gentleman

I've been staring at the door for over twenty minutes, desperate for it to open.

I'm willing it to move, but it remains motionless.

She's running late. She must've been held up. Probably giving a bit of extra attention to someone else. That would be typical of the woman. She's rarely on time and always makes a short but genuine apology when she arrives.

The door opens. I hear a click of heels that announce her arrival.

I love the sound. Crisp, classy and confident. It's a pretty good summary of the woman.

My eyes are focused on the floor by the door. Which shoes will she be wearing? The stiletto court ones with the red soles? The leather ankle boots with tassels on the side zip and a scuff mark on the back of the heel?

I've built up a pretty good idea of her shoe collection over the weeks and have my favourites. Her footwear is invariably sexy and today's are probably the hottest of the lot, sky-high sling-backs.

My eyes move up her legs as she makes her way slowly towards me.

She looks so good in heels. They pull her calves tight. They make her long, slender legs look incredible. They push her hips in and her enchanting arse out.

Sheer black stockings drag my gaze up towards a short, tight fitting skirt, which contrasts with a crisp, white blouse.

Her hair is pulled back as you'd expect in a place like this. Matching strands are left loose and sway in the most sensuous of ways as they brush each of her cheeks. 'Come on,' they are saying, 'look at me'.

Oh, I'm looking all right.

Black eye-liner sweeps beyond the corner of the lid, extending a wink to all who notice. Her long lashes are laced with mascara, setting off her hazel irises brilliantly. She applies it immaculately. There's never a smudge.

And the colour coordination is perfect. Her lipstick matches her nail polish. I'm no expert, but I think the colour's called nude.

No colour could be more appropriate for 'Dr Kitana' – as she encourages us to call her. Her second name is hard to pronounce. I saw it on her lanyard, memorised and mastered it. It catches her by surprise when I use it. Her face erupts into a glorious smile. A smile with nude lips.

God – what would I give to see the rest of her nude right now?

"I'm sorry to be a bit late. Got held up," she says without looking at me.

She picks up the board clipped over the rail at the bottom of my bed and runs a long finger down the digits and data that express the entirety of my existence these days. What is she looking at? Oxygen levels? Pulse? Blood pressure?

I'm acutely aware that my pulse has quickened since her arrival and I can feel my face begin to glow.

She lifts a limp arm from the bed. Tubes, cannulas and drips prevent me moving it much. I'm not in any pain and, if I'm honest, there's a bit of me that rather enjoy shaving limited motion when she comes into my room.

Before I ended up in here I was keen to try out a bit of restraint. BDSM rather appealed. Sounded fun and I definitely wanted to give it a go. Never really had the opportunity to try it out, though. But I'd listened to a podcast by a dominatrix and got really turned on when she described how she used a paddle on her clients. Naturally, I'd also watched plenty of sex videos featuring leather-clad models tying people up and running long fingernails across breasts, pricks and balls.

I feel the tips of her nails on my skin as she tries to locate my pulse. She pulls a face. "Do you feel a little hot?" she asks.

She raises a thermometer to my ear and gently brushes my hair away, allowing me to feel those nails again.

"On the high side," she says more to herself than to me.

I nod. 'And getting much hotter,' I felt like adding.

"Let me take your blood pressure," she says and turns to the trolley at the far end of the room. Her arse is almost visible through the tight skirt. I see her butt cheeks pull the fabric as she walks away from me, one foot slightly overstepping the other giving her hips a delicious little wiggle as she moves.

A thought rushes into my mind – perhaps that walk is for me. Like she's putting on a bit of a show. A special treat for a patient who can pronounce her second name.

No, that can't be true. It must be this cocktail of drugs playing with my mind. She's my female doctor. Come on—get a grip.

But that grip casts my mind back to the sad reality of my own unfulfilled sexuality. The list of sexual deeds I'd like to do is huge. The number of pleasures I have ticked off that list is tiny.

Once I am out of here, when I am better, things are going to be different. I'm bloody well going to have the edgy, risky, reckless sex I crave. This is the sex that I need and have always needed. This is the type of sex that's fundamental to my existence.

As Dr Kitana returns, pushing the trolley laden with an electronic observation kit, I can definitely feel the stirrings of a physical, sexual urge.

This is the first time I've been aware of my cock since I've been in here. How long is that? Four weeks or more? I'm not sure. I forget.

"Let's take a look," she says as she slowly slips a grey, fabric cuff up my arm and wraps it around the exposed flesh under my shoulder. Her fingers trace a line over my skin, which tingles under her touch. She pulls the strapping tight as she fastens the Velcro. She makes eye contact with me, and I'm convinced that she just winked.

My cock begins to grow. A delicious idea comes into my mind. Perhaps she has a secret side—perhaps she's an exhibitionist who loves to strip at the classiest, most exclusive of sex clubs.

The swelling of my cock is mirrored by the growing constriction of the cuff as she takes a blood pressure reading. It's tight. Too tight. My arm's going to burst.

"180 over 97," she announces. "Not good."

My mind wanders. Perhaps it's the rocketing pressure in my arm. I find it hard to focus. She says something. I can't quite make it out, but I think she says she is going to do something to bring my blood pressure down, to make me feel a little more comfortable.

She removes her white coat and then, unbelievably, undoes a button on her blouse. The tight band on my arm is like a noose being pulled hard.

My cock, my dear old friend, suddenly and triumphantly breaks loose from my surgical gown and creates a peak in the bed sheet.

With tubes connected to my arms and my legs incredibly weak, I am rendered virtually motionless. But the fact that I am unable to move vastly intensifies the experience. Right now, the only mobile part of my central body seems to be my cock, and it is pulsing in time with the throbbing in my arm, held in the vice-like grip of the blood pressure machine.

She loosens a second button and begins to seductively strip to black underwear.

My focus jumps back. This is wrong. This shouldn't be happening. "This isn't right!" are the words I should shout out. But I remain silent. Deep down, I know I want this to continue. It's more than a want. It's a visceral need.

Being teased by a beautiful, hot, powerful woman while being tied up is high on that sexual wish list of mine.

As Dr Kitana raises a cheeky eyebrow and looks right into my eyes, I am conscious that I am physically constrained. And, fuck, does it feel good.

The white coat has gone. So has the blouse. Any traces of medical trappings—stethoscope, pen, clipboard—have vanished. Kitana is wearing a lacy top with a matching bra and g-string.

As she approaches the side of the bed, my erection grows. It is so good to feel hard again. To feel alive.

She bends over, and the black lace trim of her bra is visible, and just beyond that, the curve of her breast. I can't quite see her nipple, but the bra is pretty transparent and if she would just bend a bit more, I might catch a glimpse of it.

My erection, after that thought, is complete and holds the sheet up like a tent pole. Fuck, she has seen it.

She peels back the sheet, looks at my cock, and gives me a nod of appreciation.

She spins round, walks away in that seductive manner of before, and brushes her arse against the door frame. She runs her hands over her thighs, up to her breasts, then drops them to her knickers. Slipping her thumbs under the straps, she tests their elasticity and pulls them to her knees.

She stares at me, purses her lips, and whips off her tiny knickers. The transformation from medical consultant to stripper is complete.

Turning to face me square on, my eyes feast on her pussy.

It's perfect. The thinnest of lines of immaculately trimmed pubic hair end a little above her clit hood. I see a glisten of wetness on her lips.

Something else catches the light. She has a silver butt plug in her hand. My eyes dart back to her gorgeous pussy, and by the time I look up again the silver tool is in her mouth. A heart shape end protrudes from her lips.

My heart summersaults as she rolls it with her tongue, coating it with her saliva.

She turns, butt cheeks facing me, then, bending low with legs athletically straight, gently eases the plug into her arsehole.

Pre-come is pouring out of my cock. If my hands were free I would be rubbing it down my shaft, lubing myself up.

The fact that I can't touch myself only has the effect of intensifying the feelings I have at the end of my cock. A huge drip of my lube has eased out of my helmet and is slowly, treacling towards my frenulum. My magic spot.

Contact is made, and my nerves jangle. My cock jerks involuntarily, sending another trickle of silvery fluid down my shaft. It merges with the earlier stream and, like two raindrops joining forces on a windowpane, they combine and slide quickly down the back of my prick to my balls.

The glug of pre-come traces a delicious line over one of my balls. I feel every millimetre of its movement until the circumnavigation is complete and it heads across my perineum and makes it to my arse hole.

Both of our arseholes are now enveloped in pleasure. Shared sensations.

​

She pulls up a chair, swings her legs over it in fine burlesque style, sits and parts her legs and presents her pussy, and her bejewelled butt.

Her delicate fingers, which moments ago had been taking my pulse, stroke her lips and circle her clit. I can see the pleasure this gives her as her head drops back and she moans every so slightly.

I yearn to clasp my cock with my fingers. I want to circle my helmet just as she runs her finger around the tip of her clit. I need to tease out more pre-come just as she is teasing out her juices.

She slides a finger between the folds of her cunt and begins to thrust them, finger fucking in and out. Her juices are flowing freely and are coating her fingers and her inner thighs.

I imagine that my cock is taking the place of those fingers. I can almost feel it hovering around her pussy, waiting for her to grasp it and ease it into her.

I can virtually sense the moment when my glans make contact with her lips, our juices mingle, and I slide deliciously into her warm, welcoming cunt.

"198 over 105. I'm getting concerned". Her voice is distant as if coming from another room.

"I'm going to try one more procedure to see if we can get it down to something a little safer. Trust me, I think it'll work," my sexy female doctor says.

Reality seems to have partially returned. I'm not inside her. Perhaps I never was. She has taken her seat again. She raises her stocking legs and starts to finger the butt plug.

I'm aware that the torrent of pre-come has erupted again, and I feel a blob of it ease out of my urethra and, like slow-moving lava from a volcano, make its way inexorably, gloriously down my shaft.

I desperately want her to grab my cock in her hand, pump it and take it in her mouth. I imagine what her tongue might feel like and how she might roll it over my glans and suck more juices out of me.

But the action isn't taking place around my cock. Her focus is on herself and on that little silver jewel.

I see her again in a different setting. She's at that sex club which she likes to visit. She's in a corset with a cocktail in her hand. She's surrounded by three rigid cocks. She takes a sip from her drink, puts down the glass, moves one of the guys behind her unclips the crotch on her underwear and gently slips the prick into her pussy.

Taking the other cocks in each hand, she starts to pump them. She moves one to her mouth, before swapping to give the other some oral attention.

"185 over 119," I hear her say. There's still worry in her voice.

I notice a string of saliva connecting her mouth to a cock and am suddenly aware that my own cock is pulsing deeply. I can feel my spunk moving fast up the shaft. It sprays out of my helmet, and I feel an immense release of tension.

"160 over 105. This is better. Much better." There is relief in her voice. Just as there is relief throughout my body.

Fuck, how I needed that orgasm. The achingly tight ring that was periodically squeezing my arm is now far less noticeable. My whole body, which felt as stiff as my cock, is rapidly softening.

I am overwhelmed by a deep sense of calm. And I'm suddenly aware of a warm, wet substance on my stomach and around my groin.

"140 over 93," Dr Katana says. "This is great. Just great. You are doing well."

I notice that she's back in her white coat, and the stethoscope is hanging around her neck once more. Was I in a nurse fantasy? She is leaning over the bed, adjusting a drip that feeds into a tube connected to a vein in my arm.

"I was worried you might have drifted off," she confessed.

I detect her perfume and inhale deeply. Then I drop my gaze from her beautiful face and see the mess on my body. It's on the sheets too. I move the arm, which has fewer medical attachments, and attempt to mop things up using my surgical gown.

"I'm so terribly sorry," I mumble. They are the first words, apart from her name, I have uttered since she came into the room. "I didn't mean to…"

"Please. Please. There is absolutely no need to apologise," she says.

She puts her hand on my wrist and guides my arm back to its resting position.

"Don't worry," she says reassuringly. She pulls a ream of the blue paper towels that seem to populate every hospital room from a dispenser on the wall and starts to wipe up the semen from my stomach.

Then she finds a wet cloth and, with one hand holding the base of my shaft, gently wipes the rest of my penis clean.

"I sometimes find that men climax in situations like that," she says. "In fact, speaking from a medical viewpoint, it can actually be remarkably therapeutic. A sudden release of tension. Perfectly natural. And, so I am told, strangely enjoyable. Does wonders for the blood pressure, too."

"Indeed, doctor," I reply.

"I think it's fine to leave you now. The nursing team will keep an eye on you, and if you need anything, just press the buzzer. Don't worry," she continues and lays a hand on my shoulder, "you might not believe it now, but you will get better, and you will go back to your old life."

I nod. Yes, I really do feel that I will get better. That orgasm was the turning point. But there's no way I am going back to my old, sterile, dull life. I'm going to start a new, naughty and gloriously adventurous one. And I'm going to have the best fucking sex of my life.

"Thank you so much," I reply.

"It's my job. It's what I do. It's really most fulfilling. So there's really no need for any thanks, " she says.

She checks my drip one last time and writes something on the clipboard at the bottom of my bed.

"Now if you'll excuse me, I have three more men to see to on this round."

"Well, I hope you are fulfilled by them," I say, and as she walks out of the door, she turns and raises an eyebrow and gives a tiny hint of a rather cheeky smile.