Thursday, July 3, 2008

Insanity never felt so good

Head Doctor

Part 2 Click here for Part 1

The good doctor wears a finely constructed mask, but I can see the tiny fissures crackling the perfect porcelain like the surface of an antique plate.

The truth is, though he divines the secrets of others’ souls, he’s just as fucked up as I am. How else could he help me? He was crazy first.

I can tell. I can smell it. I can feel pain oozing from the cracks, feel his pent-up desire in the the twitches, the patterns of his breathing. The truth is, Dr. Roberts wouldn’t know how to please a woman if he was following a fuck-by-number kit.

When he’s bored, the left nostril flares slightly. When he’s lonely, the corner of his mouth angles downward as if saying, “poor me.”

When he’s nervous, he rubs his right knee with the flat, open palm of his left hand every 47 seconds or so.

Dr. Roberts has more than a few issues as evidenced by the spreading cracks, the root of his troubles being his sad little prick. I’ve determined through months of intense observation that he is deathly afraid of it. It is not his own.

When he is annoyed, Dr. Roberts develops a little twitch in his neck, just above his collar bone. I can see the wild fluttering on his skin when it happens.

When he is nervous and annoyed, he twitches and rubs. Why the good head doctor just needs some good head! He’s a wreck of nerves and anxiety.

I can taste him as I lie there, taste the white hot steel of his cock between my lips, becoming large with need, releasing sin and fury and angst and years of repressed urges into my greedy mouth. I imagine Dr. Roberts rising up like a Phoenix, his mask cracking completely and falling to the floor, a million white shards spreading across the polished wood, the cold clinician giving way to a flesh and blood man.

Dr. Roberts is twitching and rubbing and scratching his naughty little pen as I sit up and adjust my breasts back into place, smooth my dress, tuck a damp curl behind my ear, straighten my gloves.

I lean forward and lower my gaze slightly as if to say, “I won’t bite, as long as you tell me everything.”

“What do you want from a woman Doctor Roberts?”

The nostril flares.

“Mrs. D., you know there is a code of ethics that..."

“Fuck ethics Dr. Roberts. I see your cracks. I can smell your sin. Don’t you get it? The sin isn’t in what you do, but what you don’t do.”

“We can never smell our own stench, can we Dr. Roberts?”

The skin on his neck is jumping wildly, the nerves antagonized.

“Mrs. D., please.”

“Please what? Please suck my cock? Please rape me on my own couch? Please show me how to fuck like a beast?”

“Your emptiness smells like summer. It smells like an empty schoolyard, hot and dry, and dusty with little wind devils, crackling with grasshopper wings and seed pods popping and wasting away on a hazy August afternoon. Your loneliness is like an empty swing isn’t it? Your lost passion rattles like rusty chains. Sorrowful. Hollow. So fucking dirty. So wrong.”

The pen scratches are painful now, rubbing wet, raw need across my body.

“Mrs. D., you are my patient and are not qualified to….”

“What I am not qualified to do, good Doctor, is understand myself. You, however, are fair game.”

Dr. Roberts reaches forward to rub his knee and I grasp his wrist with my black satin, pulling him onto the couch. For a moment, there is only the hot silence of our bodies pressed together awkwardly, off-balance, knocked off-center.

“Mrs. D.,” he finally says, pressing his face into my cleavage and licking script across the tops of my breasts. “You always get what you want, don’t you? Well this might shock you, but so do I.”

“I know what my pen does to that nasty, needy cunt of yours. When you cross your legs at the ankles, you want me to write faster. When you lick your lower lip from right to left, you want me to scratch slowly in big loopy script. Oh, that drives you wild, doesn’t it?"

“You think I’m a lonely little boy with a mean mommy who told me I was bad when I messed the sheets and dirtied my drawers. You think I'm frightened of women and deny myself pleasure. Maybe you're right. Maybe you're wrong. But it doesn't matter because here we are Mrs. D. Here we are.”

The tingling between my legs is unbearable. The pen has stopped, but the torturous scratching continues, sending agonizing waves of pleasure deep inside with bold, firm strokes like calligraphy. I can feel Dr. Roberts throbbing through his pressed pants. I can feel the wet spot on my dress spreading across my entire pelvis.

“I didn’t know if you’d ever arrive at this important moment in your therapy Mrs. D.,” he says with an evil darkness in his voice. He reaches slowly behind my neck and tilts my body sideways to pull the zipper of my dress down to the small of my back.

“Here we are indeed. Fuck insanity. That’s right. Fuck it. I’m going to fuck the insanity right out of you….and you’re going to take my sin, my demons, all of it, into that pretty little mouth of yours and swallow it whole. A cure for us both.”

Dr. Roberts lifts my legs, spreads them wide and pushes my dress up onto my thighs. He grins wickedly and presses the tip of his ball point against the sensitive skin of my slippery sweat-drenched ass.

“I know your secrets….I know your secrets…..”


Jamie VP said...

Wow. Great writing! I'm glad I found your blog.

KM said...

Thanks so much Jamie!

Miss Honey said...

Wow... this is powerful writing. I love the intensity and emotion in every line.

So very good and very, very sexy.

KM said...

Thanks Miss Honey! I checked out your blog -- very cool! Sexy & unique. Thanks again. I hope you'll be back :)