Author's note-
This is my submission for the On The Job story event. It's a D/s story, without violence, bondage or pain play. I wanted to try to show the initial steps of a woman getting a chance to explore her desire for submission. And I wanted to try to show a dominant and commanding man without him being forceful, demeaning or insulting. I hope that comes across.
As always, I hope you enjoy it and I welcome any comments or feedback.
Thanks
Belle
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It's funny how some memories flood through you. How the mention of someone's name causes a cascade of emotions that make you tremble. That wash over you so fast that you have to go somewhere quiet, get out of the public, to collect yourself.
That's what happened to me when I flipped open that chart. I knew that particular patient hadn't been back for a while, that the chart from her last admission was old. But I'd forgotten the timeline. Seeing his name in the discharge summary was like a punch in the gut and a tall drink of ice water all at once.
I had to get up. I had to leave the unit and hide. I made it to the elevator and down to my office, thanking the stars that my officemate was out. I collapsed into my chair, shaking. He'd done so much for me, had showed me the doorway to the life I currently led. Without him, I don't know if I'd be nearly as happy, nearly as fulfilled.
A sob lurched out of me, and happy, giddy tears slid down my cheeks. Had it really been that long? It was a couple of months, about five years ago. Six years out of grad school, certain that working in a psychiatric hospital was the right thing. I was finding my way, figuring out a career path. He came in and he helped me discover something fundamental about myself.
He's always there, in the back of my mind.
*~~* *~~* *~~*
I knew what he was, as soon as he walked in. I don't mean that I knew he was the new psychiatrist. Everyone knew that a temporary doctor was starting, that he'd be there a month or so while they tried to replace the one who'd quit. I don't mean that I knew he was from New York. That much was obvious the moment he opened his mouth. The accent was unmistakable.
What I mean is that I knew instantly he was a Dom. It's not supposed to work that way, right? It's not like people have tattoos on their foreheads declaring their sexuality. No one includes a preference for control or submission when they're making introductions. But I saw him, and I knew. I looked at him and his nature, complementary to mine, announced itself as surely as his accent did.
I saw it in the way he looked around the room, taking all of our measures in one swooping glance. I heard it in the easy confidence in his voice, joking with our notoriously officious and arrogant medical director. I watched him making himself at home in that crowded room, the assurance rolling off of him in waves. It looked like arrogance to so many other people. But his attitude resonated with me, deep in my core.
I felt it, in the way my mouth went dry, my uterus did a backflip, and my clit stood up at attention. I felt it in the way his eyes seemed to bore into me, and how I struggled to meet his gaze. I felt it, in the way I was rooted to my chair, the blood rushed to my ears, and I sat up straight. I felt some kind of primal, almost cellular, connection to him, even in that moment. Every time I glanced up, he was looking at me. That moment is crystal clear, preserved in my brain, unalterable.
He walked into the conference room for that first Morning Report with the medical director, Dr. Dale, shooing him in the door and muscling their way to the table. We were crowded around it, in the beat-up, mismatched, hand-me-down chairs that state funded institutions always seem to have. There were more people than chairs; a gaggle of interns, medical students, and one late coming psychologist tried to squeeze into the corner. That's why I always get to those meetings early. All the staff from both treatment teams, nurses from both units, all crammed into that space. It was supposed to be a quick recitation of the events of the previous twenty-four hours.
At Morning Report we heard about who slept, who ate, who paced in the hallway all night long. We heard about who hit whom, or who tried to kiss whom, or who refused their medications. Sixty acutely mentally ill people, in as wide a variety of conditions as you could imagine. But that day, I had no idea what the nurses said about the patients. I had no idea what anyone said about anything. I was too focused on him, to acutely aware of his every move.
After the meeting was over, I rushed back to my office feeling like a high schooler with a crush on a teacher. I had just turned thirty-three, and the grey at his temples made me guess that he was closer to fifty than forty. His eyes were the clearest pale blue, and his lips were full and pink, darker than you'd expect on someone with skin as pale as his. His hair, where it wasn't going to white, was very dark brown. He wasn't tall; his shoulders were fairly broad, but that might have been the cut of his suit jacket. He looked nothing like the men I'd been attracted to before. But my body quickly told me my history was irrelevant.
I hid in my office, doing paperwork, calling families and trying not to obsess about having to be in meetings with him until it was time to be in another meeting with him. Not only was he the new psychiatrist, he was assigned to work on the treatment team with me and my officemate. The afternoon meeting was when we discussed the progress patients were making, the doctors would talk about treatment changes, and we'd update the treatment plans. That meeting was the chance that everyone on the team had to express their opinions and talk about what we'd seen from patients.
We went to the afternoon meeting, my officemate Julia, and I. There was less than usual on the agenda, only one treatment plan to review and update. A couple of other items that would be dealt with quickly. We still worked from paper charts in big three ring binders that connected at the top. Various kinds of notes were indicated by different colored paper, and it was a task to decipher everyone's handwriting.
Suffice to say, there was a lot for the new doctor to catch up on. When I got to the conference room he was already there, flipping through a chart. Julia had peeled off, to go talk to one of the people on her caseload, so I was in the room by myself with him.
I wended my way around to my favorite spot. When I sat, he looked up and appraised me.
"Oliver James," he said. His voice was a low baritone that rolled through the space. "But maybe you already know that."
"Yes, Dr. James," I said. My voice sounded creakier than usual, so I cleared my throat. "We met in Morning Report today. But I'm not sure we all introduced ourselves. I'm Leah. I'm one of the social workers on the team. Leah Abbott."
He leaned forward on the table just slightly, his eyes still locked on mine. He smiled, and pointed quickly at me, then tapped the table with one finger.
"Leah. I'm sure I will come to rely on you." He gestured over the chart laid out in front of him. "I've got some learning to do, obviously. I'll need some guidance."
I smiled back at him. "Of course. I think you'll find that most everyone here wants to help."
He tilted his head, and I could see him start to say something else when Julia barreled into the room. Hard on her heels were the rest of the team. I'd never felt so intruded on, even though they were all supposed to be there.
