*(So yeah, I posted this as a prompt on dirtypenpals, and I got a comment that people here would like it, so I figured why not post it here as well. Keep in mind it’s purposely open-ended because it’s technically meant to be played out with someone else.)*
—
I’ve always been an overachiever.
I don’t think any of my friends were surprised when I graduated med school, and quickly found a home in a well-regarded residency. Vitamin C has never been a struggle for me, the good girl with the perfect track records, with piles upon piles of recommendations, and a spotless smile. And this collecting experience was just another step in my immaculate ascenion of the career ladder.
Right?
Well, sorta.
It does help to have genuine drive to be the best, and I *do* have just that.
I want to help people.
I want to treat the wounded and do my part, however little, in unburdening those around me.
But they don’t know the ugly truth that fuels my motivation.
They don’t know about the way my papa drank, and pushed his wife, my mother, against the kitchen table.
They don’t know about the bruises that danced in steady rotations across her clavicles and neck.
They don’t know about the wet slaps that haunted me all the way up, up the stair case, and into my little room with the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling and the pink flowers on the tapestry.
They don’t know about the little girl, with tears in her eyes, that saw the glimmer of daddy’s belt buckle when he droped his pants, and forced his *thing* into mum’s body, that is, for some reason, void of pants or underwear.
They don’t know about the time when the girl finally starts to sort of understand what her body does, and how it works, and her mind wonders if she’s next in line to be bent over the kitchen table, her little frame forced open for him.
They don’t know about the deliberation when he balled his fists and hit her.
They don’t know about the times when he was finally gone and it was just us alone, safe.
They don’t know about the shift at home, when strange men came to our house and hurried past my room to slide through the open doorframe to my parents’ bedroom.
They don’t know the dull thuds of the wooden headrest bumping against the wall adjacent to my room. The wailing that I didn’t quite knew weren’t the same ones she cried out when dad beat her.
The insults.
“Slut.”
“Whore.”
“*Swallow*, you bitch.”
They don’t know how she replied with begging “Yes, Daddy”’s and whorish moans, and the way her gargling degradation echoes in my head even today, when I’m alone at home, scolding myself for the last bad hook-up.
They don’t know how my own fingers linger around my slender throat and close shut, when I torture myself with the wand set too high, where it stops being deliciously overwhelming, but instead becomes genuinely unpleasant.
They don’t know the role model graduate is secretly drowning in an ocean of daddy *and* mommy issues.
And most of the time, I don’t know either. I just *feel*… it.
*It* being the sort of damp dread that marauds your insides, and settles in your bones until they feel porous, and your body is nothing but a sack of abased flesh that might as well decay off to the side of a midwestern highway.
When your sexuality is tied to the memory of your mother beaten and bruised and half-naked and defiled, and your father’s rigid body thrusting into her with violent energy, his hands the size of her head, pushing her face down…
Well, it does bring about some bad vibes.
But you just have to keep going. Get out of the shower, wash your hair well in advance, get ready.
My blue eyes stare back at me, awfully apathetically, when I scan my towel-wrapped body in the mirror, trying my best to find things I like about myself.
*“Nice tits, girl,”* I say in my best 50’s television macho voice, winking and making finger guns. At least one nice gift I inherited from my mum. *Buxom* is what my slightly creepy uncle called them once, when I had just turned 18. The memory sends a shiver down my spine, and spreads the feeling people get when they realize they decided not to board a plane they’d later find out had crashed.
At least it was a different word than “curvy”, though, which I’ve heard entirely too often now. I’m actually fairly slim, despite my ample hips, and used to feel healthy, too, but the amount of “curvy”’s I’ve heard has planted seeds of crippling body dysphoria in my head, the type strong enough to feed the beauty industry for decades to come.
My blonde mane is dangling down in stringy, wet clumps, slowly drying and puffing into fringes that frame my pale face, as I apply lipstick a shade of red I likely shouldn’t be wearing in a medical practice. I make a kiss mouth, and freeze for a few seconds, observing my lips curl into a plump heart shape. I decide to leave the escort slash strawberry colour on.
Let them talk.
And so the day goes by.
Kids cry and then smile when they get a piece of candy from the glass bowl.
Old men limp out of the door, their cane’s tip higher than their hunched backs.
Men the size of bears turn squeamish, and rub their arms like it’s a severe wound, after a simple flu shot.
The day *always* goes by.
And then *he* comes in. Of course, last patient of the day. I haven’t recognized him yet.
“Yeah, you can go home, Sam, we’ll finish up. See you tomorrow,” I say with a faint smile, but without looking at her, caught up in my clipboard’s content. I know she’s happy to get a couple minutes for a head start to catch her train. The place is almost dead now, the only people who are still working are on the opposite end of the place, far from my office.
Silence ensues as he follows my call, and steps into my office, and closes the door behind him.
I’ve recognized him now.
I can feel his eyes wandering up and down my body, and I intuitively shoot up, out of my office chair, unable to take the the flood of vulnerability that comes with being seated *below* him.
I can feel his eyes glued to my legs, they’re clad in a silky, black sheen, courtesy of stockings I hope to god everyone else believes are pantyhose, whose intricate lace seams are hidden underneath the tight, navy pencil skirt.
Somehow, I know he knows they’re *not* tights, but whorish, frilly lingerie.
I feel the urge to close the top button of my baby blue blouse, but resist so as to deny him the victorious feeling of having consumed my sight into submission.
“You look so much like your mom.”
His features are carved into my brain, and his voice burns like acid.
He’s one of many, but the sole stranger who didn’t scramble when I stumbled into my mother’s room “accidentally”.
I enjoyed ruining it for them after I turned a certain age. Maybe 15, or 16. When I was mature enough to make them lust for me, but young enough to make them ashamed of being exposed in front of the little girl. And the way the two opposites clashed behind their eyes, and wrestled with one another was just *the* most satisfying feeling in the world. And how *dare* them come into my home and defile her like that, anyways.
But he didn’t mind.
At all.
I saw his sack tightening, and his sloppy cock twitch, as his cum pumped through his shaft and into… her. And I stood there, my hand glued to the door knob, clenching until my knuckles turned white. And he glanced over with an animal’s grunt, and I could have sworn I saw him bury himself even deeper, sheathed to the hilt, invading my…
“Uhuh… So, what are you here for?”
He smiled, and his teeth seemed to gleam in the same wet shine his throbbing cock had shone in the cozy light of her bed stand’s lamp.
“You.”
I froze, my legs toed in, until my knees practically kissed one another, the closing thighs somehow granting me a frail sense of protection.
“Me?”
He has grown older, but in a good way. Hints of silver scattered through his trimmed facial hair, and below his gentle widow’s peak, its shine sort of coating his jet black hair. Little wrinkles around the corner of his eyes, but nowhere else. His jawline could cut glass, and somehow the salt-and-pepper beard both accentuates as well as softens it.
He takes a step closer to me, and lifts his right arm; below the rolled-up sleeve of the thin sweater he’s wearing, I can see his forearms, tanned and thick, veins showing just enough to let me know his body is *working* with seething effort, the muscles causing an elongated dent that begs to be held onto. His arm is shaven smoothly, somehow betraying his mature appeal, yet, at the same time, luring the breath straight out of my lungs.
His index and middle finger clip against the collar of my pristine white lab coat, a little crease emerging above my right breast as he tugs at it, almost as if to flaunt his modest wedding ring. My face, distorted in its silvery surface, is gazing back at me, and I notice that my mouth hangs opened.
I *try* and take a step back, but the gentle pull of the fabric remaining in his tender grasp is enough to silence my motion.
Slowly, his fingers are joined by the rest of his hand, and he runs it along along the entire button tape, until his hand reaches my groin, where it lingers for a second or two, during which his gaze flickers back up to meet mine, knowing, I, too, had followed his hand and now looked back up.
He runs his hand back up again, but this time doesn’t linger at the collar, and instead pulls the coat off my right shoulder.
I’m afraid I might pass out under the seething heat of his presence. My breaths have become rapid and audible, my chest rising and sinking heavily. Every time my lungs expand, I feel the unpleasant clamminess of light perspiration where my breasts strain against the fabric of the blouse.
His hand leaves my body, and he sizes me up from his vantage point.
“Sit,” he orders with a surprisingly loving growl that catches me off-guard, widening my eyes. “On the table,” he adds.
I turn without moving my hips, craning my neck a little, and leer down at the heavy wooden desk, its surface shiny and the colour of strong, overly expensive beer; it’s liquidy and deep maroon colouring somehow seems representative of how my lungs feel flooded with heavy fluid, unable to process breaths properly anymore.
“Sit,” he repeats, this time a little firmer, and I find my plush behind seated on the protective pad where I had scribbled notes earlier. I can’t even remember that I moved, despite the fact it must have happened in the last ten seconds.
I feel his touch on my legs, the velvety smooth sound of a trimmed finger nail running along silky tights melts into the quietness. The gentle buzzing of the fluorescent tube lights is the only consistent component of a muted soundscape.
Finally, I can feel his finger prodding behind the lacey part of my stockings, the little tip of it somehow feeling massive and invasive.
“These are a little… *sexy* for an office, don’t you think?”
The way he emphasizes the word sexy makes me shudder. I know what he meant.
*Slutty.*
I say nothing, my eyes glued to the minimal movements of his arm moving within my peripheral edge.
His other hand comes faster than a blink, his fingers loosely wrapped around my throat, my neck but a straw in his sizable paw. I gasp, and my back arches into an embarrassingly attentive curve, as my eyes finally meet his.
“Down,” he whispers, and I feel slight pressure from his clutch. He’s not choking me, *not yet*, but instead pushes me down on the table. As my neck lowers, he has to shuffle forward to maintain his grip, and, almost naturally, he spreads my legs so as to stand between my thighs, and close enough to keep me in his hold even as my head rests on the table’s far end.
I can *feel* the heat of his sex between my legs. My skirt has wrinked and rolled up, and slid upwards, exposing my thighs to him, and… my panties; plain black and jumping along the border of sexy and mundane.
“Good girl.”
He rolls the words off his vocal chords, as if no sound had ever left his throat, and, simultaneously, I want to scream for help and… scream his name.
I feel the back of his hand press against my panties, like a parent using the same spot to measure the temperature of heated milk.
“You’re wet, little girl.”
I don’t know how to respond, if at all, and keep looking up at him through heavy-lidded eyes.
“You’re a slut. Just like your mother.”
I want to make him take it back.
I want to make him take *me*.
Frustration reveals itself in a desperate whimper, and the rolling of my hips against his touch.
“Good…”
I know what this looks like. My innocently-white coat half slipped off my body, my blouse unbuttoned enough to show my bra, and more cleavage than a gala attendeé wife. One of his hands around my throat, the other slowly rubbing circles inside my panties, his wrist continuously pushing, hooking, and shoving against the skirt, so as to stay hitched up.
“You’ll cum for me, little girl. And then…”
*And then?*
“I’ll cum in you, too.”
A long, hot, and heavy sigh forces its way out of my flaring nostrils.
“Yes, Sir…”
—
*(Disclaimer: I have limited knowledge of medical education, I had a very specific mood today, and I just had to get it out, and wrote it up in 30 minutes, so not much research. Apologies!)*
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/89saur/violent_practice_mffsubreluc_someone_suggested_i
You should post on r/dirtystorywriting if this is the sort of effort you put in prompts and replies.
This is terrific!!