(or, y’know… brownish, with quite a bit of gray silver and gold)
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Since (I was delighted to see!) the first-Sunday-of-the-month prompt for Sinful Sunday is lyrics — which goes so well with my September Song Project — I am joining in with this sampling of Love & Rockets’ one-hit wonder, So Alive. 🙂
If you would like to play along with me on my musical musings this month, click the badge to see how. 🙂
He’s the one they call Doctor Feelgood
Mötley Crüe
He’s the one that makes you feel all right
Bryce was sweating.
Coat on and cravat tied, he sat in the oak office chair behind his medico desk and desperately tried to think of mundane things — boxing at White’s, the upcoming house party at Lord Hutton’s country estate next weekend, the milk-white of his fiancee’s skin (no, not that not that not that) — and forced his fidgety hands to be still.
Today was the day.
Today — after three months of acting as apprentice to Dr Spinner’s medical assistant, Doyle — Bryce was to take on Second Assistant duties in the new, vibratory therapy technique the good doctor provided to women suffering from hysteria.
Which meant he was about to see a patient alone for the first time.
A female patient.
A female patient suffering from hysteria.
And once she was undressed, lying on the surgery table with her ankles strapped to the foot board to keep her legs open, he would be responsible for performing the manual manipulations required to bring the woman — no no no, not woman… patient… women were flesh and breasts and supple undulating smoothness and god oh God oh GOD he mustn’t think of these patients as women — to paroxysm.
Continue readingSo slide over here
His step forward is a long slide, covering the distance from doorway to mattress — the mattress where I am sprawled on bare sheets, hand shoved down sleep shorts, sloe-eyed and fuck-ready — in a single stride.
And give me a moment
His sleepy glazed unfocus becomes sharp even as his motions are blurred — quick, deft, adept — and his hands join mine.
Your moves are so raw
We are ready-speed and short-of-breath pleasure, his fingers finding the slick entrance hidden by the gusset of my shorts and stroking there — slowly, urgently, softly, forcefully — and I let my knees fall open further, inviting him in.
I’ve got to let you know
I say nothing — I need not; we know one another’s tells — and as his digits penetrate deeper, curling up against my insides, I curl my torso inward – muscles behind navel bunched hot and vibrating – and fast breath becomes low moan.
I’ve got to let you know
Gush.
Shudder.
Waves of pleasure wash from neck to ankle and back again.
Continue reading