Doctor's Orders: The Complete Series (17 page)

“You sir? Do I hear three hundred?”

“I have a claim on this lot.”

My heart, my breathing, I swear even my blood circulating in my body just stops. And then it all starts up together, like a fevered, spastic orchestra. My body
riots
for him, if it’s him, please, it can only be him.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Gerald announces, “I’ve just received a card entitling the bearer to a claim on this particular lot.”

More murmurs from below. I will him to speak again, so I’ll know his voice, but nothing. I will the crowd to react, to somehow give me information, but nothing. I am still alone, nearly naked, exposed on this marble pedestal, with nothing to do but wait.

Even the crowd below is silent now. It feels as though everything hovers in this moment, delicately balanced on a single point of decision. My heart crashes against my chest, my muscles ache, but I cannot bear to move...

A hand. On the small of my back.

His warm, steadying hand.

And then he lifts me up, and I collapse into his arms and against his neck where I can breathe his particular scent, and I feel relief like I’ve never quite experienced. Relief, and also triumph. In claiming me he shows me that he’s mine.

Dully, I hear appreciative applause from the crowd, but I couldn’t care less at this point. He is carrying me down the stairs, which is just as well; I didn’t realize how intense this would be. I understand now why performance artists often collapse, or cry, or otherwise appear to lose their minds. But I want to see him. I paw at my blindfold.

“No.” The word rumbles in his chest. “It stays on until I take it off.”

Yeeesss.

I don’t know how long he carries me. I feel drugged, disoriented by the blindfold, by the adrenaline, by the whole experience. I know we get into a car, probably the limo I’ve been in before, and he somehow manages this without putting me down or bumping my head on the door.

I know that once we are in the car he shifts me onto his lap, my back to him. There are so many things I want, and I want them all at once, right now: I want to see him; I want to touch him; I want to finally, finally, kiss him. But his hands tell me no. His hands hold me in place.

And I am so glad to submit.

He takes my hands in his, and squeezes them. Then he places them at my sides. His own hands slide down the length of my thighs, pulling my gossamer dress taut over my hard nipples, curving around to the underside of my thighs at the edge of his reach. He leans into me, pressing his chest into my bare back, and lifts my legs, spreading them over his own. I lean my head back, feel his mouth draw down, his breath hot on my neck, and enjoy the feeling of being blindfolded and spread. He knows I can’t know if the divider is down, if his driver can see. He knows how much I liked it last time.

Slowly he draws his hands back up my thighs, pushing my useless dress up to my waist. It’s too much; I arch my back, pushing myself into his groin. His dick is hard and insistent against me, and if I have to suffer, dammit, he will too. I grind against him, but he casually palms my pussy and bears down, pressing me into him and forcing me to stop at the same time. I go motionless, but not calm. I am at great tension, like a string pulled too tight. I am positive he can feel my pulse thundering in my pussy, his palm flat against it, and I am afraid I’m about to snap.

“Do not move until I tell you to.”

Oh. God. I don’t know if that’s going to be possible.

His one hand keeps its grip on my pussy while the other begins to slowly roam the length of my body. Up and down my thigh, the curve of my hip, the flat of my stomach, until he gets to the fullness of my breast and my hard nipple that is screaming for attention. He toys with it, rolling it between his fingers, pinching, flicking, kneading. Bastard. My hands at my sides are balled into tiny little fists, and my breathing is raggedy and desperate, and he must know exactly what he’s doing to me.

“Please,” I gasp. And I press myself into him.

Immediately his grip tightens, and for one blissful second I think he’ll put his fingers inside me. Instead I can hear him smile when he speaks.

“I told you not to move, Claire.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You will be.”

I can only hope. I grin, and grind my ass into his erection one more time. I know how to provoke a punishment when I want it. I hear his quick intake of breath, and know I’m in for something good.

“Get on your knees.”

And he lifts my legs back over his, closed in front of me, and forces me to the edge of the seat. I’m unsure what he means, exactly; there’s more than one delicious way for me to get on my knees for him.

“I said, on your knees, Claire. In front of me.”

He pushes me off the seat and keeps hold of my arm, turning me around to face him, between his legs. He takes a moment to fondle my breast, almost as an after thought, and then I feel his hand on the back of my head, pulling me forward.

I can’t help but lick my lips.

His fingers thread through my hair and he draws my head down. He makes me wait at an awkward angle, and I hear a zipper come undone. I love being kept here, at his convenience, blind, burning with desire. The man can dominate.

He pulls my head down further, and taps my lips with something warm and hard and silken.

“Open your mouth.”

I smile, then do as I’m told.

His cock is big, warm, and smooth. I try to dally over the head, laving it with my tongue, but he draws my head down, pushing the length of him in further. Not so fast that I gag, but almost. His hand stays enmeshed in my hair, and he’s got complete control of my head. He pulls me up, down, up, down, and I try to catch his rhythm and caress every inch of him with my lips and tongue, whatever he’ll let me do. I smile inwardly at his building thrusts, at the idea that I have this power over him, even while he has so much power over me. I want so badly to make him come. I want to make him come over and over again, but I want it to start now, while he fucks my mouth, leaving me speechless and blind. The thought sets my pussy to pulsing again, a ragged drumbeat that makes its own demands. I suck him harder for it.

I dare to move my hands up his thighs, slyly drifting towards the base of his cock, towards his balls, but he’s figured me out. His grip tightens on the back of my head, and he pulls me back, away from his cock. The car, running so smooth thus far, hits a bump, and I stumble back on the floor, my legs indecently spread in his general direction.

So we’re in the limo, then.

I lie like that for a moment, hoping that the site of my spread pussy will be too much, and he’ll take me right here, right now, on the floor of his limo, on our way. . . somewhere.

And just like that the car comes to a stop.

“Put out your hand.”

I do. He pulls me up, back onto the seat, next to him this time. I lick my lips, missing the taste of him, the feel of him in my mouth. He pulls his hand away and it becomes even worse: I miss all contact with him now. Instead I feel him arranging my barely-there dress, as though that could possibly make much of a difference, and I wonder if I’m about to go out in public. Again.

I have no idea. He hasn’t removed the blindfold. I sense that he won’t until. . . I don’t know. It’s a gesture of faith, and of trust. Not that I’m complaining. Not knowing where I am or what’s about to happen to me heightens everything.

I hear the door open, and feel him get out. A thin strip of light is still visible just below my eyes, where the blindfold doesn’t quite meet my cheek, and I’m suddenly very conscious of being in public again. Embarrassed, I try to arrange my dress myself, blindly; there are a few things he didn’t think of – the thin material is stuck to the wetness between my legs, for one. I try to pull everything away and smooth it down as best I can, unaccountably anxious about emerging into the unknown sunlight in such an obviously near-ravished state.

“Put out your hand,” he says again.

I do, and he leads me out of the car. I’m unsure, unsteady on my feet like a new foal, but his hand is strong and he is patient. He leads me a few steps, away from the car now, and I am once again disoriented when he lets go of my hand. I listen for the creak of a gate, but hear nothing; a swift breeze surprises me, billowing out my dress, stinging my nipples. So we are outside, and not in a garage. I place my hands at my crotch, trying to contain my dress as it whips around my hips and ass, but even I can tell I’m not entirely successful.

“Remove your hands.” His voice is stern. I remove my hands, and shudder a little as the wind reminds me of my vulnerability, out here in the open, wearing next to nothing at all.

He rips my dress off.

I think I gasp in shock. My first instinct is to pull my blindfold off, but I remember just in time, my fingers curled around the edge of the soft, rich fabric, my palms resting on my cheeks. Instead I straighten the blindfold, tighten it in back, and let my arms fall to my sides.

I am naked. Somewhere. Outside. Exposed. For him.

I tremble, not entirely from cold.

I feel one finger brush my cheek. It traces a line down my jaw, my neck, to my first full, pert nipple, and flicks it. I sigh, feeling the chill of more wetness between my legs spread to my thighs. A hand returns to cup my breast, to heft it, to rub the nipple with a thumb. Carelessly he lets it fall, and the hand continues its idle exploration, first my other breast, then down my side, around to my ass. I feel him follow his hand, walking around till he’s behind me. He caresses the smooth skin of my ass with that hand, as though testing it, appraising it.

 “Bend over,” he says. “Hands on the ground.”

Another gasp catches in my throat. Is he going to fuck me here, like this, blind? While we’re outside? His hand comes down on my ass with a resounding slap, snapping me back to attention.

“Now.”

I double over, palms flat on the ground, breasts pushed into my legs. My pussy is completely exposed to the cool air, the sun, and whoever happens to be around. His fingers dance over the very top of the back of my leg in a cruel tease, and I feel my juices leak out further over my compressed thighs. He never asked me to spread my legs; without his command, I didn’t think to do it.

He has me trained.

“Claire.”

He sighs as he runs a finger down the length of my slit, drawing away juice, feeling how wet I am. That finger teases around the entrance to my pussy in slow, probing circles, circling round and then down to press my clit, circling round and then down to my clit, again and again until the heat throbbing through me from my pussy to my head makes me think I’ll pass out.

I exhale, gulp down some air, try to steady my breathing. I’ve almost found a rhythm, almost felt like I could ride this, be in control of it, when I feel cold lube fall onto my asshole. I clench reflexively.

“Shhh,” he says behind me. “Relax.”

I remember that night in the car, when he pushed a remote controlled butt plug into me while the driver watched, and a new flood of juice gushes forth.

“That’s it,” he says.

His fingers continue to work my pussy, taunting me, teasing me. Finally he slips two fingers into me, and I groan. He moves them in and out, twisting them round and curling them over, fucking me with those fingers while his other thumb massages lube into my puckered, tender asshole. I close my eyes and work on my breathing. Sex is building in me like an immense flood, barely held at bay, and I have to fight.

His thumb pushes into my ass. I whimper.

He’s working both holes now, fucking my pussy with his fingers and stretching my ass with his thumb. I can feel the heat of his legs behind me, the soft material of his slacks occasionally sticking to the mess running down my leg. Just like the last time it feels too overwhelming, the suggestion of anything larger than his thumb entering my ass; the tight ring of muscle fights, clenches, like it did last time. But I know I can take it. I know I have. And I remember how good it felt. I grit my teeth, and will myself to relax for him.

“Grab your ankles,” he orders.

Oh boy.

His hand comes away from my pussy and steadies me at the hip while I make the transition from palms on the ground to holding my ankles. It gives me a little more leeway, but I lean into his leg a bit, just to make sure I don’t keel over. I’m already so disoriented from being upside down for so long, and from the blindfold, I can’t quite imagine what’s next.

Well, that’s not true. I can. I can hope.

“Good girl.”

I feel the familiar rubber tip of what I hope is that butt plug press against my quivering ass. If it’s the same one, it’s ribbed, and it vibrates, and it works via remote control. It’s. . . whoever invented it, I owe them a drink.

He snakes his arm around my waist to hold me in place, and a sharp spark of pleasure shoots from my pussy to all points. I ache for him; I’ve been aching for him these past weeks, and the weight of that bears down onto this one point in time, driving me forward with sudden, acute need.

“Please,” I gasp, knowing he did not ask me to speak. “
Please
.”

He squeezes me at the waist, a quick hug, and pushes the plug partially in. My knees buckle slightly, but he has me.

“To whom do you belong, Claire?”

I can feel the weight of his other hand on the plug, half inside me.

“You.”

He pushes the plug in further, even as I push against him, involuntarily. The wrongness of it, the fullness of it, even the sting, the feeling of drowning in it: I want all of it.

“And are you mine, completely?”

“Yes.”

I’m beginning to see stars, behind my blindfold, tiny pinpricks of multicolored light that I know aren’t there.

“You would have gone with someone else at the auction if I had told you to?”

“Yes.”

He pushes the plug all the way in, till I can feel the hilt cushioned against my cheeks. I am full now, so full, and yet I know there can be more. I just hope my brain can continue to function long enough, that there’s still room for words somewhere inside me, because I know the Doctor is not done.