I don’t know what came over me. I’m an educated, smart, moral, and logical man. Before that day, I had never even asked myself if I knew the difference between right and wrong. If someone would have told me the things I would think about—much less do—I would never have believed them. I am a professional. I am a Doctor. I would never take advantage of any of my patients nor would I let a patient get the wrong idea about myself. But on this particular day, something was just… different. My body—no, my primal instincts—overpowered my always-in-control brain and I felt myself behaving differently. It was as if I was watching myself from a television screen, unable to stop or change my behavior in any way. And even though I knew I was risking it all, I really just didn’t care.
By the time I got into the office that day, a series of strange things had already happened.
First, my daughter, my only child, called me and asked if she could come stay with me for the weekend while she scouted homes in the neighboring town. I agreed, rather reluctantly, because I only saw her a couple times a year and seeing her usually made me both happy and depressed. She looked just like her mother, whom I loved dearly, but lost in our thirties to cancer. Alison was our only child and when my wife passed she was just seven years old. I raised her as best as I could and never did remarry—I never wanted Alison to feel as if she had to call another woman her mother. And by the time I was ready to meet someone again, I felt old and tired. I told myself if it happened easily then that would be okay, but I just didn’t have the energy in me to find it. And now, at 56 years old, I figured I never would. And I would find a way to be OK with that fact, too, just like everything else, because that’s what life is about. I guess what I’m saying is I just told myself it would be okay no matter how the cards fell.
Back to that day. Second, my secretary called me as I drove into the office and told me that there was a young woman outside the building asking for me. Asking if she could see me. I didn’t take walk-ins but I didn’t have a 9am appointment and so I accepted. I typically never took walk-in’s, as I believe the nature of just popping in somewhere to get your issues off your mind exactly when you wanted to just went against, to me, what therapy was about. It was about accepting that the world is bigger than YOU. I may have been a therapist but like my wife, I was a hippy at heart.
I walked in the front door and dropped my umbrella in the bin by the front door. It was drizzling just enough outside to wet my umbrella and bag, my shoes and the legs of my suit. “Good morning, Diane,” I greeted my secretary. She nodded, handed me a cup of coffee, and went back to solitaire on the computer. She was in her late 60s but did a decent job. After my wife passed away I felt like having an older woman in the office so no one had any off-color remarks to make. Diane was satisfactory for me. “She’s waiting in your office, Dr. Yorke,” she nodded towards my office door—the only office in the building—without even looking up. I walked down the short hallway and did a gentle tap on the cracked open door. I pushed it open slowly and walked straight to my desk without yet glancing at my new patient.
“Good morning,” I said, dropping my briefcase onto my chair and taking off my suit jacket, draping it over my desk chair. I turned around and in the first electric moment that we made eye contact, I changed. She stood up and outstretched her hand to me for a formal introduction. “I’m sorry for dropping in. It’s narcissistic and rude and I don’t blame you if you don’t want to meet with me again,” her words seemed sincere as she shook my hand firmly and rested her other hand across her chest and the nape of her neck. I realized some days after this first meeting that though she apologized for popping in and insisting on a walk-in, she never did actually give a reason for doing so. She was smooth, she knew her beauty and used it to gloss over things. I had no problem with it. Men with money did it all the time—she’s got a way with people, she should use it.
“You know what? It’s okay,” I smiled at her, reminding myself to break eye contact so I didn’t come off creepy to her. I motioned her to sit back into the chair she has been waiting in, but she instead pointed to the somewhat dark reading corner of my office. I had a three-seater couch with a small, Tiffany book lamp sitting on a table next to it. “For some reason I articulate myself better when I’m lying down,” she said, her eyes asking me if it was okay. “Sure,” I said, grabbing my notepad and desk chair and rolling across the room to sit nearer to her. She laid back on the couch.
What are you picturing? Is it something like, DD breasts in a tight black sweater dress that barely covered her ass—which, by the way, was curvy and delicious. Were you seeing long, wavy, gorgeous blonde hair that smelled like coconut and somehow always landed perfectly around her face and neck to make her look like an absolute Playboy bunny goddess? And if you were also picturing huge brown eyes, natural make up that made her seem like she was just walking off a beach, and thick, full lips that pouted and parted so perfectly–then you were right. She was symmetrical, thin with muscle tone, and around thirty-three years old. If that’s what you were picturing then you are right. She had a cool, Lana Del Rey vibe but made you feel somehow like you were with Marilyn Monroe or Jenna Jameson.
I was behind the couch in my chair, the Tiffany lamp now on and illuminating my notepad. She began talking and I began reflecting on how strange the morning had been. My daughter coming, then a beautiful woman comes to my office. I wanted to listen to her. I’ve never not listened to any patients. As much as I hated what I heard a lot of the time, I always listened. With her, I just couldn’t focus. My eyes wandered down her top where a few inches of cleavage was visible. Her breasts were full and perky, they looked real. I guessed at her age, those breasts had probably been full of milk, with an infant suckling at them for a few years. How could a woman like this not be married with kids? I went back to that image.
I envisioned her wearing a white night gown. It’s summer and she’s dewy with sweat from the eighty degree air that is wafting through the open windows. Her child cries out for her and she swoops him up into arms, holding him to her bosom as she shushes him, walking to the rocker. She sits down and gently drags one night down strap down with her pinky, exposing a massive and perfectly shaped breast. The areola was a gentle tan that blended nicely with her glowing skin tone. A single drop of milk dripped from her rock hard nipples and rolled down the bottom of her breast, getting lost in the fabric of her gown. She raised the babies mouth to her body and he latched, sucking on her full breast while she rocked him, her eyes closed, a smile resting on her thick lips.
Fuck. My own fantasy had prohibited me from listening to her troubles. And even worse—it had made me hard. I turned to one side of my ass in the small office chair, hoping the adjustment of my position and pants would provide some less-exciting vibes for my now too-excited dick. But as I shifted, she too shifted and her breasts jiggled in the commotion. Ah, when you see fat DD breasts wiggle under a tight black sweater… well, it doesn’t matter who you are or what you do—you get a hard on. But I already had one, so now I was starting to feel very horny. Just as I felt my cock grow to it’s maximum length, she she: “And this part is going to be long but it’s so important.” Uh oh. She was going to tell me more important things and I wasn’t listening AT ALL. When I realized that I wasn’t listening to a patient I wondered who I even was? But before I could soul search, I had someone else talking to me.
My raging hard-on. I hadn’t had a raging, fully-erect, throbbing dick hard-on for so many years. I had dated a little and had some sex of course, but the truth of it was I was lonely. I coughed a few times to disguise the sound of me unzipping my slacks. She was only a minute into her time so I knew that I had the time that I needed. And on that day, I felt I had no choice. I had to get a sweet release.
I set my notebook down next to me on the table and began slowly stroking my cock. The head, now bright pink and wet with precum, was pointed toward the back of her as she rattled on about her life. I stroked slowly and gently and imagined her rubbing on her sweet clit underneath that sweater dress. What would I have to say to her, I wondered, to make her start masturbating right then and there. Some patients got obsessed with their therapists, I could hope for that. In the meantime, I imagined she probably was the type to stick a finger into her vagina as she used her thumb to strum on her perfect little pink button. Her beautiful tittles probably jiggled as she fucked her own hand, letting out feminine moans along the way. I imagined her speeding up greatly as she got closer and screaming “i’m going to cum” as she approached her orgasm. I envisioned her being a sexy goddess but in an unintentional type of way.
The more I thought about her, the tighter my hand became as I jerked my throbbing 9” cock. I was leaking so much precum that I could actually see a tiny spot on the carpet, underneath where my cock head was. I felt my full balls tighten in my slacks. I wished I could see her rubbing on her pussy. I bet when she cums from herself she is still horny after and ready to go again. I bet that if she saw me stroking my cock right now she’d turn around and suck it dry, being flattered that I had an erection because of her. Imagining this, along with my own perfect slow tugs on my dick, sent me over the edge. Before I could put my cock in my pants I started to shoot long ropes of cum all over the back of the couch she was laying on.
I couldn’t believe I had masturbated in public, to a patient, who could’ve caught me. I didn’t know what to do from there but right after I put my cock in my pants and zipped back up, she turned around and looked at me. “Could I get a Xanax? This next part is really tough.” And it was that moment I realized: I could drug her and fuck her if I really wanted to.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticstories/comments/akjxh1/the_bad_doctor_part_1