I slumped against the side of my office space deep in thought. Damn these thoughts, how could I ever get them to leave me alone? They were intense, erotic, pervasive… and unlikely.
For a long time, I’ve had something of a medical fetish. It’s not insofar as enemas and douches, but it’s at least enough for the power exchange that goes on between a doctor and their patient. There is the level of trust, the knowledge, the care, the pain and the reassurance. I shouldn’t want that, I told myself, except…
I’ve long preferred Jung to Freud, and yet, in this case, I’d often wondered if Freud might be right just this time around. After years upon years of medical testing, being poked and prodded and jabbed was just the norm for me. That was, until it all stopped.
Suddenly, I craved it again. I craved the attention, I craved being talked about, rather than spoken to. I craved somebody getting all up in my face and studying me in intense detail. More than anything, I missed the complete loss of control that I once had and I shuddered at what I’d become. My old hell was my new drug and no matter how hard I’d tried to shake it, there was no way I could deny those darkest parts of myself.
On the whole, there are very few people that I trust with that side of me. I was used to being judged and misunderstood for it and for the complexities of my fetish. It was more than just your average bedroom roleplay, the details of this fetish were specific.
For its part, I’d even dreamed about it, not least that one time when I dreamt that I’d been caught as a spy and the bad guys were now threatening to cut out my favourite birth mark. They didn’t of course, it’s all in the power of the mind. Just sometimes, though, even my own imagination is my most deviant Dom.
I really should journal about this.
I shook off the thought, another time.
At at 7:30PM, I saw the white van outside. My first thoughts were that it was my neighbour’s Dad on a visit, but then I saw the high visibility jacket. Ushering the dog behind the safety gate, I quickly popped out to answer the door.
“Hi, sorry it’s late” the courier said.
“Oh it’s fine! The dog heard you long before I did anyway” I replied, he laughed.
I unboxed the new twin compartment kitchen bin and lined both sections with liner bags. It wasn’t long before I was rinsing recycling and slamming it into one of the sections. Now for the piece de resistance – time to get rid of the old recycling bag.
I slipped my trainers on and hoisted the bag into the air. Between my fingers I held two other empty wine bottles and an empty cardboard box. Recycling gathered up for now, I headed out into the rain.
“Bloody hell! You’ve made light work of that” I said, noticing Matt had put out both of the now-removed paper doors. In the five minutes that I’d spent responding to an email, Matt had moved both of the doors out all on his own.
The first piece of advice that I should give you, is that if you are flirting, then you aren’t paying attention to anything else that you are doing. The second piece of advice that I should give you, is that the grass is slippery when it rains.
And that was when I saw it, close up.
When you fall, your brain goes through a number of events in an order that you sort of don’t remember from all of the other times you have fallen. There is the “what the hell?” to start with, followed by “I’m falling!”, then “I don’t want to fall!” and “I need to stop myself!”. Once you’ve fallen, there is the realisation that you fell, and that’s sort of when the pain and embarrassment comes in, too.
Perhaps fortunately for me, none of the bottles in or out of the bag were smashed. They did bounce on the concrete around me like bizarre shaped droplets, and one of them even rolled about 10 feet behind me onto the grass. As a precaution to making sure that no glass had smashed, my first port of call was to look at the palms of my hands. Thankfully, they were fine. My foot and knee however, not so much.
Once I’d got over nearly kissing the concrete, the first sign that something had gone wrong was the burning pain in my foot. I didn’t know much, except that my big toe had gone one way and the rest had gone the other way – backwards. The second sign of any trouble was the stinging pain in my knee. For whatever reason, it didn’t occur to me that I’d grazed my knee. As far as I knew, I’d simply landed on it. I leaned on the wall until it felt okay to bear weight on my foot again. Even in spite of the rain, moving away from the wall was far too painful.
“Matt, is everything alright bud?” came the voice from the upstairs window. It was our neighbour.
“Yes, it’s just me, mate” I said through whimpers as I tried to bear weight on my foot again, “I’ve just taken a fall on the corner out here.”
“Hang on, I’ll be down” he replied.
My neighbour and I have a very on-off friendship. It’s on, because disabled people with chronic pain sort of understand each other, and it’s off, because it’s so hard to maintain a friendship with someone who lies so prolifically. I understood why, but it frustrated me that he did. He knew I didn’t judge him for his disabilities.
“Are you alright love?” he asked as he creaked open the door. I smiled weakly, I have a love for our neighbour that can’t be denied. It’s not romantic, but it’s affectionate and protective at least.
“I’m fine, just a bit battered” I replied, “I was taking the recycling out and I went over the corner” I said, gesturing with my elbow.
“I heard some glass smash or summat?”
“It’s fine mate. Nothing broke.” Matt explained.
“Ah right, as long as your okay. Do you need me to phone you an ambulance?”
“No no! It’s fine, but thankyou anyway” I replied. the last place I wanted to be right now was hospital, certainly in the middle of the current pandemic.
As I made my way indoors, I pulled open the first aid drawer and drew out some supplies- some adhesive fabric tape, a small gauze pad, cotton wall padding and a bandage. Now for the fun part…
I slipped my soaked jeans off and sat back on the bed. They weren’t damaged, but they were soaked through from wet ground and rain. I made the decision to start by checking the knee first, then I could move on to the painful foot.
“I have a grazed knee!” I laughed, “I’m thirty-one years old and I have a grazed knee!”
I blotted the blood with a tissue from the bedside box. As I did, Wolfie stood over me.
“Could you grab an antiseptic wipe from the drawer and a sticky dressing please? It’s not much so it won’t need much, just to stop it rubbing” I said, flashing him my sweetest smile. As he rummaged around in the drawer, I heard a beep and looked up.
“Kitten! I think we should use this!” he exclaimed, yielding the infrared thermometer in his hand.
“What? No. I have a grazed knee Wolfie, Not a cold!”
“No, we should. Because you might have an infection…”
“Not that bloody fast I won’t!” I argued. I paused from my self-first aid and crossed my arms in front of my forehead, that was when I heard it again,
I moved my arms to see what he’d done. The horrible man had taken the temperature of my crotch and proudly showed me the digits on the screen – 36.5oC. It even read, the shame!
“You bastard!” I squealed in horror, “how could you?!”
“It could be worse, I’ve got the gloves here too” he warned, indicating at the drawer. I pulled the duvet over my lap for what protection it had to offer. “It just shows you’ve got a hot pussy, perfect for breeding” he said with a wink. I growled.
“That’s not happening anymore. In fact, never, ever again!” I threatened.
“Is that right?” he asked, tossing the adhesive gauze pad into my lap.
I held my chin up defiantly and watched him, fight me.
“So you never, ever, want me to fill you up again?”
“Not now, nope! You’ve done yourself out of that privilege!”, he laughed.
“Really? Never, ever, ever again?” he asked, kissing me softly. “Ever?”
I shook my head, “never” I whispered. He mocked me, and now I was mocking him. I’d unearthed a soft spot for a breeding fetish in my Wolfie, and now I enjoyed exploiting it.
“If you want to breed me tonight I’d …”
“Let me… or I won’t let you breed me tonight.”
Oh yes, for a submissive, I sure knew how to call the shots sometimes. It was a dangerous game to be on the knife’s edge, but then, I kind of liked it that way. What is life without a little danger? For its part, this was a new fetish that we both enjoyed exploring, or exploiting, depending on who you ask.