Alison has an extra little pep in her voice when she speaks into the microphone, “Mr. Murray here to see you, Dr. Clark,” she finishes on a high note. She must find him attractive. She always finishes on a high note when she’s attracted to someone.
“Let him come in,” I say back to her. A moment or two later, the door opens and in walks my first patient of the day. His shoulders are slouched low, he’s overdressed for a typical session, but his dark black hair and two day old scruff gives him a down to earth type of feel. He’s handsome and fit, a jaw bone that must have been carved from granite and a dimple the size of a thumb print in the middle of his chin.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Clark,” I greet him standing up and walking towards him with my arm outstretched. He shakes my hand firmly. Calluses rough as sandpaper grace my well moisturized palms and fingers.
“Dennis. Nice to meet you,” his voice is low and clear. He seems like a perfect gentleman. Nothing not to like and nothing on the surface that I would identify right away as a physical detriment to a sex life. Nothing at all.
“Why don’t you grab a seat, Dennis,” I say. I’m always conscious to use my patients first names when we meet. Not so I forget, but because a persons name is always their favorite word in the world. It relaxes them almost instantaneously.
“Anywhere?” he asks gently, unassumingly. He’s hesitant to move from his spot two steps inside my doorway.
“Of course,” I reassure him, “even my desk if that suits you best.” He walks slowly to a reclining chair furthest from my desk and closest to the door he had just walked through, as if getting ready to run out at the first sign of trouble or embarrassment. This behavior is not unfamiliar to me.
“So now what?” he asks.
“Now we talk,” I respond calmly, sitting down on the adjacent leather sofa. I cross my legs and grab a notepad from the side table and place it next to me with a blue ball point pen resting on top. I clasp my hands together and smile at him. He really is a very attractive man.
He’s hesitant to start, as most are. He shuffles around in his chair, uncomfortable in the navy blue suit he decided to wear, perhaps regretting the decision. A sigh gently escapes his ruby red lips.
“I told you over the phone during our pre interview what my issue was, right?” he asks, his cheeks blushing pink.
“Yes, you did,” I relay back to him without a prodding question, seeing if he wishes to take the conversational lead. He doesn’t bite. His lips purse and he nods slowly. His hands open up, palms up to the heavens.
“So, can you just write me a prescription or something and I can get out of your hair?” he asks. It’s defensive. Most men with erectile dysfunction want to write up their issue to something physical. An old sports injury, perhaps.
“Well, you have two hours no matter what. Why don’t we get to know each other first and by the end of the session we can determine together if a prescription is what you truly need.”
“Of course it’s what I need! What else could it be?”
“Well,” I pause, taking a deep breath, “a man your age wouldn’t necessarily have a physical disablement unless radically attributed to another injury. An injury you don’t appear to have and didn’t disclose in our phone conversation. With that knowledge, I think your issue may be more psychological. A mental block, per say.”
His eyes narrow onto mine. The pink hue in his face fades. He smiles and leans back in his chair, reclining slowly.
“I’m an open book. Ask away!”
I gather up my paper and pen and jot down my first few observations. His need to do as I say, his inability to choose, his desire for a quick fix. All things I think will fit his profile.
“What do you do for work?”
“I’m a union steel construction worker. The 494 Bulls. We’ve built a few buildings in the city,” he says, eyes pointing towards the ceiling.
“How long have you been doing that?”
“Since high school. I went straight to work for my dad. College was a thought, but I’ve always been better with my hands.” Interesting.
“Do you like what you do?”
“Love it.”
“Do you live at home still or do you have your own place?”
“I rent an apartment in Junction. Modest. I save most of my money. I’d like to retire early and spend my days sipping mojitos on a beach in Mexico,” he laughs while giving me a thumbs up. “Have you ever been to Mexico?” he asks.
“No. Have you?”
“Last summer. Man, what a good time that country can show you.”
“How so?”
“Well,” he pauses. He’s clearly thinking about something important because his thumbs start to rub against one another nervously. “Well, come to think about it, that was the last time I got laid,” he says it very uncomfortably.
“So about six or seven months ago?”
“Eight really,” he clarifies.
“Eight months isn’t so bad.”
“That’s not my issue. My issue is that was the last time I even got hard. I’ve wanted to since! Every day. Every time I get a girl to come home after dinner with me. Nothing.”
“What happened in Mexico?”
“With the girl?”
“Yes, I was assuming but no judgements on my end.”
“Well we were both drinking. She was down there with a few of her college friends. I was in really great beach shape. Every April I start a running routine to lean out a bit, so I had a really defined six pack and shoulders. The whole nine,” he gets more excited as the story goes on. The volume of his voice rises with the details of the story. His eyes still facing upwards towards the egg shell white ceiling.
“We were dancing in one of their all access clubs. She was wearing this little white skirt that showed off her ass just enough that it tore you apart not being able to touch her. A pink top without a bra, practically see through. I could see her nipples with each strobe light flash. We danced all night, rubbing our bodies against one another, basically dry humping in the middle of the dance floor.”
I feel myself warm up in my seat and take the pen out of my mouth that had subconsciously traveled to lips and tongue. I shake my head twice, “Go on, what happened next?”
“Is this really relevant to why I can’t get it up now?”
“Yes,” I say with a tone of dry satisfaction and inquisitiveness.
“Then she invited me to her room. She told me she had this fantasy. She wanted to be tied up. She was really into BDSM and orgasm denials and spankings and cock worship. Can I say cock worship here?”
“Yes of course,” I say with my voice breaking a bit. I could feel my panties start to dampen beneath my knee length skirt. I swallow hard and clench my fist onto the couch and press down hard.
“Alright, cool. So she shows me all this rope and ball gags and flogs she brought with her. And I tied her up and took advantage of all her toys and fucked her all night.”
“That’s it?” I ask disappointingly.
“That’s it,” he confirms matter of factly.
“That’s not it,” not even close. I want more details. I’m an ethical practitioner, but I’m also a horny middle aged woman who needs her foreplay. He just ear fucked me and left. No. If he wants his damn drugs, I want a damn good story.
“What do you mean?” he asks inquisitively.
“I need more details. Start in the beginning and go slow. Detail by detail. Breath by breath.” I’m craving the attention of his words, my warm pussy pressed against my damp thong. It feels wrong, but something was coming over me when I envision watching this man fuck a little slut. I want more
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/4cmpbt/new_glimpse_of_a_new_short_story_im_writing_no