Other Colors - Ch. 17 - Sex Stories

Other Colors - Ch. 17

... imperious, and empty—that reminded me of those marble busts of the early Caesars. Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus Germanicus. I bit my lip. Caligula… I flipped the photo over, my hand quivering, and found two names scrawled in an unfamiliar script. ‘Dr. Adam White / Dmitri Caine Nov 1996, Grangegorman Lest we forget.’ I felt a chill sweep through me, and flipped it once more. White? I shook my head. No. You don’t. You don’t know him, Penny. It’s just that creepy doctor he worked with back in Ireland. I slipped it back inside the file, and slammed the drawer shut. Besides , I shuddered again, no way you would’ve forgotten those eyes. I set my elbows on the desk, and rubbed my forehead with both hands. I hated imagining it. I hated imagining Dmitri, strung along with this cruel man, masquerading as a medical scientist; playing his terrible little mind games on people who were genuinely suffering. People like that poor woman… I thought of ‘Subject O’, and her unsettling sixteen-year affliction. I’ll bet he got off on it. I scowled. I’ll bet they both did. And I’ll bet he made her. He made her tell him every one of her fantasies. Every last one. Every excruciating detail. I’ll bet he got hard while he listened. I’ll bet she got wet while she told him. I hated it. I hated thinking about it. I hated it, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop thinking about the questions he must have asked her. I slumped lower into his chair. I wondered. ...

... What did she think about when she touched herself? What were a few of her triggers, sir? I bit my lip. What was that one scandalous little thing that never failed to turn her on? I sighed, and let my eyes fall shut. I’m afraid your humors are out of balance, Madame. Earth and air. Was it the gravel in his voice, when growled into your ear? The heat of his breath before he kissed you? Fire and water. The heat of him? The taste? The taste of his tongue, and lips, and teeth… ‘Tis passing good. I prithee let me have it.’ I shut my eyes tighter, and felt my knees slide out to the arms of his chair. And you. You just keep doing it, don’t you? Five to nine times a day… Even right afterward, when it feels like fire. You can’t stop yourself, can you? Little girl? My fingertips tickled the tops of my thighs. My sweet, filthy, little girl… You can’t stop. You won’t stop. My fingers swept upward until they met at my hips, and I breathed a sharp sigh as they slid down between my thighs. Until I tell you to stop. Understood? I could hear him there in my head. I could feel his flashing eyes on me. I could even smell him—the invisible oils of his aroma, awakening from the leather as I writhed to-and-fro in his chair. The way I touched myself; it was timid, a little languorous, and lolling. I wanted him there with me. I wanted to believe it was his hand that touched me; that caressed my clitoris through the diaphanous white lace of my panties. My lips parted, and expelled a soft moan. I could’ve ...