Doctor's Orders

He shifted, he tapped the top of my head and I sat up. He patted the seat next to him, and I managed to rise. He helped me steady myself on legs that were partially numb from kneeling on tile floor for so long. I sat sideways on the couch, one foot on the seat, with that knee resting on the backrest. My skirt was still rolled up and tucked behind my hips so my sex was completely exposed to him. With my legs spread he could see anything he wanted to look at. He looked in my eyes.

He turned sideways to face me, his hand coming to rest on my propped up knee. He gazed at me, and that felt more intense and more intimate than the sex we'd just had.

After a moment that seemed like an hour he said, "You should go home."

"Yes, sir."

I couldn't be disappointed, but I already craved more of him. I stood and arranged my skirt so I was covered. I slipped back into my shoes. Then I stood in front of him, hands behind my back. I was hoping that he would kiss me again.

He looked me over. "Tomorrow, same time here."

"Yes, sir."

He stood suddenly, but stepped toward his desk. "In fact, let's plan ahead. Every day this week. You present yourself to me here at 5PM."

"Yes, sir."

"You should be able to hand me your underwear as soon as you walk in the door. We'll take it one step at a time after that."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

He sat behind his desk. I knew I was dismissed. I still felt giddy and content.

*~~* *~~* *~~*

That's how the rest of that week went. His third week as a psychiatrist at my hospital. The first week of the rest of my life. Each day I went to his office at 5PM. I knocked on his door and waited to be invited or let in. I presented him with the panties I'd worn all day. Each day he had me take off more clothes. I got used to being physically exposed in his office. Then I would kneel at his feet and we'd talk.

Even if I'd wanted to, I wouldn't have been able to keep secrets from him. He was perceptive, observant, and knowledgeable. I sat at his feet, like an acolyte, and he bestowed the wisdom of his years as a Top. He used everything he knew, from the lifestyle he led and the education he had, to draw out of me all my hopes and fears about giving myself over to someone. The more we discussed it, the more I craved it.

Most evenings, when we'd talked enough for him, he'd pull out his cock and I'd fellate him. He kept giving me lessons, correcting errors, explaining the difference between what he liked personally, and what was generally pleasing to men. He always kept one hand around the back of my neck, and I soon learned that the gentle tap of his fingers was my reward. Unlike the first day, he didn't put his feet between my legs. It was clear that I was supposed to be thinking about only him while he used my mouth. Afterward, after I'd swallowed his cum, he'd let me finger myself. But he told me I had to wait until I was home to orgasm. Those drives home were some of the longest half hours of my life.

He set the ground rules for the relationship. We would meet only in his office. We would not exchange personal contact information. We both knew the relationship would last only the duration of his contract with my hospital. I readily agreed to all those terms, but privately wondered how it would leave me when the relationship was over. Having gotten a taste of what I'd wanted for so long, what would I do when it was gone.

I think it was that Friday, of that first week of the relationship that I mentioned it to him, my worry about what I'd do after he left.

I was sitting on the couch sideways, facing him with my foot on the seat. He leaned against my shin and was playing with my hair. Something about the tenderness in his expression made me tearful.

"Are you upset, Leah?" he asked, breaking me from the thoughts running around in my brain.

I tried to smile. I looked at him, bit my lips, shook my head slightly.

He tugged my hair. My eyes widened. "You must always be honest with me. Always."

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir. I'm worried. I'm not upset about this." I gestured between us, swept my hand across my exposed mound. "I like this. And that's what worries me."

"That's what worries you?"

"What am I going to do when you're gone?"

He shrugged. He tilted his head and tugged my hair again. "You might hate this by the time I'm gone. You might realize that reality doesn't measure up to fantasy. Which it rarely ever does. You might hate me, and be glad that I'm leaving. You don't really know. Do you? You only think you know."

I stared at him. Every bone in my body knew this was right for me. Every cell knew I wanted him to keep teaching me. I replayed what he said, and realized he didn't mean it dismissively. He was being pragmatic, practically looking at all the possibilities.

I shook my head so hard my whole body shook. "No," I said. "No. I know this is right."

He shrugged again. He leaned away, stood and went toward the bathroom. "Time for you to leave."

I got dressed; I waited for him to come out. He didn't kiss me goodbye. All night long I pondered what he'd said. I was determined to prove to him that I wasn't wrong about what I thought.

I was comfortable being completely naked around him. I knew when I went to his office, that's what he would expect. The next week was much the same. I went to his office about 5PM, when it was reasonable to think that the other staff on his hall had left for the day. I didn't make much effort to hide where I was going, and rarely ran into other people. I already had a reputation of working late fairly often, so I believed anyone I did run into wouldn't think too much about it.

That week was a continuation of the first. I got the impression that he was increasing my comfort level with being nude around him, with exposing myself, and allowing him to explore my body. We did very little, sexually, other than fellatio and touching.

I was ok with that. Even though I was eager to learn, and more eager to please him, I was still nervous and unsure. I appreciated that he was taking things slow. That seemed to be a theme with him. He even liked his blow jobs slow. He liked to prolong his arousal, and delay his orgasm as long as he could. He explained all kinds of ways for me to pleasure him without bringing him to the brink. He taught me to pay attention to his physical signs that he was getting close, and to read his expression as to whether he wanted me to back off or intensify what I was doing.

It was a thrill, that he was giving me as much control over his pleasure as he did. But I came to understand that he was teaching me communication and awareness of what my partner would want. Kneeling there, between his legs, with his long prick in my mouth, trying to look up at him, trying to listen to him, that was the greatest, truest intimacy I'd had with anyone. It filled me with pleasure and satisfaction even when I wasn't sexually gratified.

Some of the time, he didn't want that. He liked to touch me, to caress my body and fondle me, without concerns as to whether I got aroused, or he did. He liked for me to drape myself over his lap, so my shoulders were on one of his thighs, and my head hung down onto the couch. He'd have me raise my hands above my head, and my back would naturally arch over his lap.

I'd lay there, staring at the ceiling, or watching his face as his hands traced the contours of my body. His fingers would glide over my skin, gently kneading my flesh or tracing patterns with his fingernails. He'd squeeze my breast and roll a thumb across my nipple, or slide the palm of his hand around in circles on my lower abdomen. He sometimes played a game where he wrote words on my stomach with his finger and I was supposed to guess what they were. It was another lesson in remaining attentive, and in using all of my senses to process what was happening.

It was more difficult than I ever would have expected. I loved the sensations and his presence, his warmth and his actions served to relax me completely. I'd wind up closing my eyes, drifting off in a haze caused by his touch. I'd feel myself practically melting into him. Usually, then he'd pinch one of my nipples, or the really tender skin under my breast to make me wake up and attend to him again.

One evening, while I was relaxed like that, and he pulled out his personal laptop and placed it on my stomach. I heard him typing for a while, then he stopped, then he started typing again. After about thirty minutes a thought struck me and I started laughing.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"I just had an absurd thought, sir."

"Yeah?"

"Yes, sir. I was imagining what Julia would do if I told her how I'd been spending my evenings."

He cocked his head sideways to look at me. "And? What do you think she'd do?"

I looked over at him, and moved my hand to caress his side.

"I can just imagine it now. I come into work tomorrow and Julia asks, 'How was your evening?' And I respond, 'It was lovely. I spent several hours as a lap desk.' She'd probably have a stroke. Or call our boss and tell her I needed to be evaluated for hospitalization."

I started laughing again, picturing the look on her face. I glanced at him, and he was grinning.

He patted my thigh. "And a very serviceable lap desk you've made." He chuckled. "Though, I could think of some improvements."

"Yes, sir?"

We spent the next ten or fifteen minutes imagining modifications to my job as a lap desk. He mentioned sticking a beer koozie between my thighs to hold his drink. Or making me raise my hands to hold a tray of snacks for him. He said I was actually a combination heated blanket and lap desk, and therefore unique.

It's one of those things, if my friends or co-workers had any idea, they'd be dumbfounded. But I enjoyed that. I enjoyed laying there, under his hands, accepting whatever touch or instruction he wanted to give me. I enjoyed it. I felt contentment. I knew he was objectifying me. He was almost literally objectifying me. And that's what I wanted.

When we'd finished laughing about me being his lap desk, I slid off the couch and took his prick in my mouth. I gave him a protracted blow job, during which he backed off from orgasm at least three times. When he did, his spunk shot into my mouth with enough force to make my cough and choke. But I managed to save some to show him, and he grinned like a kid when I swallowed.

When I knocked on the door that Friday, he didn't rise to let me in.

"Come in," he said and the way the sound echoed made me realize he was still at his desk.

I entered, carrying my underwear. I shut the door behind me. He was looking at his computer monitor, typing.

He didn't glance at me when he said, "Lock that."

After I had he looked at me briefly. I started to hold up my rolled-up underwear. He leaned back in his desk chair. "When you're finished undressing, stand in a way I'll find pleasing and wait."

"Yes, sir." My pussy flooded. There was something so ineffably erotic about taking his orders.

I took off my clothes, slowly, making sure he could watch me, and putting them away on the shelf carefully. When I was naked I went to the spot he'd indicated. But something felt off. I looked over at my clothes and saw the panties. I picked them up, then went back in front of his desk. I spread my legs wider than my shoulders, and stood up straight. I held my hands together with the roll of cloth balanced on my palms, and raised my hands up and out. He gave no sign that he noticed what I'd done. I stood there, not moving, my mind racing and me trying to control it. I looked at his face, watching him read what he was typing. His fingers flew on his keyboard.

A cold draft circled from somewhere, and I realized his air conditioning had just kicked on. I was standing in the path of the ventilation. I shivered slightly. I saw him glance up and look at the unit holding the fan. His lips twitched in a smile, as though he was enjoying my discomfort. Still I waited.

I think it was only a few minutes, but it felt like an hour. Finally, he finished what he was doing and stood.

"That's such a classic pose, Leah," he said as he walked around the desk. He leaned on it, maybe three feet away from me.

I blushed. I tried to maintain his eye contact as he crossed his arms over his broad chest and stared at me.

He sighed, pushed himself off the desk and stepped toward me. He circled me, one hand barely grazing my skin as he walked around. When he stopped in front of me, he said, "I do love the classics."

He took my hands in his and straightened my arms, then pulled them up so my elbows touched and my wrists were bent. The roll of panties had shifted to my fingers. My vision was blocked by my forearms and that made the whole thing slightly disorienting. I heard him moving around. I heard the squeak of the couch as he sat. I dared not move. He made me wait again, and I tried not to shiver in the breeze of the ventilation system. I heard him sigh contentedly again. Then there was more movement and he was behind me. I felt the heat of his body. He reached over my shoulder and plucked the roll off my hands. I watched him toss them onto his desk.

Then he gripped my wrists and moved my arms again. He placed my hands flat on the top of my head, one over the other. He spread my elbows wide, pulling back on my arms until my spine was completely straight. His hands brushed down my sides and he made a fist. He put that fist between my legs, his knuckles brushing my labia. He tapped my legs in turn and I spread them wider. When his fist fit snug between my thighs, but not touching them he told me to stop.

It was a much wider stance that I'd thought of. I felt every square millimeter of my vulva hanging, exposed, the breeze tickling my hair. It was not comfortable.

He circled me again, making slight adjustments, pushing on one hip, tapping my knee so that I didn't lock my legs. His fingers brushing over my skin again. Then he went back and leaned on his desk. He picked up my panties and smelled them. His hands dropped to his crotch, still holding my underwear. I looked at his face, because that's what he'd kept telling me to do. He smiled.

"Do you feel that, Leah? Do you feel how spread out you are? How available you are?"

"Yes, sir."

"You understand that you're here for my benefit. For my pleasure."

"Yes, sir."

"I want you to remember this position. Remember the angle of your legs, the strain in your thighs. Remember how straight your spine is. Remember what your shoulders feel like. Remember it. From now on, when I tell you to present yourself to me, this is what you will do."

"Yes, sir. I understand."

I wanted to be there. I wanted him to treat me like this. I wanted to be his object. I got as much pleasure out of it as he did. I wanted more, though, too. I wanted more than the taste of his cum in my mouth. I wanted more than his words and instructions. But I had to wait. I had to take whatever he chose to bestow on me. And I'd have to earn even that, through obedience and deference.

He stood up and walked over to me. He reached out and brushed my pubic hair with the backs of his fingers. He turned his hand and slid his long middle finger into me. He moved slow and easy, sliding over my clit into my vagina as far as he could without bending. I was soaking wet. I was incapable of offering resistance. I felt my tunnel clenching around him. I saw a slow smile spread over his face. He left his finger where it was and raised his other hand to brush back a stray curl that had fallen over my shoulder.

He looked deep in my eyes, and slipped his finger out. Then, as he watched me, he slid it deeply back in. My eyes fluttered, but I managed to keep them open and lose myself in his deep ocean stare.

He said, "You're very beautiful, Leah. But I don't think you know that."

I made a startled little gasp. His thumb brushed over my mouth, pulling down my lower lip. I'm not beautiful. I've never thought of myself that way. I'm shorter than most women, and curvier than I should be. My eyes are a plain dark brown. My breasts are a little larger than average, but not anyone's definition of perky. My best physical asset is my hair. People aren't drawn to me for my looks. If they're drawn to me, it's because of my sense of humor, my intelligence, and my compassion. His assertion that I was beautiful tipped everything I knew about myself on its side. But I couldn't argue with him. I couldn't disagree with this man who was so expertly molding me.

Then he said, "Better than that. You're beautiful, and you're going to make some lucky man a wonderful submissive."

His thumb traced over my mouth again, and his finger slipped out and back in below.

He brought his lips to my ear and whispered, "But you're not just a submissive. I know."

Then he moved and kissed me. He kept sliding his finger in and out of my aching cunt. He matched that movement with his tongue in my mouth. I opened myself to him, tried to lean into him. But the spread of my legs and my hands on my head made that difficult. He wrapped his hand around the back of my neck; it was a sensation that had come to mean so much. He held me still while he pressed his mouth to mine and claimed it with this tongue. He claimed the rest of my body with his finger inside me.

He read me. He read my body's reactions so easily it was like he'd known me for years. He read the tension starting to build, the strain in my stomach and legs. He felt my arousal and knew an orgasm was building before I did. To this day, I believe that is true. It wasn't so much the physical sensations of his finger, his mouth, and the press of his body. Those felt nice, but none of them would have been enough to make me climax. It was the knowing way he'd spoken. The assurance and intimacy in his statements.

I felt like I was falling, like he was holding me up. His approval was the aphrodisiac and his actions were almost irrelevant. In that moment, I thought that I would orgasm from the sound of his voice alone.

He pulled away from me, and once again I tried to move and follow him. He slid his finger out of my hole and stepped back. His hand remained around the back of my neck, anchoring me to him. My legs were shaking and I panted softly. He put his finger in his mouth and sucked my lubrication off it. Then he let go of my neck.

"Go lie down on the couch," he said. "Arms over your head, hands on the armrest."

I did as instructed. He hadn't specified, but I assumed he meant for me to lie on my back. The armrests weren't solid, I slid my hands through the space and wrapped my fingers around the wood. I moved my hands together until they touched, and scooted my ass down until my arms were stretched. I settled down, spreading my feet as much as I could, pressing one foot against the back, and letting the other balance precariously on the edge of the seat. My legs were slightly bent, due to the length of the couch.

He waited and watched until I was settled. I arched my back a little, feeling my breasts shift. My nipples were already hard, and the movement made my areolas contract even more tightly. I breathed out, trying to center myself. My mind was spinning. I was imagining him undressing and climbing on top of me. I wanted his cock inside me. I desperately wanted him to fuck me. But more than that, I wanted him to do exactly what he wanted.

He paced the length of the couch, staring down at me. He reached down and brushed hair back from my forehead. He walked and stood near my feet, looking along the length of my body. He instructed me on some adjustments. I slid up so that my arms bent. He pulled at my knees and I rested one bent leg on the back of the couch, and the other knee hung off the edge.

"Yes, that's better," he said.

He picked up the chair from in front of his desk and put it down next to the settee, so that he was level with my pelvis. I knew without him saying that I needed to remember this position as well. I thought about the feel of my arms and legs, I marked where the seam of the cushions dug into my butt. I noted where the edge of the seat dug into my thigh and calf.