Clarissa & the Doctor

In the first installment, med student Clarissa found herself under the thumb--in more ways than one!--of an older male doctor. This episode continues her adventures. Probably a good idea to read Part 1 first; that's the set-up.

* * * * *

Michael paused as he picked me up. "Grab the booze, honey, would you?"

Michael carried me down the short hall to my bedroom and dumped me on my bed. It was a single bed. That wasn't lost on Michael. He chuckled. "That answers that," he said.

"Huh?" I said, still a bit dazed. I realized I was clutching the liquor bottle to my chest like a life preserver.

Michael peeled off his clothing, making a careless, crumpled heap on the floor. He sat down beside me on the bed and gently pried the bottle from my hands, putting it down on my nightstand. "You obviously don't have a boyfriend. Not with this bed. Not that it would've mattered. 'Cause you'd have to send him right down the road, you know. I don't do sloppy seconds. Now take off your sweater. Bra, too."

He was right; I was undoubtedly single. I'd never exactly been a guy magnet, and besides, medical school has a funny way of cutting into your quality dating time. I found it both annoying and arousing that Michael Hanlon could figure me out so easily. I looked at him, seeing him unclothed for the first time. Admittedly, I'd wondered more than once what he looked like underneath his lab coat. Nice body, for sure. Good muscles, just right. A generous sprinkling of dark chest hair, becoming more dense below his navel. And there was his cock, finally, beautiful and huge and very hard, jutting out of a curly thatch as thick and black as the hair on his head. Amused, Michael watched me watch him.

He let me stare for a few seconds. "Okay," he grinned, pushing my shoulder playfully, tugging on my sleeve. "Take it off. You can look all you want later."

I slowly pulled my sweater over my head and unhooked my bra. Folding both, I started to get out of bed to put them on a chair. Michael shot out one arm, blocking me, and with the other hand grabbed my clothing. He tossed it across the room. "I didn't tell you to get out of bed, did I?"

I looked at him, feeling a slippery, fluttering warmth in my belly. Oh.

Michael sighed. "We have such a long way to go with you, Clarissa. But I know you'll come around. Now sit still."

He leaned over and lifted my breasts, cupping them in his hands, testing their weight. He massaged them tenderly, rubbing his thumbs over my tingling nipples, rolling the hard pink buds between his fingers, holding my gaze as he fondled me. His hands were gentle and sure: physician's hands. I felt myself responding, felt my pussy heat up. He looked remarkably disinterested, almost clinical. Perversely, that increased my excitement. Suddenly, he pinched my nipples, hard. I jumped and squealed, instinctively pulling away, trying to cover my chest. "Ow!" I cried, accusingly. That had hurt. I think.

"Uh, uh," Michael said, without changing his expression, not letting go. "Hands at your sides. Look at me."

My hands hovered reflexively, for a split second, halfway between my waist and my breasts.

"C'mon, honey, don't fight me. I'm not even applying full pressure. Wanna see how much worse it can get?"

With effort, I lowered my hands.

Michael smiled. "Good girl. Concentrate on what you feel. Remember that spanking you just got? Same concept. Bear it for me, Clarissa." He released my nipples, suddenly, and, just as quickly, clamped down again, harder. I gasped as I felt a wave of warm ecstasy ripple through me, radiating from between my parted thighs.

"There ya go," he soothed. "Nice little endorphin rush, huh?"

I shuddered and moaned, unable to look away. He was so beautiful. I was drowning.

"And you know," Michael whispered, "You get addicted to that rush. Real fast. Best drug in the world, Clarissa." He let go, then pinched again. Once more, that incredible, warm wave. My pussy was throbbing, soaked, my labia swollen and hot. I could feel my vaginal muscles twitching. I bucked my hips, whimpering. I began to cry, not knowing why.

"There's my girl," Michael said softly, "Go on, give in. Just open up and let me get right inside your pretty little head. Because the truth is, honey, you want me in there, dontcha?"

Sobbing, I nodded. God help me, he was right. I didn't understand this, I really didn't. But my body understood perfectly.

Michael released me, suddenly, and just as quickly, shoved me down on the bed, climbing on top of me. He gripped my wrists, one in each hand, forcing my forearms down on either side of my head and pinning me to the mattress. I felt his cock, heavy and hard, against my abdomen, his muscular chest against my breasts. "Now, here's how it goes," he murmured, his handsome face inches from mine. "From now on, you live to please me. Whenever I want. However I want. If you're a good girl, you get to feel good. If you're a bad girl, you get , uh, corrected."

I moaned, feeling my clitoris swell. I was lubricating heavily.

Michael laughed softly. "Yeah, I know. Something tells me you can't wait to be bad."

He shifted slightly, nudging my thighs apart with one knee. He released my wrists and grabbed his cock in one hand. "Hands above your head," he whispered. "Cross your wrists. Keep 'em there, okay?"

I complied, feeling deliciously vulnerable.

Michael raised himself slightly on one arm, on his knees now, straddling me. Gently, teasingly, he rubbed the head of his cock, slick with pre-come, back and forth over my labia, stopping every so often to nudge my clitoris, grazing it in slow, slippery circles. The tip of his organ slid easily, so easily, over the sensitive tissue. Oh, God. My breathing became rapid. I felt my pulse jump sharply.

"Bet your heart's going like a steam-engine," Michael breathed. "Wonder how many beats a minute we're counting now, Miss Blackwood?"

He continued to stroke me with his cock. I squirmed, pushing my hips forward to give him better access. My pussy was dripping. I felt viscous fluid on the insides of my tensed thighs. My nipples were tight pink stones, super-sensitive from Michael's previous ministrations. I was having a hard time seeing straight.

"Aw, you want it so much," Michael laughed. "Poor little frustrated Clarissa. Such a dedicated student. Such a good girl. Always dreamed of being a doctor, so she hocks herself to the eyeballs and works her ass off, taking shit from jerks like me. But the work wasn't enough, was it, honey? You thought'd make your life complete, helping people, healing people, but something was still missing. Something that didn't have anything to do with medicine."

Michael inclined his head and kissed me, gently, sweetly, full on the mouth. I felt his tongue trace a feathery line around my parted lips. He pushed the head of his cock inside of me now, just past the entrance to my vagina, and held it there, teasing me. From somewhere in the part of my brain that wasn't focused on my crotch, my common sense made a sudden, unexpected appearance. Uh, protection, anyone? I pulled back, hesitating.

Michael looked at me, raising one eyebrow. "Don't even think about asking me to use one, honey, " he said, understanding instantly. "Not with you. I'm clean. And I bet you haven't been with more than two guys in your life."

He was right.

I gave myself up to the inevitable.

Michael kissed me again, deeply, darting his tongue around mine, gently biting my lower lip.

"Now that all of the, uh, niceties are out of the way, how 'bout I fuck you, Miss Blackwood?" he whispered, his lips against mine, hips undualting wickedly.

I nodded, feeling like my chest was going to explode. I was on fire between my legs. I wanted Michael Hanlon more than I wanted to breathe.

"Say please."

"Please, Michael!" I was begging now, writhing. I didn't know how much more I could take. "Fuck me!"

Michael grinned and drove himself into me, good and hard. I closed my eyes and gasped.

"Hey, now," Michael admonished, grabbing one of my braids and giving it a brief tug. "Eyes open. On me."

He withdrew, nearly all the way, and slammed inside me once more. He stroked in and out now, roughly, hard and fast, setting a wicked, expert rhythm that I instinctively strained to match. He heated me, filled me, each savage thrust sending delicious shocks through my loins. I looked up at him as he worked me, moaning with each stab of his cock. He eyed me detachedly. Suddenly, he gripped my hips and swiveled his pelvis, adding a circular motion as he lunged forward. He pushed again, deeply, hitting something far up inside of me; my cervix? Oh, God, he was in that deep. It hurt. Or did it?

"Ow!" I cried, twisting underneath him.

"Ssh," Michael said, gently. "Not a sound. Not a word. Relax, sweetheart. Feels better if you do."

Another gut-wrenching thrust.

He was splitting me in two. I tensed against the sensation. "Michael!" I gasped. "Please--!"

He frowned. "Godammit, what did I just say? Do I have to gag you?"

"But---" I protested.

Michael leaned in, crushing his chest to mine, and clamped one hand over my mouth. "Guess what, Clarissa?" He ground out, breathlessly, never ceasing his onslaught. "This isn't about you. It never will be. You're here for me. So you think about how much I'm enjoying this, honey. Using you. Taking you. My slut. My whore."

I stopped struggling as Michael's words sank in. To be treated like this... His hand over my mouth, his stiff cock filling me, raking the walls of my cunt. Only here to please him. I could have been anybody, any girl off the street. He was using me to get off. Just a piece of warm flesh underneath him. Oh, God. The thought was intoxicating. Was I going crazy? What I had originally felt as discomfort now receded, and was slowly replaced by warm, sweet friction. I spread my thighs wider, now wanting so much, so much, to take all of him. To let him do what he wanted.

Michael felt me relax, and smiled. "Good girl. Just take it, Clarissa. You can't fight me. Fucking slut. You love this."

I moaned behind his hand.

Michael pushed his other hand between our bellies. His thumb found my clitoris and rubbed it, gently. "You like it when I talk to you like that, dontcha? Just a girl after my own heart." He continued to stimulate me, fucking me, rubbing me. I jerked my hips sharply as I felt my abdomen tighten and twitch, precursor to orgasm.

"Whatcha doin'?" Michael asked, playfully, nuzzling my neck. "Not thinking of coming, are we?" His voiced tightened instantly. Warning me. "Don't you fucking dare. I'm the only one who gets to come, this time." He ran his thumbnail back and forth over my clitoris, pressing ever so slightly. "And the best part is, I know where all your most, uh, sensitive spots are. I can bring you sooo close and just... hold you there. Like a little puppet."

I whimpered, bereft. Twisting. Thrashing.

"C'mon, you can hold out," he grinned. "Because if you don't, my darling, I will tie you face down to this bed and tan your pretty little ass with my belt. You won't be able to sit for three days. Wow, how's that for incentive?"

God, I was so close. I was sweating, and my juices ran freely, soaking the sheet beneath me. I couldn't, it wasn't fair, what he was doing, he knew I couldn't, oh, please... My hips bucked wildy. My cunt begged for release. I was crying again, sniffling miserably.

Mercifully, Michael withdrew his hand. Bracing himself once more on both palms, he concentrated now on simply getting off.

"I love fucking you," he gasped raggedly. "Love looking down into those big, wide eyes. Look at you. You're just lost. Feels nice, doesn't it?" He laughed, snapping his hips faster, faster. A thin sheen of sweat covered his upper body, painting his hard muscles. He slammed away at me, methodically, ramming my slick cunt. I felt his cock thicken, stiffen. And still I moved my hips in tandem, loving the heat, the fullness. My eyes were glued to his.

Michael lifted his hips for the coup de grace, laughing. "Bombs away, honey!"

He threw back his head, closing his eyes, and thrust one last time, impossibly huge, impossibly deep. He groaned softly, exploding inside me in a scalding, jetting burst.

Michael collapsed atop me, burying his face in my neck, his ragged breath hot in my hair. I threw my arms around his back, holding tightly, needing suddenly to hold onto somebody, something.

We lay for slow minutes, listening only to our own hard breathing.

Michael raised his head and tenderly kissed my mouth, nudging my nose with his. It was a diffident, boyish gesture, oddly touching. He grinned and rolled off of me, throwing himself down beside me. He grabbed the bourbon from the nightstand and, unscrewing the lid, put the bottle to his lips and took a healthy gulp.

"Wow," he breathed, wiping his brow. He turned to me and beamed. "You're a keeper, Miss Blackwood. Definitely punched my fucking ticket. Go get my cigarettes, would you? Don't forget the ashtray."

I didn't even think about it, and I didn't even think about not thinking about it. I simply sat up, slowly, and pulled myself shakily to my feet. I tottered into the living room, grabbed the stuff, and brought it to him.

Michael took the mangled pack of cigarettes from my trembling, outstretched hand. Pulled out two. Lit them.

He held one out to me.

I shook my head. "Trying to quit. That's what the lollipops are for."

Michael laughed, stubbing out the cigarette he'd lit for me. "You and those lollipops. You got some oral fixation. Lucky me."

I stood by the side of the bed, looking at Michael, not sure what to do. Michael inhaled and blew out a stream of blue smoke, watching me speculatively. He took another pull on the bottle.

"Uh," I began, twisting my hands.

"Hmm?"

"May I please get back in bed?"

Michael smiled broadly. "Awesome. High marks for asking. Sure."

I walked back around to my side and got in, half-leaning, half sitting, on two pillows. I sat on top of the covers, drawing up my knees and wrapping my arms around them. My brain felt like somebody had run it through the spin cycle. I needed to say something but I didn't know what.

Michael smoked for awhile in silence, one arm behind his head, ankles crossed, post-coitally serene.

He turned to me, suddenly. "You want to go to a movie or something?"

What?!

I gaped at him. After what he'd just done to me? I felt like I was dangerously close to a mild psychotic break, and he wanted to see a movie?

Michael noted my reaction and shrugged. "Or not. Maybe dinner? You like Taco Bell?"

Arrgh! I balled my hands into fists and slammed them down, hard, on either side of my thighs. The bed jumped.

"Easy, honey," Michael said, evenly, looking straight ahead. "Got something to say?"

I took a breath, seething. I knew better now, however, than to raise my voice. I counted to ten.

"How could you?" I asked, stung by his indifference, starting to cry for the third time in three hours.

"Huh?"

"You know," I said. I grabbed a Kleenex from a nearby box and swiped at my blurry eyes.

Michael raised himself up on one arm and looked at me, genuinely puzzled. "Clarissa, are you premenstrual?" He paused, musing. "Your abdomen was a bit distended---"

Now he was calling me fat!

I cried harder.

"Aw, for---" Michael sat up, turning to face me, and crossed his legs, Indian-style. He ran an impatient hand through his spiky black hair. "Stop crying, for Christ's sake. What's wrong with you?"

"What you did to meeee---" I blubbered, blowing my nose loudly.

Michael absently handed me another Kleenex. "What? So I fucked you. I don't remember you complaining too much."

I took a shuddering breath, the air hitching in my lungs. "It's the psychosexual implications," I sobbed.

Michael rolled his eyes, thoroughly exasperated. "Of what? My penchant for a little kink and your discovery that you like it? Welcome to the human race."

I couldn't stop crying.

"Come on, Clarissa," Michael said. "We both know there's no such thing as normal. You liked what we did, right?"

I nodded slowly, tears gradually subsiding. I considered the situation. Michael knew how to push my buttons, that was for sure, buttons I hadn't even known I'd had before that night. Admittedly, sex with him was the best I'd ever had, but I decided that Michael didn't need to know it. Doctor Michael Hanlon's opinion of himself was inflated enough without my help. Boy, he was some arrogant piece of work.

But I had to be honest. He'd gotten to me.

I felt what was left of my resolve slip merrily over the falls. What the hell, I thought. In for a penny, in for a pound. I suddenly found myself smiling.

************************

Michael watched Clarissa carefully. Was she actually smiling? Yep. Whew, Michael thought. I could not handle this girl falling apart on me.

Not when he was just getting started.

Maybe she was hungry. Michael was starving. A really awesome fuck always did that to him.

"Hey," he said easily, lifting one foot and nudging her leg, "Let's go eat. My treat, what do you say?"

She lifted her head and looked at him, smiling bigger, now. Warming up.

Michael beamed back, his patented Trust-Me-I'm-Harmless special edition grin firmly in place.

Clarissa uncrossed her arms and stretched out her long legs, letting her hands fall loosely into her lap.

Michael did not miss the shift in body language. He did a little mental victory dance.

"Gw'an," he urged. "Take a shower and we'll hit---" he paused, not wanting to lose precious ground. Instinct told him that Taco Bell was a bad idea. "---a really nice restaurant. Maybe a steakhouse. More than enough of 'em in this town. You like steak?"

Clarissa did.

And then she laughed.

"Smooth move," she said, poking Michael's thigh with one finger. "Expensive dinners are typically known to prevent episodes of mild psychosis, especially in female subjects."

She leaned over, suddenly, and kissed him on one chiseled cheek.. "Save Taco Bell for the second date."

She swung herself around and jumped out of bed, disappearing down the hall and into the bathroom.

Michael watched her go, frankly surprised. Smart cookie, wasn't she? He realized he was glad, and that surprised him, too. Michael usually cared more about what a girl had between her legs than what she had between her ears. But Clarissa really got to him; she had from her first day on his floor. He hadn't been able to peel his eyes off of her, and found himself, like some oversexed tenth-grader, making up ridiculous exscuses to be near her. He'd almost burst out laughing when she'd dumped coffee all over him in the hall last week, turning his eighty-dollar tie into a fifty-cent dishrag. She'd looked like she couldn't decide whether to wet herself or pass out. He chuckled softly, remembering.

Shaking his head, Michael grabbed another smoke and fired it up, still thinking. Clarissa had also scored big points, in Michael's opinion, by not wedging herself into his arms after they'd finished fucking and slobbering all over him--- even if she had slobbered all over herself. She hadn't begged him to shower with her, either. Bravo. Michael forgot about his cigarette; it burned unheeded between his fingers, a tubular ash.

Clarissa was wicked pretty, too, even if she didn't know it, and somehow that increased Michael's attraction. Nice tits, slender waist, great legs. Pretty face, framed by that silky dark hair. Add to that her undeniably submissive bent, and you had a pretty decent package. Michael wondered, fleetingly, what his family would think of Clarissa. That brought him up short. Uh, uh, Hanlon, he thought, alarmed that this should have even occurred to him. He tossed his guttered cigarette butt into the ashtray, brushing a big pile of ashes off of the blanket.