Horizontal Lives

True Tales of the Infamous Courtesan: Persephone N. Hades and her Horizontal Life underground. How she got there, her mis-adventures and her struggle to re-surface.

Sunday, March 13, 2005

The Dentist

He passes my screening without revealing he’s a Dentist.
He says he is a Painter with a show on-going at a Chelsea Gallery.
He emails me the Post.
I am satisfied.

Once settled on my sofa, I discover he is actually, by profession, horror of horrors, a Dentist.

PC Apology: I hate when people think of me as the Stereotype the word conjures.
I hate it. So I shouldn’t do it to others. This is true. But after years in my business, frankly, I can’t help it. Time and time again, I end up in the most upsetting and degrading situations when I see as clients, Doctors, Dentists, or Frenchmen.

But here he is. Nice enough. So far so good.
Mid-forties. Divorced. A talented Painter. (As it turns out most Dentists are. Perhaps an eye for such detail helps.) Even has a sense of humor. About himself. Rare for the Medical Professions.

See him once.
See him twice.
The third time he calls, he wonders if we can set up a ‘playdate/fantasy’ outside my apartment.
Of course. Where?
At his office.
I’m instructed to wear a white t-shirt top, fairly tight, a pair of black trousers with a front or side zipper, high-heeled open-toed shoes, no panties, a man’s watch and no other jewelry.

Arrive to find him wearing his Dentist’s coat.
We take the proud and perfunctory tour through his office.
Has me sit on the Chair.
I request a drink.
He tells me to wait. He has something better coming up soon.

"Its pretty comfortable." I lay all the way back in the Chair.
"Not bad, eh?"
"Nope. Do you take naps on this thing?"
"Late at night, sometimes. I did last week. That’s when I thought of the fantasy."
"Do tell."
"You trust me?"
"Uh-oh. If you have to ask that—what did you have in mind?"
"Have you been to a Dentist before?"

I sit up and clock him on the head with my hand.

"Of course. Do I look like a Brit to you?"
"Have you ever had Nitrous?"
"Nitrous Oxide?"

He nods.

"Of course. Why? No. You want to give me Nitrous? I don’t do drugs."
"Just a little. C’mon. I’m a professional."
"So was Jack the Ripper."

From behind his back, he slowly moves his hand forward and above his head, brandishing a sharp tooth-picker.
"Ah so you’ve discovered my secret. Now you must DIE!"
"Okay. Not funny. Not funny."
We laugh.
"Put that down."
He places it on a tray with other instruments and shoves the table rolling to the wall.

"Geisha. My Geisha." He takes my hand to his lips peppering my fingers with too many kisses. "I have one fantasy. Only ONE little fantasy. Please oh please?"
"But can’t I pretend I’m on Nitrous?"
"I know what I’m doing. I’ve been doing this for twenty years. I would never hurt you."
"If you did, they’d find Nitrous in my system and trace it back to you. You know that, right?"

He nods.

"If I let you give me Nitrous, its gonna be a long evening. You know that, right?"

He nods.

"How much do you think is fair for a long Nitrous evening? A long Nitrous evening in which you disobey your vows to Medicine and Dentistry—both and alike."
"God you’re cruel."

I give him a wicked, knowing smile.

"Would $4000 be fair?"
"More than fair."

He hands me the money. I count it out on my tummy.

"It’s that good of a fantasy huh?"
"It’s that good." He says.

He places the plastic cup over my nose and mouth, and starts the machine.
Immediately I feel the cool air blowing on my face.
My eyes get heavy. My body looses grip, getting weak and relaxed.
I evaporate. Hear the hissing of the machine. Aware of his presence moving around, moving near me.
Attempt to open my eyes. See him smiling at me. I smile. Giggle. Close my lids.

Time passes. I don’t know how much time.
I am floating above us, flying, dangling from the ceiling. There is a crack.
Remind myself to tell him when we land.

From my bird’s-eye view, I watch.
His hands, so skilled and artistic, gently slide under my shirt. Both hands roving up to my breasts, cupping them. Massaging them. Pulling lightly but firmly, hardening the nipples.
Inside my body, I turn, shift, moan.
Electricity from my nipples surges to my pussy. Making me ache. Yearn.
Feel my hips twisting toward him.
Feel the wetness begin.

From the ceiling, I watch as he lifts the t-shirt above my bra, then pulls the cups over revealing the hard brown nipples. See his head fall upon the chest. His mouth suckling. Nipples pointed to the sky.

I am three. Lost in the hissing. Lost in the ether above. Lost in a body that is all pleasure.
I hear groaning, a pitiful begging moan. It’s coming from me. My hips are bucking, pleading.
I see it. I feel it. I am powerless to feed it.

Watch as his delicate fingers unclasp the button of my trousers. Ease the zipper down. Spread the material open.
Fingertips meet pubic hair.
Slide down into soft wetness. Gentle burrowing. Like a breath. A wind. No more, no less.

I am dreaming. Dreaming. Floating away.
In my dream, there is only my vagina and a hand.
Touch it there. Touch it there. Like that. Like that. Again. Again. Oh god, like that again.
The hand obeys.
A rolling heat, a bursting of honey tumbling down a mountain, a pulsing golden ecstasy erupts and I hear a cry.
It is me.
It is me.

As I drift, I feel a yanking. My pants are bunched by my ankles.
His cock is hard, threatening, proud.
Watch as he rolls a condom down the shaft.
"Good boy." I think. And remind myself to thank him later.

Head of his cock pushing my lower lips apart.
Is there any better feeling? Is there anything better?
Head slips in.
I do not exist.
I am only my vagina.
There is only cock and pussy.
Stroking, stroking, gentle stroking. Every nerve alive. Every nerve yearning. Begging. Needing.
Honey pot heating. Honey boiling. Again. Again.
Honey overflowing. Erupting, plunging again down the vast mountain.

I disappear.
Only a hissing sound exists.

Then cold air.
Freezing air blasting into my nose, my mouth.
I am awake. Sober.

And I have a headache.

We hug. Kiss. Say ‘good-night’.
This being one of the rare instances that I lose my ability to speak.
Stumble into a cab.
Although I can’t recall how I got there.

Next day at work.
My first client is at noon.
I have to be up by seven to be ready to see someone by noon.
Needless to say, I am a bit under-the-weather.
My noon client notices.

"Are you okay? You seem a bit, tired?"
"I am. I’m sorry."
"Late night last night?"

He’s so sweet to be concerned.
I bolster my energy, pour us some wine.

"Nothing to worry about. I had an appointment with the Dentist is all."
"Ugh. The Dentist? Nothing worse." He sympathizes.

We toast to that.

Ok. I admit. Sometimes I’m wrong.


At 10:44 PM, Blogger Zen Master said...

Did you ever see the movie "Marathon Man" with Dustin Hoffman? Remember the dentist in the movie? And the question he kept asking... Is it safe ??

No gas... just pain...


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