The Cursed Doctor

Behind Closed Doors

"I need your confirmation. Once more, if you would please."

I inhale deeply, and look him over for the hundredth time. The tailored clothes shape my doctor's physique perfectly. Although he's already removed his jacket and vest, the hat, shirt, red tie, pants, leather gloves and shiny oxfords still cover him. I linger on his iconic beaked mask the same as I would any appealing man's face.

Never have I seen his true visage, and I wonder, does it even still exist? The sickening feathered corruption I witnessed upon his hand last night suggests he may have abandoned his humanity, perhaps unwillingly, and with it a human countenance.

Now he asks for my consent.

I am naked, my knees nervously pulled up to my chest, and sitting in the middle of my large bed. He stands at the foot, treating the bed as an extension of my personal space. It's obvious that this encounter, if allowed, will be sexual. But what does that mean for him? He's touched me before, and in such a way that implies desire, but I've only caught glimpses of his forbidden skin and never have I felt it upon mine.

I'm too afraid to ask for details. If I did dare wonder aloud, he may pick up on my deep seeded fear of his answer, that is, if he decided to give it to me at all. The discovery of my hesitation could push him away, even if I do agree to this.

His head cocks to the side, so uncannily like the animal his mask imitates. "Know that once you answer, there will be no turning back."

The muscles in my back stiffen. As I thought, this is my only chance, my only opportunity to act upon this confusing and insatiable desire for his body against mine, his weight upon me, and that which defines him as a man to fill the pocket nature has provided for him within me.

One more breath and I give a firm nod.

His head tilts back to a forward position at my affirmation. I watch curiously as one hand tosses the hat off his head while the other curls around the knot of his tie to pull it free. Next, he skillfully pops each button of his shirt apart from its corresponding hole. As he progresses downward, my heart rate increases; louder and louder, thundering in my ears. The shirt parts slowly to reveal his pale skin, almost white in contrast to the dark fabrics he always wears. Before the final button is undone, I briefly notice that whatever has afflicted his right hand has not progressed to the flesh of his torso.

Before removing the shirt, he pulls upon the fingers of his gloves, tossing them on his tie at the corner of the bed. It's not just his left hand that has transformed. The nails of both hands shine black like talons, tapered, and thicker than a healthy person's. They also seem to be where the corruption starts. Black tendrils like veins seeping from the nail beds wind up his hand and further up his arm under the sleeve. In addition to this, small feathers pepper his hand just below his knuckles and follow the same lines poisoning his white skin.

I bite my lip, then look up to his mask, foolishly anticipating it to react to my distress upon seeing his hands. It doesn't, obviously, as it's structured leather, incapable of emoting.

He rolls his shoulders and the shirt joins his other garments upon the end of my bed. He pauses, perhaps allowing my eyes to catch up. His affliction passes just over his elbow, leaving the rest of him seemingly pure. I wouldn't call him a brawny man by any means, but I do sense an innate strength from him. No doubt he can restrain any unwilling patient, by means of force or intimidation.

Proceeding, he pulls on his belt, then the button of his pants. The removal of his pants shows me that he's ready without even needing any attention from me. I am not so lucky. My rapidly beating heart may be supplying a healthy flow of blood to my sex but without any buildup... His penetration will undoubtedly hurt. I almost chuckle. He's never had much patience with me before, or anyone for that matter, so, I can only assume he means to be as efficient in this matter as the others.