Doctor's Orders: The Complete Series Page 4

  “You are very preoccupied with the thoughts of others, Claire.” He sounds bemused. He slides one hand up the back of my leg, grazing the side of my pussy, and plants his hand on the middle of my ass. Then he spreads my cheeks.

  “You are preoccupied, Claire, and it makes you full of fear.” Cold globs of lube drip onto my exposed asshole. I shiver in surprise, and then anticipation. I haven’t done much of...that. “You are so full of fear, Claire, that there is no room left.”

  I only half hear his words, the rest of me focused on the finger swirling lube around my tight, puckered asshole. I have no idea how this is going to feel. Already it feels...something. Sensitive. I try to relax into it as the finger presses in slow, tightening circles, and, as I take a deep breath, he pushes in past the tight ring and into my ass.

  It’s indescribable. Wrong, very wrong, but so, so good. It feels somehow too full, like a brimming cup, like I’m constantly on the cusp of something powerful. I whimper as he starts to move his finger in circles again, this time inside me, stroking nerves that I didn’t even know were there, stretching out the virgin muscles.

  More lube, and then another finger. Again he has me whimpering.

  “Quiet,” he says, and his fingers continue their steady progress, wider and wider, wider and wider.

  I can feel his fingers now in my pussy too, pressing on the thin layer of flesh. My whole body is connected by a growing, buzzing pleasure. This is different, so different. I let go of all resistance, and I realize I want him to fuck me there, too. I want him to take all of me.

  “You are so full of this fear, Claire,” he says again, and through this buzzing pleasure I can somehow hear him smiling. “Perhaps it is time you were full of something else.”

  Now I’m sure he’s smiling, and even I want to laugh at his stupid joke, right up until I feel his fingers withdraw. Before I can complain, the point of something large and rubbery presses against my ass. It’s too large. I try to turn my head, but he puts a firm hand on the back of my head, and I feel more cold lube fall on my ass. The tip of whatever it is starts to probe in those circles again, like his fingers did, and I gasp as it pushes into me, even just a little. It’s way wider than his fingers.

  For a moment he lets it rest, and I try to get used to the feel of it, my heart beating like a mad drum, my pussy throbbing. Then he twists it, ever so slightly, one direction, then the other, and I moan.

  “Good girl,” he says again, and adds more lube.

  He pushes in deeper.

  I bite my tongue before I can squeal, and ball my hands into little fists. It burns, the feeling of being stretched, and I want more of it. God, I want more. I want to tell him I can take more. Before I can speak his hand is on my pussy again, his finger toying with my clit, and my mind shrinks down to a tiny little point.

  “You did not know how much you would enjoy this, did you, Claire? You like it when it hurts just a little.”

  “Yes,” I breathe, sound muffled by the leather seat.

  “You like that the driver is watching your little display.”

  I guess my breathing stops, because the Doctor chuckles.

  “Of course he watches, Claire.”

  And the thought of the driver watching me get bent over the Doctor’s lap, naked ass in the air, having something pushed into me while I moan into the seat, suddenly drives me wild. I mewl, pressing my hard nipples into the seat, raising my ass higher in the air, begging for it, and the Doctor pushes in all the way to a wide hilt that rests snuggly against my flesh.

  I feel so full I could burst. I’ve never wanted to be properly fucked so badly in my entire life.

  Instead the Doctor slaps my cheek and pulls my dress back down, covering my ass. I turn my head in dismay just as he pulls me up by the arm.

  “Sit up, Claire. Clothe yourself.”

  I pull the straps of my dress on as he turns me, zipping up the back. When I turn back around he gestures for me to lean forward. I know better than to question him, now, but I guess my disappointment is obvious.

  “Don’t fret, Claire. I believe you have a fan.”

  I wish I didn’t have this natural inclination to blush, but I do. Badly. I know I’m bright red now, and I only glance furtively at the rearview mirror.

  The driver winks at me.

  I’m mortified. But I can’t dwell on it; the Doctor demands my full attention.

  “Do you see this?” he says, holding up a white plastic flower. A nice one, though. Orchid, I think. He pins it to the front of my dress. “This will allow me to see and hear what you see and hear, Claire.”

  There are about a million things clamoring in my sex-addled brain for attention. See and hear? Where am I going without him?

  “Among other things,” he adds with a smile, lightly cupping my chin. His eyes are a mesmerizing blue. I always feel that I see something there, something beyond some impersonal involvement. He lets me linger in that gaze for just a moment, my chin resting in his hand. And then it’s over.

  “We’re here,” he announces. The limo slides to a stop, hitting a pothole as it pulls into the curb. The bouncing jolts the thing inside me, and I’m reminded of just how weird it is to have...whatever it is, in me. I can’t quite sit normally. The hilt jutting out forces me to arch my back, lean forward a little. It probably looks very Marilyn Monroe-ish, especially in this dress.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, suddenly alarmed, back to my normal anxious self.

  “You are going in there,” he says, his head turned back towards the opposite window, as he was when I entered the car. I look out the window and see what looks like a cheesy, dilapidated diner. “You will be collected when the session is over.”

  “In there?” There are trucks in the parking lot of this diner, a few taxis. I’m dressed like...I don’t know what. Not like I’m going to a literal truck stop.

  “Get out of the car, Claire.”

  His voice has gone to ice. I know that voice. I have to do what he says. I look at the rearview mirror, like maybe the driver will have some advice for me, but now – now – he won’t look me in the eye.

  “What am I supposed to do in there?” I ask while scooting, as slowly as possible, towards the door. I have to be careful of the butt plug, and I want more time. I want something, anything, some clue.

  “Whatever you want, Claire,” he says, and he turns to look at me with those eyes again. “Now get out of the car.”

  We’ve just had this whole...discussion, I guess you could call it, about fear. I’m not about to show him that I’m still afraid. I don’t want to fail in front of him. I grapple with the catch on the door and try to look confident, and brave, and I step out of the limo. I look back, but he’s already turned away. I’m on my own until he decides it’s over. Until I’ve learned whatever it is I’m supposed to have learned.

  Or until I’ve done what I’m supposed to do.

  With growing anxiety I shut the door, and I don’t have even a moment to prepare myself before the limo pulls away. Leaving just me, alone on this poorly lit street, in what, I’m realizing, is an absolutely terrible part of town, across the street from the world’s saddest diner.

  It doesn’t even have a glowing neon sign. It has the sign, but it’s broken. It just says “Diner.” There’s a sparse scattering of people visible in the brightly lit windows, the exact kinds of people you’d expect to see on first glance: tired looking men in dirty sweatshirts and trucker hats, resigned looking waitresses older than my mother. It’s...not promising.

  Maybe it’s a front, I think. Maybe it’s one of those super secret, exclusive clubs ironically pretending to be a shitty diner, and someone will see me and my dress and bring me to the unmarked back door.

  I gingerly adjust my dress, and clench my butt. I’d briefly gotten used to the plug, but that definitely reminds me that it’s there, and sends a little shiver through my body. I know it’s stupid, but I’m worried that somehow people will know. That they’ll be able to tell I
have a giant butt plug shoved deep in my ass. I wriggle a little, smoothing my dress, making sure it doesn’t poke out or anything – God, I’d be so embarrassed – take a deep breath, and step out from the curb.

  The diner looks less and less promising as a secret, elite club the closer I get. There’s trash in the street, and some kind of gross liquid that I have to step over winding its way to the curb. The stairs are grated, which is a challenge in heels, especially for me. I’d almost started to feel comfortable, like I belonged in clothes like this, and suddenly I remember that I don’t really know how to wear them.

  But I have my orders.

  I take a deep breath, and open the door.

  At first I’m relieved, because there isn’t this dramatic record scratch moment with everyone stopping to stare at the dolled up girl with the cleavage and the fuck me dress. Like it’s normal or something. And I even let myself relax for a second, but I’m wrong. Totally, totally wrong. It’s not like in the movies, where everyone is waiting to be surprised. It takes real people a few moments.

  But just a few. And then everyone’s staring at me in a sudden bubble of silence.

  The middle-aged waitress looks wary, pouring some man’s coffee, like she’s afraid I’m a refugee from a bad night out and I’m going to vomit all over the place. The trucker in his booth looks more surprised than anything, but when he catches me looking back his face transforms into a mask of obligatory lust. Like that’s what I expect from him, like that’s what I want, coming in here dressed like this.

  Do I?

  I go rigid. I hate being the center of attention like this. I hate knowing everyone thinks I don’t belong here. I turn to the counter, where there are stools I can perch on without messing too much with the butt plug, and carefully, so carefully, totter towards it. Every step with that thing inside me reminds me of the Doctor.

  “What can I get you?” The waitress comes behind the counter, still eying me with an oddly bored suspicion. Suddenly I feel on the verge of exposure, like I did in the clothing store, like she’ll see right through me, know that this isn’t me, that I could never be the type of woman who would just stroll into some strange diner in a fuck me dress and high heels like she owned the place.

  Which would be failing the Doctor somehow, I know it.

  “Vodka,” I say in my most assertive voice. “Straight up.”

  There’s a tired pause, and then she sighs.

  “We don’t have a liquor license, sweetheart. Coffee, water, or OJ.”

  I’m fighting off my standard embarrassment blush when I feel, more than see, someone lean in on the counter next to me. I try to look without being too obvious. It’s one of the truckers. Younger and trimmer than I would have thought, lots of stubble, in need of a haircut, maybe. Scruffy and blond. Very, very male. He looks at me sidelong, up and down, and grins.

  “I’ll buy your coffee,” he says.

  This does not help my blushing problem. I shift a little in my seat, and the plug presses on a brand new bundle of nerves. Oh boy.

  The waitress looks between us, and rolls her eyes. “Great. Two coffees.”

  And then we’re alone, me and Mr. Trucker. As alone as we can be, anyway, in this diner, which has mostly returned to normal, except for a few men who watch Mr. Trucker and I from their respective booths. The sudden realization that they’re watching to see if he strikes out – and if I’m still available – gives me a rush of power.

  This time, I squirm in my seat just to feel the plug press up against me. It sends a warm ripple through my body.

  “Now,” Mr. Trucker says, leaning back on the counter, and – and I swear I think this is the first time this has ever happened to me – he’s actually undressing me with his eyes. “Where did you come from?”

  His eyes are blue. Not as light as the Doctor’s, like a muddy gray, but blue. And suddenly it slams home to me: this is not the Doctor. It’s just some guy. Some horny, moderately attractive guy in a truck stop diner, and he thinks I want to fuck. He’s thinking I’m going to fuck him. He expects me to fuck him.

  It’s a bit of an understatement to say I’ve never been in this situation before.

  If I thought it was uncomfortable to have all of those people looking at me when I walked in, it’s nothing compared to the intense stare of a man on the hunt. I tense, like an animal. Like I can pretend to be invisible. I want to run out of the diner, hide somewhere, be back in the Doctor’s car.

  My blood is pumping hard, and I realize I can feel it in my pussy. And my nipples are getting hard. What the hell?

  “You can’t be shy,” the trucker says, dipping his head towards me. “Not looking like you do.”

  He’s so sure of himself. It’s...it’s sexy.

  “At least give me your name.” He smiles.

  I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. It’s a stranger, in a truck stop diner, and everything you’re not supposed to do, ever, but my breasts ache to be manhandled, and my pussy wants to get fucked, and as I lean forward on the counter the plug presses into me and I have to take a moment to shudder, softly.

  “You alright?” he says, and puts a hand on the small of my back.

  “I’m fine,” I say, and, even to me, my words sound harsh. I wish I could say it’s not you, Mr. Trucker, it’s my incredible confusion, and this ridiculous Doctor situation, and...

  And suddenly the plug starts to vibrate.

  The orchid. The orchid that the Doctor pinned to my dress. It’s some kind of high tech gadget. He’s watching, and listening, and oh my holy fuck the plug is remote controlled.

  Gentle vibrations begin to pulse through my pelvis, my core, out to my breasts, my nipples; even my skin feels it. I have to close my eyes to get a handle on myself. The outer lips of my pussy, my mons, all of it tingles to the vibrations that echo against my clit. I feel like I’m going to lose my damn mind. Like I’m in the process of losing it right now, like I’m only holding on by a shred, just a gossamer shred connecting my body to conscious thought...

  The hand on my back moves slightly against me, and it’s almost more than I can bear. I look up to see the trucker looking back at me. At first he seems puzzled, and then his eyes dip low, and I realize he’s looking at my breasts. At the flush on my skin, at my taut nipples poking through the thin fabric.

  “You are doing just fine, aren’t you,” he says. And then he looks up and grins again, lowering his hand to the curve of my ass.

  I can’t believe this is happening, that people really act this way. And also: what a smug bastard.

  I’m just about to bite back, to tell him off somehow, because I’m afraid he’ll think I’m just, I don’t know, a slut, a sure thing, stupid, when the vibrations inside me intensify. I know the Doctor can hear me, I know he can see me – he told me as much, even if I didn’t think he meant so literally. But now it’s like he’s in my head. Somehow he knows when I’m resisting, when I’m fighting back against this overwhelming surge of need-to-fuck that’s rising from the buzzing inside me.

  Fuck, what does he want? Does he want me to come right here, in front of all these people, in the middle of a lonely diner?

  He told me he’d watch over me. He told me he’d keep me safe.

  I’m still afraid.

  “I’m not exactly fine, no,” I finally answer Mr. Trucker. My voice fights with my breathing, strangled by my efforts to control this thing simmering inside me. At this point I’m pretty sure I could dig my nails into the metal countertop.

  “Well,” he says, lowering his head even closer to mine, lowering his voice to this sexy, gruff tone barely audible above the clatter of the diner. His breath is warm and sweet on my neck. “Maybe there’s something I can help you with.”

  His hand expands and contracts on the border between the small of my back and the top of my ass, his thumb wrapping around my hip. Something simmers in him, too. He’s like a barely contained animal.

  I breathe deep, my breasts rising, the o
xygen only feeding the fire, and raise my eyes from where they’ve been studying the scratch pattern in the counter. I’m about to turn, about to look Mr. Trucker in the eyes and...I don’t know what, but it’s not him who catches my eye first. It’s the waitress. She’s looking at us, and shaking her head in disgust.

  The fear grips me again, just like it did in the car, like it did on the street when I was waiting for the Doctor, like it did in the dress shop. It’s utterly paralyzing. I’m frozen, stretched between fear and the need to fuck, between this bitch waitress and the trucker. Suspended in this stupid moment of indecision. And it occurs to me: what am I afraid of?

  The moment I realize I don’t know is the moment the vibrations escalate a third time, in a new, faster rhythm, a siren call to my now soaked pussy. I can’t hold it in any longer, I can’t contain myself against this. I think of the Doctor, I think of the trucker, I think of all the things I’ve ever wanted, and the dam breaks.

  “You,” I say, grabbing the back of the trucker’s neck, my thumb brushing against his rough, bristled cheek. “Follow me outside.”

  The walk to the door seems very slow, the lights very bright. It must be the adrenaline. That, or it’s the way this plug is driving me forward, towards the fucking I desperately need. Every pulse is like the crack of whip. I am not in control anymore, I’m just the Doctor’s mindless sex zombie. And for this moment I do feel free.

  I don’t care if everyone watches us leave. I don’t care if I don’t look graceful walking down those grated steps; I don’t even notice them. I don’t care about the garbage in the street, I don’t even care about what this man behind me thinks of me. I just want to find a wall.

  As soon as I turn into the alley next to the diner the trucker’s hands are all over me. He spins me around, pushes me against the wall, and I laugh because...because I’m happy. The plug pulses, and my ass shudders against the brick at my back.

  “You are one crazy bitch,” he says into my neck, and pulls the top of my dress aside, popping my breast out. For a second my mind resurfaces, worried about my link to the Doctor – the fake orchid, pinned to my dress – but I realize it’s on the other strap, and the Doctor’s pulsing plug, this man’s hands, and my all-consuming need to fuck come back to the fore.