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Your arrangement with the doctor had stemmed purely from his scientific fascination. You'd exhibited such paradoxical behaviour. Such as, apathy post theft, and yet intense sadness after reading a book. You could be so kind and friendly, but you could and would flip the switch in a second. Now Jonathan Crane was no stranger to the complexities of the mind, but with you, he was just so enamoured by the way you expressed emotion. Most adults would hide, soften their laughter and anger, but not you. Your face, beautiful and lively, could do whatever you needed it to. Whether it be hiding every single little micro expression, or beaming brightly with the energy insider of you.
He’d observe you, watching the way you moved as you spoke about your most recent experience. Of course he’d watch you as a scientist, as a doctor. That’s what he would tell himself. But the way your sharp gaze would spark the fire inside him said otherwise.The doctor would soon diagnose you, and prescribe you the appropriate medication. But your meetings with him, while professional, always felt a little more intimate. Perhaps the protective layers he’d carefully peeled from your psyche caused your affinity with him.
A month after consistently taking your medication, you would call him. He was pleased to hear from you, and even more pleased to hear how you were feeling. He wanted his favourite patient to feel good. He invited you over to his apartment to discuss in more depth how you’d been feeling. That is how you got to this position. On his dining table, skirt ruffled up at your waist and him standing between your legs, tying his silk tie around your eyes.
“What a good patient you are,” his voice overcame the creaking of the mahogany table beneath you. His hand ran up and down your calf that was hooked on his hip, assessing the smooth skin and muscle with an almost academic approach. Eventually, his hand made its way up your thighs and to the spot between your legs, feeling the soft tissue and fluids that shone on your skin. Jonathan, or should you say, Dr Crane, tsked, almost condescending. “How’s this? You’ve been thinking about this?” The question was a rhetorical one, obviously, he’d known you were thinking of this the moment you sat in his office.
A quick swipe of his fingers had your eyes behind the blindfold rolling back. Your body was getting restless, each muscle felt like it needed a good stretch. “My dear, I cannot help you if you don’t let me.” His words only added to your impatience. Psychologists and therapists alike loved to use that. ‘I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.’ Dr Crane was no exception. “You know what to do, surely.” Your voice shocked even you, you sounded so petty.
“I do know, yes. I want to hear you say it.” He was playing with you now. You were bothered that you couldn’t glare at him the way you loved to. A moment of his expectation passed, before you grabbed his wrist between your thighs and lurched your hips forward, sending his fingers into you. He reciprocated the fervor. Dragging his fingers in and out of you, scissoring and curling them. The movements had the familiar feeling build inside your stomach and all kinds of sounds fleeing from your lungs. He leans down and kisses your chest, oh so gently, making his way up your throat to your pulse point.
Dr Crane was good. You assumed he’d be decently experienced, and it dawned on you that he was a doctor, after all. Of course he’d know all about bodily functions and reactions. And he’d always taken a liking to you. When his mouth joined his fingers, it didn’t take long for your orgasm to come over you. He licked up every last bit of your cum.
“How fascinating,” his voice was calm and smooth, a contrast to you, what with your shaking limbs and flushed face. “Huh?” You asked, confused. Of course he would have noticed something, be bewitched by something. He’d probably be entertained by watching a seed grow into a weed. He doesn’t answer you, only reaches for his belt, undoing it and throwing it somewhere. The sound of the unbuckling is filthy, and with your disabled eyesight, every noise seemed so much louder.
He doesn’t give warning before he slides himself inside you again. The feeling overpowers you, and you find yourself writhing underneath his hold. He finds your hands, grabbing them and intertwining his fingers with yours before slamming them down onto the hard wood on each side of your head. Now you were both blind and stuck, completely pliant for him. Not that you were complaining.
The knot within you tightened, before another one of his thrusts undid it, pulling it loose and weakening your body. The muscles that had tensed so tightly only seconds ago, released with you and him. Leaving you both slack against the table. In the haze of the aftershock, he kisses you, pulling his tie off your face.
The warm lights of his apartment seem to shine like the stars behind your eyes when you finally open them. His glasses are gone, and his skin has a soft, dewy glow to it. Sweat coating his forehead and lips wet and pink. “Well done,” he breathed out, and kissed you again.