Doctor's Orders: The Complete Series (9 page)

“Gerald’s sense of duty is...his own,” the Doctor says, but concern returns to his face when he sees that I’m not mollified. “What happened?”

I decide to leave out the stuff that I enjoyed. After all, I thought it was part of the game. And maybe Gerald did, too.

“You told him. That was private, what I told you. And you
told
him.”

“What?”

I’m overcome by the desire to shed childish, childish tears, and I just cannot let that happen. I turn my face as far away as it can go, and wish I had the strength to walk away entirely. I’ll just find something interesting to look at on the floor instead, and very much
not
cry.

“Look,” I say, keeping my voice low so that it won’t shake, “I get that I’m not special, that you have all kinds of...patients, but I thought...”

“Claire, what are you talking about?”

His voice draws me back to him. I look up. Stupid, stupid Claire, I look up. His eyes are impossible. And he looks crushed at the revelation that he’s disappointed me.

“He said he was looking forward to my show,” I say dumbly.

The Doctor’s face, when he’s not in the middle of dominating me, is a wonderfully expressive thing. I see confusion, and then comprehension, relief, and amusement play across his features like shadow puppets, and I’m almost too intrigued to remember to be upset. Almost.

“That’s not what he meant, Claire.” He presses the back of his hand to my forehead, as though he just wants to feel my skin, to remind me of his touch. It’s so tender it startles me. He’s never this unguarded.

“I would never betray your trust,” he says, without a hint of irony, with just a trace of strain, as though he needs me to believe him.

And I do. I want to fall right into his arms and apologize for doubting him, for getting so upset, for nearly running away.

But then I remember that I’m the one who’s betrayed him. I violated his privacy, I read his letters. All it did was make me care for him even more, to make me sympathize, and I want to tell him, like any normal person, I want to show him my sympathy, my love, my heart.

But I remember Gerald’s words. I’d lose him. I’d lose him forever.

Oh, shit, Claire. What have you done?

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry I doubted you. Sir.”

The word “sir” brings him back to himself. His shoulders square, his back straightens, his beautiful face becomes impassive once again. I miss that brief openness, that tenderness, but this is how I can show him that I am still devoted, that I still trust him. By submitting.

I’m not sure I’ll ever convince him to trust me, and I’m not sure that I deserve to, but I do my best to shake it off. I can feel the intensity radiating off his body.

“Are you ready for your appointment?”

The Voice is back. The commanding, ringing voice. It washes over me, covering me in a familiar sexual thrill, and a warm relief, all at once. That goddamn voice.

“Yes,
sir
.”

“Give me your coat.”

He drapes it over his arm on top of his own, and pauses for a moment to look me up and down while the chill makes my skin come alive again. I see a glimmer of appreciation, a flash of arousal, a shine through the cracks of his careful mask. He inhales deeply, then turns abruptly on his heel and begins walking towards the back of the house.

“Follow me,” he says into the cold air, his voice bouncing off the marble. I let myself enjoy it for just a moment before I hurry to catch him.

I think I know where he’s going, but at the last second I’m wrong. He strides ahead of me, through the great hall to the servant’s stairs I remember from my first appointment, but instead of turning towards the exam room, he turns right, further down a barely lit hall, descending into darkness. The only sound is my breath, and my heels, clicking on the hard floor of the basement.

I think it’s a basement. Maybe what they call an English basement? I don’t really know; I try to remember what I can about the historic houses in this neighborhood, and all that comes to mind is the mining heiress who had a bowling alley installed in her basement for parties. I always thought those sounded like odd parties, for an heiress. Bowling? Really?

And just when I realize that I’m rambling in my own head, that I’m nervous as hell, I slam right into the Doctor. It’s pitch black here. I have no idea how he can see.

“One moment, Claire.”

The jangling of keys is somehow reassuring, and somehow...not. Why does this room need a lock?

Breathe, Claire. You trust him.

Which is good, because when he opens the door, there’s a rush of smoke, and hazy light, and voices.
Men’s
voices – laughing, joking, teasing; stamping their feet, hands slapping on surfaces, ice cubes rattling. An impatient horde.

And suddenly I know they’re waiting for me.

The Doctor steps aside, and ushers me forward from the small of my back. I hesitate, just a second, on the threshold, but I feel him about to speak – hear his breath, feel his body swell – and I cannot, I
cannot
, disappoint him, not after what I’ve done today. I push myself forward.

The chatter comes to an abrupt halt as I stumble through the door and into a spotlight. The sudden silence is worse than the light. It makes me think there’s nothing to look at but me. I shield my eyes and squint, trying to get my bearings, to figure out where I am. I can make out a few figures, seated, some smoke swirling in the air, caught in the light. There’s the clink of glasses, as though I were on stage at some speakeasy nightclub.

On stage.

There’s a chair several steps in front of me. In the center of
the stage
.

I don’t have much chance to process this information before I feel the Doctor at my back, and I know what I’m going to do next.

“Walk forward, Claire.”

Temporarily numb, I walk towards the chair. The harsh light follows me, but my eyes are beginning to adjust a little. I try to study what little I can see of my audience without appearing interested, like a practiced performer. I try to have presence. I can make out a few vague outlines, silhouettes against a backlight – the only other source of light in the room. I realize this must be deliberate. All of this is deliberate. It’s like an elaborately designed set, a beautiful display case. And I’m what’s on display.

I swallow, deeply. I’ve never been this anxious with the Doctor before. It’s one thing to explore the deepest, darkest parts of myself with him, or by myself, or in a sheltered, anonymous place. But in front of an audience...

The chair is a plain, cold looking, metal framed thing. Angular, with that Scandinavian look, but the expensive kind. It looks heavy, and uncomfortable. Instinctively I move to stand in front of it, and await instructions. I’m grateful for the routine of our power games. There’s safety there, in a situation like this.

Except for the fact that now I have something to hide.

“Greet your audience, Claire.”

I peer out, beyond the stage, but the lights do their job. I can’t make out individual faces, just bodies, lounging around tables, the glint of blonde hair. Gerald. He must be out there. They’re all out there, judging me.

Oh God, this is my show.

I inhale and pull my body up from my diaphragm, the way I learned in that one awful year of ballet classes, and I dip into a deep curtsy. When I come back up, I’m smiling. If a thing is worth doing, it’s worth doing well, dammit.

A rough hand on my shoulder pushes me down, into the chair. I try to sit with grace, but there’s a little bit of a flounce going on, and I cringe at a muffled laugh from my audience. That’s not like the Doctor. My mind is churning, trying to figure out where he’s going with this, when I hear his voice.

“Are you ready for your interview, Claire?”

Only, that voice –
his
voice – is coming over a loudspeaker now. I begin to turn my head without thinking, but the man behind me, whoever he is, steps close and puts a hand to my cheek. Slowly, I turn back and face my audience. This isn’t the first time the Doctor has pulled a switcheroo on me. Last time it was about trust. I wonder if it is this time, too.

In fact, I can’t help but wonder if he knows what I did. My anxiety is almost stronger than my arousal. Almost.

“I asked you a question, Claire.”

Right. Interview. I have no idea what that means, but one should be ready for anything in life.

“Yes, sir. I’m ready.”

“Very good. If you answer truthfully, you will be rewarded. Although I expect you’ll feel rewarded either way.”

I catch that tone in the Doctor’s voice, that playful tone, and my clit pulses in gentle response. The man behind me caresses my neck gently, so gently. I feel weak.

“Do you remember last week’s appointment, Claire?”

God, how could I forget? He taught me to be fearless about going after what I want, with memorable results. Just the thought of that orgasm, against that rough, crumbling brick wall...

“Of course.” I smile slyly, and someone in the audience snickers. Suddenly I wonder if that man, the man I wanted and went after the week before...could it have been him? Could it have been the Doctor?

And what about the man behind me?

“Eyes forward!” the Doctor snaps, his irritation obvious even over loudspeaker. “Tell your audience what you learned.”

“I learned to be fearless.”

“Be specific.”

I can feel a flush creeping up my neck, and suddenly it seems like my chest is straining against this too-tight corset, making it hard to breathe. I know it’s just nerves, I know I get like this when I’m put on the spot. Even back in school, all those years ago, I’d nearly have a panic attack when I got called on, even when I knew the answer. Fearless, huh? I’m not feeling so fearless, thinking about all those eyes on me.

I clear my throat.

“That I should be fearless about going after what I want.”

“And what is a prerequisite of going after what you want, Claire?”

The man behind me brushes his fingers over my shoulders and down the sides of my arms, up, down, up, down. His touch inflames me, drawing precious blood away from my brain. I’m having trouble thinking clearly. Or at all, really.

“Claire.”

“I don’t know.”

The man I cannot see grabs me by the elbows and lifts me up out of my seat. I struggle to keep my balance in my heels as he kicks the chair away, and his hands slide down my arms to my wrists. He pulls my arms up, straight up above my head, until my chest thrusts out towards the audience. For a wild second I worry that my breasts will pop over the top, that I’ll be held here, exposed, and the thought makes me wet.

Then I feel the restraints wrapping around my wrists. They’re a soft, supple leather, just like the restraints in the Doctor’s exam room. I look up, and I see that they’re attached to a cord hanging from the ceiling. The man adjusts the line, and pulls me up just an inch further. It’s just as far as I can go without being in pain.

The man slowly lets his hands slide down the length of my arms again, past my shoulders, fingers just brushing the tops of my constrained breasts before settling on my hips. I feel his hot breath on my neck, my ear. He’s checking to see if I’m ok.

I am way more than ok. I want to yell in protest when I feel his warm bulk move away.

“Claire.” It’s the Doctor, his voice insistent over the crackling speakers. “What do you need to do before you can go after what you want?”

That voice pulls me right back to reality. To this crazy stage, with an audience out there, beyond the light. I sigh, grateful for the reminder that he’s watching over all of this, that he’s the architect, that he’s designed this show with me in mind. It’s overwhelming, to think of all that effort, just for my benefit. I know there’s something he wants me to get out of this. Something he thinks I need. I have to try to find it.

What do I need before I can go after what I want?

“Claire.”

“I don’t know!” I cry out, not in anger, but in frustration. I haven’t failed him yet, and I don’t want to start now.

“Yes, you do, Claire.” His voice is calm with utter certainty, coming at me from all angles. “Do not withhold.”

I’m about to protest when the silent man who’s been manhandling me from behind steps out in front of me. He wears a large black hood with a deep cowl, like an assassin or an executioner in a movie, and black pants. It’s kind of ridiculous, but damn it, it’s still sexy. And it completely obscures his face, which makes me suspicious for a brief moment before I’m distracted by his other attributes. His bare torso glistens with sweat in the spotlight, muscles shifting impatiently beneath his lightly tanned skin. His chest, lightly covered in a smattering of fine hair that trails down his stomach, heaves up and down with powerful breaths, as though he’s only barely holding himself back.

“I have to be fearless?” I venture.

The man in front of me shakes his head, his hood moving side to side, and reaches behind to retrieve an ornate knife from his waistband.

“You said I have to be fearless!” I cry out into the unanswering light, the silhouettes of my audience barely registering. I’m not scared; if I was scared I could always use my safeword. I just don’t want to fail, not in front of the Doctor, not in front of an audience.

The
audience
.

The Doctor doesn’t make mistakes. The audience, my audience, those anonymous men I can hear breathing and muttering; they must matter. They are a part of this. But why?

I don’t have time to figure it out. The man in the hooded cowl steps in close, so close that I can almost feel the length of his body. God, do I want to feel the length of his body. I know this is part of the Doctor’s plan, too. And so is that knife. The man in the hooded cowl puts a warm hand to the side of my face, cupping my cheek with a surprising tenderness. He runs his fingers down the front of my neck, as though he knows this will reduce me to an incoherent, blubbering mess, and then I feel the cold metal of the knife on my hot flesh.

My eyes fly wide open, and I look down, as much as I can. I hear someone in the audience gasp. He has the edge of the knife pressed gently against the skin just beneath my collarbone. As I watch, he makes a tiny pattern, a fluid clover leaf, just barely touching me, and lightly draws a line down the center if my chest, deep into my cleavage, before stopping with the edge poised on the first cord of my front-tying corset.