Clarissa & the Doctor Ch. 3

Michael watched me, amused, and waited patiently until I stopped thrashing. He pushed the hair gently from my eyes, and even the touch of his hand on my temple was enough to make me jump and whimper.

"Now, Clarissa," Michael said, reasonably. "You don't really want me to let you go, do you? I mean, you're just one big raw sexual nerve right now. Shame to waste all that turbocharged libido."

Michael put his hand against my cheek, and slowly pushed his thumb between my parted lips.

Oh, God. I made a sound somewhere between a gulp and a sob.

Without thinking, I wrapped my lips around his thumb and sucked eagerly, taking it like a cock, working my tongue up and down, swirling it over the tip, jamming my mouth down to meet his hand. God, I couldn't get enough, wanted it to be Michael's prick, please. My chest heaved, my hips thrust. My cunt was slick and slippery; my inner thighs were streaked with moisture. I slurped and moaned, spreading my legs wide apart, wanting, needing him to touch me. More.

"That's my girl," Michael murmured. "Go with it. No thought, just sensation."

Keeping his thumb shoved firmly in my mouth, Michael trailed his other hand slowly over my breasts, pausing briefly to knead my nipples between his thumb and forefinger. I moaned, my mouth full of his thumb, and pushed my breasts toward his hand, desperate for more contact.

"Gosh," Michael chuckled, "You sure are starved for affection. Makes me curious about your childhood."

He took his thumb, suddenly, from my mouth, and wound his hand tightly through my hair, jerking my head back.

"Nooo," I protested, craning my neck, trying to raise my head, desperately wanting his thumb back.

"Ssh," Michael soothed, moving his other hand below my breasts, scraping his nails lightly along my ribcage. I jumped and twisted. Tried futiley to dodge his fingers.

"Oh, gee, that's right," Michael said, as if suddenly remembering. "You're ticklish, aren't you?"

Oh, no.

"Michael," I gasped. "Don't. Please." My body was white-hot, zinging with intensified sensation.

"Shut up," he said amiably, feathering his fingertips quickly up and down my sides, over my stomach, between my breasts, over my clavicle. No, too much---

I writhed madly, crying out, sensory overload jamming my brain.

"Oh, wow," Michael marveled. "You are beside yourself, aren't you? Bet your pretty little neurons are 'bout scrambled all to pieces. C'mon, you can take it. Just think about how much I'm enjoying this. 'Cause that's what counts, isn't it?"

He kept at it, ruthlessly, pinching my nipples cruelly every so often for good measure.

And now I was crying again, great, whooping sobs.

"Who are you here to please?" Michael asked, quietly, jabbing me repeatedly in the ribs.

(Stop, stop, I'll say anything, do anything.)

"Y-you!" I gasped.

"Good girl. Wow, you are positively convulsing. How's it feel?"

I groaned.

Michael stopped suddenly, and sliding his hand to my crotch, shoved two fingers into my vagina. I tensed. He yanked, none too gently, on my hair.

"Relax, Clarissa. Ooh, you're soaked. Guess you didn't hate that as much as you pretended."

Michael gently probed my vagina. Finding what he wanted, he began to rub, slowly.

I whimpered, bucking my hips.

"Stop that," Michael ordered. He smiled. "Okay, now, what have I got here? Miss Blackwood, can you tell me?"

It was my G spot, of course. He knew that---?

"Miss Blackwood," Michael said, sternly. "Pay attention. On what are my fingers resting?"

I moaned, thrusting myself down on his hand.

Michael shook his head. "Concentrate."

Please, I begged silently. Don't want to think. Just feel. Like you said. Why---?

He yanked my hair again.

"Grafenberg spot!" I gasped finally, summoning all of my resolve.

Michael smiled beatifically. "Very good. Where is it located?" He continued to stroke me, harder, faster.

"Ohhh---" I sighed, moving my hips wildly up and down with each stroke. My cunt was flooded and hot, my belly tight and tense. My vaginal muscles thrummed, began to ripple. I snapped my pelvis as I felt a familiar, delicious tickle. So soon. Don't stop. Harder. Please, just let me---

"I'm sorry, sweetheart, I didn't hear you. And I can feel those contractions, by the way. Better not come if you know what's good for you." He began to rub his thumb in slow, gentle circles over my clitoris.

I took a deep, hitching breath, trying desperately to concentrate, knowing Michael was well-aware that at this moment I could barely breathe.

"The Grafenberg spot is located," I finally gasped, "On the anterior vaginal wall. Please, Michael---""

Michael grinned broadly. "Excellent.You really, really wanna come, dontcha?"

I groaned.

Michael laughed. "Not yet. This is all about discipline, Clarissa. Self-control."

His fingers continued to stroke, deep inside me. He stopped moving his thumb over my clitoris and held it directly over the swollen nub. Pressed.

I wailed, a picture of frustrated desire, wriggling my hips, drowning in a deluge of wanton abandon.

Michael withdrew his hand, letting go of my hair at the same time, and climbed onto the bed. He knelt over me, straddling me. He unfastened his jeans, pushing down his pants and boxers. His erection was chiseled marble, the tip of his prick already glistening with pre-come. He took his rigid cock in one hand and stroked it lovingly as he talked to me.

"I'm gonna do you now, honey," Michael said. "Might hurt a little more this time, because I've been holding back a bit. Your job is to lie back and take it. No talking. No kissing. I'm not your fucking boyfriend."

He positioned himself between my legs, and in one swift lunge, impaled me.

I cried out, stiffening, as he rammed me. Nonono, please, not like this---

Michael looped his arms under my knees and jerked my legs into the air. He fucked me hard, mercilessly, smiling gently down at me. I bit my lip, using every ounce of energy to stay quiet. The pain was sharp, stabbing, but somehow, almost... Good? Yes. I felt myself heating, stretching. Expanding to fit him. I felt the tip of his cock, deep within me, nudging my G spot, sending delightful jolts of sensation to every nerve below my waist.

"Such a good girl," Michael murmured. "Taking it so well. Just the best little slut."

Michael slid in and out of me, moaning softly with each thrust, his cock hot and slick with our combined fluids.

"Ooh, this is gonna be quick."

Michael inclined his head and closed his eyes, moving his hips like a piston, wholly absorbed in his own pleasure. I lay beneath him, jarrred deliciously by each wicked jolt. I realized, with equal amounts of pleasure and mortification, that I could take anything Michael dished out.

And like it.

I relaxed, letting him have me. Use me. Handsome and cruel and do what you want with me.

I wriggled, raising my hips to meet his, losing myself in sensation and submission.

Michael gave a final Herculean shove.

"Aw, Christ, here it comes," he gasped, pulling out of me. Gripping his cock in one hand, he jerked his fist up and down the shaft. Creamy white semen spurted thickly, splashing my belly and chest. Michael gave himself completely to the orgasm, laughing breathlessly as he came. He paused, breathing hard, still straddling me. He shifted forward, putting his cock to my lips.

"Clean me off," he snapped, panting.

I complied, taking his still-hard prick gently into my mouth, sucking dutifully. When Michael was satisfied, he pulled himself from my mouth, climbed out of bed, and finished undressing. He stood by the bed, eyeing me thoughtfully.

"Maybe I oughta leave you tied up for the night. Might be good for you."

Michael paused, considering, rubbing his stubbled chin.

Suddenly, he leaned over and unfastened my right wrist.

"Oh, Michael," I started, gratefully. Thinking he'd relented.

He grabbed my free wrist, pulled me roughly over on my left side, and lashed both wrists together to one bedrail. No, please. looked down at my wet, sticky torso. Looked at Michael imploringly.

Michael grinned, shaking his head. "You can shower in the morning.You need this, Clarissa. You'll be amazed at how it clarifies things for you. I left you plenty of slack. You can sleep quite comfortably; you just can't go anywhere." He snickered. "Now that I've found the girl of my dreams, I sure wouldn't want to lose her."

"What if I have to use the bathroom?"

Michael slid into bed, stretching languidly, and lay down beside me. "Hold it. Practice your muscle control."

He leaned over and kissed me on one shoulder. " 'Night, baby."

He rolled over, and was asleep almost instantly.

**********************

Five days crept by.

Michael had dropped me off at my apartment on Sunday evening, kissed me chastely on the forehead, and told me he'd see me tomorrow. At work.

He'd driven off, leaving me standing in front of my building in a welter of roiling emotions and very sore muscles.

Since Monday it had been business as usual at the hospital. Excruciatingly usual. I often caught myself staring at Michael as we worked. If he noticed me at all, it was to dish out more of the same tyrannical treatment that already defined our professional relationship. I was frankly amazed at his seemingly effortless ability to compartmentalize our after-hours "arrangement".

It wasn't as easy for me.

In the evenings, at home, I found myself actually missing him. I made vain attempts to keep myself occupied. Studying. Cleaning. I even baked a cake, wondering if Michael liked sweets. Good God, Clarissa, I thought: incredible. You really have gone round the bend.

And I waited.

What did some rock singer say about the waiting being the hardest part?

I knew better than to initiate anything; Michael had made it clear that this was his game, on his terms. And I had too much to lose by crossing him.

On Friday, he came over.

I was studying, books and papers piled high on the dining room table, half-filled 20-ounce coffee mug at my right hand, hair up, pencil jammed in my top knot. I sighed mightily and rubbed my eyes. The history of balloon angioplasty was starting to give me a balloon-sized headache. Maybe my sugar was low. I sat up and stretched, thinking seriously about a nice big slice of that cake, wondering if it was worth the extra forty-five minutes on the cardio-rider.

Two sharp raps on the door snapped me out of my sweet dreams.

Michael.

Who else? I had few friends left at St. Stephen's; most of them were ahead of me in med school and had departed for residencies all over the country some time ago. I spent most of my time at home, studying or exercising. Keeping Focused. It occurred to me that I might be dull, but I had my whole life after medical school to be interesting.

I jumped up, too quickly, and ran to the door, heart pounding. With shaking hands I slid back the chain, turned the deadbolt, and yanked the door open.

Without stood Michael, wearing another three-hundred dollar shirt, favorite black leather jacket, jeans, boots. Michael's consistency in personal style bordered on the obssessive-compulsive. I almost smiled.

He held a large pink-striped shopping bag in one hand and an unopened bottle of bourbon in the other. He grinned.

"Hi," I said, trying hard not to sound like a crush-drunk fourteen-year-old. It didn't work.

Michael strode past me into the apartment, closed the door, and tossed his stuff on a nearby chair.

"Come here." He reached over, grabbed the back of my neck, and pulled me roughly to him, pressing his hips to my belly. "Miss me?" He murmured, his lips against mine.

I leaned into his embrace, feeling my knees turn to water. I moaned into his mouth as he kissed me, his tongue flickering over my parted lips. Michael broke the kiss and smiled down at me. "Go shower. Shave. Everywhere, understand? Braid your hair. Two braids, like the other night. No makeup."

He picked up the bag and handed it to me. "Put this stuff on when you're finished." He turned me around and swatted my ass. "Go on. Double-time."

I nodded, and trotted down the hall to the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later I emerged, wobbling a bit. I'd never worn three-inch heels in my life, and now I knew why. Of course, they went perfectly with the black lace garter belt and matching seamed stockings. It was the short plaid skirt and thin white cotton blouse, two sizes too small, that provided an interesting contrast. The skirt was a bit more abbreviated than I was used to; the tops of my stockings showed. There had been no underwear in the bag. I felt like Best Supporting Actress in a dirty Japanese cartoon movie.

I also felt, uh, pretty. In a naughty sort of way. My breasts strained against the fabric of the blouse, the top two buttons of which I'd been unable to fasten. My nipples were hard and clearly visible.

I walked unsteadily into the living room. Michael sat on the couch, putting a dent in the bourbon and leafing idly through an issue of my college's quarterly magazine he'd found on the coffee table.

He looked up when my shadow fell across the page. His mouth dropped open.

"Fuck," he breathed reverently.

He tossed the magazine aside and stood up, adjusting the bulge at his crotch.

Michael walked around the coffee table, grabbed me by one arm, and pushed me up against the nearest wall. Gripping me hard above the elbows, he crushed his mouth to mine and kissed me heatedly, stabbing my mouth with his tongue. Sliding one hand under my skirt, Michael trailed his fingers lightly along the inside of my left thigh, tickling gently. Moving higher, he stroked my labia, inserting his index finger slowly into my vagina.

"Soaking wet," he murmured. "Good girl." He withdrew his finger and brought it to my lips, tracing a thin line of my own fluid around my open mouth.

Michael smiled fondly. "I sooo wanna do you right now," he sighed. He bent his head and kissed me some more, slithering his hands down and around to cup my bare buttocks. He broke the kiss, finally, and shook his head, growling.

"Okay, we gotta go," he said, stepping back and catching my hand. "Car's waiting."

Car? Waiting?

Michael pulled me toward the door, snagging the bourbon as he went.

I understood when we got outside. Now it was my turn to gape. A big old Cadillac limousine loomed, motor running, at the end of the walk. I wondered, crazily, if this was what Shel Silverstein had really had in mind when he'd written about the sidewalk's end.

I also half-expected to see an Oompa-Loompa in chauffer's livery.

What I did see was a very human uniformed driver, politely holding the back door. I got in. Michael slid in beside me. The driver closed the door, assumed his position up front, and threw us into First.

Michael settled back, pulled out his cigarettes, and lit one up.

I looked at him, the obvious question just behind my lips.

Michael smiled. "You'll find out when we get there." He proferred the bourbon bottle. "Wanna drink?"

I certainly did. I had a feeling I was going to need it.

I grabbed the bottle and upended it, taking an enthusiastic swallow. I choked instantly, spluttering, gasping. My eyes flooded generously.

Michael raised one eyebrow. "More a white wine kind of girl, huh?"

I returned the bottle with one hand, wiping my face with the other. "How can you drink that stuff?" I coughed.

Michael laughed. "Ancestral national past-time. Genetic predisposition. Overwhelming desire to self-medicate."

He held out the bottle again. "Give it another try. It's not bad, once you get used to it."

I looked around. Unlike the limousines I'd seen on television and in movies, this one had none of the amenities popularly associated with transportation of the rich and famous. No telephone. No bar. If I wanted a drink, it didn't look like I had many choices. I shrugged and accepted the liquor, taking another, smaller sip.

True to Michael's word, it went down more easily this time. But it still tasted terrible.

He grabbed the bottle back and gulped. "We've got about an hour to go," he said. "Want to play a game?" He sat up, crossing his legs Indian-style.

A game?

Admittedly, I was learning to roll with the punches. But I hoped that whatever game Michael had in mind didn't involve me having to get naked in front---or actually in back---of the driver.

"Uh, sure," I said, nervously.

Michael beamed. "Awesome." He rapped sharply on the glass partition dividing the front and back of the car. It descended slowly.

"Hey, Clyde," Michael said, leaning forward. "Hand me the box."

My heart skipped a beat. The Box! What was in the Box?

I closed my eyes.

Felt Michael shaking my shoulder.

"Open your eyes, honey," Michael said, quietly. "Now."

I opened my eyes. Looked at the box. Oh, God.

Michael was already setting up the board. "I get to be Colonel Mustard, okay?"

I exhaled explosively, suddenly realizing that I'd been holding my breath.

Clue. He wanted to play Clue.

***********************

"We're here," Michael said.

I craned my neck.

We approached what looked like a typical urban-hip dance club. There was no sign, only a narrow, dimly-lit doorway and the requisite guy stationed outside on the sidewalk. It was not the best of neighborhoods, but that didn't seem to bother the dozens of glittering revelers thronging the entrance.

Cyde steered the car to the curb, stopping directly in front of the velevt rope. He got out and opened the door for us.

Michael paused as he exited the car. " 'Journeys end in lovers meeting,' as Shirley Jackson said," he chuckled, and kissed me quickly on the mouth.

We ducked out of the car and flew past the bouncer, a stereotypically beefy, earringed monster who could have been supplied by Central Casting. Michael folded a fifty-dollar bill into the waiting hand of the girl at the desk inside the door. He didn't get change.

The club was noisy and smoky and dark. Lights pulsed, ear-splitting music throbbed. Neon sculptures glowed, outdone only by the rather disconcerting laser show stabbing the gloom around us. To the last one, every patron was young and beautiful and expensively dressed.

I looked around curiously. My experience with places like this was limited to what I had read in fashion magazines.

Michael led me to a booth in the corner. It gave us a good view of the bar and the dance floor, while affording us a measure of privacy.

A scantily-clad cocktail waitress spotted us from across the room and wiggled over, tray in hand. She was short and had shoulder-length, streaky blonde hair. Her blue eyes were liberally made up, her lips full and red. A fake beauty mark hovered slightly above and to the left of her mouth. Her ample cleavage spilled prettily from a tight, low-cut, black Spandex top.A sky-high red vinyl miniskirt hugged her shapely hips. Her legs were plump but muscular, encased in black fishnet hose and ending in a pair of black patent leather stiletto heels. The overall effect was textbook slutty, but quite appropriate for our surroundings.

She appraised Michael, openly admiring him. "I'm Betsy," she said, smiling coyly, thrusting her chest forward, studiously ignoring me. I resisted the temptation to roll my eyes.

"Hi, Betsy," Michael said, smiling back. "Double bourbon, neat. House white, one glass. Hurry, now. I'll be timing you."

Betsy blushed and giggled. With a last hungry look at Michael, she turned and bounced away, taking what I was sure were her now-damp panties with her.

"Okay," Michael said, grinning. "Look around and tell me what you like."

"Huh?" I said.

Michael laughed. "A girl, silly. You're gonna do a girl tonight. Well, actually, we're gonna do a girl. So pick one you like."