Doctor's Orders: The Complete Series (7 page)

I don’t. He’s left. I’m alone in an alley behind a diner. Well, not alone. I still have the orchid on my dress, so the Doctor is still with me.

Honestly, I’m relieved. I didn’t want to have to explain what just happened to anyone. I never want to try to explain it; I don’t think it would be possible. Only the Doctor would understand.

I’m not even sure I understand.

I try to sort it all out in my head, still alone in the dark, and yet somehow not scared. A white plastic bag scuttles past me on a light breeze, and I follow it to the end of the alley, still at peace. I think of that scene from American Beauty, with the weird guy talking about dancing with plastic bags in the air, and the universe being full of beauty and love, and I giggle. I like my version better: full of fucking.

That’s when I see the Doctor’s limo, parked at the other end of the alley. I wonder how long he’s been there – the whole time? Just now? Come to think of it, I never saw the “cop’s” face. I never knew...

Doesn’t matter, I’m just happy to see him. To almost see him. I trot over as fast as I can, still high as a kite, and open the door.

The car is empty.

The divider between the back and the front is up, the driver invisible to me. The Doctor is nowhere to be found. I slide in gingerly, careful of the plug and my soon to be sore everything. I still hope for some kind of explanation, but all I get is a card on the seat where the Doctor should be. It’s a time and place for our next appointment. On the back there is a note.

Well done. You may keep the plug.

I look forward to our next appointment.

So do I.

I want that man. And for the first time, I feel brave enough to go after him.

P
ART 3:

S
TRIPPED

I almost start to touch myself, thinking about what he’s got in store for me. How crazy is that? Out in the street, in this rich neighborhood, standing in front of his dignified townhouse on a clear night – to actually touch myself?

Nuts, right?

But the Doctor makes me do crazy things. He makes
me feel crazy things, too. The weird part is that he does this even as I’ve begun to feel more sane, more sure of myself, than I ever have before. All because of him.

The Doctor came to me out of nowhere just few weeks ago, and offered me a chance at his special brand of “treatment.” If you’d told me that someone could show me how to be more like the person I want to be, and less, you know, miserable and sad, through hardcore sexual domination, I would have...I don’t know what I would have done. Run away? But somehow, the Doctor made me trust him. Each week since then he’s sent me on an assignment, and each week he’s taught me a lesson he thought I needed teaching. And he’s been right, every damn time.

I learned how closed off I was to the world. I learned how afraid I was, and how to be fearless. I also, incidentally, got fucked blind in a swing, had a remote control butt plug make me do things I never, ever thought I would do, and might have jumped a police officer in a dark alley. Among other things.

Anyway, those were the planned lessons. What probably wasn’t in the plan was me actually falling for the Doctor. The thing is, I’ve never had anyone
see
me the way he does. I’ve never had anyone look at me like that, and like what they saw.

I know I’m supposed to think that he does this for everyone that he “treats,” that there’s nothing special about me. But I know there’s something there – I can feel it. I think I can really see him, just like he sees me, and I want him to know that I like what I see, too.

Oh, who am I kidding. I want
him
.

Which is why I’m standing here, half an hour early for our next appointment, wondering what the hell it will be this week, too nervous to ring the stupid buzzer.

There’s a brisk breeze down this avenue, a mini wind tunnel formed by all the tall, stern townhouses lining the block. I can’t help but smile at the incongruity of me, in my getup, and this classy part of town. I’m wearing what the Doctor ordered: an incredibly complicated front-tying black reverse-corset thing, with my ample breasts pushed up and my nipples nearly poking out the top, a tight skirt, matching black panties, and black heels. He had me pick up the outfit at a lingerie store. Over it all I’m wearing a trench coat, because it was the longest thing I had. Only now do I realize I probably look like a flasher, or a hooker.

A few weeks ago, I would have been mortified. Now I feel a flush warming my skin, and I can enjoy the thrill.

But I still can’t make myself push that buzzer. Even though I’m dying to know what he has in store for me this week, even though I’m dying to see him.

The thing is, I know I crossed a line. I couldn’t help it. I know his address, obviously; it was only a little work on the internet to find out his real name. Cedric Durant, of
the
Durants. Which...I’m not sure I was totally prepared for that, honestly. Scion of an old but declining family, born of scandal, had a huge society wedding. He famously saved the family business, and then his wife died, and he just...disappeared. Totally retreated from the world. I found out all this in a fit of mad googling. I know I violated his privacy, in a way, encroaching on the boundaries of our “professional” relationship by prying into his private life. But seriously, how could I not? Especially once I got started. His life story is ridiculous. Just, totally operatic.

And obviously all of that only makes him even more attractive. That, and the dark hair dappled with gray, the finely tuned body, and the cobalt blue eyes don’t hurt either.

And his hands...

This is why I want to touch myself.

And why I’m afraid to press the buzzer, now that I know these things about him. Real things, not just the roles we play during my appointments. I stare stupidly at the intercom as the breeze picks up, spreading goose flesh up my thighs. I have to come clean, is what I have to do. Tell him what I did, how I feel. I think about all he’s given me already – I told him about my dream of becoming an artist, going to art school, that silly dream that everyone laughs at, the reason I’m still living with a family that doesn’t really like me very much. I’ve since started looking for a job in a gallery or something, anything to get me started. I wouldn’t have done it before. I was scared.

I can’t be more scared to press a stupid buzzer.

I reach out to the intercom, finger poised, determined to get inside and confess and apologize first thing when I see him, determined to be fearless, and then I hesitate just a moment.

“Are you Claire?”

The intercom squawks to life, and I startle half a step back. It’s not the Doctor’s voice. I look closer, and see the tiny hidden camera lens embedded in the casing of the intercom. Someone’s been watching me.

Someone who isn’t the Doctor.

“Hello?” the Someone squawks at me again. “Are you Claire?”

I fluster easily, and it takes me a second to find the talk button.

“Um. Hi. Yes, I’m Claire.”

“I think you’re early, Claire.”

“Yes, I’m sorry. About that. I’m actually just here to see the Doctor?”

No response. I think for a moment on the fact that I’m early, and have no idea who I’m talking to, and might have just outed the Doctor as...the Doctor.

Shit. Only, how did they know my name?

“Um, I’m here to see Cedric?”

There is a long moment of silence. I’m about to start pressing madly at buttons, struck by the irrational concern that I somehow broke or reset the intercom or something, and the voice is really giving me important information and of course I’m messing it all up because I did something wrong,
again
, when I hear the telltale buzz.

The gate buzzes again, as though a gate could be impatient. Gently I put my naked hand on the wrought iron and push, almost expecting it to resist. Of course it swings open. It’s just a freaking door.

The front courtyard is just as I remember it, all neogothic drama and curling green ivy. The front door opens with the same audible creak, the foyer has the same soft light. No note waiting for me in the vestibule this time – I’ve caught him off guard. The notion both pleases and frightens me a little. I walk into the chilly reception area, I guess on automatic or something, but when I get there and see the cold, impersonal furniture, the expensive couch that’s seated so many women like me...I suddenly know I’m not going to do what’s expected of me, tonight, and maybe not ever again.

I’m going to explore, instead.

I turn up the collar of my coat against the perpetual, nipple-hardening chill, and push past the inner door, the one that leads away from the reception area and into the house proper. This was the first place I saw him, standing silently in the doorway, strong and dignified in that crisp white shirt, watching me with those blue eyes. I’d followed him in without even thinking about it.

The door opens onto a classic entrance hall, full of marble floors and high ceilings and that sweeping circular staircase I remember so well. Last time he’d lead me to the back of the house, and down a hidden set of stairs, to his secret office. I know what’s there – the exam room.

I have to stop and steady myself on the curling banister, remembering that exam. Remembering his hands inside me, remembering the swing, remembering his eyes, watching me the whole time.

That was a
very
good day.

But the thought of all that pleasure pulls on me, and I have to stop. What if what I’m doing right now, prying into his life, costs me...everything? Above me I can see a less formal decor, the suggestion of rooms that are actually lived in, that reflect the Doctor’s real life as Cedric. Or maybe it’s the Doctor that’s more real to him; it’s hard to know. I like thinking that I might be one of the only people who care to know both sides of him. And I want to know Cedric, the man.

I’m just afraid I’ll lose the Doctor in the process. Whatever he has planned for me tonight, it’s likely to be amazing. Transforming, even.

Can I risk all that?

I look up again, and the warm light on the landing, illuminating a heavy wooden door that stands slightly ajar, tugs me forward. That’s where he really lives. Up there. That’s where I’ll find him.

I march up the stairs.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m freaking nervous. But my legs are moving. My heart is beating. And I’m fairly sure my tongue will start working again by the time I find him, and I’ll be able to explain myself.

The landing on the second floor is a little less grand than the first floor, but only slightly so. The fraying carpet and dusty sconces don’t hide the classical design underneath. This place has good bones, but it’s kind of a mess. I pause for a moment, taking it all in. It doesn’t seem like a place the Doctor could occupy, not a little bit. The Doctor is controlled, and precise, and wouldn’t abide shabby furnishings. He’d make me clean them, or something. Which, thinking about the woman I saw the first day I was here, on her knees, in that costume, sweeping the floor inch by inch, gives me those shivers I’m starting to associate exclusively with the Doctor.

I try to take a deep breath, and the corset presses on my nipples, giving me yet another thrill. The Doctor put some thought into this. He always does.

But it’s Cedric who lives here. Cedric who treads on this threadbare carpet, who abides this dull lighting. I’m not sure what I’ve gotten myself into, exactly, but the door to the left, the one just visible from the bottom of the stairs, is slightly ajar.

God, it’s like it’s begging me to just...

I do. I tread as lightly as I can in these fuck-me pumps, and slip inside the unknown room before I have a chance to stop myself.

It’s dark in this unknown room, what I’ve been assuming is some sort of secret lair or something. As I grope blindly for a light switch, wondering why I so furtively shut the door behind me, I realize it might just be, like, a tv room or something. It’s not necessarily...

Oh.

The light switch that I find illuminates what I think is an antique chandelier, which is kind of a ridiculous lighting choice for what looks like a man’s study. Library? I’m not sure what rich people call it, but it’s
his
. Leather chairs, books, a desk strewn with papers. This is a room where he lives. Where he does things pertinent to his real life.

No animal heads on the walls, thank God. There is lots of wood paneling, though. And a bar. The thought of the Doctor drunk is just mind-bending. I have no idea what that would look like.

And I’m also trying to distract myself from what very much looks like a bunch of personal papers and photos on that desk. The guilt is starting to creep up on me; this is obviously wrong.

But it might be my only chance.

And dammit, someone let me in early for a reason. The Doctor doesn’t make mistakes.

I run over to the desk like I’m on a deadline, and when I get there I realize I’ve been holding my breath. They
are
personal papers. Letters. Old letters, worn at the edges from frequent handling. I have a letter like that; it’s the only love letter I ever got, from Danny Mitchells in the sixth grade, and I would read it in middle school whenever I got bullied to remind myself that someone liked me, once. I know what a well-worn letter looks like.

And there’s a photo, too. It’s the man I know as the Doctor, smiling, his arms around a pretty woman who smiles back at the camera, brown bangs brushing against her face, brown eyes full of happiness. The Doctor – Cedric here, I guess – doesn’t even look at the camera. He only looks at the woman.

It’s heart-warming, heart-breaking, and crushing all at the same time. He is a real man, with a real past, and with someone he loves. Loved. It must be his dead wife. And it makes me realize that I don’t know him at all. This man I thought I was beginning to love...who I thought might love me...