Doctor's Orders: The Complete Series (11 page)

I lose my damn mind.

I’m sure I’m loud. It almost hurts. I am overwhelmed, and there’s a part of me that wants it to stop, that is still frightened of losing control completely. It’s the part of me that used to rule my mind, and now, because of the Doctor, I can ignore it and ride him to the most powerful orgasm of my life. I bite his shoulder like a feral animal, and he comes hard inside me.

Somehow, he recovers first. I’m not fully back in my own head as he holds me up with one arm while undoing my restraints with the other, and I’m not totally able to form words as he carries me across the darkened stage, up the back stairs, and into a small, comfortable dressing room. I’m not even sure what I would say, if I could. But by the time he sets me down on a soft, cotton couch, kneeling in front of it gingerly, cradling my naked body with care, I’m ready to talk it out.

I reach for his face, still covered in hooded shadow in this dimly lit room.

He balks, his head dodging to the side.

I don’t know what to say, or do. In this moment so many things clamor for attention in my overheated brain. That I’ve crossed many boundaries in one night; that perhaps he doesn’t yet possess the strength to be vulnerable, the same strength he’s given me; that if I love him, I have to let him choose to be open with me – or not. I feel wizened, and aware, and so grateful to him for helping me to become this person.

I just wish I could help him.

Instead, I put my outstretched hand on his bare chest. Impulsively, I dart forward and kiss him there, resting my forehead briefly against his warm skin. I feel lips on the top of my head, and then he rises and is quietly gone.

There are clothes, neatly folded in a pile, at the end of the dark red couch. A bathroom off to one side, a plush bathrobe that I gratefully snuggle into. My coat, hanging on a hook. I suspect there will be a back entrance, and a car waiting to take me home, whenever I’m ready. Just like all the other times – this is how appointments end.

What I cannot find, no matter how hard I look, is a little black card telling me when my next appointment will take place.

I wonder if this is it. If he really has cut me off, if there will be no more appointments. I want to march back into his home proper, to demand...I don’t know, resolution, of some sort. It’s this weird conquering instinct I didn’t even know I had, and while I like it – I
really
like it, I feel powerful, and in control, and...but I can’t. He has respected my boundaries this entire time. He has been all about me and my boundaries and my desires, this entire time.

He has really been in service to me, this entire time.

The thought is stunning. One of those things you instantly know is profoundly true. It obliterates my own selfish needs and wants in one bright flash, and leaves me with this: I have to reciprocate. I have to find a way to be of service to him, too.

I have to find a way to show him how I feel. I have to find a way to show him that he, too, is deserving of love.

Respecting his boundaries is probably a good place to start.

Quietly I go about the business of cleaning myself up. I shower in his bathroom; I wash with his soap. I dress in the comfortable clothes that he has provided, I make myself presentable for the drive home. And I do it all with a zen-like calm that is new to me, but feels natural.

I am now a woman on a mission.

P
ART 4:

C
LAIMED

After the man in the hooded mask fucked me senseless, I was sure I would get another card.

I was
sure.

I’d been seeing the Doctor by appointment, each session an instructive lesson in dominance, submission, orgasms, and life, not necessarily in that order. The appointments were announced via black embossed cards that were all at once stylish, commanding, and, of course, instructive. They told me where to be, what to wear, and gave me some hint of what to expect. Most of all, they’d assured me that I’d get another chance with the Doctor.

With Cedric.

So, during my last appointment, I’d made a few discoveries. First, that the man I’d only known as “the Doctor” is actually Cedric Durant, heir of
the
Durant family. Then I’d discovered that his dead wife had been his first submissive, and that she’d killed herself years ago, leaving the Doctor guarded and closed off from love. Which made the next discovery kind of tough: I’d discovered that I’d fallen in love with the Doctor – with Cedric – and I’d done all of this discovering by profoundly violating his privacy and reading his love letters from his dead wife.

Then I confessed to all of it.

Well, I confessed
after
I’d discovered that the man hidden behind that hooded mask, who had stripped me bare in front of an appreciative audience, who was working so hard to keep his identity a secret, was, in fact, the Doctor himself. I confessed, and he’d given me the best sex of my life.

So that last appointment had been. . . eventful. And even though I had no right to expect that another card would arrive, or that the Doctor would ever forgive me, or that I’d ever even see him again, I was absolutely sure one would arrive. I had complete faith.

A week later, I still hadn’t gotten that stupid card.

I had plenty to keep me busy. The Doctor has helped me find the confidence to go after my dreams and all the rest, which I guess is sort of the point of his unusual practice, and I’m determined to pursue them even if he never wants to see me again. So I submitted my portfolio to the only art school worth applying to, hoping my community college credits would somehow help, and I’ve muddled on, hidden amidst the people who should know me best, but don’t – my family – and planned a new life for the person I’ve secretly become under the Doctor’s care.

My family are. . . I would not describe them as supportive. They don’t take me seriously, I guess. My younger brother gets all the love and respect, even though he hasn’t even pretended to try to get a real job since graduating high school. I used to be pretty angry about this, honestly, but now, with all I’ve experienced, with all the Doctor has shown me about myself, I find that I can see my parents clearly now, too. And they are unhappy. Neither of them has the courage to be who they really want to be; my Mom has a box of half-finished novels getting musty in the attic, and my Dad drinks way more than is strictly necessary.

I like to think I’ll be able to help them, once I’ve gotten my new life sorted out. Once I’m pursuing a career as an artist, and have a good job, and am fully. . .myself.

This is what I was thinking, pushing peas around on my plate while my unhappy family ate a silent dinner – you know the really awkward kind, where no one has anything at all to say to each other, and after a couple of comments about the food everyone just gives up? Yeah, nightly ritual at my parent’s house – and day dreaming about all the things I finally felt capable of doing, and I realized that I would feel this way even if I never heard from him again. I was certain I would hear from him, don’t get me wrong, but that was the strength of the gift he’d given me: I had complete faith in him because he’d shown me how to have faith in myself.

And then the doorbell rang.

“What is that?” My mom sounded alarmed. No one ever just drops by our house.

“I’ll get it.” I was so quick to jump up from the table, even my Dad noticed something was wrong.

I was nervous, I’ll admit it. It had to be the next appointment card. But what if it was really
him
, and not just a black card this time? My old anxiety and discomfort crept up on me as I thought about the Doctor meeting my family, as I thought about those two worlds awkwardly colliding over half-finished plates of meatloaf, but I shook it off, threw back my shoulders, and opened the door.

It was a bike messenger.

“Are you Claire Donner?” I nodded, and he shoved a clipboard at me. “Sign here.”

I fumbled with the clipboard, mumbled an apology. I was going crazy.

“You ok?” the bike messenger asked me. I couldn’t figure out how to tell him I’d soared all the way past “ok” to “mind-numbingly fantastic.” I’m positive he left thinking there was something seriously wrong with me.

So, this was a little bit anticlimactic, to be sure. But at least when I ripped open the oversized envelope, a familiar black card fell out of it. My faith was rewarded. Here was the proof. My hand was even shaking as I bent down to pick it up, my skin hot with the anticipation of what the card would tell me, my mind racing with thoughts of what might come next. I bit my lip and turned the card over, holding it up to the little light above the door.

I’m sorry.

That’s it. That’s all it said.

I wish I could say that my reaction to this was all poetic and profound and noteworthy, but I’m pretty sure the first thing that went through my head was this: What. The. Fuck.

And then the next thing was: Hell no, is what.

Which is how I’ve come to be standing in front of the Doctor’s townhouse again, gripping an embossed card of my own, trying to get a glimpse through his windows like a crazy stalker lady.

I’m dressed especially for the occasion. This is another change in me: I never used to see the point of dressing up or putting much effort into the way I presented myself to the world. Now I do. Today’s outfit is like battle armor: a tight white dress with an asymmetric cut, white heels, red lipstick. The wind curls around my carefully groomed hair, but I know from experience I look pretty good when I get a little windswept.

I have to be well-armed for this confrontation. My faith in the Doctor, in Cedric, and in what I know I’ve felt between us. . . well, I don’t want to say it’s shaken. But there have been moments of doubt. I know, deep down, I know that he loves me, and I even know how crazy it is to believe that, though that doesn’t make it less true.

But what if he just doesn’t love me as much as he loved her?

What if it’s just not enough? I’ve read up on Julia, his dead wife, in old society columns and such. I mean, how could I not be curious? And she was
incredible
. There is a part of me that can’t ever imagine a newspaper saying the same kinds of things about me – a decorated scholar, a philanthropist, a regular volunteer at a freaking homeless shelter, stunningly beautiful, charming, and of course funny; she was your basic nightmare ex all around – and I really think. . . maybe she just
was
better. Maybe I simply have no hope of ever measuring up.

And of course, something drove even the perfect Julia to suicide in the end.

Well, I’m not perfect, not by a long shot. But I know what I’ve felt. And I know how I’ve made the Doctor feel. I know how I’ve made
Cedric
feel. And I’m going to fight for a shot at making it work. I won’t let him be a coward about it. I won’t let myself be a coward about it.

This is how I worked up the courage to press the buzzer at his front gate. I thought that working up the courage to press the stupid buzzer would be the hard part, just like last time. Nope. The hard part is when whoever is already inside chooses to ignore me.

I know, I know. I sound crazy again. But there is movement in the dimly lit windows of his limestone mansion; dull shadows flicker against the paned glass, teasing me. Someone’s home.

And I’m getting. . . blown off?

A few months ago – hell, a few weeks ago – my response to this would have been to curl up and cry. And part of me still wants to do exactly that. But there’s also a newly awakened part of me, a part of me that the Doctor himself found and nourished, that rises up and gets
angry
. I pause to relish the sensation, the newness of it, the courage of it, just like he taught me.

I may not have any idea how I’m going to get inside, but I damn well know I’m going to try. This is Bold Claire. This is New Claire.

I’m nearly frothing at the mouth, working myself up to, I don’t know, hop the fence? Complete my transformation to Totally Unhinged Crazy Claire? When I am scared shitless by a little dapper man in a three-piece suit.

“Oh, you must be Lena,” he huffs at me. His face is shiny and flushed; he must have run, or waddled, pretty fast, which makes his sudden appearance at my elbow all the weirder. I’m surprised a man so rotund could be so stealthy, but you learn something new every day.

I’m even more surprised when he shoves a file folder at me.

“Here’s your figures. I am just so sorry to be late, and for something like this!” He takes out a handkerchief and dabs at his sweaty face, wisely making himself more presentable in advance of. . . whatever he’s here for, I guess. I’m suddenly reminded of how very little I know about Cedric’s life outside of his practice as the Doctor, and it rattles my newfound confidence.

“You’re such a dear for not buzzing in without me. I would have been mortified,” the little man says, and I watch in slow motion as his pink finger reaches out and presses the buzzer with finality.
He
has an appointment, and I don’t.

And this is where I decide to lie.

“I take it John briefed you on the financials before he left?” the little man asks out of the side of his mouth, warily eyeing the camera lens embedded in the intercom system. I try to hide my face behind his.

“Yes,” I say, surprised at how easy it is to just, you know, lie.

“Good, so you can make that pitch. Imagine, getting a call out of the blue that a
major
donor is interested, and leaving it to the new girl while you go on vacation! Almost as bad as being late, isn’t it?” And he laughs at his own expense. I like him, and feel bad for lying, and hope the real Lena is taking care of business. He looks up at me, suddenly worried. “No offense, of course.”

“None taken.”

The buzzer pierces the air like a starter’s pistol. No turning back now. The little man steps forward and holds the gate open for me.