Hot Doctor Sex Story

A hot doctor sex story does not happen in an emergency room, whatever you have been told, and mine happened at twenty past six in a converted semi-detached with the heating stuck on and the last appointment of the day.

Hot doctor sex story

Dr Elena Halvorsen was thirty-eight and had the demeanour of a woman who wanted to go home. I had been on her list six days with a pulled muscle from lifting a sofa alone, which I will describe here as a furniture error rather than a comment on my life.

“Last of the day,” she said, without looking up from the screen. “Shirt off, on the table.”

She was handsome rather than pretty. Dark hair clipped up, no jewellery, a sharp sort of patience. She pressed along my spine in a line with two fingers, working downward, and asked at each point, “Here?” and “Here?” and I said no eleven times before I said yes, and by then she had reached my lower back and her hand had stopped moving.

“Sorry,” I said, for no reason at all.

“You’re fine.”

“For being here so late.”

“Mmn.” She put her whole palm flat on my lower back and let it sit there, warm, spread wide, thumb on one side of the spine and fingers on the other, and moved it in a slow circle that was not a clinical movement. “I could tell you this is the third time this week you’ve been in with a back and no other symptoms.”

“Third?”

“Two cancellations with the locum and one with the nurse. Different names.” She lifted her hand. “Same story.”

The nurse knocked once and opened the door four inches and said something about the register, and Elena said, “I’ve finished. You can go,” which was not true, because I was still face down on the table, and the door clicked shut and she said, quite calmly, her hand flat on my ribs, “Now I have finished.”

There was a hesitation then, the sort with a lot of weather in it. Her palm slid round my side and her thumb found the shelf of my waistband and stopped there. “This is a very bad idea on paper,” she said.

“I’ve had worse.”

“Not what I asked.”

“No.”

She turned me over herself, one hand on my shoulder and the other on my hip, businesslike, and then she stood between my knees and looked at me for about four seconds and unhooked her hair and let it down and put her mouth on my chest.

She worked down with her tongue and her teeth, sternum, ribs, the line of hair below my navel, and she got my trousers open and pulled them down over my hips and took me in her hand, and then her mouth, and she was not slow about it and she was not shy about it, and she kept her eyes on my face the whole time, which is the thing I still think about.

I got my hand into her hair and my other hand under her shirt and up her back and she made a sound around me and did not stop. Her blouse came open and my palm was on her breast and her nipple was hard against the heel of my hand and she arched into it and took me deeper.

The table creaked and moved an inch sideways.

She broke off, breathing hard, and pushed the table back flat against the wall with the heel of her hand and said, “Mind the paper.” The paper was the crinkled sheet under me and every time either of us moved it gave us away with a sound like a fire starting.

She stood up and got her trousers off and one shoe and gave up on the other, and then she was over me on the table with her knees either side of my hips and she reached down and guided me into her herself, slowly, and sat all the way down with her eyes shut and her lips apart and her hands on my chest.

She rode me with the paper screaming under us and her hair in my face and her breasts in my hands and her mouth open and nothing coming out of it, and at one point she leaned down and caught my wrist and said, “Slow. I’ve got a train at ten past eight,” and then did not go slow at all.

We did not make the train.

She finished above me with one hand braced on the wall and her teeth in her own lip, and then she got off and turned round and took me in her mouth again to finish me, one hand around the base and the other flat on my thigh, and did not stop until I had, and then she wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist and sat on the edge of the table and laughed at the ceiling.

She did not finish me on the table. She made me stand up and she knelt on the couch by the wall with her forearms on the back of it and said, “Now. From here.”

I got behind her with one hand flat on her shoulder blade, pushing her down a little, and the other on her hip, and she was still slick from the first time and I went in easily and she let out a breath and said, “Yes. All of it,” and put her forehead down on her own crossed arms and let me take over.

It went on a long time. She stopped me twice to change the angle — “up, no, tilt — there” — with the flat, impatient voice she used for hip hinges, and the second time she said it I laughed out loud and she said, “What?” and I said, “Nothing,” and she said, “Good,” and pushed back into me hard.

She came that way with one hand out flat against the wall and her knuckles going white and a sound in her throat that she did not manage to stop, and then she said, “Don’t stop, keep going, I want you to—” and I did and she took it and did not move away afterwards.

Then she stood up and got her blouse back on without doing any of the buttons and sat down on the couch properly, and looked at me, and said, “Right. How’s the back?”

“Gone.”

“Excellent bedside manner,” she said. “I’ll write you a note.”

Before that she made me sit on the edge of the couch while she got dressed, and then she did not get dressed. She got back on my lap facing me with her knees either side of my hips and put me inside her again with one hand between us, and rode me slowly with her arms round my neck and her mouth at my ear, saying nothing, for a long while, and then faster, and then she finished again with her face pressed into the side of my head and her whole body shaking once, hard, like a shiver.

And then she got up, and got dressed properly, buttons and all, and looked at the clock and said, “That train.”

“Two weeks,” she said. “And then a follow-up. Actual medicine, next time.”

She put her palm flat on my chest and pushed me back onto the couch and got her mouth on my throat and her hand around my cock at the same time, and she worked both slowly and watched me the whole way through it.

Her hand stayed on my cock the whole time she said it, thumb moving slow over the head, and she did not let go until I had agreed.

She has since met my back three times, and never once the same way twice, and she has never once let me make the appointment for the last slot of the day. More stranger encounter stories.