Chapter 4 Doctor’s Orders #2
I watched her face when I did it, and I caught the first time I ever saw her composure give, a crack she shuttered almost before it opened.
Her hands, taking the contract back, sliding it into the file, were not entirely steady.
Sutures-steady hands that faltered for exactly one subject.
She noticed me noticing. She put her hands flat on the desk to still them, and did not remark on it, and neither did I, and that not-remarking was the first private thing between us.
“There’s a protocol for new donors,” she said, and her voice had gone back to clinical, two fingers rising to touch the pinned silver of her hair as if confirming it had held.
“A baseline sample, supervised, for the founders’ assay.
Normally the nurse handles collection.” She glanced at the window.
“Yuki is down at the lab annex this morning with the cohort prep. So I will handle it myself.”
She led me to the exam room and closed the door.
It was a small room, warm, a padded table, a steel tray, a lamp.
She washed her hands at the corner sink, and snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves with a brisk professional sound, and set a collection cup on the tray, labeled and dated in advance, and uncapped a tube of medical lubricant, and through all of it her face was a doctor’s face and her hands were a doctor’s hands and the white coat strained across the front of her exactly at my eye level when she leaned to arrange the tray.
“This is a supervised baseline collection,” she said, in a voice like reading a label. “It’s standard. Do I have your consent to proceed.”
“You do,” I said. “Do I have yours?”
She held my eyes, one beat too long. “Mine is not required for the procedure, Herr Keller.”
“It is for me.”
A pause. The control thinned beneath the clinical face, held and almost hidden, the same fractional give I’d seen when her hands faltered over the contract. “You have it,” she said, lower. “Lie back.”
She worked the lubricant warm between her gloved fingers, just as Bianca had taught me to warm the oil, and I wondered if every woman on this mountain knew that and then I stopped thinking, because her gloved hand closed around my cock and began, with terrible methodical patience, to stroke me to hardness.
“Standard protocol,” she narrated, evenly, watching me thicken and rise in her slick latex grip, two hands now, a clinical hold turned slowly into something with no clinical purpose at all.
“We document baseline response. Latency. Volume.” She thumbed the head on the upstroke, spreading the lube and the first drop of precum together in a slow circle, and my cock kicked against her palm, and the narration faltered for a breath, the even voice losing its footing before she clamped it back down.
Her eyes were on her work, then on my face, then betraying her outright.
The coat had given up entirely, lapels forced apart, the silk blouse straining over the heavy swell of her breasts, and she was leaning into the work and the strain got worse, a button at the fullest point of her trembling against its thread.
“You’re very thorough, Doctor,” I said.
“I am thorough.” Stroke, twist, the gloved slide maddening, both hands working now, one cradling and rolling my balls while the other pumped the shaft in a long languid rhythm, the lubricant warm and obscene and slick, the wet sound of her fist on me the only sound in the room.
“Is that what you’re going to write in the chart. Be sure to underline it.”
“It’s what I write.” But her breath had gone shallow, the precision in her wrist developing a rhythm that had nothing to do with a founders’ assay, a slow, building, deliberate rhythm a clinician has no reason to find, her gloved thumb pausing to work the sensitive ridge under the head every few strokes until my breath jumped, then carrying on.
The white coat strained at my eye level when she leaned in, her breasts swaying heavy and full behind the straining silk, and she was so close I could smell the faint clean scent of her over the medical lubricant, and she was watching her own gloved fist slide up and down my cock, that famous over-the-glasses look turned, just this once, toward the thing she was doing instead of the person she was assessing.
Her tongue touched her lower lip, once, before she caught it.
When I said her name, low, just her name, no title, the rhythm stuttered for a beat before she caught it.
“That’s not on the consent form,” she said, evenly, but the evenness cost her something now.
“Neither is the way you’re doing that.”
“I’m following protocol.”
“There’s no protocol that’s this slow on purpose, Doctor. I’ve read your protocols. I’m the reading type.” I held her grey eyes and didn’t let them go. “You want to write down a lot more than noted.”
“That,” she said, not looking away, her wrist not stopping, “is not a clinical observation.”
“It’s an accurate one.”
She didn’t answer that. She just kept on, the slick gloved grip, the heavy patient build of it, her wrist twisting now at the top of every stroke, watching me now openly across the tops of the frames, her composure a sheer face of rock with one hairline crack running up it, and I let her see what she was doing to me, I let her have all of it, my cock flushed dark and straining in her fist, my breath going, my hips wanting to fuck up into her hand and held in check out of respect for the fiction she needed.
And when she’d built it past the point of return, when she felt the shaft swell and thicken against her palm and stroked me through it, I finished, hard, the first thick rope of cum spilling over her gloved knuckles before she got the cup angled to catch the rest, and I emptied into it in long heavy spurts while she milked the shaft from root to tip, working me through each one with slow expert pressure until there was nothing left to give.
She watched it happen one full beat longer than any procedure required, her lips parted, her own breath uneven, her thighs pressed together under the desk, the doctor’s mask hanging by a single thread, before she set her face and the thread held.
Then she capped the cup. She picked up the pen.
And she wrote on the label, in that careful hand, the date, the protocol code, and her signature, the same signature I’d see on every prescription for the rest of my life, the erotic watermark of the whole place being born right there on a specimen label while she pretended her hand was steady.
She underlined the word she added at the bottom. Noted.
She stripped the gloves off and dropped them in the bin and washed her hands like absolution, and she didn’t look at me while she did it, and at the door, with her back to me, she paused.
“Falk used to call this room the confessional,” she said. “Call it what you like.” And she was gone.
That evening, the first wire landed.
I had no phone past the wing line, but in my room I checked the banking app, and there it was, the retainer’s first transfer, three months of my old wages in one line, and the soft-folded letter on the desk beside me suddenly looked like a thing that had happened to a different, smaller man.
The number didn’t make me happy, exactly.
It made me able to breathe in a way I’d forgotten the shape of.
Poppy was at the desk when I came down, though her shift had ended, doing something to a ledger that did not need doing. She didn’t look up. She slid a small glass of schnapps across the wood toward me with two fingers, sliding it low and quiet, a note passed under a camera.
“Word gets to this desk before it gets anywhere,” she said. “Always has.”
“You hear a lot.”
“I hear everything, I told you that on day one, you should listen better.” She finally looked up, and the pen in her hand went still on the ledger she hadn’t needed to touch, and whatever came next she gave me straight, no spin on it, no wink.
“Don’t drink it fast. It’s the good stuff, Ute hides it.
We only break it out for staff who are actually staying. ”
I drank it slow. It was the good stuff.