The Patient

I am in the bed with the back hitched up just between sitting and lying when Miss Jennifer comes in. She walks across the room looking at her clipboard, which she sits on the nightstand to my right. I watch her as she stands over me but she doesn't return my gaze. How are you today, Mr. Wells? she asks. I'm well, I say.

This is the way I like it. Impersonal but polite. Small-talk. Close to my side but not hovering. Caring enough to be thorough, but not so much as to suggest further interest. The room should be lit naturally, ambient and soft yellows that have begun to take on the blue-gray of early dusk.

She takes my pulse by the wrist, timing the beats against her wrist-watch. She shines a light first in one pupil, then the other. In one ear, then the other. She asks simple questions with measurable responses. She produces a latex glove from a box and rolls it onto her right hand.

Lastly, Mr. Wells, she says.

I fold back the covers into a nice triangle, and Miss Jennifer pulls out my cock. With a squirt of lube into the glove, she massages me from tip to testicles with easy strokes and a twist of the wrist. If she is doing her job well, which she is, she should be aloof, measured, but with deft fingers; long fingers and short nails and gentle but thorough strokes. Her breath shouldn't catch. Her heart shouldn't race.

Miss Jennifer has an acceptable flourish where she will occasionally introduce the other hand—just the thumb and forefinger—to press and circle the head of my penis or test the weight of my balls. She will not wipe those bare fingertips on her hem, but will use a tissue afterward. I examine her face, a light flush in her cheeks, her skin unblemished and with modest make-up or none at all, depending on the day. Her expression is stoic and she is usually looking at my waist or off to the left as though considering the wallpaper, which is expected. She never returns my gaze. The bed is at such a height that her hand seems to fall just so; she doesn't have to stoop or sit on the edge of the mattress, thus diminishing our clinical relationship. Her hips are turned slightly toward me. They have an attractive curve and swell. I keep my hands at my sides rather than clasped behind my head. But I will grasp the blankets.

For a while I'm swollen in her hand as it spirals from head to base, alters grip strength, dances along the tip briefly. My testicles tighten and my pulse quickens, but Miss Jessica is a pleasure to have as company and I don't seem to want to ejaculate immediately.

Mr. Wells, she says evenly, I have other patients to attend to after you. How can I help you speed things along?

I think for a moment. On a whim I ask will you let down your hair? Let it fall over your shoulders? She says unfortunately, no. It is a lot of work to put back in order. Combed and bobby-pinned in place. I can show you a breast if you'd like. What she didn't understand was my appreciation for the soft scallop of a woman's ear when the top peak through a shroud of hair; an interest I imagine is as unusual as it is arousing. Still, I graciously accept her offer and in a moment she undoes her top to reveal beneath it a robin's egg blue bra with white trim. I notice the bra has a bow tied at the front, to pull it would undo it's confines, letting both breast fall loose in a natural hang, but she doesn't open the whole thing. Instead she withdraws a rather full and well-shaped breast from the right cup alone. The material pushes the flesh firmly up and inward, accentuating its arc. The areola is nearly the same shade as the breast itself, yet somehow softer, and the color of the bra gives the breast the effect of a full moon waxing over a lacy wisp of cloud at midday.

The curve trembles hypnotically from her rhythmic stroking, and I watch the slow metamorphosis of her areola as the nipple and surrounding nodes harden and become more defined. In the moment that I imagine suckling her breast, teasing that stiff peak, drawing from it the warm sweet milk, feeling her stockings against my knee while I do so, I come on myself in a spasm. One or two drops of sperm reach my chest hairs while the rest pulses out and pools white on my stomach.

Miss Jennifer removes the slick glove and drops it in the waste bin. She gently returns her breast and buttons up. Then (out of character, and unprofessionally, I imagine), she dips a finger into the semen and then licks it away rather like a drop of chocolate. She allows herself a soft smile.

Thank you, Mr. Wells. That will be all for today, she says.

When she leaves, when my breathing slows, when the stillness of the room returns, I wipe myself clean with a starched towel and fall easily asleep.

Miss Jennifer, I will see you again tomorrow.