CoolMintCreme
Posts: 16
Joined: 8/31/2012
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This story runs long on tension, relatively short on sex. I am eager to hear your honest opinions.
She knows, I think, and I am terrified.
She slides through the open door behind me into the examination room, lit only by the widening sun above distant hills.
The room is not in use at this hour. She knows it is a place of refuge for nurses worked to a bald nub, women who come here to slump on the blue leather sofa, commiserate, trade gossip, steal naps. She knows that I linger here on breaks, that I occasionally miss calls my confederates cover while I relax, stretch my legs, breathe.
I am not the only one, but I have been abusing the privilege lately, It is well within her authority to make my professional life even more miserable.
The door clicks shut. The sun winks like an accuser promising retribution to be meted out in shade. I don't turn around. I can't exhale. Why did I come back here for that fucking magazine?
Silence sits like a board on my chest weighted with Salem stones.
She knows, I think, turning to face her.
The door locks automatically.
She is tall, severe, attractive. Her chin and nose are pointed; her taut skin, always slightly flushed, looks as if it is stretched back and fastened by the hard knot of ash-blond hair near the top of her head.
At best, she appears thoughtful in the consultations with patients she always rushes through. Given her general demeanor, nurses who don't know her yet, who did not heed the warnings, have mistaken a bedside air suggestive of solicitude for decency that might extend to them. They probably seek it as tonic to the sharp bright chill she gives off at a long distance in all common areas.
In search of kindness, they have been punished by clear blue eyes of ancient deep ice and comeuppances full of still-colder condescension. I never made that naïve mistake. I wouldn't give the fucking bitch the satisfaction.
But now her smock is open. The top three buttons of her gray silk blouse are open, too. These breasts represent another mixed message, further counterpoint to a clinical manner: they are full, ripe, soft, round, hyper-feminine, inviting.
She undoes the knot and her hair falls to her shoulders. It is blunt cut, thick and lustrous in the light of a sun going red in retreat.
She smiles. I step back and bump my left hip on the sturdy cushion of the examination table.
“Hello Monica,” she says in a whisper that cracks in the middle. I am nearly nonplused; I would have guessed she would not call her own offspring by their first names.
She knows, I think, and I am mortified.
I have been bolder or more careless in recent months in exposing sides of myself that perhaps should go unshared.
But it sits heavy sometimes to listen to my confederates chirp about their sons' birthdays or their daughters' prom dates while I sit and nod and smile, unable to reciprocate. And it stings to look at the photos they pin to shopworn cork or tape onto recesses of reception desks; it smarts like a taunt about the private life I live that is unfit for public declaration.
The best of these women are like sisters to me, the sisters I never had, sturdy, generous big-hearted souls whose bond of shared struggle is strengthened and deepened in the confidences they share. They tell much, including much that will not be broadcast in the sterile realm of bulletin boards and graduation portraits. If one is to be trusted, one must tell much in return. So I have done, incrementally, and damn the consequences.
And now the best of them know about the women I've loved and lost, the women I've loved less and gotten clear of. They know about the trust fund sorority sister who went down on me at the back of the balcony section during “The Ring of the Nibelungen.” They know about the junkie actress from a well-regarded regional theater group who dumped me for a bisexual carpenter's helper. They even know about a thing or two I've done in the hot red shadows of members-only clubs with women who sometimes find it difficult to look squarely at one another in the hours that follow on the harsh light of the sidewalk.
So I have been bolder, but grateful and unsurprised at how calmly and thoroughly my good friends accept me without so much as an intimation of judgment.
But not everyone here is a friend, and others are far worse. The good doctor has a reputation as an eavesdropper; silences form and calcify in her long dour wake when it is known she is within a wide vicinity.
Fuck it. She has neither seen nor heard enough to know that I do not take onto my plate scoops of Saturday night vanilla looking to melt into something exotic and dangerous as a life sciences experiment in solid states and properties. She doesn't know because it is overmuch to tell that I weary of that kind of dalliance and the shopworn recriminations that serially attach thereto. I am nobody's dash of spicy chocolate sauce except on my own hard-won terms.
Those terms do not extend to my place of business. Period.
They do not apply to this Teutonic monster who confronts me behind a locked door, on the other side of which she has undoubtedly moved the lever to display “Consultation.” I have seen that look more than often enough to know the ways of the wheels that turn behind it. I am familiar with the trials of spirit she has gone through to get to this moment; I can almost hear the meshing gears as women of this stripe make plans, take pills, gulp gimlets, set into motion predictable schemes in preparation for the musky needy business they lay at someone's feet.
Not mine, sweetie. Not mine.
I could be wrong, but I don't think so. She stands in front of me like someone with no time to waste, someone well-schooled in large steps forward with a charmless incapacity to be subtle.
Hello and my Christian name is more than enough. Eleven elaborate variants of “Go fuck yourself” come to mind, but I check them all before they reach my tongue.
She is beautiful. She is suddenly, unexpectedly breakable. And she deserves breaking.
I have been known to bend my own rules.
She knows, and I am intrigued.
“I am sorry … to see you like this.” Your English needs outpatient surgery.
“See me like what, Dr. Schell?”
“Like … like ...”
“Is there something I can do for you?”
“No,” she says, two syllables with a semi-quaver.
“Are you sure?”
“No,” she says, and I step toward her. “Yes,” she says and blushes fetchingly.
“How about a little light?” I cut between her and the switch, obstructing the path of escape. I do not turn it on.
She stares at the floor and shakes her head once, sharply. “I just wanted ...”
“You just wanted – what?” I set my back to the door. She edges away, looks up at me, then returns to studying the linoleum. Those are real diamonds adorning her small, elegant ears. A half-carat each, maybe.
I check my watch, as if discomfort was simmering on a timer. I frown in preparation for scolding a mischievous toddler caught trying to snatch a cookie..
“My break is almost over.”
“I know,” she says, hanging her head. “I think … I made a mistake.”
I step forward. She retreats. Her hair is silhouetted by the last light of the October sun. Thin layers of stratocumulus over the mountain crests glow in rich shades of orange and pink, decorated and given dimension by smoky blues and grays along their bottom edges. I stare for a long moment over her shoulder while her chest heaves and she develops a hitch in her breathing.
I step toward her. She tries to step back and bumps into the examination table.
“What mistake do you mean, doctor? You haven't done anything yet.
“You haven't asked for anything yet.”
“I … have to go,” Dr. Schell said, as if to settle an argument that had not been given voice.
“But what did you try to say you wanted from me, doctor? What can Monica do for you?”
I step close enough to sniff for fear beneath Origins ginger body scrub. She smooths the unwrinkled front of a prim charcoal Chanel skirt and struggles to hold back a shudder.
“You don't have to go, Dr. Schell,” I say, brushing hair from her shoulder.
“You don't have to say what you came here for.” I lightly touch the corner of her eye and taste the salt on my forefinger.
“I know what you came here for. I know you followed an impulse that wasn't easy to follow.”
She looks up at me, eyes wet. They are blue running to gray, betraying fear, need and a naked plea for warmth and approval. She looks 10 years younger, and somewhat like an ill-gathered mass of warm clay aching to be grabbed and molded. She has me now, and I her.
“I appreciate your courage. I want to reward it.”
“I don't know,” she says, with a catch so strong it may as well have been a hiccup.
“Yes you do, doctor. You know. And we both know it.”
I step closer and she staggers back, stumbles and slides along the table. I watch her feet as they scrabble at linoleum in a parlous battle for balance and poise. I watch as a brown leather Steve Madden slingback pump falls off her left foot. I push her by the shoulder onto the low table while her long tanned arms flail, and I force her down so she is momentarily supine and supremely ready for her evening examination.
I interrupt a cry with my lips on hers, holding her head with both hands as I lean in close and press my face into contact. She tastes like cinnamon Tic-Tacs cut with poorly masked flavors that run more to the essential. I tweak her right nipple and squeeze her mouth with thumb and forefinger so it makes a comic O before I kiss her again, this time with a bit less restraint.
Then the good doctor surprises me with what else she seems to know. She lies flat, relaxes and retreats, kissing the small void between us before easing up to meet my lips softly, wetly, incrementally, over and over; approaching, receding, eyes wide, pouting, beseeching, sighing and pulling me toward her, instigating tenderness.
“This is happening because you made it it happen,” I say, pulling away to stand over her. I depress the table lever so her head dips as her feet rise, no more than three inches.
“I know,” she says, turning to me, arms out, hands cupped as if to draw my head to hers. I push her shoulders into the upholstery and pin them there and she goes still.
“You are responsible.”
“I know.”
“We have much to lose.”
“I know.”
“You came after me, to take advantage of … I don't know, a possibility. It may not go the way you imagine, but before it goes another inch, I want to hear you tell me who and what the hell you think I am.
“I want to hear it now, doctor.”
“Please stop calling me doctor … Monica,” she says, eyes wide and wet.
I adjust the lever to bring her up to me. I toggle it and she pitches back.
“I'm not sure what I should call you, doctor. In and then out of this room. But I need to hear you say it or I need to get the fuck out of here.”
She looks me in the eye and tries to resurrect a ghost of the chill for which she is locally infamous. “I thought you were a woman who knew how to love women,” she says without a hitch or a stumble. With a shift of her backside I catch a peek of pink panties with a streak like a blotch at the crotch.
She wanted me to see that, I believe. I bend her backward a couple of inches further.
“And I thought you were a woman who knows how to take charge.”
Bull's-eye.
She tries to sit up, but the table's inclination pulls her back to her place. She seeks eye contact. I withhold it. She emits at least three scents I cannot easily resist. She lifts her head, brushes the hair from her face and purses her lips expectantly, coquettishly, unmistakably.
She has me now and she knows it. What she may not know is the price that entails.
“You are right on both counts, doctor. I intend to take charge and keep it.”
Her thighs open at the touch of my hand. With the other, I set the table so she is more comfortable, upper body slightly elevated. I kiss her and slide my right hand between her legs, rubbing bulge of vulva with the backs of two fingers, in one spot, but only just. Up. And down.
She moans low, staring at me, shaking a little, eyes wide and young and scared and earnest and grateful and willing and hungry. She lifts her hips and rocks them to feel my fingers where they would do the most good. I bend my wrist so the friction stays south of the mark, where it belongs.
She reaches around my waist to pull at the hem of my God-awful teal polyester slacks. I brush her hand off, ease mine aside and lean in close to her ear.
“I am in charge, am I not, Dr. Schell.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Yes you are.”
“Say ja, doctor.”
She looks the wounded doe in the burning forest. “Why?”
“Because I'm in charge, Natalie. Because I'm in charge, and that's what I want.
“I'm going to tell you what you're going to do. You will do as I say. And say ja.”
She blinked. Four times. Maybe five. And said, “Ja.”
“Get on your knees in front of me, doctor.” She had to slide off the opposite side of the table. I gave her no room on mine.
“Better yet, get on your knees now, and crawl over here, on all fours, like a bitch. And be quick about it. Do you hear me?”
I did not lean over the table to see Dr. Natalie Schell cowering behind it. I don't know how I managed not to.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Ja.”
She always dressed in ways that flattered her small, toned ass, another tack out of step with a repellent demeanor, and almost outside the bounds of propriety in a public health care facility.
I got over my initial interest after considering it as one more instrument of the superiority she misused to lock up her place in a pecking order. But now it was my beak doing the pecking as I walked around the table for an eyeful: both upraised and laid low, solid, vulnerable and comely as hell as she crawled around the table and I stayed close behind so she could not catch up.
“Head down,” I said. Her skirt rose and the thin cotton of lace-trimmed boy shorts stretched to accentuate lovely haunches, high, firm, round and proud above a mound heavy with the swell of arousal.
I was now standing by the table in the spot where the showdown had begun. She had not lifted her head. I cuffed it lightly when I caught her trying to touch herself.
“None of that, Natalie. Now turn the other way, please. Take your time.
“Do you remember what you came here for?”
“Yes.”
I cupped her chin in my palm and guided it backward, and was almost distressed to see how pleased she looked.
“Ja,” she said, with no further prompting.
As she turned about, I saw oblongs of dust on the bony knees of her taupe thigh-highs. Those off-white splotches of self-abused grime set a fundamental run of bass notes thrumming through my abdomen.The imperious creature brought to heel — desperate, bullied, put-upon, conquered and made to feel complicit in a mad game of annihilated pride — kneeled and crawled in a circle at my feet and won badges of shame for her trouble. Discoloration certified thrall to desire; the marks may as well have been finger picks plucking at the low heavy strings wrapped tight around eyeholes in tuning heads, running down a long neck and solid body into the warm silver anchor of the tailpiece. Out of the tension therein, the overwound coils in her cunt and mine vibrated toward an end that I knew she saw coming.
I took off my pants and folded them neatly on the couch. I pulled my panties away from my crotch, wanting her to see how wet I had become.
“Crawl to me, doctor. Keep your blond head down.”
“Ja.”
I peeled off my panties and slid a callused finger high and inside. I stopped myself a heartbeat away from the pleasure I intended to enjoy at someone else's expense.
“Crawl to me, doctor. Nice and close. You know what you have to do.”
She knows, and I am gratified.
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