What My Dentist Does on Every Visit Leaves Me Bewildered
Every time I go to the dentist, exactly the same thing happens to me, and that’s why I need to tell it.
What I’m going to relate is based on real events, with not a single invented embellishment, and I’d like to know what you think. I’m asking men and women alike: is what happens to me something common, or is it only happening to me?
I’m forty-eight years old and one of those who take care of themselves. I go to the gym three times a week, I always dress formally: tailored suits, ironed shirts, polished shoes. I project confidence, or so I’m told. I wear my hair short, already gray at the temples, a neatly trimmed beard, and almost always a woody cologne my wife gave me years ago.
None of that seems to matter when I walk through the office door. There, my whole image is reduced to a subtle, repeated tension that leaves me bewildered and with a hard cock in equal measure.
I’ve been in braces treatment for almost two years. Yes, those metal appliances that make me feel like a late-blooming teenager, but that I need because I push my teeth with my tongue and have gradually shifted them over time. I go every twenty days or so for checkups and adjustments.
The dentist—let’s call her Carla, though that’s not her name—is about thirty-four. She’s slim, with brown hair tied back in a high ponytail that leaves her neck bare. She has breasts of an average size, but they show under the white coat, always a little tight at the top, as if it highlighted her figure without meaning to. She’s professional, smiling, with a calm voice that makes you feel at ease.
But about a year ago I started noticing something I don’t understand: three, four, even five times per visit, she presses her breasts against me. As if by accident. On my shoulder, on my arm, even on my head. And it’s not a fleeting brush; sometimes she leaves them there, pressed against me, for moments that feel eternal.
***
The first time was during a routine visit. I arrived at ten in the morning, punctual as always. The secretary, a young girl, smiled at me and told me to go right in. The place is modern: white walls, comfortable chairs, and that smell of disinfectant mixed with mint. I sat in the reclining chair, almost flat, and adjusted the paper bib over my chest.
Carla came in shortly after, immaculate in her coat, gloves on, and a mask covering her mouth, leaving only her eyes visible.
—Hi! How are you today? —she said with that professional warmth, as she came over to check the braces.
The usual adjustment began. She opened my mouth with the mirror and the pliers, leaning in from my right. And then I felt the first contact. As she stretched to reach the left side of my mouth, her right breast rested on my shoulder. It wasn’t a bump; it was soft, like she was naturally settling herself to work better. I felt the heat through the thin fabric of the coat, and I noticed that this time she wasn’t wearing a bra, or if she was, it was so light that the flesh felt plush, soft, warm, with that looseness of a free breast that makes your mind drift. I even thought I could make out the nipple, a hard little bump showing through the fabric and pressing into my shoulder. She left it there for five or six seconds while she worked the wires.
My heart started beating faster. Was it a coincidence? Was she doing it on purpose? I didn’t move; I didn’t want to interrupt. But I felt how my body reacted. Under the bib, my cock started swelling like crazy, ballooning against my suit trousers, and in a matter of seconds it was fully hard, pressed sideways against my thigh, the head threatening to leave a stain on the fabric. I couldn’t control it. Every time she breathed, the breast swelled against my shoulder and a throb escaped in my dick.
Her floral perfume, sweet, like jasmine mixed with vanilla, invaded my nostrils and intensified everything. Then she pulled away, but during the rest of the visit it happened two more times: once while adjusting the upper arch, pressing the other breast against my arm, and once when she leaned over me to reach the water glass on the other side.
When I left, I walked down the street with my head blank, replaying every moment. Why didn’t she move away? Didn’t she realize it? She was professional, yes, but in such an intimate space as the mouth these contacts seemed inevitable. Or maybe not. And above all, I wondered why she had never done it before. Had her technique changed? Did she like it? Was it her way of testing me?
I got hard again just thinking about it, imagining whether behind that serene facade there was a hidden intention. That night, at home, I locked myself in the bathroom under the excuse of taking a long shower. I yanked down my pants and underwear, and my cock sprang out, already leaking pre-cum from the tip, so swollen the veins on the shaft stood out. I grabbed it with my right hand and started jerking off slowly, closing my eyes, bringing back every detail of the morning: the soft pressure of her breast against my shoulder, the hard little nipple digging into me, the heat radiating through the coat, the jasmine-and-vanilla perfume still clinging to my shirt.
I imagined that instead of pulling away, Carla would lower her mask, tear open her coat, and take her breasts out, white, round, with pink erect nipples pointing at my face. I imagined her climbing onto the chair, straddling my waist, rubbing those soft tits against my mouth while I sucked on them again and again, biting her nipples, making them red from how hard I pulled with my lips. I imagined her unzipping my pants with her teeth over the bib, taking my stiff cock out and putting it all the way in her mouth, that mouth that had so many times leaned over mine with the mask on. I pictured her sucking me hungrily, saliva running down the shaft, staring at me hard while the head touched the back of her throat.
I jerked off faster and faster, my hand clenched tight, squeezing the head of my cock on every upward stroke. Then I imagined her turning around, kneeling on the chair, hiking her coat up to her waist, showing me a perky ass with no panties, and a wet cunt shining between her thighs. I’d spread her open with my thumbs, bury my tongue in her cunt until she screamed, lick her all over and bite her ass, until she herself begged me to fuck her. And I, standing behind her, would grab her by the waist and drive my cock in with one thrust, all the way in, while she let out a muffled moan and clenched her cunt around my dick like a hot fist.
With that image in my head, I came. I shot a thick load of semen against the shower tiles, and then another, and another, squeezing my cock hard to milk out the last drop. My legs were trembling. Even so, I decided not to obsess over it; maybe it was just my imagination.
***
The following visits confirmed that it had not been an isolated episode. Every twenty days the ritual repeated itself, and each time it seemed more deliberate, though she never crossed the line into anything explicit.
I’d arrive, always elegant: pearl-gray suit, white shirt, red tie against my brown skin. I’d sit down, recline the chair, and she’d come in with the same smile behind her mask.
—Open wide, please —she’d say, and take position beside me.
In one of those sessions, about nine months ago, the contact lasted longer. She was adjusting the lower braces, leaning in from my right, and her breast rested on my shoulder. This time she left it there for maybe fifteen seconds while struggling with a stubborn wire. I felt it deform against my bone, molding to the shape of my shoulder, soft and warm. The fabric was so thin I could almost feel the skin beneath it, even the areola barely showing, round, with the nipple hardened and pointing forward as if asking me for something.
I have to clarify something: I almost never saw how she was dressed. The place’s routine was for the secretary to seat me first, and only once I was already in the chair would Carla enter through a door behind my head, greet me, and start working. That’s why, although I could tell the color of the coat, I rarely could confirm whether she was wearing a bra or not.
That time the erection was immediate, brutal, my cock rock-hard under the bib, pressed against my trousers, so hard I could feel every heartbeat pumping blood into the tip. The fabric of my underwear got damp instantly, with that thick little bead of pre-cum leaking out every time she breathed over me. I breathed deeply, trying to hide it, but I couldn’t stop thinking. Is she doing it to calm patients down? Is it her technique? Or does she do it because she likes it, because she notices how I react? I didn’t look her in the eyes; I avoided eye contact so I wouldn’t give myself away. And in my head I imagined the forbidden: getting up from the chair, taking her by the waist, throwing her onto the examination table, ripping her coat open in one pull until her tits were bare, sucking them until she moaned, then pulling down her panties and burying my cock all the way inside her, fucking her right there, against the instrument cabinet, until the pliers fell to the floor.
Later in that same visit, when I needed to rinse, she leaned over me to fill the glass. Her breasts pressed directly against my face: one against my cheek, the other brushing my forehead. They flattened against my skin and stayed there for about ten seconds while she worked the faucet. I felt the heat radiating, the perfume wrapping around me like mist, and I even thought I felt the hardened bulge of a nipple against my cheekbone. My mouth parted slightly, almost brushing the fabric with my lips, with a terrible urge to stick out my tongue and lick her nipple through the coat, to wet it until the fabric went transparent. My cock was throbbing, on the verge of being painful, already soaking my underwear with a warm puddle, and for a moment I thought about moving just enough to prolong the contact. I didn’t. It excited me, but it also amazed me so much that I just stood there like an idiot, motionless. She said nothing; she kept working as if nothing had happened. I left with trembling legs, my cock still hard and my head a whirl.
That night I repeated the bathroom ritual, but this time I took longer. I jerked off slowly, stretching out the pleasure, imagining her kneeling in front of the chair, with her coat open from top to bottom, her tits hanging free, her mask thrown on the floor. I imagined fucking them, taking my cock between her breasts, squeezing them with both hands so my dick would slide between that soft flesh, while she stuck out her tongue to lick the tip each time it surfaced. I imagined her spitting saliva between her breasts so it would slide better, moaning softly, telling me filthy things: Come on, cum on my face, get my tits all wet with your load, leave me all sticky. I finished against the mirror, my cock pulsing between my fingers, shooting thick spurts that slapped onto the glass.
***
As the months went by, the contacts became more frequent and more varied.
On another visit, about five months ago, she decided to work from behind. She reclined the chair a little more and stood directly behind my head.
—Lean your head back, please —she instructed me, and I obeyed.
Her arms extended on either side of my face, her hands working in my mouth with precision, resting her wrists on my jaw for more leverage. But to reach properly she had to lean forward, and the back of my neck sank directly into her breasts. It was like resting against a living pillow, soft and warm. This time I’m almost sure she wasn’t wearing a bra; I felt the softness directly against my hair, and her nipples pressing hard through the fabric, one on each side of my head, pinning me like two warm buttons. She stayed like that for nearly twenty minutes, adjusting the upper arch. Every movement of hers made the breasts rise and fall with her breathing, rubbing my nape in a slow, almost obscene rhythm. The perfume made me dizzy, mixed with a hint of sweat from the effort. Even with the mask, I could even feel her warm breath coming down over my forehead. And I liked it.
My cock was hard as a rock, so swollen it hurt, tugging inside my underwear, and I had to focus on not moving my hips so I wouldn’t give myself away. Every time she leaned in a little more, her nipples dug into my scalp, and a throb shot through my dick that shook the bib. I fantasized about lifting my arms back, grabbing her ass under the coat, pulling down her panties, sitting her on my face and eating her cunt right there, with the chair reclined, while she kept working on the braces as if nothing were happening. I imagined her getting wet little by little, a drop of hot fluid falling onto my lips, while I stuck out my tongue and traced her folds, sucked her clit until she trembled, shoved my tongue deep inside. Does she feel my heat too? Does she notice how fast I’m breathing? Maybe it was just her more comfortable posture, and I was the degenerate reading it wrong.
In another session, a couple of months ago, the contact on my face was even more intense. While I was rinsing, she crossed in front of the glass again, but this time she did it more slowly. Her breasts pressed against my cheek and my nose, molding themselves to the contours of my face, and stayed there for about eight seconds. That time I felt her heartbeat, a quick pulse vibrating through the warm flesh. Was she hot too? Or was it just the effort? My cock was throbbing so much I could feel every beat in the tip, and my underwear was already soaked with pre-cum, with a dark stain showing on my trousers. I inhaled deeply, taking in her scent, and for an instant I fantasized about turning my head and biting her nipple through the fabric, sucking it until the coat turned transparent with saliva. But no: I stayed still, as professional as she seemed to be.
***
The visits piled up, all the same. I’d arrive, impeccable, with that mix of anxiety and arousal. The shoulder presses were already routine: three times or more per visit, with the pressure held for long moments. On my arms, when she worked from the opposite side. On my head, when she worked from behind. And always, always, those crosses toward the water glass where her body invaded my space.
The last time was the most intense. I arrived a few days ago in a navy suit, light blue shirt, and striped tie. I sat down, she reclined the chair, and she came in.
—Today we’re going to adjust the whole arch —she told me, and took her place behind my head from the start.
She tipped me back, her arms surrounding my face like an indirect embrace. My head sank into her breasts: soft, warm, perfect pillows. Again the minimal fabric, the skin almost bare against my hair. Her nipples dug into my crown from the very first minute, hard, pronounced, round, and they never softened for the entire session. She stayed like that for nearly half an hour, working with precision while her breasts rose and fell rubbing against me. The heat wrapped around me, the perfume intoxicated me, and my cock was so hard under the bib that the tip hurt against the fabric of my underwear. I had a puddle of pre-cum down there, and every time she breathed hard over me, my dick gave a tug upward that made me grit my teeth so I wouldn’t moan.
At one point I thought I was going to come like that, without touching myself, with my hands still at the sides of the chair, just from the constant rubbing of her nipples against my head and the smell of jasmine coming up my nose. I closed my eyes and fantasized about her standing beside the chair, hiking her coat up to her waist, no panties, mounting me astride over the bib, pulling my cock out of my pants and sinking it into herself, moving slowly, riding me while she kept telling me open wide in her professional voice. I imagined fucking her in that chair, gripping her ass with both hands, guiding her hips so she bounced on my cock, while her tits slapped against my face and I sucked them desperately. I imagined her coming on top of me, clenching her cunt around my cock, trembling all over, and me emptying myself into her with a long burst that filled her inside and dripped down her thighs when she stood up.
Is she doing it on purpose? Is it a veiled provocation? Or just pure professional coincidence? She didn’t do anything to avoid it; on the contrary, she seemed comfortable. Why, during the first year, had nothing like this ever happened?
I left confused, my cock still half-hard inside my wet trousers, my head full of images. That night I masturbated in the shower again, this time thinking about getting behind the chair with her, pulling down her panties with my teeth, eating her cunt from behind until I made her soak the coat, and then fucking her on all fours against the instrument cabinet, yanking her hair, her ponytail wrapped around my fist, while she bit her mask so she wouldn’t scream. I came with my hand full of foam, once again leaving spurts of cum running down the tiles, my knees weak and my breathing ragged. Every visit is the same, but the intrigue keeps growing. There’s nothing more to it than that: no loaded looks, no ambiguous comments. Just those repeated contacts that leave me wanting more.
***
Now, readers, I want to know what you think. Do you think she does it on purpose, as a subtle form of seduction? Or is it just a comfortable posture for working, and I’m the one interpreting it wrong? Could it be a technique to calm patients, or is there something more behind it?
Every time it happens, those questions come back. I even looked up opinions online, and many agree that this isn’t usual in a dental office, that if it happens it could be considered inappropriate.
Leave your opinion; I’m intrigued to know what you think, and whether any of you have experienced the same thing or not.
