Medical Malpractice?

The Doc and Me.

That is a deliberate play on words and the bad grammar is intentional. Maybe it should have been titled, “What’s up, Doc?”?

What’s up, Doc, would have been, purely, a rhetorical question. I knew what was up, as a result of the photo I’d sent him. The only question was how long it would take before he tried to insert what was up, into me. I was sure it wouldn’t take very long. I had sent him a photo of my pussy cleft by the string of pearls, exactly as his lodger-cum-sometime-fuck had seen it when she’d visited me, not so innocuously. I’d signed the MMS:

“Monique

xxx”,

just so there’d be no confusion as to who the pert, red, plump and pouting little thing belonged to. My lovers have always told me I have a pretty pussy, and I know I do, it’s still firm and tight. There’s no flabbiness.

I had met The Doc, just briefly before, one evening when he’d popped in for a quick drink. Obviously, he’d been apprised of the new woman living with Pete, by our visitors of that very first Sunday morning, and was dying of curiosity. They have much the same mentality, him and Pete, or so my very surprising, unwelcome and devious visitor had informed me. I hadn’t had much opportunity to get to know him on his brief visit.

What I did remember was that he was nothing to look at. He was kind of weird, smallish with a big bushy beard, dressed all black with a long black coat, hanging open. The first impression I had was that of a “flasher” but that wasn’t the intention of this exercise.

I had merely intended to hedge my bets with a promise of possibilities, if I should, for whatever reason, be forced to seek alternate lodgings. I wanted to show him that I was far more suited to fulfilling the role his current lodger played in his life. I didn’t intend that things should progress any further than that. I was confident that I could control the situation as I had on the evenings I’d been out alone and gotten into sticky situations.  But, as they say, good intentions are a dime a dozen, keeping to them is a whole different story.

The Disaster.

Having committed myself, by way of the photo and having no intention of fulfilling that promise, until I absolutely needed to, I waited. I ensure that I am, early on in the day, already suitable “un-attired”. I want him to get a good look at the goods that are on offer should I ever deem to grant him the privilege, if and when I need to.

Two days after sending him the photo he arrives, at lunchtime. I’m dressed exactly as I am in this photo. The little jersey was my only a token gesture to modesty.

I’m sitting under the big tree in my virtually naked state. The tree shields me from view of those passing by on the pavement and the gate, less than five metres away, when he arrives. I ignore the sound of the car stopping outside, but out of the corner of my eye, I recognise his white Mercedes. When he rattles the gate, I look around, feigning surprise.

Then, pretending to be unaware of the fact that I am virtually naked, I get up and, nonchalantly, invite him in, as if I always receive visitors dressed in this fashion. I’m parading my wares provocatively for his benefit. He’s wearing his signature black clothes under a long coat and carrying a bottle of whisky in one hand. He suggests we go inside and have a drink. As we’re walking into the flat, our neighbour arrives home for lunch. As I turn to draw the curtains, I see him staring at us. I pretend to be completely ignorant of his presence. I can only imagine what he must be thinking. What would a woman, clad as I am, invite a man of The Doc’s rumoured reputation inside for, a reputation which our neighbour is also well aware of?

It too late now, there’s absolutely nothing I can do. I turn and walk inside. I get glasses from the cupboard and, when I bend, to get ice from the bottom-freezer, present my rear end to The Doc. I’m aware of the tempting picture I’m presenting him with, as my pussy, cleft by the G-string, bulges out between the back of my thighs. This elicits a very suggestive compliment from him.

When I straighten up and turn around he’s standing right up against me. Our eyes meet in unspoken understanding of what he’s come for, as we stare into each other’s eyes, an amused smile lurking in his and acknowledgement, in mine. There’s nothing flippant about the look I give him in return. It’s a look of understanding that the promise of the goods, that were so pertinently offered, has now come to be collected upon. At that moment, I knew, that he knew, he had me though I was still not admitting it to myself.

Of course, though I’m still denying it to myself, but in reality, I also knew that my good intentions had no hope of surviving. If I did, indeed, have any good intentions to begin with? I offer the ice-tray, to him and step back. The spell is broken, for the moment. He splashes enormous amounts of whisky into each glass, drops in a couple of ice blocks and tops them up with a dash of water. He hands one to me and we repair to the sofa.

I seek refuge in a cigarette and light one. It’s no refuge however, merely a temporary stay of execution. With a glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other, it leaves me defenceless. He trails a path down my chest, between my breasts, with a fingertip, loosening the clasp of my bra that nestles there. I take a huge gulp of my drink, which makes me gasp, as the fire, that’s been smouldering in my loins, ignites, simultaneously with the one burning in my throat.

He lowers his head and takes a nipple in his mouth. A soft groan of pure lust and surrender escapes from my lushly painted lips and my legs part to accommodate his searching fingers . . .

Panic & Damage Control.

Later, when he leaves, I insist that he takes the whisky with him. I’m panicking and I want no evidence of his visit left behind, to remind me of my reckless indiscretion. He refuses to, leaving it behind, when he departs, a very satisfied man.

The sofa bears the stains of the evidence of our lustful coupling. The condoms that I carry in my handbag, for just such an occasion, were completely forgotten.

I scrub the stains on the sofa, with water and soap, hoping they’ll dry by the time Pete gets home. Then I bath and make myself super-sexy in preparation for his arrival. Now I’m thankful for the bottle that was left behind. I pour myself another stiff drink and light a cigarette. I notice my hands are shaking. I’m all a-dither, unable to sit down on the sofa, the place of my betrayal.

I pace up and down, smoking and drinking. I castigate myself for being such a fool. What on Earth possessed me? Did I, for one moment, really believe I wasn’t going to be screwed? In my imagination I keep seeing his bearded face looming over me as he rides me, with much enthusiasm, and my upraised legs pointing heavenwards. I have to face the fact that I am just an irrevocable slut, but of course, I don’t.

His technique was only average, but the decadence of being screwed by another, in my lover’s house, made it all the more wanton and I can’t deny that that made it very enjoyable. If I was expecting something out of the ordinary, due to his knowledge of anatomy, that he would know all the right buttons to push to send me into a hysterical world of screaming, orgasmic insanity, from which I would never escape, I was disappointed. In truth it was no different from all the other men who’d had their way with me, in my previous life.

He was energetic and young enough to come three times, but otherwise, not very imaginative and only very averagely endowed. Of course, I’d been spoilt of late, both in the physical and technical expertise aspects. And, don’t let any woman tell you size doesn’t matter, it does. I have only once accosted a cock that was too big. I called that a vroue-slagter [Afrikaans, roughly translated, meaning “lady-slayer”]. The average size of a Caucasian male’s penis is reputed to be 5.77 inches. I can assure you eight inches, which is about Pete’s size, is rare, but “that other thing” was awesomely terrifying. Sex with that guy was an arduously gruesome experience and, to make it worse, he had a penchant for anal sex. That was excruciating!

Thank heavens, no matter how kinky and perverse my relationship with Pete became, he had no inclination for anal sex. He said, what was the point, if that was what he wanted, then he might as well screw a man and he has no homosexual tendencies, whatsoever. He is reviled by the mere thought of homosexuality.

Now, taking stock of the situation, with the alcohol beginning to relax me, I realise that all is not lost. I’ll admit, to Pete, that he paid me a visit, in case the neighbour says something. Of course, I won’t admit what happened. No matter what the neighbour might think, he can’t be sure. I’ll say he had a drink or two and left, that’s all.

The wet marks on the sofa aren’t drying fast enough and I throw a duvet over them. That, I’ll explain away by saying I had an afternoon nap. After another whisky, I substitute that for white wine, it’s more suggestive of romance. I’m hoping for a romantic evening and that the wine and my presentation will inspire Pete in that direction. Not that he ever needs any inspiration to ravage me, but I’m taking no chances. I want him to fuck me, not to ravage, but to savage me, to atone for my immoral behaviour and cleansing me, physically and psychologically, in the process.

I think I delivered the performance of my life, later, when Pete did screw me. I was exhorting him to give me a thorough cock-whipping, a punishment-fuck if you like, to which he obliged with aplomb. Indeed, guilt is a heavy burden to bear.

Maybe this chapter should have been titled, “The Doc in Me”?  It was on my conscience for weeks and came back to haunt me, just when I thought I’d gotten away, unscathed.