After Hours

This is for Tessa. I think it was in Taboo, edited by Violet Blue. I need to keep better records.

After Hours

The crisp white nurse’s skirt fell to the floor with a tiny whisper, followed by a slightly louder murmur from the nurse, herself. I couldn’t wait to finger her pussy, to see just how ready she was for me, but that wasn’t part of the plan. Not yet. This scenario had to follow a strict schedule, and I would ruin everything by rushing. I watched as she let her white blouse follow her skirt, and then I stared, fascinated, as she picked up both parts of the uniform, folded them neatly, and set them on the blue plastic chair.

She didn’t know that I was watching her, which made the voyeuristic experience all the more powerful. She thought that I was waiting, appropriately, outside in the hall for her to prepare herself. But with the door cracked slightly, I had the perfect view as she took off her bra and placed the underwire contraption with the rest of her clothes. With a gentle motion, she removed her pantyhose, then slid her silky white panties down her lean thighs and dropped both of these items on top of the skirt and blouse. She stared at the pile of clothing for a moment, then rearranged the stack by tucking the panties and bra between the skirt and blouse.

How quaint, I thought to myself. She doesn’t want me to see her panties.

Or maybe she didn’t want me to see what most likely was a very wet spot at the center of them. That thought sent a shot of adrenaline through my body, and I had to pace up and down the hall to get myself under control.

Back at the door, I rapped my knuckles on the wood, knowing full well she wasn’t ready, and she squeaked out a “One moment, please.” I heard rustling in the room, and then watched through the sliver of space as she slid into the ugly waiting hospital gown and hopped onto the paper-covered leather table. The gown tied in the back, and she did her best to tie the bows herself, but the end results were loose tangles of the ties and gaping areas where the smooth skin of her back could easily be seen. I took in the lines from her tan, and then way her reddish hair fell just to the ridge of her shoulders before I knocked on the door again.

“Yes, I’m ready,” she said. “You can come in.”

I entered the room and she turned her head to look at me. She wore the expression I always see on women’s faces when I enter an examination room. Women who are nearly nude and waiting for me to touch their naked bodies tend to have an expectant look, almost excited, yet tempered with trepidation. I adore this look. I did my best to put her at ease. First, I washed my hands, soaping them generously as I stared out the window to the carpark below. Evening had just about fallen, and the light was a dusky blue. Few cars remained in the lot. I dried my hands and then turned to face my patient.

I thought about what I wanted: start with a little fingering of her pussy with my thumb accidentally brushing her clit.
Wait to see what sort of reaction that would bring. The thought of parting her pussy lips was enough to make me instantly hard, and I did my best to quiet my thoughts. This wasn’t the time—

Slowly, I walked to the side of the table and undid her wretched attempts to tie the gown closed. With care, I slid her thin gown from her shoulders, letting the fabric fall down from her breasts to her waist. I had her lay back on the table, and I took my time with her breast exam, rotating my palm over her lovely pert breasts, cradling each one in the most clinical way. She stared at me with trusting eyes, and I did my utmost to echo her look with my own gaze. I felt a confusing mix of dirty desires pulse through me. I was only giving her a simple breast exam, after all—nothing out of the ordinary—but the feelings ricocheting within me were of the filthiest variety I could imagine.

I had her sit back up and used the stethoscope to listen to her lungs. She was in top shape, but her deep, husky sounding breaths made me close my eyes and imagine the sort of sounds she’d make if I fucked her. Would those breaths come quicker? Was she the type to hold her breath at the moment of climax? I was glad to be standing behind her, where she couldn’t see what was undoubtedly a strained expression on my face.

After several deep breaths of my own, I had her lie back down on the table. I walked to the foot of the table and sat down on the round, leather-covered stool waiting for me. Her legs were bent at the knee, and from this vantage point, I could see right up the gown, to her naked pussy. It took every once of my determination to keep the lustful longing sound out of my voice when I asked her put her feet in the stirrups and then slide her sweet ass all the way down toward me.

No, I didn’t say, “Sweet ass.”

But I wanted to.

The speculum lay on a paper towel next to the sink, but I didn’t have any use for that tool right now. I could feel her watching intently as I slid my large hands into the requisite rubber gloves, and I could see from the look on her face that the look and sound of rubber itself was foreplay to her.

Eat her.

That thought pounded in my head.

Brush her clit with your face. Make her come with your tongue and sharp chin against her.

Christ, where were these thoughts coming from?

“This might feel a bit cold,” I told her.

“Yes, Doctor,” she said, and the words opened up a whole wealth of possibilities to me. Yes, Doctor, anything you want, Doctor—that’s what those words meant. When I touched her pussy, she quivered all over and let out the deepest, sexiest sigh. My thumb brushed her clit, as if accidentally, and the sigh turned into a moan. Had she gotten aroused during the breast exam? Did she want me to do the things to her that I most definitely wanted to?
I pressed against her and when I found her G-spot and tapped it twice. When I glanced at her face, I saw that she looked embarrassed at the way her breathing had speeded up.

“Everything looks perfect,” I told her, using my most reassuring tone.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

I withdrew my hand and saw her cheeks go crimson at the wetness that clung dew-like to my gloved fingers. She was deeply aroused. That was clear to both of us.

“I’d like to do a rectal,” I said after glancing at her chart, and I thought she’d come on the spot. “Relax as much as you can, and I’ll go slow.”

“Yes, Doctor,” she said again, her voice a husky purr. I gazed at her for a moment, taking in her gorgeous blue eyes, her creamy skin, long gingery hair loose to her shoulders. I thought of the way she looked all dressed up in her nurse’s uniform—an outfit I saw her in five days a week. But I liked her better like this, naked under a blanket made of paper, her legs spread wide, body opened to me.

While she watched with an unwavering stare, I lubed my finger generously with the petroleum jelly and then parted her asscheeks. She moaned as I slid my middle finger deep into her asshole. Oh, was she ever tight here. She contracted on me instantly, but I didn’t reveal any reaction at the spectacular reflex. I probed her rear entry for several seconds before adding a second finger into her hole. God, I loved the way her body seemed to pulse on my two fingers, and I had an instant preview of what it would feel like when I replaced my fingers with my cock.

But not yet.

With my two gloved fingers still tight inside her, I brushed my thumb over her clit again. She was swollen now, obviously ready to climax, and I thought about letting her orgasm one time, letting her reach the finish line here at the start, before we’d even really gotten going.

“Oh, god—”

“Relax,” I said again, using my most stern voice.

“Yes, Doctor,” she whimpered. “Yes, Doctor—”

I rocked my fingers gently within her asshole, and I had the distinct sensation that she might be able to come from this action alone. But that was not acceptable to me. Without a word, I gently removed my hand and peeled off the gloves. She whimpered and turned her head to the side, her face showing how sad she was at the departure of my probing digits.

“I’ll need to take your temperature now,” I told her, reaching for the thermometer waiting nearby. “So roll over onto your stomach for me.”

“You’re going to do it that way?” she stammered.

“Of course,” I told her.

Her cheeks were on fire as she rolled over onto her belly. The paper blanket fluttered to the floor as she and offered me the perfect globes of her rounded ass. Again, I smeared lube along her crack, and now I slipped the cold glass thermometer into her asshole, swallowing hard as I held the instrument in place. Oh, was I ready to fuck her, but not yet.

Not yet.

This vision exceeded all my dirty daydreams. The thought that I was examining her, here, in my office, that I had actually slipped a rectal thermometer into her perfect ass—oh, these facts made me want to come in my khakis. I loved this. The way I had to hold the thermometer still. The way her hips had started to rock on the paper-covered table. I wished I had something larger to insert into her rear entry. I wished—

Then I thought about an enema, and I removed the thermometer and told her my plan. If I’d thought she’d turned red before, now she showed me what “red” really was. Her cheeks went scarlet, vermillion, cardinal red. But she didn’t say no. My nurse never says no to me. I went quickly to the closet supplies for a disposable enema and brought it back to her just as rapidly. She sucked in her breath as I introduced the tip to her perfect pucker, and then she relaxed as I let the fluid flood inside of her.

“Hold it,” I told her, replacing the syringe with my thumb. “I don’t have a butt plug here. You’ll have to hold it yourself.” I kept my thumb in place for a moment, feeling like a dirty Dutchboy, and then I decided she had better void now, so that I could finally fuck her.

She was shuddering all over as I removed my thumb helped her off the table. The gown was completely off now, and her beautiful nude body seemed to shine winningly beneath the fluorescent lights. I watched her hurry to the adjacent bathroom, saw the way she cantered on the balls of her feet. She took care of herself in privacy, before returning and climbing back onto the table, stark naked and on her belly. She knew.

I maneuvered her the way I most desired, so that her ass was exposed and ready, and I reached for the lube again and glistened her asshole for her with a healthy dollop. She was out of her head, moaning and tossing her hair as I slid first one and then two fingers back inside her. I couldn’t wait to get my cock in there, but I wanted to get her as ready as I was.

“Please, Doctor,” she murmured. “Oh, please—”

I split open my khakis and got out my cock, and I watched her arch her back for me, offering herself up.

“Hold your cheeks open,” I instructed. “And relax for me.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

She reached behind herself, and parted her lovely asscheeks, and I placed the head of my cock right at her back door. All I wanted to do was slide in hard, but I took pity on her. Like a gentleman, I brought one hand under her waist to tickle her pussy. She was so wet, I could feel her juices covering the whole of her outer lips and the tops her thighs. I stroked her clit as I slid my cock inside of her, working slowly but steadily as she backed against me.

Yes, she wanted this. In fact, she fucked me, working her body up and down on my cock. I let her take her pleasure from me, and I kept my hand in place the whole time, tickling her clit as she filled herself with my cock. I closed my eyes as she rocked back and forth, and when she came, she began to squeeze my cock repeatedly, her muscles tightening and releasing until I came right along with her.

In the sterile environment of a doctor’s office, we exchanged the most base form of sexual encounter, and the heat shone between us. As we parted, she rolled onto her back and gazed at me, and the light in her eyes made me smile. My naughty nurse.

You’re not supposed to have playing-doctor fantasies when you’re a doctor. You’re not supposed to want to peel your nurse’s uniform off her nubile body and subject her to the same intensely detailed examinations you give your high-paying clients. But sometimes the very things you’re not suppose to want are the things you want most. Luckily, I’d found a match for my fantasies in Nurse Jocelyn, who craved a thorough examination with the same ferocity that I yearned to part her splendid thighs and give her one.

“When will I be due for my next appointment?” she asked softly as she stood and slid back into her rumpled uniform.

“We’ll have to check the books,” I told my ever-ready naughty nurse.

XXX,
Alison

Three fingers in the honeycomb

Spurred on by a wicked amount of gin, I'm posting a story from Bondage on a Budget. This piece was inspired by my best friend, who basically confessed the tale to me, word for word, at the counter of the Daily Grill on LA Cienega.

Antonia’s Beast

My best friend, Antonia, is a wisp of a girl, with pale blonde hair as soft as eiderdown and a translucent complexion reminiscent of a pre-Raphaelite model. Sometimes she wears layered antique slips snagged from second-hand stores on Melrose. Clad in faded rose satin with lace at the collar, she might have just stepped out of a 19th century print, a low flush to her cheeks, a secret half-smile on her lips. Other times, she wears those gauzy, ethereal dresses that are so in right now. Always, she looks like a half-frightened wood nymph, her cherry red hair loose and alluring around her cameo face.

I know that her fashion sense makes it sound as if she’s not shy, but bold and forthcoming about both her sexuality and sensuality. This is not the case. She has a beautiful body which she dresses in a seductive manner. But her composure is one that Miss Manners would approve of entirely. She is discreet and charming. She doesn’t have a bad word to say about anybody. She blushes whenever anyone stares at her for one beat too long.

I am often guilty of this mild infraction.

Antonia works at a café across the street from my office. She makes dreamy confections behind the counter, piling on whipped cream, chocolate shavings, dashes of cinnamon, and just a touch of amaretto. On my breaks, I come over at sit on one of the high-backed stools, waiting for her to take a moment and serve me, to come out from behind the chrome counter to sit at my side.

My best friend is a demure spirit, and yet within her heart lingers an impish creature who peeks out from time to time. When this fiend takes over, Antonia changes. She becomes bolder. She speaks in a louder voice. She drapes a diaphanous shawl across bare shoulders and teases me with the fringe.

She tells me stories.

“Did you ever hear about Marc?” she asks, innocent-sounding, but I know the undercurrent of her tone.

“The musician?” I ask, thinking to myself that the fiend is loose, the imp is out, the beast within Antonia’s breast is free for the afternoon.

She nods and sips from my mocha, leaving a sparkly lipstick kiss imprinted on the rim of my cup. The whipped cream makes a moustache on her upper lip and she flicks her tongue out to lick it clean. I find myself teetering on the bring of fainting when she does that, thinking of so many other dirty places she could place that darting, kittenish tongue.

Antonia brings me back. “Yes, the musician. Did I ever tell you about the time with the baby oil?”

The business man seated at Antonia’s right perks up. I can tell that he’s stopped reading his newspaper and is paying close attention to our conversation. At times like this, when Antonia’s beast roams free and she is ready to share, all eavesdroppers are in for a treat. The change may occur in a bookstore, at a theater before the film starts, in line at the grocery store. I watch the man lean slightly closer to Antonia, and I wait for her to notice, but she doesn’t.

“The baby oil?” I ask, widening my eyes, urging her to continue, to thrill me. “No, I don’t believe you ever told me about the baby oil.”

She takes another sip of my drink. Then she says, “Marcus used to play his guitar all the time. Whenever he wasn’t on stage, he pretended he was. It wasn’t about practicing, for him. It was about performing.”

I have clients in the music industry. I nod to show that I understand.

Antonia’s story goes like this: Marcus was sitting on their waterbed strumming his guitar. In his mind, he was performing for an audience of a thousand beautiful women. In reality, his one beautiful woman, Antonia, was taking a shower. The door was open, and she could hear the faint melody of his songs above the spray of the water. When she emerged, wrapped in a towel, she stood in the doorway and watched him play. Marcus was a particularly appealing performer. He had long black hair that hung straight and glossy down his back. He was thin and looked good in tight, leather pants. Colorful tattoos decorated his biceps and his chest. In short, he was perfect Hollywood masturbatory fodder.

When Antonia caught his attention, he looked up at her with a glazed, Rock God expression. She stood there, with the steam from the shower still dispersing behind her, red hair curling from the moisture, face flushed from the heat. She approached with a bottle of baby oil in one hand, and he put down the guitar, as if anticipating that something magic was going to happen. She gave him the bottle, and he took her over his lap and spread the clear oil all over her legs, from her ankles to her thighs. He worked her thoroughly, as if still on stage in his head, as if still in the part of the performer. He played music on her body, using his fingertips, using the full palms of his hands, rubbing, rubbing. Then he moved higher, massaging the cheeks of her ass, and in between them.

Stop the story: The man at the counter is having heart palpitations imagining lovely Antonia on her stomach, ass up, legs spread, her honeyed-nectar mingling with that pure, undiluted scent of baby oil. I swallow hard. The man swallows hard. Antonia continues, oblivious.

She tells it like she’s telling a bedtime story, in a low lilting voice that has a rhythmic pulse to it: They’ve never fucked like that.

She hesitates, makes herself continue. They’ve never had anal sex. He’s never tried, and she certainly wouldn’t have suggest it. But his fingers slowly start to probe her back door. His pointer and his middle finger push their way inside this tightest of openings. She sighs. She clings to his leg. She lets him continue. He makes circles with his fingertips as he delves further. Antonia’s breathing speeds up. She feels as if she’s going to pass out. She begs him to stop, but she doesn’t mean it.

Marcus is gentle, but persistent. He lubes her up and massages her until she is relaxed and ready. More than ready, dying for it. She is inexperienced and she wants suddenly to be experienced. She moves off his lap and waits while he undoes his faded jeans and pulls them down. He mounts her on their rolling, bucking waterbed, moving with the motions, gliding inside her. She buries her head in her arms, her face crimson with a combination of shame and lust. They don’t speak, but as he builds up to climax, he strokes her hair and murmurs something under his breath that sounds like one of the lyrics in his songs.

Freeze-frame. The man at Antonia’s side wants to know the lyric. I want to know the lyric. He’s leaned over so far that he’s practically in her lap. She still is unaware of his intrusion. I don’t point it out for fear that she’ll stop talking, for fear that Antonia’s beast will shift-change back into the wood nymph I am accustomed to.

She squirms on the chair as if the retelling of this memory has excited her in the same way that it’s excited her audience. I can’t help myself. I ask, “What did he sing?”

She looks at me, her eyes registering me for the first time during her story. She says, “I don’t remember,” but I can tell that she’s lying. She says, “The best part was the way he moved. He always moved as if he were in front of an audience. I don’t mean posing, but confident, strong. In control. He made love the same way, he fucked— Antonia never says “fuck”—“the same way.”

And when he took her like that, like an animal, like a Rock God should, the imaginary audience of thousands broke into thunderous applause.

XXX,
Alison

Tell me baby what's your story
Where you come from
And where you wanna go this time
—Red Hot Chili Peppers

P.S. Belated, this is, but I'll give a copy of Bondage on a Budget to one lucky commenter. Will announce the winner on Monday.