps, he pulled out of me and pulled me to the edge of the bed, moving to stand over me, before plunging into me again. I screamed with the raw intensity; his eyes darkened still further.

  He was hitting every nerve ending in my pussy with every move, with every thrust. I could hear an incoherent moaning in the room; the girl was moaning with my voice.

  His fingers were at my mouth; I opened automatically to receive them. “Make them wet,” he ordered. I licked and sucked; my tongue catching at his hard knuckles, lathering him with devotion, wanting his cock in my mouth instead.

  He pulled his fingers out; and they moved onto my clitoris, one finger peeling back the hood, the other fingers rubbing and creating a rhythm that pulsed with my pulse; his cock beat my insides with the same tidal wave that was in my blood. I could hear the sounds of his body slap against mine; the squishing wetness of my pussy; my quiet moans, his harsh breathing. My fingers were closed around the sheets, clutching on for dear life, and then, he moved the angle of his dick slightly to come in contact with my g-spot, his fingers moved so surely against my clitoris, urging my orgasm, and I came apart in a screaming rush of breath and incoherent need.

  His expression was rapt as I slowly came down. “I could feel every little pulse of that pussy, every twitch of your muscles…” His cock moved inside me, pushing, insistent.

  “Again,” he said, as he held his fingers to his mouth.

  I didn’t protest. I was his to command; he would decide when I was done.

  I screamed my way to another orgasm; Patrick watched with pleasure as he pounded into me. He finally came after my third orgasm, groaning as he erupted. We lay silently next to each other after.

  Chapter 13

  Patrick:

  I lay awake in the dark as she slept next to me.

  I’d been more or less honest with her.

  Everything I said about what I wanted was true. But there was a lot I left out, about Andrea and our relationship. She had said that there hadn’t been much to her relationship apart from the dominance and the submission, and that was as effective a way to summarize the disaster that was Andrea and me as any. Except her relationship had ended after eight months. Mine had lasted eight years.

  I liked Lisa. I’d enjoyed dinner with her immensely; she was easy to talk to, funny, intelligent and entertaining. She swore like a sailor and blushed like a little girl.

  I would tell her everything eventually; I had to. But we were just pushing the two-
week mark; and it was too early for the major bombshells.

  I finally fell asleep, but my dreams were filled with a sense of unease.

  Chapter 14

  Lisa:

  Monday morning, and I woke up with a smile on my lips, and soreness in my pussy. I’d been fucked more times than I could count that weekend; I’d been tied up and taken; I’d been caressed and cuddled and cherished.

  Hard and soft. Pleasure and pain. Patrick played the contrasts like a pro; and I had been reduced, time after time after time to a ball of pulsing, quivering need, until he granted me release.

  We showered together Monday morning; he had spent most of the weekend at my place. His hands ran over my body, soaping me, lathering me, slowly building up longing within me until I couldn’t take it anymore. “Come for me,” he said finally, his eyes filled with warmth and pleasure, when I was overwhelmed with fevered need, and I exploded into his fingers and his mouth on cue.

  “What are you doing Thursday evening?” he asked me as we ate breakfast. I’d darted out sometime over the weekend, and stocked up my normally empty refrigerator. He made the coffee while I rushed around making pancakes. We were so domestic, the two of us.

  I reached for the maple syrup. “Not sure, why?” I asked.

  “There’s a reception at the AGO. A donor thing. Want to go?”

  “You get invited to donor receptions at the art gallery?” How much money did surgeons make, anyway? Not enough to donate to the AGO, I would have guessed. Clearly, I had been wrong.

  “Sort of. My parents are donors; I’ve been told to go represent them.” Slight resignation in his voice. “It’ll be filled with boring and rich people.”

  “You make it sound delightful,” I laughed. “I might work the room, trolling for rich clients,” I warned. Rich bored people were the bread-and-butter of the designer trade.

  “As long as clients are all you are trolling for, I’m good with that,” he grinned. His eyes moved down my body, openly checking me out. I took a sharp, inward breath as pleasure filled me.