Prepped

Not for the first time I didn't like the gleam in Leon's eye or the lilt in his voice when he told me I had an assignment. He was much too pleased with himself when he handed me the envelope containing the address and the gate key. We'd been getting along better than usual lately—or had been up to the time he seemed to think that meant I was warming to him and he propositioned me again and I turned him down flat again. But if there was a little twist to this assignation, at least it would be short-lived. The address was right here in the city. The Gordan Institute up in the Hollywood Hills.

I knew this to be a tony private plastic surgery hospital for those who wanted to be recarved without losing sight of their swimming pools and movie star mansions. Not because I'd done anything like that myself, of course. I was still at my peak, thank you, very much, and wouldn't need any of that sort of help for a good ten years more. Depending, though, I guessed, on what I did between now and then to earn my pay. And when I did need plastic surgery, there was no way I was going to be able to afford the Gordan Institute.

I just hoped that Leon hadn't agreed to let me get sliced up.

"So, what costume?" I asked.

"Oh, just go as you are," Leon answered. And then he laughed. "Chances are you won't be wearing it long anyway."

I took the envelope from Leon's claws and gave him a wan "you don't intimidate me—much" smile and headed my Beamer convertible up slope. It was late afternoon on a Sunday and it was "another damn beautiful" day enhanced by the relative lack of bumper-to-bumper traffic.

I halfway knew where the Gordan Institute was, and I found it without too much trouble, hulking behind a high stuccoed privacy wall next door to what had once been Bela Lugosi's haunted manse. Leon had given me a plastic key card like they use for hotel room entry, and it opened up the iron gates at the institute a charm. No one was about as I drove in and parked next to a silver Mercedes convertible in an otherwise empty, bricked-over parking pad. By the time I got to the front entrance, hidden in the shadows behind a porte cochere, no doubt designed for privacy in arrival and departure of the well-heeled patients, the entry door was opening and I could see there was at least one other person than me here on a Sunday. The absence of other cars disturbed me a bit. This was a residential facility; was there some sort of law against rich people getting tummy tucks on weekends in May? I wondered.

"You were sent by the agency?" a well-modulated baritone voice asked from the depths beyond the opening door.

"Umm, yes. Alphonse?"

"Come in. Yes, yes, you'll do nicely."

I knew that. He didn't have to tell me that. They charged three thou an hour for my attentions. And for that I did quite a bit more than "nicely."

The door swung open, and I was facing "Alphonse." He wasn't really Alphonse. I knew that, and I'm sure he knew I knew that. His mug, no matter how many times it had been redone, was well known in town. He was Grant Gordan, the celebrated magic surgeon of beauty. This was his institute.

He was playing doctor. Starched, stark-white three-quarter-length doctor's smock over soft-cotton, institutional green scrubs that somehow still gave the impression they had been tailored and cost a bundle. Crinkling transparent plastic booties on what looked like gray bedroom slippers. He was tricked out to be playing the senior physician in a long-running television medical drama. Gray-haired, in his fifties, but handsome, and chiseled to an epitome of perfection that only a millionaire's billfold or an "in the business" discount could provide. A very nice bedside smile that, alone, would have cost me a fortune.

"Oh, excuse me," I stammered. "Did I get the day or time wrong? Have I interrupted a procedure?"

"No, no, of course not. You're right on time. No procedures today. We're undergoing renovations this week, so no procedures at all. No patients in residence."

"Oh, but—"

"Oh, these. I was just trying on a new shipment of surgical wear. Dr. Gordan just had these sent in."

Hokay, I thought. It's your ten thou, "Alphonse," I thought. I had peeked at Leon's chart—as I always tried to do so I knew when I should be going off the clock. This guy had bought four hours and gotten a discount of two thousand for booking that block of time. This almost always meant at least a double, but I was just as happy if they thought of that in advance and padded the time. Often trying to hammer a recharge and second fucking into an hour—or even two hours—became quite frustrating for the client and often played out in their attitude as something unpleasant.

"Follow me, please." And with that, "Alphonse" turned and walked briskly down a corridor leading off to the right of the plush reception room that, with its yawning stone fireplace, vaulted ceiling, and big expanse of glass overlooking a sea of green grass, majestic pines, and parts of of the city looked more like the living room in a mountain lodge than a hospital waiting room.

I followed in the wake of the crinkling noise his surgical booties were making with the thought that, if I had known we were going to play doctor, I would have seen if Leon had a nurse's uniform in his wardrobe room.

I was ushered into a large, wood-paneled room with book-lined walls except for one well-lit panel that sported what I'm sure was meant to be an intimidating number of framed university diplomas, medical licenses, honorary plaques, and photos of "Alphonse" shaking hands with various extremely well-preserved movie stars and industry titans of old—or at least of older than they had been made to appear.

The mahogany desk was massive, the throne behind it that "Alphonse" perched in momentarily was massive, and the sort of wheel chair contraption he waved my butt into was nothing short of strange. It was a comfortable chair and all that, but did he put his prospective clients into wheel chairs this early in the sales pitch? I didn't have time to let this thought percolate, however.

"I trust you've been told the scenario and the service."

"Ummm. No, actually," I said.

"Oh, well, then," Alphonse said. "I do have a contract, you know. And the money's been paid."

"Good, fine," I said. I couldn't think of anything else to say. I was busy racking Leon over in my brain. I knew there was a reason for that evil little smile. Holding the particulars back from me again. Such a poor loser.

By then, Alphonse had bounded back out of his—or, rather, Dr. Gordan's—throne and was moving around the room.

"Strip down, please. I want to see if my directions were followed."

I stood up from the wheel chair and started to take off my clothes, in the slow, provocative way I'd been taught to do, wondering all the time whether I was supposed to wear something I hadn't been told about. As I did so, Alphonse came around to the edge of the desk facing me and perched there, closely scrutinizing my every movement. I imaged that I was a client asking for a little more here and a little less there, and I wondered if he also was thinking about how I could be recarved to best advantage.

But his eyes were slitted, and he was humming softly to himself. From long experience, I recognized this as a sign of satisfaction with the goods.

"Ah, yes," he said when I was stripped down, giving out a sigh and letting his hand run across his crotch. "Nice body hair. And a natural blond, I see."

Well, no, but he didn't need to know all that was entailed in that.

"Sit, please."

I did so, and Alphonse was back on the move. He was behind me, and I heard the noise of something being dragged toward me. I looked around in time to see some sort of steel contraption on wheels, supporting a large cylinder rolling up to my chair. But that's all the time I had to see anything, as the doctor was right behind me then, throwing his arms around my chest, holding me down into the wheel chair with one arm and clamping a mask over my mouth and nose with the other. I struggled briefly, but not for long. The gas was fast and effective.

When I came to, I was strapped down on my back on a white-paper-covered vinyl operating table. My wrists were bound close behind my head, which pulled my arms up and close beside my head on either side. My ankles were bound too, but to flexible appendages that extended beyond the end of the table, which only reached to the small of my back. It was apparent that these appendages could be manipulated apart and up and even folded to bend my legs.

I awoke to a whimper. It was mine.

"Ah, good, awake. Be aware that I contracted for the specific service."

I focused on the voice. Alphonse—Grant Gordan—all smiles and standing over me with an aerosol can in one hand and in the other—a straight razor.

"Oh, God, no," I muttered. "Please—"

"You must hold very still, or this will undoubtedly hurt you more than it does me," Gordan murmured. And then he smiled. I knew the look in those eyes. He was aroused.

He started squirting foam onto my torso and into my pits. It was cold, and I squirmed a bit. I said nothing; I was still assessing the situation and how and whether to get out of it. Just how crazy was he? Was this just the first stage of something? He lifted the razor and I stopped squirming. I wasn't that stupid.

He had music going on in the background. Just what I was used to hearing when I went into a dentist's office. And he was humming as he worked.

The razor moved from my right pit to my left pit. This was followed by Gordan's tongue, as he lapped up the residual lather there, which must have been something other than soap, because he was having a good slurping time of it.

"You know," he said as he finished there and was carefully shaving around my nipples and along my hairline down to my navel, "For years I watched my patients being prepped by the nurses before surgery, and I never realized why I got a hard-on before surgery. For the longest time, I thought it was the surgery itself that was a turn on for me. And I was ever so grateful that I had gone into a profession that could give me so much pleasure in addition to paying me so well. But then I slowly caught on. I was aroused by the prep. The shaving and the cleaning off of the lather."

"I can show you a really good time without this, you know," I stuttered out. "I can give you a fuck like you've never had before." It was grabbing at straws. But I was worried about where this might lead. Whether he had even darker fetishes. I usually liked to be very sure of a client before I was tied up.

"Yes, yes, I'm sure—and perhaps you shall," Gordan said in a faraway voice, which told me that he was locked into his fetish. "You know, though, that after I knew what it was that I wanted, I had a dilemma. I couldn't really take the risk of pursuing this on a real patient. Besides the fact that the operating room is full of people in this stage, there where phenomenal risks with the patient's lawyers. So, you know—"

He had broken off because his mouth was full of foam and nipple now. He had shaved my chest, down to my navel and was cleaning up the lather with his tongue. He was really good at it, and I wondered how much practice he had had with this. How many before me? If other guys in my profession had gone missing, I think I would have known. The agency would have known. But, what if I were the first?

I was so deep in worry and thought that I didn't know how long it had been since he'd stopped tonguing me down. When I looked around, I saw that he already had his scrubs off and was putting his white lab coat back on over his naked body. For his mid fifties, he really looked good. But, at the same time, too good. Plastic. I bet he'd had every inch of his body done and redone. And I wondered if they really could enhance a penis like that with plastic surgery. His body was hairless, so at least he carried this fetish of his through to himself.

He opened a condom package and crowned his pride and joy. Time for something I was more familiar with.

Gordan moved to below me, and I felt the lower appendages of the operating table, the arms to which my legs were strapped, being widened and bent so that I was in what I imaged to be the "birthing" position. Gordan was standing between my legs, and I saw the gleam of the metal aerosol can caught in the glare of the overhead operating lights.

Cold, wet. My pubes were being lathered up. And then my asshole too. I tensed up as I felt one of his fingers breaching my rim and pushing into at least the knuckle, taking lather with it. I did my best to relax as I looked down and saw the razor hovering over my pubes.

I panted shallowly and tried to be professional and not whimper or beg as I felt the razor scraping across my groin. Gordan was fisting my cock with his other hand, holding it out of the way and stroking it up and down. I was involuntarily engorging. Which was fine. He'd paid for the service, and I would give the service. If I was going to beef, it would be to whoever I could find in the agency above Leon. It would be no good to let Leon know I thought I had a beef about this assignment; he'd delight in listening to me whine. If I ever got home from this assignment, of course.

I watched Gordan's head come down to my groin and lick at the lather and then up the side of my cock, and he swallowed me and constricted his cheeks around my tool. I groaned and strung a series of appreciative-sounding yeses for him and started a shallow rhythm in my hips to let him know that he was a superior suck.

After a bit of this, he lifted off my cock but still held it in a fist as he lathered up my inner thighs and began to scrape and tongue again.

Then the razor wasn't scraping. The finger wasn't in my hole. I almost lifted up off the table as Gordan thrust his cock inside me, running thickly and deeply at the first thrust, his entry smoothened by the lather he'd shot up into me.

The shave was finished. He was fucking me in deep thrusts, fully aroused by his fetish, ready to finish off the surgical fantasy.

I knew this part. I cried out for him, telling him how good he was and how I wanted it never to stop, and Gordan rode with it. Thrusting and thrusting and thrusting. Making animal noises, while I moaned and groaned and told him he was killing me but not to stop.

He was as good with his cock as he had been with his razor. And I was enjoying this part—but doing all I could to make him enjoy it too. Enjoy it far more than the shaving part and certainly far more than any part he might be planning to proceed to after this. I wanted him to want me to be giving him the best of times and wanting me back some other time. Not carrying on with any possible terminal plans in this session.

With an exclamation, Gordan pulled out of me, jerked off the condom and shot up over my balls onto my now-smooth groin.

I sighed deeply and collapsed back onto the paper sheeting, only then realizing that I had arched my back and had brought my buttocks off the surface of the table to meet him thrust for thrust in his wild, exuberant fucking.

I did everything I could do act like what we had done was totally exhausting, if totally wonderful—for both of us—and that we had done what we were going to do. But then I looked up at the clock on the wall and realized that he had nearly two hours left on his contract. I groaned, and this time it didn't have anything to do with sex.

I refocused on Gordan. He was opening another condom packet. This time he rolled the condom onto my cock, which, conveniently, was standing at full attention and was hard as a rock. He let loose another cloud of lather on my capped tool.

Then, moving real well for his age, Gordan came up onto the operating table and knelt, straddling my hips, facing me. He held my cock rigid while he slowly encased my cock with his channel and began to slowly ride me. This was another maneuver I was adept at, so I lifted my hips off the surface of the operating table and gave him a good time and appropriate sounds of pleasure and, in the end, a good feel of the bulb of a condom billowing forth to capacity well up his canal.

I wondered if the clock had stopped. He still had more than an hour when we were done with that. He went back to the razor and the lather, and my legs and arms were completely denuded and exposed to the breezes.

We had come to what I thought of as the danger point, but Gordan's fetish turned out to have its limit. He released me from the table and started talking about how good I was and how he was pleased with the service.

This was when the customer service I was known for and that brought me return requests kicked in. Comfortable now that nothing threatening was going to happen, I turned to him and took his cheeks in my hands and gave him a big sloppy kiss on the lips. Our eyes were inches away from each other, and I watched him turn from surprise to pleased to renewed arousal.

"God, you're a superb cocksman," I whispered when we disengaged. "You have time left on the clock. Could you fuck me again, please?"

Flattered and delighted and immediately up to the challenge, he told me how much he'd like to do that in a flustered voice, and I turned and bent over onto the operating table on my now-hairless belly.

I felt the cool, wet lather at my asshole again, and then he was fucking me, slowly at first, and then in a frenzy, as I writhed under him and screamed out at the thick, deep taking. He covered my back with his torso and I turned my head and we kissed. He was trembling almost uncontrollably as he came again deep inside me.

I was whistling as I folded the extra thou into my billfold and settled into the BMW for the drive back down out of the Hollywood Hills. Leon wouldn't hear a whisper of complaint or description from me about this assignment. I knew that would drive him crazy.