I Knelled Before Dr. Montero

I had a crick in my neck that had been going on for three weeks without easing up. My family doctor had given me an appointment for the following month, which was the healthcare system’s way of telling you to suck it up. Clara, a coworker, told me about Dr. Montero with that vague kind of admiration people use for things they don’t quite know how to explain. “She’s outrageously expensive, but she fixes in one session what others don’t in ten,” she told me. Then, lowering her voice a little: “She’s different. I don’t know how to put it. But good.” And she left it there, unfinished.

I didn’t ask the price before booking.

Mistake.

The clinic was in a new downtown building, the kind with the name in silver letters on the facade and receptionists who smile with unnerving precision. I sat in the waiting room with my hands in my lap and started looking at the framed fee schedule on the wall. I read it twice because I thought I had misread the figure. I hadn’t. It was more than I had available in my account that month.

I mentally calculated what I could move over from my credit card, whether there was any chance of paying in two installments. There was no way.

I considered standing up and leaving. My neck flared exactly then, as if it had an opinion of its own on the matter.

I stayed.

***

Dr. Montero came into the exam room without making a sound. She was tall, taller than I had expected. Her dark hair was pulled into a low bun that left the nape of her neck exposed, and the white coat fit snugly across her shoulders, broad and square in a way you notice without quite knowing why. Big hands, long fingers. A way of moving that was completely deliberate, with no unnecessary gesture, no energy wasted on anything that wasn’t required.

“Ms. Vargas,” she said. Her voice was low, with that texture some voices have that never need to be raised to be obeyed. “Where exactly does it hurt?”

I pointed to my neck. She had me stand, took my head in her hands, and started palpating with gloved fingers. She found the knot in under ten seconds.

“Here.” She pressed, and I let out a sound I hadn’t planned on making.

“Yes,” I said, as if that explained anything.

The exam lasted twenty minutes. Professional, methodical, without meeting my eyes any more than strictly necessary. When she finished, she snapped off her gloves and explained the diagnosis: severe spasm in the right trapezius, minimum three sessions to fully resolve it. Then she handed me the sheet with the total price.

I stared at the number for a moment that went on too long.

“Doctor,” I began, “the thing is... I hadn’t really looked at the rates when I booked. I don’t have that amount available right now.”

She looked at me with the same expression she probably used to read test results: neutral, without judgment, without any particular pity.

“This isn’t a charity,” she said.

“I know. I’m sorry.” I got off the exam table. My neck was still burning. “If you could at least do this first session for what I have in cash...”

“That’s not how it works.”

There was a silence. I looked at her. She looked at me.

And in that silence, without planning it, I really looked at her. Not at the doctor, but at her. At the dark eyes with that still gleam. At the firm jaw, the shoulders that didn’t quite fit the white coat, the way she stood completely still, like someone who knows exactly how much space she occupies in the world and decided long ago that space belongs to her.

I lowered my gaze, almost without meaning to, and there it was. Under the fabric of her tailored trousers, in the left groin, a long, thick bulge that the white coat couldn’t quite hide. It wasn’t a shadow, it wasn’t a crease. It was a cock. A substantial cock, outlined against the fabric with a clarity that made me swallow. I kept staring at it a second too long, and when I looked back up I saw she had noticed I’d looked.

I stepped closer.

“What if we came to another kind of arrangement?”

***

The silence that followed was different from the last one. Narrower. Heavier.

“I’m a doctor,” she said. A warning. Almost.

“I know that.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re implying.”

“I think you do.”

I put my hand on her forearm. A small gesture, almost innocent, one we both knew wasn’t. I felt her tense beneath my fingers. Her eyes dropped to my hand and then came back to my face.

“That would be a serious violation,” she said. Her voice stayed perfectly controlled, but something in it had loosened by a millimeter. An invisible crack that hadn’t been there before.

“Only if someone finds out,” I answered.

I let my hand slide up her arm slowly, without haste. When I reached her shoulder, she didn’t stop me. When I moved closer, neither did she. I put my hand on her chest. I felt the heat through the coat, the rhythm of her heart speeding up under my palm. I moved my hand down the sternum, over the flat stomach, and slid it without asking to the bulge I’d seen a moment earlier. I squeezed it through the fabric. It was hard. Very hard. And thick, thicker than I’d judged by sight, throbbing against my hand as if eager to get out of her pants.

“You shouldn’t,” she murmured. It was no longer a prohibition. It was just an assertion, the residue of something that had already given way.

I squeezed again, slower this time, tracing the shape with my fingers to the base. She closed her eyes for half a second. When she opened them, something had changed completely.

“Lock the door, Doctor.”

***

Dr. Montero locked the door without taking her eyes off me. She stood at the other side of the room in silence, looking at me with that calm I was beginning to understand: it wasn’t indifference, it was control. The kind of control people have when they never need to prove anything because they already know everything about themselves.

She took off her coat slowly. She folded it and put it on the chair with the same precision she had shown in everything else. Underneath she wore an ivory silk blouse and dark tailored trousers that hugged her hips. And the bulge. Now, without the coat in front of it, it looked obscene: a long, thick line pushing the fabric sideways, with the tip outlined so clearly I could almost guess the shape of the glans.

“Kneel,” she said.

It wasn’t a question.

I stayed still for a second. Not in resistance. In something closer to recognition: knowing, in my body before my mind, that there are situations in which the only correct answer is to yield. There was something in the way she occupied space that made resistance feel absurd, as if there were a different physics around her, a gravity of her own that organized the world differently.

I knelt.

From the floor, I looked up at her. She was different from down there. Even taller, even stiller. The cold light of the exam room threw shadows across her cheekbones and left her eyes in half-darkness. She lowered her hand and took my chin. Not roughly, but with a firmness that was itself an order.

“Like this,” she said, tilting my face up.

With her other hand she undid her belt. The click of the buckle rang loud in the silence of the room. She pulled down the zipper with two fingers, unhurried, and shoved her trousers halfway down her thighs. Underneath she wore snug black boxers, and her cock was so hard it made a brutal tent against the cotton, with a wet ring right at the tip.

She pulled down the boxers.

The cock sprang upward and bumped softly against my chin before settling in front of my face. It was big. Bigger than I had expected even after touching it. Long, thick, with veins standing out along the shaft and a broad glans shining with a strand of pre-cum hanging from the slit. The balls, heavy, hung firm beneath. Everything about her matched her body: full, unapologetic, as if she had been designed to shut down any question.

“Open your mouth,” she said.

I obeyed.

She grabbed my hair, not violently, possessively, and guided my head forward. The glans brushed my lips first, warm and salty, and then slid inside. My mouth filled at once. I closed my lips around it and she pushed a little deeper, a little more, until I felt the stop against the back of my palate and it couldn’t go in any farther without forcing my throat open.

“Good,” she said.

She pulled her cock out slowly, and pushed back in. She set the rhythm with her hand on my nape, without rushing. I sucked her as best I could: running my tongue along the frenulum when she pulled back, wrapping my lips tightly around her when she slid in, letting saliva run down my chin and drip onto my blouse. She looked down at me with those dark, impossible eyes, not smiling, taking it in.

“Slower,” she said.

I obeyed. I eased the pace, sucked only the tip with circles of my tongue, ran my lips over the slit to catch each bead of pre-cum that surfaced.

“Stop.”

I stopped with her cock resting on my tongue, mouth open, jaw already burning, waiting for the next instruction.

“The balls.”

I lowered my mouth and licked her testicles one by one, feeling their warm weight against my tongue, breathing in the clean, masculine smell rising from her groin. She kept holding my hair with that precise firmness.

“Now all the way down.”

I came back up. I opened my mouth as wide as I could and she pushed. She really pushed this time. I felt the glans hit my uvula, my neck arching, and then she pushed another half centimeter and the tip forced its way into my throat. My eyes flooded with tears instantly. Saliva ran from the corners of my mouth. I stayed still with her cock sunk all the way into my mouth and throat, looking up at her from below, and she held me there for a few seconds, her hand firm on my nape, watching my makeup fall apart. Then she yanked her cock out. I coughed. A strand of saliva stretched from my lip to the glans.

“Again.”

Again. And again. I fucked her mouth the way she chose, all the way down each time, without giving me much time to breathe between thrusts. I had become a hole for her cock and nothing else mattered. I had never obeyed like that. Without mentally negotiating every instruction, without the noise of my own judgment getting in the way of everything. Just following what she asked because it made sense to follow it, because it was obvious she knew where we were going and I didn’t, and that difference was exactly what made my legs and back and almost everything else tremble.

“Enough,” she said, and pulled her cock out of my mouth with a wet sound.

She lifted me off the floor by the arm, with no apparent effort, and set me on the exam table. She unfastened my pants with both hands and yanked them down, panties included, to my ankles. I was soaked. I knew it from the cold draft I felt against the insides of my thighs. She knew it too, because she ran her open hand over my cunt and her fingers came away wet to the knuckles at a single stroke.

“I see,” she said quietly, almost to herself.

She turned me over. She pressed gently between my shoulder blades with one hand until I was face-down on the table, my face crushed against the paper and my ass raised toward her. It didn’t hurt. It was exactly the pressure needed so I wouldn’t want to move, so that moving wouldn’t even occur to me.

“Still,” she ordered.

I stayed still.

I heard her spit into her hand, and then felt her cock settle at the entrance to my cunt, thick and hot, wet from the glans to the base with my own saliva and the moisture she had already gathered from me. She rubbed it over my lips, up and down, not entering yet, testing. That touch grazed my clit and I moaned into the paper pillow.

“Ask for it,” she said.

“Please.”

“What.”

“Fuck me. Please. Put it in me.”

She shoved it in. One long, slow thrust, all the way to the hilt. The air left me in one gulp. It was thick, thicker than I had ever felt before, and it split me open with clinical precision, no hurry, until I felt the base of her cock against my cunt lips and the balls bumping below. She stayed there a second, fully buried, letting me feel every inch.

And then she started fucking me.

At first slowly. Long withdrawals until only the glans remained inside, and drives back in to the hilt, with her hips hitting my ass every time. I moaned into the paper pillow on the table, my neck completely forgotten, my whole body focused on the one thing that mattered at that moment: her weight, her heat, the rhythm she dictated and I followed without question.

Then faster. She grabbed my hip with one hand, braced herself with the other beside my head on the table, and started driving into me to the hilt, without pause, her thighs slapping against mine and a wet, obscene noise every time she entered. I came undone. I drooled on the table paper, moaned nonsense, pushed my ass back to meet every thrust like a bitch in heat.

“Don’t move,” she said.

I didn’t move. I stayed still and let her fuck me at the pace she wanted, harder, deeper, until I felt her balls bump my clit with each thrust and something inside me started tightening in a way I had never felt before. She brought me to the edge slowly, with the same precision she had used to find the trapezius knot: knowing exactly where to press.

“Come,” she said. “Now.”

I came. As if she had given the order and my body had nothing to say about it. My cunt clenched around her cock, my back arched against her chest, and I let out a muffled cry into the pillow while my legs shook so hard that if she hadn’t been holding my hip I would have fallen off the table. She kept fucking me through the orgasm, slower, deeper, stretching it out until I started crying from sheer overflow.

“Good.”

That single syllable was enough for something in me to come completely apart.

She pulled out. I heard her spit into her hand again and she shoved back in, this time even deeper, with a rougher rhythm, grabbing my hair with her other hand to hold my head up and make me look at the white wall in front of the table. She fucked me like she was finishing something unfinished, not letting me recover from the last orgasm, until I heard her breathing change, grow heavier, and felt her cock thicken inside me just a little more.

“I’m going to cum,” she said, in that same controlled voice that didn’t change even at the edge. “Inside or out?”

“Inside,” I panted. “Inside. Please.”

She drove all the way in, pressed against my ass, and I felt her cum inside me. It came in long, thick spurts that filled me completely, which I felt running hot through the inside while she stayed still, breathing hard, her fingers dug into my hip. She held me like that until the end, until the last shudder.

When she finished, she pulled away. The cock came out with a wet sound and I immediately felt a thick line of semen slide down the inside of my thigh. She composed herself in silence, with the same methodical care she had shown at the start. She wiped herself with a tissue, pulled up her boxers and trousers, fastened her belt. She put her coat back on. She smoothed her hair with two quick gestures. I was still on the table, face down, ass raised, staring at the white wall and listening to the fluorescent hum and my own breathing returning to normal, semen slowly running down the inside of my thigh toward my knee.

“You may get dressed,” she said, in the same tone as before. As if the appointment were still the appointment. And in a sense, I suppose, it had never stopped being one.

I sat up. I straightened my clothes with my panties still soaked and warm, feeling the drip of his load against the fabric. Before she opened the door I turned back.

“The next session,” I said, “is included in the arrangement too.”

Dr. Montero looked at me for a moment. She didn’t quite smile. But almost.

“We’ll see,” she replied.

***

I crossed the hallway toward the exit with my legs a little less steady than I would have liked and that wet feeling between my thighs with every step. The receptionist said something about scheduling my next appointment. I told her I’d call. She smiled with that exact same smile everyone in that building seemed to have.

Outside, the street air was cold and smelled like the city. I stopped for a moment on the sidewalk before walking. My neck was completely free of pain for the first time in weeks. I didn’t think too much about that.

Rodrigo was on the sofa when I got home, laptop in his lap and looking like he hadn’t gone out all day. He asked how the doctor had been.

“Good,” I said. “She gave me something for my neck.”

“That’s all?”

I sat down beside him. I took a moment, as if I were deciding whether to tell him or not.

“Well...” I looked at him. “It was a little weird. The doctor was... special. I don’t know exactly how to put it.”

That made him look up from the laptop.

I told him a version. The same story, but with the edges softened, with the ending replaced, with the details that could hurt him turned into the ones that could only turn him on. I told him the doctor was trans, that I had noticed the bulge under her trousers, that there was something between us neither of us had really known how to name, that when I left the room I kept thinking about her hands and her voice. I told it as if it had all ended in fantasy, in a tension that could have been anything but had never gone anywhere.

Rodrigo had gone very still while I spoke. I could feel it without looking directly: the way he stopped typing, the way he sat up a little straighter on the sofa, the breathing that grew slower and more deliberate, the bulge that started to show in his sweatpants too.

“Jesus, Valeria...” he said, in a low voice.

“Does it bother you when I tell you?”

“No,” he said too quickly.

Of course it didn’t bother him. He liked it in exactly the way I knew he would.

I stood up, kissed him on the cheek, and went to shower. From the bathroom I heard him shifting on the sofa, then the laptop closing, and then the unmistakable sound of the zipper going down.

I looked at myself in the mirror while the water heated. My neck no longer hurt. I pulled down my panties and looked at them: there was a thick white stain in the crotch, still warm. I tossed them to the bottom of the laundry basket, beneath everything else. On my right wrist there was a faint mark, almost imperceptible, that would be gone in two or three days. And saved on my phone, between Rodrigo’s number and my mother’s, was an appointment I hadn’t mentioned to anyone.

Some things are better when you keep them to yourself.