The Doctor Told Her to Come Back Every Morning at Seven

Mercedes dropped a pot of boiling water on herself on an ordinary Tuesday while she was draining the pasta for a dinner she was going to eat alone. The handle had been loose for months and she had never bothered to fix it. The water ran down her neckline and scalded the skin between her breasts, leaving a red mark that throbbed with every breath.

That night she barely slept. The next morning she looked at herself in the steamed-up bathroom mirror and the burn had an ugly shine to it, tight, as if her skin had shrunk. She had no choice but to go down to the neighborhood clinic before it got infected.

Mercedes had turned forty-two not long ago and had been sleeping alone for four years in a bed that was far too big. She wasn’t bad-looking, and she knew it. The pounds she had gained since the divorce had rounded her hips and filled out her chest, and the men in the neighborhood looked at her in a way she pretended not to notice. Pretending was getting harder and harder.

The truth was, she had been reasonable for too long. She paid her bills on time, looked after her mother on Sundays, smiled at the neighbors in the elevator. No one asked her for anything that wasn’t proper, and sometimes, at night, she caught herself wanting exactly the opposite: for someone to order her around and leave her with no choice but to obey. For someone to open her legs without asking and shove his cock all the way in, with no explanation beyond wanting to do it.

Dr. Arce saw her without a nurse in between. He was a man with big hands and a low voice, the kind that doesn’t need to be raised for people to obey. He had her sit down, asked her to open her blouse, and studied the burn for a long time, too long, the pad of one finger tracing the red edge of the wound.

—This needs daily treatment —he said at last—. The best ointment I have, but it has to be applied properly, with patience. I want to see you every morning at seven, before the waiting room opens. When there’s no one around.

—At seven? —she asked.

—Seven sharp. Do you have a problem with that?

Mercedes shook her head. Something in the way he had said it, without asking permission, made the nape of her neck prickle. She left with her wound bandaged and a hot restlessness in her stomach she couldn’t name.

That afternoon she couldn’t concentrate on anything. She kept going over and over the moment his finger had traced the edge of the burn, the way he had looked at her for too long, as if the wound were an excuse. She told herself she was imagining things, that a doctor looks at all his patients the same way. But at eleven that night she was still awake, choosing what underwear she would put on the next morning, and that choice told her more about herself than she wanted to admit.

***

She arrived on time the first day. The street was still gray and the clinic shutter was only half raised. Dr. Arce let her in, locked the door behind her, and drew the curtain across the window.

—Take off your blouse and sit down —he said, without the “please” from the first visit.

She obeyed. She unbuttoned each button one by one, conscious that he was watching her openly, and stayed there with her torso bare under the white light of the desk lamp. The doctor stood behind the chair. He moved her hair off her neck, brushed her shoulders with both hands, and began to slide them down slowly, not touching the wound yet.

—Stay still —he murmured near her ear—. This is going to hurt a little.

It wasn’t the ointment that made her pulse race. It was his hands. They circled her breasts from underneath, weighing them, measuring the heft of them with a brazen owner’s touch, and his thumbs brushed her nipples until they hardened. He pinched them, first softly and then with two firm fingers, tugging until he ripped a gasp from her. Mercedes held her breath. She should have stood up, should have said something, and instead she stayed perfectly still, as he had ordered, her panties already dampening under her skirt.

What am I doing?, she thought. But she didn’t move a muscle.

—Some women complain —he said, still behind her—. You don’t complain. I like that.

One hand left her breast and slid down her belly, slipping under the waistband of her skirt, pushing the elastic of her panties aside and finding her soaked cunt without asking. One finger split her open, slid along her slit, and came back up to her clit, circling it with deliberate slowness. Mercedes clenched her teeth.

—Look at how wet you are —he murmured, pulling out the shining finger so she could see it out of the corner of her eye—. You’re melting all over.

He pushed the finger back in, this time inside, all the way to the knuckles, and moved it slowly against the front wall until Mercedes grabbed the edges of the chair. He treated the burn for real after that, with the ointment and a fresh gauze pad, as if nothing had happened, with the same finger he had had her open with a minute earlier. He sent her home until the next day. Mercedes walked home with weak legs, her blouse stuck to her back and her panties so stuck to her cunt that it was hard to walk, not understanding why she felt more awake than she had in years.

***

By the second morning she knew what she was going for. She dressed carefully, chose her underwear with an attention that made her ashamed in front of the mirror, and arrived at exactly seven. Dr. Arce locked the door again.

This time he didn’t pretend the treatment was the reason. As soon as she sat down, he came around the chair and stood in front of her, and Mercedes saw the bulge pressing against his light trousers at her eye level. He didn’t need to say much.

—You already know why you came —he said, using the familiar form for the first time—. Open.

She looked up at his face, searching for an exit, an excuse, and found none she wanted to use. With clumsy fingers she lowered his zipper, pushed his underwear aside, and took out a thick, hard cock that bumped against her lips the moment it was freed. It was hot, red from the blood gathered in it, with a thick drop glistening at the tip. The doctor held the back of her neck with one firm hand, not pushing yet, giving her just enough space to decide.

Mercedes decided. She closed her lips around the glans and started slowly, with just the tip, tasting the salty flavor of precome, until the hand at the back of her neck guided her farther in. He let out a long breath through his nose.

—That’s it —he said—. No rush. We’ve got until the waiting room opens.

He taught her to suck him the way he liked: her head still, lips tight, while he held her by the nape with both hands and fucked her mouth at his own pace, driving in and out with short thrusts at first, then deeper ones. Mercedes felt his cock pressing up against her palate, brushing her uvula, touching the back of her throat until it made her cough. Every time she choked, he pulled out for a few seconds, wiped the saliva hanging from her lip with his thumb, and shoved it back in.

—Swallow —he ordered, watching her drool over her own tits—. Swallow and breathe through your nose. Learn.

She learned. She relaxed her jaw, lowered her tongue, let him open her from the inside, and by the third gag her throat gave in and she felt the cock go all the way in, with her nose pressed against the hair at his groin. The doctor groaned for the first time, a low growl, and held her face there for a long second before letting her up.

With his free hand he found her breast. He brushed the wound with barely two fingers, not pressing, just enough for the sting of the burn to mix with everything else. Mercedes moaned around the cock, and discovered that that edge of pain, far from cutting her desire, sharpened it. The two fingers moved down to her nipples and twisted them, tugging outward until it made her cry. She didn’t pull away. She sucked harder.

—That’s what you like —he said, reading her effortlessly—. Being used while it hurts a little. You don’t have to say it. I can tell. Your cunt is soaking wet, isn’t it? I can smell it from here.

She didn’t say it. No need. She kept going, straining to take him to the back of her throat, holding her breath when he kept her there a second too long, catching air when he let her come up. He caressed his balls with his fingers, massaging their weight against his palm, while he stroked the edge of the burn, and both of them breathed harder and harder in the locked clinic.

***

—Lie on your side on the examination table —he ordered when he was close—. Mouth open. Don’t move.

Mercedes obeyed without thinking. She stretched out on the crackling paper of the table, with her bare chest facing up and the wound shining under the light, and opened her mouth as she had been told. The doctor stood beside her and laid his cock on her tongue, dripping saliva, and shoved it deep again from that new angle. From there her throat opened even straighter, and he took advantage of it to fuck her mouth without restraint, with long thrusts that made her tits jolt with every stroke.

With his free hand he hiked up her skirt and yanked off her panties in one pull, without ceremony, tearing the elastic. He shoved two fingers into her cunt at once, soaked from the first second, and started moving them inside with the same rhythm as he used to fuck her mouth. Every thrust in through the top matched two fingers going in from below. Mercedes screamed around the cock and her whole body shook. His fingers found the spot inside her, the one no other man had ever been able to find, and worked it with the precision of a doctor and an asshole at the same time.

What was turning her on wasn’t only what he was doing. It was the stillness he demanded from her. The obligation to stay still and let it happen, to decide nothing, to be nothing more than the body someone else commanded, an open hole for him to use. She had carried everything alone for years; there, on that table, with someone else’s cock in her throat and someone else’s fingers in her cunt, she didn’t have to carry anything.

She came like that, mouth full, thighs clamped around his wrist, screaming muffled against the hard flesh driving her tongue. She came hard, in waves, soaking his hand up to the elbow, and the doctor didn’t let her breathe easy for a single second. He kept his fingers inside her while she trembled, stretching out her orgasm until she was almost crying from the overload.

—You’re very obedient —he said, his voice already rough, pulling his fingers out of her cunt and wiping them on her chest, over the wound itself—. Who would’ve thought it, such a proper lady. What a little whore you’ve got hidden under that coat.

When he reached the end, the doctor pulled his cock from her mouth in time, gripped it with his right hand, and jerked it three or four times with a closed fist, aiming straight at her chest. He emptied himself over her with a hoarse growl, thick hot spurts landing between her breasts, right over the burned area, one after another, until the injured skin was covered with his full load. He spread the semen slowly with two fingers, across the whole red patch, soaking her nipples and the hollow of her neck too.

—Don’t clean it off —he said, still catching his breath—. Leave it there. It’s part of the treatment.

She didn’t answer. She lay there, feeling the warm semen sliding over the wound, cooling on her nipples, her heart pounding against her ribs and her cunt still throbbing inside, clenching at nothing as if searching for something to take.

***

—You can get dressed now —said Dr. Arce, turning his back on her while he washed his hands in the little sink in the corner—. And don’t wash until tonight. Tomorrow at seven we’ll continue with the treatment. And come without panties. You won’t need them here anymore.

Mercedes sat up slowly. She fastened her blouse over her chest without wiping off the come, exactly as he had told her, and felt the fabric sticking to her skin with each step, soaking up the thick semen as if it were part of the bandage. She picked up her torn panties from the floor, slipped them into her bag, and went out into the street, which was already beginning to fill with people on their way to work. She walked among them with her skirt sticking to a naked, dripping cunt, and with a secret burning under her clothes.

She wasn’t in pain. The burn, oddly enough, bothered her less than the day before. The only thing she felt was an awful urge to touch herself, an urgency that was hard to hold back until she got to the building entrance.

She spent the rest of the morning restless, pacing around the house, brushing her naked cunt against the edge of the kitchen table every time she passed, leaning on the back of a chair longer than necessary, clamping her thighs until the wetness snapped. Anything would do. She was so horny her hands shook while she washed the dishes, and every time her blouse rubbed against her tits she remembered the dried semen stuck to her skin and a bolt shot between her legs.

In the afternoon, at last, she got into bed with the blinds drawn and took her time with herself. She pulled up her skirt, opened her cunt with two fingers, and slid in three, imitating the angle with which he had opened her, finding the spot inside with the same precision. With the other hand she pinched her semen-crusted nipples, pulling hard, remembering the firm hand at her nape, the order not to move, the edge of pain over the wound that sharpened everything. She came with the image of the doctor looking down at her while he emptied himself over her chest, with the salty taste still in her tongue’s memory, and still it wasn’t enough. She came again, and again, now with four fingers moving inside, biting the wrist of her other hand so she wouldn’t scream, and still it wasn’t enough.

That night, before falling asleep, she lay there thinking about the next morning. About seven o’clock sharp. About the drawn curtain and the locked door and the empty clinic with just the two of them in it. About what the doctor would do to her when he found her without panties, obedient, already open before she even came in.

Tomorrow, she thought, with a smile that was anything but innocent, I’ll have to behave even better.