Doctor's Orders: The Exam

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Doctor’s Orders:
The Exam

(BDSM Fantasies)

Claire is living a boring, sad little life, full of little
humiliations and impossible dreams. That is, until she gets a secretive
invitation to see the mysterious Doctor.

Claire is skeptical about his treatment at first, but hell,
what does she have to lose? At least it’s exciting. She doesn’t expect the
Doctor to be so tall, so attractive, so commanding. She doesn’t expect to be
examined so...thoroughly. She doesn’t expect to be disciplined so effectively.
And she doesn’t expect to be fucked nearly unconscious, coming until she can’t
see straight.

But Claire’s treatment isn’t over yet. The Doctor has big,
big plans for her...

When I masturbate now it’s always the same. I close my eyes,
and all I can see are his eyes. His freakishly light, bright blue eyes.

What I feel is the touch of many. Many hands, many fingers,
many mouths, wildly exploring every crease, every hole, every opening. An
unknown dick in my cunt, filling me. The feeling of overwhelming intoxication,
impossibly drunk on sex, soaring high above any normal feeling of self, the
edges of my identity beginning to blur, to soften, to blissfully merge with the
world around me.

All under the quiet gaze of those eyes.

If you’ve never felt anything like it, you haven’t lived. I
wasn’t living, looking back on it. I never knew what I was until I met him.

This is how it all starts.

~ ~ ~

The invitation comes in a heavy black envelope, sealed with
black wax. The card itself is black, too, with raised black writing. I almost
have to touch it to read it, which I guess is the point: forcing a sensory,
tactile experience on me. In the end I raise it close to my face, to make sure
I have it right.

You have been
given

an Appointment

with

The Doctor

Tomorrow, 6 pm.
You will not be given another.

It’s all very dramatic. No clue where it comes from, or why,
or who this Doctor is. On the back is an address on the other side of town, in
a quiet, old money neighborhood, full of townhouses and wide, beautiful
streets.

I guess it shows what kind of state I’m in that I actually
consider not going.

I’ve tried to figure out what made me go, what got me out of
my funk and moving towards the man that would change my life. I think it’s
because when I get home from the temp agency the next day, just after five,
still without a new job, I find my brother in my room, dumping out the milk
crates that hold all my art stuff. He needs the crates for his records, he
explains, now that he was going to be a DJ.

“Mom said I could,” he says when he sees my face. Then he
shoves past me, milk crate in his arms.

Right after that I’m on my way to the Doctor. I think maybe
he’ll give me some pills or something, anything to make this life seem better.

I have
no
idea
what I’m in for.

It has been so long since I’ve had what could even remotely
be described as a boyfriend, let alone actual sex, that it never occurs to me
that the Doctor’s practice might be...unusual. Not even the strange invitation
suggests anything to me. That’s how naive I am.

It’s not that I don’t have a sex drive. Believe me, I have a
sex drive. But it’s all frenzied, angry masturbation beneath tangled sheets,
after I think everyone else is asleep.

Pathetic, right?
 

This is just by way of saying that I’m entirely unprepared
for what’s about to happen.

The Doctor’s office is in one of those fancy townhouses, a
mansion, really, with a beautiful limestone facade set back from the street and
guarded by a heavy iron fence and a locked gate. The fence itself is lightly
covered with ivy, and through the curling tendrils I can see the suggestion of
a lighted courtyard, and a path to a garden in back. It looks like a private
home, not a Doctor’s office. I double-check the address on the black card to
make sure, holding it close to my face in the fading light, and I’m about to
press the doorbell when the speaker box crackles to life.

“Come inside, Claire.”

I startle, unaware that I was being watched. The voice is
relaxed, but commanding, even through the distortions of the speaker, as though
its owner has never even considered the possibility that he might be disobeyed.
I find myself pushing eagerly at the gate, not even waiting for the tell-tale
buzz. Already this is the most exciting thing to ever happen to me, and I want
more.

I find the front door unlocked, and a sign indicating that I
should leave my coat on the side table in the vestibule. It’s chilly in the
house, with its high ceilings and marble floors, and I feel a little
self-conscious as my nipples grow pert beneath my cheap blouse. My bra is
unpadded, made of a thin white cotton, and will do nothing to hide my nipples
if it stays this cold.

I cross my arms in front of my chest and make my way out of
the vestibule. There is a light coming from a formal reception room to my
right, and all the other doors are closed. Feeling inexplicably embarrassed, I
creep into the reception room.

I am alone.

There’s a warm light, and expensive looking, stylish black
furniture that nevertheless looks very uncomfortable. I perch awkwardly on the
edge of a black sofa, smoothing my black skirt beneath me, and look around. I
guess I expect to see the sorts of things you normally see in a doctor’s
office: a reception desk, a secretary or something, magazines.

There’s none of that. Just this muted gray room, with its
soft light and a mild chill in the air. My nipples are still quite awake.
There’s a door in the far wall, besides the opening onto the main hall that I
had come through, and it’s open just a bit. Not enough to see anything, just
enough to tease.

It seems rude, somehow, that there’s no one here to greet
me. To explain all this.

I’m debating whether to go sneak around, my arms wrapped
tightly around me, when I hear it. A soft, light scraping noise. Awkward,
arrhythmic. Scrape, scrape, scrape, followed by a shuffle, what might be a
groan.

It stops for a moment. I’m looking around, certain I heard
it, but feeling kind of crazy, when it starts up again, slightly louder this
time. Scrape, scrape, scrape. Then the same pause, and the same shuffle.
 

I sit motionless in the cold, my arms tensed at my sides,
heedless of my nipples poking through the thin fabric of my skirt. I’m usually
able to identify sounds, but I have no idea what this is.

It’s come closer. This time when the scraping stops, a tiny
little dustpan is pushed into view in the open doorway off the reception area.
I giggle a little bit – a dustpan? I was afraid of a dustpan?

And then comes the girl.

She’s nearly naked, covered only in a thin black bikini, a
leather collar around her neck. Her pale skin shines in the soft light. Her
hands are bound behind her back with more black leather, and she carefully
holds a small dust broom in her mouth. She’s gripping the handle with her
teeth, her painted red lips stretched wide. Slowly she shuffles forward on her
knees, until she’s in front of the dustpan, and then, with aching slowness, she
sweeps a bit of dust forward, her breasts swaying heavily near the floor.

Scrape, scrape, scrape.

I must gasp, or maybe I say something, because she pauses
for a moment and looks up. She looks me in the eye, and it almost looks like
she smiles with that broom handle stuck in her mouth.

Then she leans over, and pushes the dustpan forward with her
nose.

I can’t help but stare at her. I don’t know what I’m
supposed to feel. How are you supposed to react to something like that?

What I begin to feel, though, is a warmth down below. And my
nipples, hard now, beneath my thin blouse, ache to be touched. I squirm a
little in my seat, rubbing my bottom into the rough fabric, scraping my nipples
against my bra and blouse, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.

I don’t know how long I watch her, but she’s nearly out of
sight when I become aware of another presence.

A man. In the doorway that was only partially open, now
fully open, his hands clasped behind his broad back. He wears a white dress
shirt, starched collar, tucked into a trim waist. Over six feet tall, with
cold, bright blue eyes, and black, slicked back hair, with just a few streaks
of gray. He must have been an athlete with that build, that confidence.

He’s the single most intimidating man I’ve ever seen, and
I’m not sure why. I can’t read his expression, but he’s been watching me, watch
her. Watching me get turned on.

I open my mouth to try to explain myself – how, I
don’t know – and he cuts me off.

“Do not speak.”

I shut my mouth automatically. It was his voice over the
speaker. There’s something primal about it. He studies me, as though evaluating
me. I push my chest out ever so slightly, suck my tummy in a little. I look for
a glimmer of a smile on his lips, but find nothing.

“I am the Doctor.” He finally says, like he’s giving me a
gift. “Follow me.”

And without waiting for a response, he turns and strides
down the hall, away from me.

I hurry up to follow, hearing his footsteps recede into the
darkness. It takes me a moment to collect myself, to smooth down my skirt and
my hair, to feel presentable. Then I have to hurry after him, tottering in my
new black pumps, heels clicking on the marble floor.

I rush out into a great hall, and pause in front of a grand,
sweeping staircase. I would see him if he’d gone up that staircase. It spirals
lazily up at least four stories. Confused and slightly panicked – what if
I’ve lost him already? – I look around wildly until I see another door.
This leads to another staircase, going down, and I can hear the last of his
steps at the bottom. I clatter down the steps in a hurry, anxious to catch up
to him. It’s only later that I’ll think about how eager I am to please him.

When I find him, he’s seated behind a desk in a long, low
room. There’s medical looking equipment along the sides of the room, a table on
wheels with the familiar stirrups – I shiver at the sight of those
stirrups, and look away quickly, hoping he doesn’t notice my reaction –
various straps and things on the walls. There’s a single chair placed in front
of his desk, a standing lamp next to it, beaming down a spotlight.

“Sit down.” He says.

I do. I can’t figure out what to do with my legs. I try
crossing them, but that feels too seductive. Eventually I settle for crossing
them at the ankle, in a demure fashion. He watches all this with curiosity.

“Why are you here, Claire?”

Confused, I stutter a little. “I, um...I received an
invitation?”

“Why did you receive an invitation, Claire?”

I look down at my hands.

“I don’t know.”

“That will be the last time you lie to me, Claire, or you
will never see me again.”

I look up with obvious worry. I can’t bear the thought of
that. Ridiculous, I know, but already this has been the only thing in my life
that’s truly mine, the only thing that’s the least bit special. No one even
knows I’m here.

“Because there’s something wrong with me.” I whisper.

He cocks his head to the side, as though listening for
something only he can hear. Finally he puts his hands together, finger tip to
finger tip, and looks down at me.

“That is one way of putting it. You are trapped, Claire. You
are unhappy. You are not free. The only path to freedom is through surrender.
Did you know that, Claire?”

I shake my head. I have no idea what he’s talking about,
except that he’s right about one thing: I do feel trapped.

“Different people find freedom in different ways. They
surrender to different things. I suspect that your way, Claire, is to surrender
to me. That will be your treatment, if you choose to pursue it.”