3
DRAKE
W hat the hell are you doing, comes the thought as Wanda’s parents exit the room and I close the door and silently slide the stainless-steel deadbolt to lock in my decision, seal in my fate, decide on my destiny.
Turning back towards the bed, I gasp silently when I realize Wanda looks even more beautiful to me now than when I first laid eyes on her pretty round face with that cute nose and gorgeous eyes that are both wise and worried, curious and concerned. That overwhelming thought that she’s mine, all mine, mine forever, just fucking mine , is cutting a canyon through my brain, burning a pathway through my heart, hardening my cock to the point where I’m certain it’s going to rip through my lambswool trousers like a heat-seeking missile searching for warm pussy.
But this is more than just lust. More than just my dick wanting a release. A lifetime in Vegas has taught me way more than any man needs to know about meaningless sex and how it gets old real damn fast, quickly becomes more trouble than it’s worth. Vegas is overflowing with warm pussy, and the Family Business makes it so easily available that it’s sickening. Just like too much processed sugar destroys your body with diabetes, too much meaningless sex ravages your soul with emptiness.
But in this moment a feeling of fullness overwhelms me as I stand there with my back to the door, my gaze resting on Wanda’s lovely form ensconced in white sheets like an angel. She’s covered from head to toe, sitting upright against the inclined backrest of the big hospital bed in this baby-blue hospital room, an oasis of innocence and purity in this depraved city of pure American sin. My head spins from a potent mix of blood rushing to my cock and adrenaline surging through my brain, and I almost laugh in surprise at the trivial coincidences and casual choices that led me to this moment in time.
Led me to Wanda.
“Listen,” I say, glancing up at the cyclops-eye camera in the upper corner of the room, pointed right at the bed. Sliding my hand into my back pocket, I click on the little Wi-Fi-jamming device that blocks the signal from the camera, killing the video feed to the monitors at the nurse-station all the way down the hall near the elevators. This isn’t the ICU or ER, so nobody’s watching the monitors too closely. We’ve got complete privacy for at least twenty minutes, maybe more, before anyone bothers to check on us.
Plenty of time to take this thing to the next level.
Take it past the point of no return.
Though it feels like I’m already past the point of no return.
Because there’s no turning back from this.
No turning away from her.
“Listen,” I say again as I stalk closer to the bed, my gaze riveted on Wanda all bundled up in those sheets, staring at me with a mix of surprise and suspicion, like she trusts me in that automatic way everyone trusts a doctor, but is also wary in that instinctive way a rabbit fears the wolf.
And I am all wolf right now.
An alpha wolf who’s just picked up the scent of his mate.
The aroma of his forever.
“I’m . . . I’m listening,” Wanda stammers as I stop right up against the side of the bed, so close I can smell her warm musk, that intoxicating mix of clean perspiration and the remnants of last night’s deodorant on her skin.
I take a heavy breath, inhaling her scent with a primal snort that makes my cock throb. I’m seeing stars now, and I grip the cold metal bedframe to stop my hands from ripping those sheets off Wanda. Fuck, the seductively undulating shapes of her curves beneath the sheets are driving me insane. Growing up as a boy in Vegas, you’ve already been to a hundred strip-clubs by the time you’re thirteen, have seen more naked women than your memory banks can hold. But somehow the mystery of Wanda’s hidden curves is the most arousing sight I’ve ever witnessed, generating the most visceral arousal I’ve ever felt for a woman.
She’s mine.
I know it.
I feel it.
I want it.
“Listen,” I say for maybe the tenth time, not sure what I’m trying to say. Or maybe I know exactly what I’m going to say and need to stop before I expose myself as a sex-crazed maniac, a pervert about to violate that sacred trust between doctor and patient.
Now my gaze drops to the shining stethoscope dangling around my neck like a twitching tentacle. With trembling fingers I plug the buds into my ears, then smile as reassuringly as I can, hoping to hell it’s not that psycho-killer grin which had come over me earlier when I saw what’s mine and decided to take it, no matter what I have to do, what I have to say, whom I have to deceive, what I have to sacrifice.
“Relax,” I whisper through my smile as I bring the stethoscope sensor towards her trembling body. “Lie back, Wanda. And lower that sheet so I can get to your chest.”
“Um, what?” Wanda’s eyes go wide and her mouth hangs open. Her cheeks flush with red streaks of either panic or arousal, maybe a bit of both.
Hell, I’m panicking too right now. What the hell am I doing? I should be halfway home by now. I just killed one of Dad’s “business associates” down on the second floor. I’m supposed to be a ghost in a white lab coat, in and out like the grim reaper at night. Instead I’m digging myself into a hole, painting myself into a corner, getting very close to doing something dangerously reckless.
For a moment I almost find the strength to back away from the bed, but in that very same moment Wanda nods hesitantly, leans her head back against the pillow, and lowers the bedsheet down past her neck and breasts.
“Oh, fuck,” I groan under my breath at the sight of her smooth neck, the V of the hospital gown opened just enough that I can see her cleavage, that seductive space between her cute breasts. “I mean, oh luck . . . what luck that I got to you soon enough.”
Wanda gasps as I place the cool stethoscope sensor on her chest, on the bare skin above her neckline, gently moving it in circles over her smoothness. Her heartbeat sounds like thunder in my ears—though maybe some of that is my own blood hammering in my temples. Still, a quick glance at the heart-monitor tells me Wanda is pretty damn worked up too, and when I unintentionally drag my fingertips against her bare skin as I move the stethoscope tantalizingly close to her cleavage, her nipples visibly prick up beneath the cool cloth of that flimsy hospital gown.
“Is it serious?” Wanda murmurs as I stare at the gorgeous outline of her nipples beneath the gown.
“Very serious.” I speak firmly now, gulping back a groan of arousal before glancing at her face with the most professional doctorly expression I can muster with my cock the size of a torpedo against the side of her bed. “Your heartbeat is rhythmically arrythmatic with a dangerously technotronic ambience displaying a stochastic reverse-osmotic metronomical cadence. Do you know what that means?”
Wanda stares in unbridled panic. “No!”
Good, I think with a grim nod. I don’t know what the fuck any of that means either. “It means you’re dying, Wanda. All those quack doctors have overprescribed too many medications over the years, and your heart’s natural rhythm has been severely disrupted. You need radical intervention to reset your rhythm. To save your life. To fix your heart.”
Wanda’s forehead furrows in the cutest possible way as I lie like a dog in the sun, betray the most basic oath a doctor takes, shamelessly spew bullshit like it’s the gospel truth because my cock has taken over, my balls have seized control of my brain.
“I’m . . . I’m dying?” she whispers. “My heart is . . . broken?”
“Exactly.” The lies pour out of me like water gushing from a mountain spring. But I don’t give a damn. A switch has been flipped, and my cock and my brain have joined forces to push out any moral considerations, any sense of right and wrong. She’s mine, and I will do anything, say anything, be anything to claim what’s mine. “Now, when was the last time you had an orgasm?”
“ What ?!” Wanda almost chokes out the word. Her body shivers beneath my fingertips, her eyes going wide as she looks up at my wicked mug grinning down at her like a fucking lunatic as I stand above her with a stethoscope and an erection, making up fake medical conditions and spewing deceit with alarming alacrity. “An . . . an orgasm ? How . . . how is that relevant to anything?”
“It’s relevant to everything, Wanda.” Losing the smile, I look gravely down at her, place the stethoscope against her chest again, right at the point where her cleavage begins. “I’m a doctor, Wanda. Just answer the question. You do have a boyfriend, I presume?”
“Why . . . why would you presume that?” Wanda stares down at my fingertips on her skin, so close to that forbidden space down the front of her gown.
“Because you’re beautiful, Wanda.” The words tumble out of me but I no longer give a damn. I’m on this train and we have left the station going downhill without brakes, my cock at the controls and my balls doing the navigation. “Which means you’ve probably got a boyfriend. And I presume he’s giving you orgasms, or else he’s a fucking loser. So when was the last time you had an orgasm, Wanda? It’s a simple question. And remember, I’m a doctor.”
Wanda gapes at me, blinks about a dozen times, gulps silently, then exhales and looks shyly down at herself. “I . . . I’ve never had a doctor ask me that question. Even my therapist never asked me that question.”
I nod very seriously, my head throbbing from the sound of her wonderfully strong heart beating out a desperate drumroll that reverberates through my entire body, is bringing me close to exploding in my damn pants. In a moment I’m going to spew a jet of hot semen through my lambswool crotch all over the side of the bed, onto those sheets. Fuck, I’ve never been so aroused in my entire life, never wanted to possess a woman this bad. And it’s way beyond just getting my rocks off. There’s an overwhelming need to empty my balls into this woman’s womb, to fill her with my seed, own her completely, possess her entirely, always and forever, every day and every night, until we’re old and gray, to our graves and beyond, to whatever comes next.
“Doctors these days are paid to write prescriptions based on the insurance provider’s user-manual, not to heal holistically,” I say with a level of disdain that surprises me. Sure, it’s true that medical doctors are incentivized to work for pharmaceutical companies more than the actual patients these days, but what I’m doing here is a hundred times worse. I’m a lying piece of shit, abusing my authority as a doctor to seduce this sweet woman. “Now, please answer the question, Wanda.”
Wanda swallows hard, then takes a quick breath. “No,” she says softly, blinking shyly as she flicks her gaze towards my face and then looks down along her curvy body again. “No.”
“All right,” I say with a sigh, realizing that if she says no, I need to back off. I may be a bastard, but I’m not that kind of bastard. “I can’t force you to answer my question. But it really would help me to—”
“I did answer your question.” Wanda interrupts me with a sharp glance. “I don’t have a boyfriend, OK? And I haven’t . . . um . . . I’ve never had . . . well, you know.”
I stare in stunned silence, my cock and balls straining like they’re desperately trying to interpret her answer. “You haven’t what? You never what?” My mind is a mess right now. This makes no sense to me. A woman this sexy has never . . . wait, what?
“You’ve never had an orgasm?” The question barely makes its way up my constricted throat and past my tight lips. “Nobody’s ever made you come?”
Wanda flinches under my stethoscope, and I raise my fingertips off her skin. Guilt washes over me like a wave, and suddenly I hate myself, am repulsed by my own dirty deception. This woman is an untouched angel, and I’m the filthy demon hovering over her, drooling down on this innocent rabbit like a hungry wolf. I’ve killed dozens of men for Dad and the Family, but my conscience has never bothered me as much as it is for what I’m doing here.
“Would . . . would it help?” she whispers.
Through my guilt-soaked madness I blink my way towards her sweet voice. “Sorry, what?” I manage to gurgle. “What did you just ask me?”
“Would it help?” Wanda is staring up at me from the bed now, her eyes wide and wondering. I’m not sure what I see in those eyes, not sure if she’s so innocent that she really believes the crap I spewed about tectonic ambience and stochastic arrythmia and that she’s dying and only I can save her with my so-called “radical intervention.”
The universe spins around me as I stare into Wanda’s eyes. I’m totally turned around by the contradictions in this woman. She’s obviously smart as hell, but also innocent like a babe. Maybe her overly protective parents did a number on her, setting expectations that she couldn’t possibly meet, resulting in a warped self-image that made Wanda believe that because she isn’t perfect, it means she isn’t good enough.
So maybe she does need radical intervention.
And maybe I need it too.
After all, didn’t I reach out instinctively to help her worried parents?
Wasn’t that a cry for help from my own broken soul?
Now that smile flickers onto my lips again, chasing away the guilt as that feeling of warm fullness overwhelms me once more. This is fate, I tell myself. It’s destiny, I assure my conscience. She needs help, and so do I.
“It might help,” I say, my voice strong with authority once again as confidence surges through my body. This is right. This is good. Doesn’t matter that I’m lying. Hell, maybe I’m not really lying. After all, orgasms are still largely mysterious to conventional science. And many ancient cultures (and cults) have considered sexual energy to be the fundamental unit of cosmic power, that from which everything else emerges. So isn’t it possible that the orgasm is a tool of not just worship but healing? Isn’t it possible that the orgasm bridges that gap between the spirit and the flesh, connects the physical to the spiritual, reveals the god in a man, awakens the goddess in a woman?
“All right. If it’ll help, I’m willing to try it.” Wanda’s voice wavers, but her gaze is fixed on me now. Her cheeks are flushed and glowing, those nipples still pert and pricked beneath her gown. “After all, you’re the doctor. I trust you.”
She smiles shyly, but in her eyes I see a glimmer of the goddess. Immediately it hits me that no, she isn’t dumb enough to actually believe all that crap I spewed. But at the same time, she needs to pretend that she does believe me. Psychologically she’s wound too tightly to just admit that she’s aroused, that she’s curious, that she’s ready, that she’s willing.
She needs this lie more than I do.
She needs to tell herself that I’m the doctor and she’s the patient. She needs to hide behind the conventions of society so she can open up without feeling shame. After all, she’s a whip-smart graduate student getting a PhD in Psychology. If anyone understands that sometimes we need to play mind-games with ourselves, it’s this woman, right?
“Right.” Coughing gently, I back away from the bed, my head spinning so hard I can barely stand. Glancing towards the locked door, I swallow thickly, run my fingers through my hair, then nod when I realize I have to give her the option to opt out. It’s the decent thing to do. Even though decency is not the first word anyone would use to describe me right now. “I’ll give you some privacy. The cameras are off, so you don’t need to worry about that. I’ll be right outside with your parents, OK?”
Moving as slowly as I can towards the door, I feel Wanda’s eyes follow me. Every fiber in my being wants me to rush towards her bed again, pull those sheets off her gorgeous body, push my fingers under that flimsy paper-thin gown, find her stiff little clit and rub it, open her untouched lips and slide my fat thumb into her pussy, gently stretch her virgin hole until she relaxes, submits, succumbs, surrenders.
I’m almost at the door now, and my entire body is buzzing like it’s flashing the red-alert, warning me to stop and turn, to take what I want, to give her what she needs.
After all, if she’s in her mid-twenties and has never experienced an orgasm, maybe she isn’t very comfortable touching herself.
Maybe she does need my help.
“Of course, if you’d like me to assist with . . .” I begin to say, my voice a low growl because of how tight my throat is constricted and how viciously my cock is throbbing. Clearing my throat, I stop and turn, shrugging once and gazing over at Wanda watching me from her bed. My eyes are narrowed to savage blue slits, the primal drives of ancient man taking over again, the need to possess burning hot once more. “There are clinical ways to achieve the desired result, if you aren’t comfortable inducing the outcome yourself.”
Wanda’s face is redder than a beetroot in the summer sun, but she’s looking right at me, and my scientific-sounding words seem to relax her a bit. Now I recall the distinct impression I got earlier that Wanda needs this deception as much as I do, that she needs to tell herself a story about what’s about to happen, trick her own tightly-wound mind into saying sure, it’s all right if he assists, he’s a doctor and you’re his patient, it’s a clinically approved process, not dirty at all, not filthy in the least, nothing but a natural autonomous physical reaction induced by a licensed medical professional.
“Um . . . all right,” she says, her voice a sultry whisper, her face blushing brighter than a bulb. “OK.”
My cock almost explodes, but somehow I maintain my composure, nod professionally, then briskly stride over to the white-painted supply-cabinet above the spotless porcelain sink against the baby-blue wall. Scanning the shelves, I find what I’m looking for: medical-grade nitrile gloves and a spanking new surgical mask.
Snapping on the purple gloves, I fix the mask onto my face, then stride over towards the bed. Wanda blinks rapidly as she glances at the gloves. Then she looks at my wicked blue eyes peering at her from above the clean blue surgical mask. Her face relaxes slightly, and I know I made the right choice. Now things look seriously clinical, totally professional, a licensed medical practitioner following the rules, operating according to the manual.
Which means the game is on.
The fantasy is real.
Wanda has allowed herself to slip into this fantasy, to trick her mind into believing what her body so badly wants it to believe.