Page 6 of Dying for the Doctor

“Because you’re beautiful, Wanda.” The words tumble out of me but I no longer give a damn. I’m on this train and we have left the station going downhill without brakes, my cock at the controls and my balls doing the navigation. “Which means you’ve probably got a boyfriend. And I presume he’s giving you orgasms, or else he’s a fucking loser. So when was the last time you had an orgasm, Wanda? It’s a simple question. And remember, I’m a doctor.”

Wanda gapes at me, blinks about a dozen times, gulps silently, then exhales and looks shyly down at herself. “I . . . I’ve never had a doctor ask me that question. Even my therapist never asked me that question.”

I nod very seriously, my head throbbing from the sound of her wonderfully strong heart beating out a desperate drumroll that reverberates through my entire body, is bringing me close to exploding in my damn pants. In a moment I’m going to spew a jet of hot semen through my lambswool crotch all over the side of the bed, onto those sheets. Fuck, I’ve never been so aroused in my entire life, never wanted to possess a woman this bad. And it’s way beyond just getting my rocks off. There’s an overwhelming need to empty my balls into this woman’s womb, to fill her with my seed, own her completely, possess her entirely, always and forever, every day and every night, until we’re old and gray, to our graves and beyond, to whatever comes next.

“Doctors these days are paid to write prescriptions based on the insurance provider’s user-manual, not to heal holistically,” I say with a level of disdain that surprises me. Sure, it’s true that medical doctors are incentivized to work for pharmaceutical companies more than the actual patients these days, but whatI’m doing here is a hundred times worse. I’m a lying piece of shit, abusing my authority as a doctor to seduce this sweet woman. “Now, please answer the question, Wanda.”

Wanda swallows hard, then takes a quick breath. “No,” she says softly, blinking shyly as she flicks her gaze towards my face and then looks down along her curvy body again. “No.”

“All right,” I say with a sigh, realizing that if she says no, I need to back off. I may be a bastard, but I’m not that kind of bastard. “I can’t force you to answer my question. But it really would help me to—”

“I did answer your question.” Wanda interrupts me with a sharp glance. “I don’t have a boyfriend, OK? And I haven’t . . . um . . . I’ve never had . . . well, you know.”

I stare in stunned silence, my cock and balls straining like they’re desperately trying to interpret her answer. “You haven’t what? You never what?” My mind is a mess right now. This makes no sense to me. A woman this sexy has never . . . wait, what?

“You’ve never had an orgasm?” The question barely makes its way up my constricted throat and past my tight lips. “Nobody’s ever made you come?”

Wanda flinches under my stethoscope, and I raise my fingertips off her skin. Guilt washes over me like a wave, and suddenly I hate myself, am repulsed by my own dirty deception. This woman is an untouched angel, and I’m the filthy demon hovering over her, drooling down on this innocent rabbit like a hungry wolf. I’ve killed dozens of men for Dad and the Family, but my conscience has never bothered me as much as it is for what I’m doing here.

“Would . . . would it help?” she whispers.

Through my guilt-soaked madness I blink my way towards her sweet voice. “Sorry, what?” I manage to gurgle. “What did you just ask me?”

“Would it help?” Wanda is staring up at me from the bed now, her eyes wide and wondering. I’m not sure what I see in those eyes, not sure if she’s so innocent that she really believes the crap I spewed about tectonic ambience and stochastic arrythmia and that she’s dying and only I can save her with my so-called “radical intervention.”

The universe spins around me as I stare into Wanda’s eyes. I’m totally turned around by the contradictions in this woman. She’s obviously smart as hell, but also innocent like a babe. Maybe her overly protective parents did a number on her, setting expectations that she couldn’t possibly meet, resulting in a warped self-image that made Wanda believe that because she isn’t perfect, it means she isn’t good enough.

So maybe shedoesneed radical intervention.

And maybe I need it too.

After all, didn’t I reach out instinctively to help her worried parents?

Wasn’t that a cry for help from my own broken soul?

Now that smile flickers onto my lips again, chasing away the guilt as that feeling of warm fullness overwhelms me once more. This is fate, I tell myself. It’s destiny, I assure my conscience. She needs help, and so do I.

“It might help,” I say, my voice strong with authority once again as confidence surges through my body. This is right. This is good. Doesn’t matter that I’m lying. Hell, maybe I’m not really lying. After all, orgasms are still largely mysterious to conventional science. And many ancient cultures (and cults) have considered sexual energy to be the fundamental unit of cosmic power, that from which everything else emerges. So isn’t it possible that the orgasm is a tool of not just worship but healing? Isn’t it possible that the orgasm bridges that gap between the spirit and the flesh, connects the physical to thespiritual, reveals the god in a man, awakens the goddess in a woman?

“All right. If it’ll help, I’m willing to try it.” Wanda’s voice wavers, but her gaze is fixed on me now. Her cheeks are flushed and glowing, those nipples still pert and pricked beneath her gown. “After all, you’re the doctor. I trust you.”

She smiles shyly, but in her eyes I see a glimmer of the goddess. Immediately it hits me that no, she isn’t dumb enough to actually believe all that crap I spewed. But at the same time, she needs to pretend that she does believe me. Psychologically she’s wound too tightly to just admit that she’s aroused, that she’s curious, that she’s ready, that she’s willing.

She needs this lie more than I do.

She needs to tell herself that I’m the doctor and she’s the patient. She needs to hide behind the conventions of society so she can open up without feeling shame. After all, she’s a whip-smart graduate student getting a PhD in Psychology. If anyone understands that sometimes we need to play mind-games with ourselves, it’s this woman, right?

“Right.” Coughing gently, I back away from the bed, my head spinning so hard I can barely stand. Glancing towards the locked door, I swallow thickly, run my fingers through my hair, then nod when I realize I have to give her the option to opt out. It’s the decent thing to do. Even though decency is not the first word anyone would use to describe me right now. “I’ll give you some privacy. The cameras are off, so you don’t need to worry about that. I’ll be right outside with your parents, OK?”

Moving as slowly as I can towards the door, I feel Wanda’s eyes follow me. Every fiber in my being wants me to rush towards her bed again, pull those sheets off her gorgeous body, push my fingers under that flimsy paper-thin gown, find her stiff little clit and rub it, open her untouched lips and slide my fatthumb into her pussy, gently stretch her virgin hole until she relaxes, submits, succumbs, surrenders.

I’m almost at the door now, and my entire body is buzzing like it’s flashing the red-alert, warning me to stop and turn, to take what I want, to give her what she needs.

After all, if she’s in her mid-twenties and has never experienced an orgasm, maybe she isn’t very comfortable touching herself.

Maybe she does need my help.

“Of course, if you’d like me to assist with . . .” I begin to say, my voice a low growl because of how tight my throat is constricted and how viciously my cock is throbbing. Clearing my throat, I stop and turn, shrugging once and gazing over at Wanda watching me from her bed. My eyes are narrowed to savage blue slits, the primal drives of ancient man taking over again, the need to possess burning hot once more. “There are clinical ways to achieve the desired result, if you aren’t comfortable inducing the outcome yourself.”

---