Page 31 of Never Say Never

“Your wish, my command, wife.”

Sharon Wachsler’s “Alternative Medicine” is a twist on the doctor/patient fantasy that many couples share:

I entered the dark bedroom. She was lying in an oversized T-shirt on her back with a black mask over her eyes and a cold, wet cloth on her forehead. When the sleeve of my white coat grazed her thigh, she sucked in her breath.

“You’ve had this migraine all day?” I asked, placing my black bag on our nightstand.

“Yes, doctor.”

“The medication hasn’t helped?”

“No, doctor.”

“Now, because you’ll try anything, you’ve asked for my help?”

A whisper. “Yes. I’m desperate.”

“Pain specialists,” I said, opening my bag and taking out gloves, lube and a small purple butt plug with a remote vibe, “have found that providing an alternative focus can distract the patient from her pain.”

“Mm,” she said, unmoving.

I snapped on the gloves—loudly—and she jerked. I lubed up the plug, lifted her legs and slid it in her ass.

“Oh!”

I slapped her ass. “If you relax, it will be more efficacious,” I instructed, turning the vibe to low.

A soft moan.

“Lie still and focus on the stimulus,” I directed. “I have to make rounds. I’ll be back later to finish your treatment.” I dropped a leather paddle and a condom next to her. Her hand found each in turn, and a slow smile spread across her face.

I turned the vibe to medium, eased the door shut, and whistling, headed for the shower.

Andrea Dale’s “His Lady’s Manservant,” plays with roles in a delicious manner:

Melina tended to be a screamer, and her orgasm solidified our roles: she as the lady of the manor and I as her manservant, the besotted lover kept secret because of class boundaries.

When she rode me (of course she’d take the dominant position), my thoughts truly were for her pleasure. My hands at her breasts, my hips bucking to her rhythm, it wasn’t until she was falling over the edge again and gasping, “Yes, come for me,” that I was finally allowed—that I finally allowed myself—the relief I’d craved.

She didn’t banish me to the servants’ quarters that night, although for the remainder of my weekend she stayed in character.

As I loaded our suitcases into the car, I could only think ahead to when we’d reprise our parts…in private.

Cora Zane’s “Bad Kitty” shows that you don’t even need to be human when you’re playing a part.

She watches me unzip my pants, and I recognize that look of majestic indifference. Sasha meows and stretches her sleek body across the unmade bed. Her red-vinyl claws rake the black satin sheets as a proper pussycat is wont to do. The little bell on her studded, leather collar is a soft chime marking her every movement. I step to the edge of the bed, hard cock in hand, and in defiance, she lies on her side and flicks her cheetah-print tail at me.

“So that’s how it is, is it?”

She lifts her chin in dismissal.

“Bad kitty.” I slip my finger under the edge of her collar, and pull her toward me, the motion forcing her to her knees.

Annoyance flickers in her emerald eyes.

“You know master wants his cock sucked.”

To soothe her, I stroke her black hair, and reluctantly, she nuzzles her face against my hand. That’s when I press the head of my dick to her lush mouth, smudging her wet, red lipstick.

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