By the shores of the Black Sea
by JHB (NYWrite@yahoo.com)
Uri was, as usual, absorbed in his work. The clinic was all-consuming; so many poor people in need of care; never enough time; never enough resources.
And his assistant and nurse, Lara, was there by his side. She was tall, blonde, patient, always ready to do whatever he asked. She always knew what he needed almost before he did. But she wished he would actually notice her, notice that she was young, shapely, and anxious to serve him in several more ways.
She loved his flashing gray eyes and his curly, dark hair. She loved how his strong hands were so gentle with his patients. She loved how he stayed late like this, doing paperwork and applying for grants to get better care at their clinic. She’d love doing some other things for Uri, though, during these precious times they were alone together. While any other nurse would probably never put up with his distracted and almost rude way of seeming to order her to do things sometimes, Lara knew he was simply overburdened and so dedicated to his work. In fact, the more he seemed to order her about, the more she felt a pleasant tingling between her legs and a dampness in her panties. The idea of him ordering her to not just bring him instruments but to come to him on her knees made her hot almost as quickly as she suppressed such dark desires, afraid to allow herself to think them.
“Call up the accounts receivable file on the computer, please, Lara,” Uri mumbled absently. She smiled at his well-meaning brusqueness, sighed because she’d wished he’d order her to do more primal things, and felt another tiny surge of arousal, all at once. Then she turned to her computer and logged in. Instead of the usual database screen, she was dazzled by a series of high-speed, multi-color flashes which blotted out her reason before she could react.
She shook her head and considered mentioning this to Uri, but something told her that she should just repeat the log-in sequence. The multi-hued flashes again assaulted her sparkling blue eyes. This time her eyes were left dull and glassy, with a slack-jawed expression on her face and the tiniest hint of drool from the corner of her mouth. A lifetime of subservience, of longing for full-on submission, of unrequited need for sexual slavery, battled in Lara’s mind with a newly implanted sense of superiority, a recognition of her divine right to take charge of men and bend them to her whims. All she had ever wanted to do was submit, but the new set of thoughts crushed her old nature the way they wished her to crush men.
After about two minutes, she shook her head, and formed her mouth into a predatory grin. Her now-green eyes were full of fire, and she stretched languidly; her body was now a tool, and she wanted to know how flexible it might be. Tingling with desires she had never acknowledged or even suspected, she looked down at her dowdy smock, simple slacks, and flat, white, rubber-soled shoes. “This will never do,” she thought, and then she remembered the purchases she had made a few weeks ago, purchases she had been programmed to forget. Uri never even noticed when she got up and went to the examination room. There, in a closet where her beloved doctor never looked—he had left housekeeping and storage in the office to her—was a corselet of soft, black vinyl, a pair of thigh-high black boots with 3-inch heels, and a pair of elbow length, fingerless gloves of the same shiny vinyl.
Her former garments fell to the floor, forgotten, and she luxuriated in newfound sensations as she slithered into her new ensemble. By the time her second glove was in place, her nipples were straining against the upper lip of her low-cut neckline and there was the faint but persistent hint of musk in the air. She luxuriated in the wonderful, cool, soft feel of the material against her skin. Her hair, released from its customary bun, it cascaded to the small of her back and, as she shook out her freshly-liberated mane, it seemed to take on an exciting new lustre. From a small bag in the same closet, she removed and then applied crimson lipstick and matching press-on nails; it would be better when her own grew out, but this would have to do for now. She also found a brown-wrapped parcel, which she opened, revealing an unlabeled perfume spray bottle and a pair of suede-lined handcuffs. She applied the mist strategically behind her ears, down her cleavage, and most especially around her crotch, then she took the bottle with her as she returned to Uri’s office. Not all triggers are optical, after all.
Had Uri looked up, he would have seen someone who bore a passing resemblance to his erstwhile assistant slinking into the office with a predatory gleam in her eye. If he had paid attention, he would have heard a deeper, more sultry version of Lara’s voice say, “Теперь ты в первом лице единственного и множественного числа обозначает будущее время быть принадлежащий мне (“Now you shall be mine”—but it sounded even more sensual in Russian).”
He certainly did notice when she spun his chair around and straddled his lap. Uri was barely able to gasp, “What the—“ when Lara grabbed his face and filled his mouth with her tongue and lips. Without breaking her kiss, she began grinding into his lap and ripping his shirt open in a shower of buttons. Her nails dug into his smooth chest and she began to nibble his neck as he stood up, gasping for air and pushing her off him.
Her bum smacked the floor as she hissed, “How DARE you?”
Then she remembered: her Uri never used the computer, never saw the flashes. She pulled out the small perfume atomizer from its hiding place in her cleavage and quickly spritzed him in the face, purring, “I’m so sorry darrrrrling; this will help you.”
While he was still dazed, his eyes slightly unfocused, she stood and shoved him back into the chair and, in a flash, had his arms behind the chair, his wrists cuffed. She considered wheeling him over to the computer, but then remembered he had . . . other triggers.
Already, it was clear that the olfactory trigger was dulling Uri’s senses; now to see if it was opening him up to something else. Lara followed her ferocious attack with a sudden shift of gears, gently sitting on his lap and rubbing his temples, then breathing warmly into his ear: “Do you notice the fragrance, любимец (Darling)?” Her tongue flicked that earlobe, and her breath filled the other: “Don’t you want to give in to your feelings, любовник (Lover)?” Her right hand moved down his body, eventually opening his pants and finding his steadily stiffening manhood, while her left brought his face into her cleavage, filling his body with the fragrant trigger and associating it with pleasure and lust.
Uri’s mind was slowly dismantled by the onslaught of sensations: the fragrance; the vision of this erotic creature who was once his sweet, plain nurse, Lara; the jolts where her hands and breath touched him; and the complex set of thoughts as soothing and seductive submission displaced his former dominant worldview. Lara was now his whole world, and he would do anything to have her. His tongue flicked out to taste her breasts, but she pushed his head back and teasingly smacked him: “No, no, no, любовник. Not until I allow it.” She stood up and bent over her former boss, keeping herself just out of reach of his mouth, the toe of her left boot planted tenderly but firmly in his crotch to keep him at a safe distance as she proceeded to tease and deny him repeatedly.
After a few hours, she stepped behind his sweat-drenched form, undid the cuffs, and dumped him out of the chair. She smiled at his servile form on all fours, presented the toe of her right boot, and said, “Crawl here and lick me, pet! Start at my toe and we will see how far I will let you progress.”
The next morning, the clinic didn’t open, but those who listened carefully swore that they heard whimpering and a voice that sounded almost like Lara’s, but somewhat more primal, saying “Yessss, lick . . . right . . . there. Sssuch a . . . a g-gooood pet.”