Or 9

We roll our last down the halls of the operating room toward recovery long after most of the other surgeries have ended. I drag my feet slightly, tired from operating since twelve hours before. I lay my lazy left hand on the side of the gurney, gently directing it through the few remaining beds waiting for the rest of the other long surgeries to be done. I sigh deeply after giving report of the case to the post-op nurse in Recovery: hardly any blood loss, we lifted the top of her vagina, we tightened the muscles wrapping around her pelvis. I am so brain-dead I don't want dinner. I just want to lay down. I have been up for almost a full day and I take call again tonight.

I swear a little too loudly when I remember I have left the keys to the on call sleep room back in the OR room from which we came. I proceed back there huffily, leaving behind the annoyed looks of the recovery nurses as well as their glares of disapproval. I, however, sincerely doubt any patient waking up from fentanyl and morphine gives two shits which profanities I blurt.

Passing by OR 6 on the way to the room where I came from, I notice this surgeon I have seen a number of times around the hospital. I recall vaguely listening to him lecture about pre-operative care of patients with pace makers, or artificial heart valves or some such topic. I don't even realize I have stopped walking to look in through the glass window of the bright room. There he is, orchestrating the many catheters and tubes to the machine for bypassing the heart and lung so they can operate on the tiny vessels of the delicate coronary vascular system. I see on the screen in the room that the pulse has returned on their patient. They must have just gone off bypass. They are handing him the large needle drivers loaded with the thick wire they use to close sternums.

I startle a little when I feel a small trail of wetness along the left corner of my mouth. I swear again when I realize that I am drooling. I look around, wiping the corner of my mouth and thank my gods that there is no one else close enough to witness my subconscious lust for this tall man controlling the sleeping, trusting body of his patient. When you specialize in gynecologic surgery, the last thing you need is any more shit from general surgery residents who already find you odd and creepy for your interest in the tunnels and planes of the pelvic floor. My last few dates consisted of interrogations of my career choice, "Why the hell would you want to specialize in

that

?" and "So, you look at fucked up pussy all day?"

Just as I am about to walk away, the surgeon raises his head up. When he looks at me, I see the horn rimmed glasses with the telescopic inserts that these good old boys still wear. I start to giggle as I mentally replace his silly operating glasses with Groucho glasses and an attached moustache. He bows his head slightly and I see his incredibly bright blue eyes narrow at me. He raises one eyebrow and then lowers it so slowly, that is how much control and isolation he has of his actions. And then I swallow, wondering about the gentleness of his hands. Right then, he rams a long needle driver through the sternum. Then I think about the power in his hands. I lick and then bite my bottom lip and I feel the place deep in my own pelvis begin to turn. I swallow again and I wonder about the strength and reach of his slim, long fingers.

Still looking directly at me, bossing the other residents and various assistants, his eyes don't leave mine. He lays out a right hand delicately and they smack a long stainless retractor into his hand. He grasps it with his palm and I can't help notice its resemblance to the thick, shiny stainless steel toys I keep tucked into my drawers at home.

My annoyance at myself for paying attention to this man begins. I regard my attraction objectively, aware of its existence but simultaneously disdainful of it. Heart surgeons are notoriously the most self-assured and self-centered men in the OR. Fucking one would surely be a devastatingly one-sided experience. Though I enjoy a good bossing around, I prefer my partners to consider my experience as opposed to only theirs. Time to move, I think. I break our stare and walk on without a second look.

In room 9, I find my keys but get three successive pages and am kept absurdly long on the phone and away from my beckoning sleeping space. In addition to wanting to sleep, I also recognize I have developed a squirming restlessness between my legs which will also require attention. As I drag myself back, I wonder how in hell I will even have a brain cell left to answer another call when it inevitably comes. Past room 6, they have mostly cleared out. There is just a nurse and an anesthetist left transferring over the patient to the bed. I sigh, remembering his lovely eyes. They are so blue, like the blue of the Pacific Ocean where it beats against the rocky coasts. Or like the blue when you are watching a space shuttle leave the atmosphere of earth.

When I reach the call room a long sequence of fucks and hells leave my lips like a rope of pearls as I realize the door is already slightly open. After I am done swearing and kicking the bottom of the door with my ugly, blood stained clogs, I am surprised to hear a low laugh. I look up after my small karate attack on the wood door. A hand reaches out and alights warmly on the sensitive place where my neck meets my shoulder. I instantly feel the warmth in my pelvis begin again and I know that my baggy, shapeless scrubs will be no match to conceal the sweet, earthy smell of my excitement.

Stepping out from behind the door, my eyes connect again with the most beautiful blue eyes I have ever seen. He says to me slowly and with a hint of a drawl, "Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" I bite my left lower lip for an instant and it pulses as I lick. The combination of my instant utter desire for cock and the surprise of this meeting completely over-rules my hyper-criticism of clichés. He could have recited—I don't know, the Hippocratic Oath—and I would have been no less instantly turned on. My fatigue instantly lifts. I very seriously and with widened eyes begin to honestly explain that "No, I don't really get to..." but my words are cut off by warm lips.

He begins with a soft bite to that same pulsating portion of my swollen lower lip. Then he drags his tongue slowly from the left corner of my mouth to the right. His minty breath mixes with the smell of his sweat, which has been building for hours as he leaned over that open chest in the hot lights of the OR. This movement across my lips alone makes me fall onto him, leaned up against the wall. My pelvis tilts forward, which pushes my ass away from him and my swelling breasts into him. He grasps onto my right ear lobe gently with his teeth and pulls my hair from its bun on top of my head. He says to me in a low, soft voice, "I don't give a fuck what you say with that dirty mouth of yours as long as my name comes out of it when you cum." Now I am drenching the unsighlty cotton panties I threw on at 5 am this morning and the lips between my thighs begin to pulsate and ache heavily. Simultaneously, my anxiety begins as I frantically go through lists of names trying to remember his.

He places both hands on my shoulder and presses down slightly as he leans in and begins to stroke my neck with his tongue. He moves between the ridges of my neck muscles and stops at the part where he might have access to my external jugular vein. He softly nips like the bite of a needle. Then he looks me in the eyes silently. His thick lashes are hazy over his eyes that became my instant obsession the moment I saw them. We are both breathing together, I notice. These are the tandem deep breaths that mark the beginning of a serious endeavor: we are going to get something big done.

He then places his left hand on the center left of my chest and his thumb lazily brushes near my nipple. My flesh sears beneath the thin material of my scrub, begging his fingers for more touch. A small whimper that is almost a moan leaves my throat. He hooks two fingers into the V-neck of my top and tugs down. The thin material parts easily and a slow tearing noise makes my mouth water. His eyes don't leave mine and he very slowly unclasps the front of my bra. My breasts fall forward, the nipples firm. He lowers his eyes, pushes the bra from my shoulders, and then slowly circles my nipples with his first and second fingers.

He leans into my ear and his hot, saturated breath fills my whole body. His finger returns to my chest, just right of the sternum where your aorta is best heard with a stethoscope.

"First," he speaks quietly, "your red blood leaves the ventricle of your left heart and pushes past the silk leaflets of your aortic valve into the big tunnel of your aorta."

Well, this is not what I expected to hear, I contrarily think to myself. But I respond from somewhere else hidden in some part of my non-thinking brain. Its like discovering that someone else with a remote control is actually in charge of your body. When he says this surprising statement, I moan so loud. I moan inappropriately loud for a call room in a busy hospital surrounded by many other cranky surgeons tucked into sleeping rooms.

Lightly but very deeply, he laughs. He looks into my eyes and becomes serious. "I can take care of everything for you, my little voyeur," he murmurs. "I can do exactly what you need," he says and kisses my lips softly as his fingers continue to run slow circles on my purring nipples. I am breathing loudly, almost panting now.

"I will," he states very factually looking at me with his serious blue eyes "do exactly what I know you want. Can you be quiet?"

Not being known for my self-control, I lie brazenly. "Yes!" The slick lips of my pussy slide against one another and for good measure, I beg in a whisper, "Please."

I am so thankful when he bends to my left nipple and sucks, his lips in a small smile as he stares directly into my eyes. He caresses the enlivened tissue with a hard thumb. "Oh my fuck," I exclaim in a whisper but somehow control my voice levels. "That," he declares "was very good. I suspected you were lying to me. If you can be this good, we can continue."

He looks back into my eyes and stares so hard into them. And he begins to whisper again, dragging his finger in an arch over to my left chest, "Here, your aorta dives behind the left pulmonary vein. Your blood flows through your thoracic cavity and past the diaphragm."

His hand is on my belly now and he leans down to suck my nipple again. My cunt begins to ache and I can do nothing now but stare at this tall man as he pauses the story of my blood beating through my chest. Each time he drawls an anatomic word, I get wetter than I think possible.

"And now your bright blood falls behind your esophagus and pumps down through your soft belly." He drags a pointed finger with pressure from my xyphoid straight down the midline toward the symphysis of my pubis. Then he moves his thumb over to massage deeply at the soft part of my inner hip and groin.

He slips his hand into my scrub pants and molds his hand to the bottom of my insistent sex. I breath harder and harder and push my breasts into him as I inhale deep breaths of his scent. Automatic noises leave the top of my throat longingly.

My scrub pants drop and my panties are ripped swiftly from my body. My juices ooze around my inner thighs and I haven't even been touched between my legs yet. I begin to spread my legs urging him to dive between them with his fingers.

But he is enjoying this simple torture. He removes his hand from near my cunt and slowly sucks his finger, closing his eyes in enjoyment. Again he begins his slow assault caressing my engorged areolas, painting my wetness and his saliva onto them. "It is so sexy to watch you squirm, Dr. Kuder," he says as he pushes his cock against me through his pants. I am concentrating on slow breathing so that I do not come before I am even touched, like an over-zealous teenage boy. My recollection that I can't remember his name to say when I cum, as I have been instructed, returns and prevents me from losing control.

"Here," he drawls, and lays a finger just under my belly button, "is where your aorta bifurcates into common iliacs."

How the fuck does he remember these paths of vascularization right now? How the fuck does he remain in constant control? I am like a misbehaving popsicle melting in the desert sun around him, unable to do anything but softly moan, try not to cum and breathe.

"Here," he says matter of factly, as if we are simply in anatomy lecture, "is where your internal iliac branches into the pelvis." With this, I start to become more curious. I start to develop more clarity within my waves of sensation. Which arteries will we follow?

He drops to his knees, at eye level with my cunt. He rubs his nose near the top of my cleft. Still, he does not break gaze with my eyes. He places a finger softly onto my pubic bone. "Yes, yes?" I whisper, almost crying with desire and want for his cock to rub inside of me. "Here is your internal pudendal artery bringing your blood down to..." and with that he places his tongue softly onto my clit and begins a slow clockwise swirl. Three times around, and I fully melt around him cuming onto his soft tongue. He reaches up and slips my nipples between his thumb and forefinger and gently pinches, bending them in small circles.

As I orgasm, I lean forward and slam my forehead on the wall. I slap the thin wall as replacement for my usual vocalizations. I slap so hard I break blood vessels in my hand. I have left the world though and am existent only in the pulsations the arteries into my cunt.

I am sharply brought back to the present when I am turned, and pressed against the wall swiftly and my arms pinned down near my naked ass. "You said you could control yourself, sweet darling" he purrs with menace into my ears. He picks up my discarded scrub. "Do I have to gag that tongue of yours?" Eyes half closed and continuing in a daze from my orgasm, I nod consent as he gently wraps the top around my face, and places the knot in my mouth. He ties my pants around my wrists and returns them behind my ass on the wall.

Then he grows very serious, almost dangerous appearing. Returning to his knees, he brakes from my gaze for the second time only. Quickly, three fingers have entered into my pussy and are caressing the forward wall of my cunt in a brutal, deep massage. My eyes water as he returns his tongue to my clit. First he flicks my clit over and over. Each time I am about to come again he pulls away right before it can happen. I bite the knot in my mouth hard and only soft grunts escape the bind. Over and over in my mind I hear his voice naming the arteries of my body as more and more blood engorges my cunt muscles. I cannot keep this up forever, I think. I stop all noise and think "I will die, right here, from orgasm." It is with deep release that I finally fall onto his hand and face as my body releases and the waves of supreme sensation find me over and over again.

He turns me around, smacks my ass sweetly and whispers in my ear: "You better figure out my name for next time. Because I want to hear you scream it." And then he exits, his lovely blue eyes stuck in my mind as I roll my forehead on the cold wall.