My Hot Doctor Fucked Me 05: Date Night (Patreon)

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Chapter 5: Date Night

"You skated here," he said.

"Yeah."

He came around the front of the car looking at me, down and back up. "I like that shirt."

"You agree with my mom," I said, feeling like a fucking idiot and hating myself as the words came out.

"Is that right?" he said with the smile, putting me back at ease again already.

He held the door. Inside, the hostess knew him, and we went back along the wall to a small square table with a candle on it. We sat facing each other, and my board went down along my calf against the table leg where I could feel it with my foot.

The first thing he did, before he was even fully in the chair, was look at the room. Not a long look. A scan, right to left, over my shoulder and back, and then his eyes were on me.

The menus came and he gently took mine out of my hand.

"You like eggplant?"

"Uh. Sure?"

"He'll have the eggplant," he told the server. "I'll do the ragu. And bring us the chinotto, the big bottle, two glasses."

And that was that. I had looked at the menu for a few seconds, and I hadn't understood a word on it anyway, and now it was handled, which is exactly what he did the first time I ever met him, when I was standing in a paper gown not knowing what was wrong with my balls.

He folded his forearms on the tablecloth and looked at me.

"What do you want to do career-wise?"

"I don't even know yet. There's doctors and lawyers, and happy people working retail."

"I was the same way," he said. 

The ring was right there in front of me on the white tablecloth, gold, catching the candle. He wasn't hiding it. He had put both hands out in the open on the table.

"To not be a moron in a restaurant," I said.

He laughed at that, and he leaned back and looked at me.

"Have you told anybody about me?"

"No."

"Not a friend, no one?"

"No."

"Good," he said, and the drinks came.

He poured it and I took a swallow, kind of good, not filling, a little bitter. I drank more of it because he was drinking it than for the taste, but I didn't mind.

"You want to know something," I said.

"Sure."

"There's a specific voice you do."

He set his glass down. "I have a voice."

"At the office. It's like." I dropped my chin and flattened my face out and said, in the deepest register I could get to, "Any color change. Worse standing or lying down."

His eyes narrowed at the edges.

"Cough for me," I said.

He smiled. "That's just my focused voice, I guess."

I continued my impression. "I've seen a thousand balls like these."

"You've got the eyebrows wrong."

"You do the eyebrows too. Where they don't move at all." 

I sat up straighter and held my face completely still and said, "Sharp pain when you ejaculate," dragging the words out in a confident monotone, exactly how he'd said it to me.

And he laughed hard.

It wasn't the short and polite one he'd done earlier. His head went back and he laughed with real air behind it, loud enough that he clapped a hand over his own mouth to catch it, and his shoulders jumped under the shirt, and he was still doing it when he brought his head back down, and his eyes were wet at the corners.

I watched it with my heart slamming, energized from having entertained him, even briefly.

"Okay," he said, wiping under one eye with his knuckle. "Okay."

"You say the word 'ejaculate' to teenagers and have no nerves about it."

"That is a specific skill set, and the age doesn't matter," he said, still smiling, and he was looking at me sideways now, recalculating the guy in front of him. "It's all just science once you get used to it."

I felt myself gulp. He turned his glass a quarter turn on the tablecloth.

"I'm wrecked today, honestly," he said. "I had eleven patients before ten this morning, then a guy came in with something on his back should've come in for two years ago. Had to refer him to oncology."

I looked at him with a little empathy for the first time. Nobody made him say any of that. He just felt like telling me how he was actually feeling. 

The food came, plates set down between us, my thing arriving looking fancy and delicious. He cut into his pasta thing and took a quick, big, ravenous bite. I watched his hand bring the oversized morsel into his mouth, and the ring on his finger caught the light.

"You, uh, have a ring on," I said.

I shoved in a mouthful of spicy, rich eggplant. I chewed it and swallowed it and put my fork down.

"Yeah," he said, half smiling. "So. Yeah. We're separated. Divorcing."

I looked at him for a second. "You barely seem old enough to be a doctor, let alone getting divorced. That's old man shit," I said.

"I'm thirty-five," he said.

"Why are you getting divorced? No sex?" I said with a chuckle, not knowing how to talk about such a mature thing as divorce.

"Honestly, the sex was shit after we got married," he said. "But it's amicable. Turns out we just wanted different things. Better to call it now than waste each other's time."

"You wanted different things?" I said.

"Basically."

"You wanted boy ass," I said.

He stopped with his fork halfway up. He looked at me across the candle for a second, and I watched him decide not to answer that.

"Eat your eggplant," he said, and there was the smile again, aimed down at his own plate this time.

"Why do you still wear it then?"

"Honestly," he said as he looked at his next bite on his fork, raising an eyebrow, "I think it's sexy."

He shoved the pasta in his mouth and passed the bread. He didn't say anything more about it, but his shoulders came down half an inch, and he took a drink, and I ripped a piece off the loaf and ate it.

We talked about other stuff after that. He asked what school was like and actually listened to the answer. I told him about my friends, and the annoying people. He told me about a resident he worked with who drove him crazy before he came to his clinic.

The check came in a leather folder and he had a card in it before it was all the way down on the table.

"I can..."

"No," he said.

····[]····

Out on the sidewalk the air had cooled off and Weller was mostly quiet, a couple of people smoking outside the bar on the corner. I picked my board up off the floor of the coat check and tucked it under my arm.

He put his hands in his pockets and looked down the hill toward the water instead of toward where he'd parked.

"You want to walk," he said. "There's a path along the river."

"Yeah."

We went down a side street past the closed bakery and the lot behind it, and the street dropped and turned into a set of stairs with a railing, and then we were on the path. He took the side nearer the water. Our shoulders stayed a few inches apart the whole way down, and every so often the gap closed and his arm brushed mine.

Lamps ran along the path, and half of them were out.

"That's the old one," he said, nodding up ahead at the bridge, the dark iron one nobody drives on. "They were going to tear it down when I first moved here. Every couple of years there's a meeting about it."

"It looks like it could be ready to be torn down."

"It does. It's held up more by paint than girders at this point."

“This is like, a mature conversation,” I said. “Me and my boys don’t talk like this. It’s all balls and dares with them.”

“And this?”

“Bridges. City meetings. Adult stuff.”

“Stick around,” he said. “I’ll tell you about capital gains taxes next.”

A woman came past with a dog on a long lead and the dog checked me out and she pulled it along, and then there was nobody.

I told him about the hill on Ninth Street. The one with the dip at the bottom where the storm drain sits just under the asphalt, which does not sound like much until you're doing thirty on four little wheels. I told him about eating it there last spring in front of a guy mowing his lawn who shut the mower off, watched me get up, and then started the mower again without a word.

"That's the hill you take to get to my office."

"Yeah."

"You come down that hill to get your balls looked at."

"It's faster," I said.

He put his hand out. "Give me that."

I handed him the board and he tucked it under his arm and kept walking with it, and I had nothing in my hands at all now.

The lamps got farther apart. I reached for his hand, and he gripped mine back. Down here the path curved in toward the trees on the bank side, and the restaurant noise and the traffic up on Weller had thinned out behind us, and I could hear the water moving against the rocks and our shoes on the pavement and that was about it.

"Why'd you dump me on Dr. Rahmani?" I said, looking at the buildings.

"Because I shouldn't be fucking a patient," he said with a laugh. "I can do your prostate exams on our own time."

At the turn where the path bends around the big sycamores he let my hand go and put his on the back of my neck, his whole palm, and steered me casually around the corner with it. He put it there and left it there for the length of the turn, and I walked where his hand pointed me.

Then his hand pointed me off the path.

He stepped between two of the sycamores with me still attached to his palm, into the dark where the grass started, and he set my board down flat against the roots. Both hands free now, he turned me by the shoulders and walked me one step backward until my back met the tree trunk, and then he was against me, chest to chest, and his mouth came down on mine.

He kissed me with his hand coming back up to my neck, his thumb along my jaw, tilting my head where he wanted it, and his hips pressed me flat into the bark. I could feel him hard against my hip, a thick ridge of heat in his slacks, and I was hard too, pinned against his thigh, and I pushed into him so he'd know it.

His hands dropped to my jeans. He got the button and the zipper open without looking, and he peeled the jeans and my underwear down my thighs together in one pull, and the night air off the river hit my bare dick and I sucked a breath in against his mouth. It stood straight out between us, twitching in the cold.

He came off my mouth and crouched down in front of me, knees wide, one hand flattening my hip against the trunk and the other one closing warm around the base of me, and he looked up at my face from down there, exactly the same angle as the stool at his office, exam room lighting swapped out for one far-off lamp and the river.

Then his mouth was on me.

And it was so warm. Warm like nothing else after the cold air. And it was wet as his tongue dragged flat up the underside of me while his lips slid down to meet his own fist, and my whole spine straightened against the tree. My skull knocked the bark. He took me deeper on the next pass, and deeper again, until his nose was almost in the hair at my base and I could feel the back of his throat flex around the head of me.

One of my hands went flat against the trunk behind me. The other one went into his hair, my fingers pushing into it, and I finally got what I'd been thinking about since I lost my virginity on that exam table, every dark combed strand of his locks coming apart around my knuckles, ruined, by me.

He hummed around me and my knees nearly gave out.

I pressed the back of my wrist against my own mouth because there was nobody to clamp a palm over it this time, and I groaned into my own arm anyway. Below me his head worked in a rhythm as patient and sure as his fingers had ever been, his cheeks hollowing on every pull, and he was not quiet about it. Every stroke down came with a wet, obscene little slurp, and every stroke up ended in a soft smack off the head of me, and under all of it his breath pushed out of his nose in slow, warm bursts against my stomach. I could hear his spit. I could hear it over the river.

"Fuck," I whispered into my wrist, and he answered without coming off of me, a low hum around my dick that vibrated down the whole length of it, and my knees dipped again.

His free hand came up to cup my healed balls in his palm and roll them exactly as carefully as he had when they were the whole reason I knew him, and that pulled a moan up out of me that my wrist barely caught, high and cracked at the end.

A girl had sucked my dick one time before this, at a party in somebody's basement, and she had worked the top inch of it with her lips tight and her eyes shut while her hand did most of the job, and I squirted fast and thanked her after, because it was still the best thing that had ever happened to me up to that point. This was a grown man taking all of me into his throat and breathing through it, wanting it, sucking my dick like he'd ordered it off the menu for himself.

I knew already that I wasn't going to last long. I could feel it building at the base of my spine into my ass, the same pull I felt bent over his exam table with his fist around me, arriving stupidly early, and there was nothing I could do about it except hold still, and fail at that too. His other arm kept my body nailed to the tree so I couldn't buck my hips. I tried. His forearm pressed my hips flat to the trunk and gave nothing, and I tried again and got maybe half an inch, and he held me still and made me take it at his speed.

"I'm gonna," I got out, and pulled at his hair to warn him off.

He didn't come off. He went down harder.

I squirted into his mouth in long pulses, my whole body curling forward over his head, my wrist jammed against my teeth, and he stayed on me and swallowed all of it, his throat working around me while I shook. He kept his mouth there until the last aftershock came out of me. Then he slid off slowly, and stood up, and dragged his thumb once across his bottom lip.

"It's like sucking on a thick sausage," he said, undercutting his normally elevated tone. "It just tastes like boy."

"Oh my god," I said, breathing like I'd just skated the bridge again, and I laughed.

He watched me do it, hard in his slacks.

"You want to suck me?" he said, grabbing his bulge.

"No," I said. "I just want you to fuck me."