Doctor Ishida, Allow Me to Examine You
After handing off his gloves and cap to the scrub tech, Doctor Ishida reached for his cell phone and pressed the number he sometimes called after any emergency procedure. “Won’t be needing you tonight,” he spoke softly. “It was a flawless angioplasty.”
“I’m needing you, though,” came the softer response.
“It’s after 10 p.m.”
“Everyone in the house is asleep.”
“There’s … no reason … but ….” The doctor’s voice sounded younger, like the vulnerable teenager who years ago had been in love with the person now demanding to see him.
“The hospital knows me. I’m always there to say blessings over critical patients and to bring breads to the hard-working staff.”
“Ok, Orihime.” He could never say no to her. “I’ll be in my office. Stop by the nursing desk on the second floor first. They’re on second shifts and could use some food.”
He smiled. “That’s what in legend Napoleon wrote to Josephine.”
“You’re so smart.”
“I know. Wear a lab coat. Put on a stethoscope. Expect Napoleon.” A giggle, and she hung up.
In his office, Doctor Ishida closed the blinds, sat in his luxurious desk chair and threw his head back. He was too exhausted to look over the day’s notes. There were black marker stains on his fingers from his having crossed his name off the white board after the operation, and he missed the invigorating lift of a post-work shower. He knew Orihime was sensitive to all his bodily responses, the lingering chemistry in his skin and hair, and he wondered if this new request would have a special sexual context.
He rose to dutifully put on a lab coat and stethoscope and grinned as he did so. It wasn’t roleplay if he was actually putting on his work clothes, was it?
After a few minutes of waiting, his sense of humor dimmed, and he found himself craving milk-bread or salmon-toast or any other of the delicacies Orihime brought when she came to the hospital. She always brought a giant basket, even when called to an emergency, when a patient was on the brink of death and Doctor Ishida sneaked her into critical care, dismissed the nurses, drew a curtain and watched while a golden orb rejected the worst of some poor heart’s damage.
What a time to be thinking of salmon-toast.
Then the rationalizations came. They always came. Doctor Ishida had read so many books before medical school. Anthropology. Philosophy. Literature. History. He knew that monogamy did not spread into human society until the popularization of Christianity in the Roman Empire and that even in the Old Testament, polygamy was par for the course. That when adultery was abhorred, it was the woman who was chastised in ancient cultures because she was treated as chattel and property; meanwhile men who dallied with other women and even raped them were excused. In his own office, Doctor Ishida had heard men brag about affairs; he had heard women speak of how they overlooked the inevitable indulgences of “the ways of men.” Ten years ago, he could not have imagined that people were this way, that Japan had such a despicable sexist culture. Ten years ago, he could not have imagined he would be caught up in lies and sordid sex games either.
Doctor Ishida had been taught by his grandfather to respect women, to honor them with a chivalrous sensibility because of the way history had demeaned them, and here was Doctor Ishida Uryuu now, carrying on with a married woman in a culture that, truly, for the most part, valued monogamy, family, and honesty—but let’s look at it this way—isn’t Orihime making the decisions about her body and her sexuality here? She was the one defying her marriage. He was helping her …. because?
Because he was her bitch.
The door opened without a knock, and the first thing he noticed was that she was wearing her heavy chef’s coat, the white sleeves stained with spots of bright yellow, the air pungent with–was that coconut and pineapple?
“I was up late preparing for a wedding reception.” She forced a smile. Hadn’t she giggled over the phone earlier? Sometimes he forgot how hard she tried to make herself happy.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, a sense of urgency in his voice.
“Nothing new.” She put her bread basket on his desk. There wasn’t much left in it, only his favorite salmon-toast and one jelly donut. “Tired.” She shrugged. “I realized I’ve been angry for a long time.”
Doctor Ishida reached for bread.
“Not yet,” she said. It was a commanding tone, as if she were talking to a child.
His hand snapped back.
“You’re exhausted, aren’t you? Hungry.” There was something peculiar about her mouth as she said that, as if his discomfort pleased her.
“We idealized each other once,” she said out of the blue. She was always saying things out of the blue. He felt aroused by the vague memory of her in her school uniform, her long hair not any different from the cascading style she wore now—she’d pulled out the pony-tail holder she used when baking. Her face held a serious and adult expression, but no telling what she would do or say. Look at her, how womanly but still such a reservoir of imagination, surprises—
And at that thought, she unbuttoned her chef’s coat with deft fingers—it was so much thicker than his lab coat and he assumed she was hot—but when she parted it, she was wearing only a plain white bra and boy-cut panties underneath. She let the coat drop to the floor.
“I thought you would stop me, but you never stopped me.” She shook her head. “Maybe I’m more than a little mad at you for that. Ishida-kun, who always protected me, who would never let me get in real trouble.”
If she was trying to make him feel guilty, it was working. He was also so hard his lab coat showed the point.
“Let’s get this done,” She gestured with her chin to the leather loveseat by the window. “That’s small but it will do. Go lie down on it.”
Doctor Ishida smiled, and doing as he was told, couldn’t help but remark, “You’re going to starve me first?”
“That’s the least of what I’m going to do to you.” She walked over and stood over the young man who had bent his knees to lie on the small sofa, his feet slightly apart on an arm-rest. His head and shoulders rested on the opposite arm of the sofa, his expression expectant and cheerful, his long fingers folded together as if he were about to whisper itadakimasu for what he was about to receive.
“Is it difficult for you to see the real me when I’m not wearing any clothes?” Orihime asked.
“It’s… There’s a special context to my seeing you without clothes.” He hadn’t expected this sort of interrogation, but he didn’t mind being asked difficult questions. “But the real you? You are so many wonderful things, some of them real and some of them….” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Some of them, unreal.”
“You think a lot.”
“I do,” he agreed. What’s she up to? Her precise mood was never easy to diagnose because it blew this way and that; people who hadn’t spent, oh maybe, over a decade analyzing this woman mistook any one of her moods for a fragile state, but no, even a dandelion pod can be tossed across the length of the whole world to plant its seed, and Orihime’s anger was the most rarely expressed of her emotions: her anger was right here, in his office, a growing organic presence.
“Doctor Ishida, allow me to examine you. You are a man of conscience. I know because I always felt you were like me—better than me, even.” She unhooked her bra in the front and her ample breasts bounced once and then heaved again with a sigh. Her areolas were a mild chocolate color. Doctor Ishida had seen childbirth permanently darken those supple circles occasionally in his patients, but he had observed the phenomena with detachment; Orihime’s breasts were something else altogether; the contrast of such luscious candies against pink skin made him tune out part of what she was saying. When he caught her narrative again, it was at “we both cared about Ichigo so much. We should stop. Why aren’t you stopping me now?”
She tugged at one leg of her adorable, practical panties, and they were off. She stood there, the triangle of cinnamon-colored hair trimmed neatly as always and her sneakers still on. She slipped out of them, kicking them behind her all the way to the other side of the office. The shoes hit the wall with a thumping noise that made Doctor Ishida smile, even though he didn’t want to. She was not in the best of moods. Maybe he should try to calm her down somehow?
“You’re helpless,” she announced.
He nodded in acknowledgement. It was the truth. That was all there was to it.
She squinted her eyes and clenched her fists. “For some reason,” she said in a squeaky voice that sounded less like a little girl’s and more like a weary woman’s, “that makes me have all kinds … all kinds… of …. conflicting feelings.”
Then she was sitting on him, her full weight pressed against his erection and at the same time something cut his left cheek. The force of it made him turn his head to one side.
“Sometimes I want to eat you up like cake,” she said.
She leaned over and laved where his cheek was stinging; she kissed his mouth; she followed with open wet kisses under his chin and she slid his stethoscope off his neck with one swift motion. Her fingers undid his shirt buttons, and as she was palming his undershirt, again, another sharp cut across his chest. And another. A third one slashed with a whooshing noise across his belly. Orihime tore the undershirt down the middle and swept her hand up his chest.
Doctor Ishida raised himself to his elbows. “Tsubaki!”
“I’m mad,” she explained in a no-nonsense voice. She pushed the young doctor back down with the heel of her palm, and amazingly, he fell back on the couch. Was it of his own accord?
“Oh look, you’re bleeding.” She kissed the cuts on his chest. “I’m sorry.” She was sucking on the wounds. She was sucking on his nipple. “I’m not sorry,” she whispered and switched to the other nipple with a wider mouth and more sucking force. There was the metallic smell of blood, the sweat of the day’s fatigue, a sense of having to be on guard that reminded Doctor Ishida of long-ago battles, but there was also the softness of her hair on his bare skin, the warmth of her breasts against his wounds, the terrible electrifying pleasure of her teeth grazing over his nipple.
Can’t… stand… it.
His fingers were scrambling everywhere, grabbing the slippery back of the leather sofa, trying to touch her—and suddenly she stopped sucking. His chest felt cold as she withdrew her face. Was she tying his wrists with his stethoscope?
Wait, that won’t hold. He was all for indulging her little game, but… He pulled his hands apart but the stethoscope did not un-knot. It was being held together by some… force?
“I put a barrier around your little doctor tool. I can put a barrier around anything.”
Her face was so matter-of-fact that Doctor Ishida felt his warrior instincts start to plan for exits.
“It took longer for me than most of you,” she said as she unbuckled his belt. “I didn’t have anyone to train me properly. It’s been years. I didn’t know how to learn, but I knew how to feel.” She petted his erection through his trousers. “So I felt things, crying in the hot kitchen alone … but I know myself better now. I understand my powers.” She pulled the belt out of its loops and wrapped the slim, black strap around Doctor Ishida’s neck.
“I get angry feelings, but I don’t want to kill anyone.” A heavy sigh. “You were right about that. I can’t do it.”
Damn it, she’s scary. I think I know what she’s talking about, but still… Orihime, damn.
“I just get so mad …” She slid the belt through the buckle and fastened it there by putting one of the buckle prongs through a belt hole; then she gave her short leash a little yank so that Doctor Ishida’s head lifted off the couch by a fraction of an inch. “I was in such misery for so long because I thought I was useless. Even you—you always protected me.”
Tsubaki was invisible but he was relentless. He flew in a zig-zag pattern over the incapacitated body on the couch, tearing clothes, skimming the knuckles of the bound hands, slashing over an eyebrow and even sending a tuft of black hair into the air. When the fairy that was Orihime’s malevolent intent returned to its hairpin, there was a flash of white light in her hair, nothing more, and Doctor Ishida’s body smarted all over with mild pain and enormous sexual desire; he was accustomed to ignoring the former but not the latter. By now, he had begun to have his senses engulfed with genuine humiliation; this was not fun and games for his lover; he deserved her wrath.
She must have smelled the guilt on him. “Don’t worry.” As she pulled off his tattered underwear, she spoke against genitalia which had escaped Tsubaki’s assaults. “I still love you. I still want to eat you like cake. I need you to know who I am, though.”
She licked in one, very tentative gentle wave from the bottom underside of his penis to the frenulum. He let out an involuntary “Ahhhh” and the metal parts of the stethoscope clanged. “Ahh, I think, yes.” She was swirling her tongue around the tip at a furious pace the way he’d seen her eat ice cream cones until she got brain freeze. “I think I know who…” He had to control himself or he was going to explode right there. “I know who you are.” He tried to think of medical school acronyms to distract himself and the only one that came to mind was the one for the carpal bones.
Some Lovers Try Positions They Can Not Handle. Scaphoid, Lunate, Triquetrum, Pisiform… no use, no use.
She stopped. Because she had learned the power to tease him.
She grazed his balls lightly with her fingernails, took one whole into her mouth and played with it for a while. She licked his shaft as it became wetter. “You taste like salmon-toast here.” She moved higher, her hair sweeping his thigh and kissed the space between his hip and groin that she liked so much. “Here you taste like a cookie.” She worked his erection with one hand now, slow deliberate strokes, as she tasted his cuts and scratches. “You taste like doubt, like you want to bleed out all your guilt but you…” She yanked the belt around his neck and brought his face to hers so she could kiss him hard on the mouth. He could taste her dominance in the kiss, a power that was sweet, disguised with sugar sprinkles from her evening’s baking but also sweet with her own loving nature. “You want so much to control everything.” She was the same. A different sort of control freak, maybe. Hadn’t he always known how adamant and obsessive she was about trying to deny all that was ugly and wrong in the world? That her power was to essentially reject reality? That the one sixth of her who was Tsubaki would eventually mature should be no surpri—
“Oh my god.”
She had slipped his penis inside her. Maintaining her balance with one foot stretched out and planted on the floor, she dug her opposing knee into his ribcage and tweaked his nipples.
He could feel his face flushing, and fresh blood rose from the slits on his thighs, chest and face. He opened his mouth to say something philosophical to answer all that she had been going on about, but he could only pant.
She was angled over his body in an expert position, her weight distributed for optimum pleasure, her generous hips starting to roll back and forth as if dancing with herself. Her eyelashes fluttered; she put her hands on her waist; she tossed back her pretty hair that shone even in the dim light of the office; the pinkness of her breasts and the auburn hair made Doctor Ishida think of marigolds; a familiar heaven was overtaking his senses.
She stopped, and he heard himself moan.
“I like it when you ask for more.”
Fine. This was amazing. “Please don’t stop,” he whispered.
“I like it when you beg, but you’re supposed to make me stop.”
Now he was confused.
“Is this all you want?” She started to ride him again, not faster but harder somehow, clenching and letting go with sadistic glee. “You want this more than anything else?”
If it were battle, he could think things through, formulate some kind of response, but this was Orihime, using his dick like a fuck-toy.
She leaned over him so that her wrists were supporting her weight on either side of his neck, and she pushed so he was deeper inside her; the penetration appealed to her more—he could tell by how each stroke punctuated her every intake of breath. “Tell me to stop,” she huffed. “Now.”
“Wrong answer.” With gentle fingers, as if taking a child’s hand, she lifted the part of the belt that was dangling at his clavicle.
He really hadn’t thought she was going to attempt any breath-play, that she had ever in her adult life actually read about such things—no, not Orihime–but he felt a little worried. It was all for show, right? The harmless little cuts from her aggressive fairy, the bondage trick—it wasn’t like her not to forewarn him—wait. It was exactly like her not to forewarn him.
The anxiety brushed over his escalating pleasure and seemed to spread every sensation, naughty or nice, across the entire surface of his skin. There, the crazy feelings seeped into his inner body and pleaded with his vital organs for death or orgasm, orgasm or death.
She didn’t do anything with the belt. She let it go.
She kept riding him, occasionally pausing and then lifting up her ass to plunge down with a vengeance. She broke rhythm once, breath hitched and body shuddering from a first orgasm and then she focused on her own greater pleasure by looking the good doctor in the eye again.
“This has not been a very thorough examination,” she breathed. Her face was splotchy and stray hairs stuck to her sweaty forehead. It was how sexually famished she always seemed to be that never failed to excite Doctor Ishida; it was her fascination with him that fed his fascination with her. “You never,” she rasped between fucking him hard and good, “you never ….” She shook her head as if disappointed. “Never ever make the slightest effort to resist me.”
“Why should I?”
Her brown eyes flashed with genuine rage or lust or both, and Doctor Ishida flinched, prepared to be descended upon by a barrage of flying razor attacks. Instead, his throat closed, and he found himself unable to swallow.
Or speak. Orihime, what are you doing?
She hadn’t touched the belt around his neck, but he was being choked. It wasn’t the belt pressing on his carotid arteries—it was some barrier from Another World that Orihime, who was very much in this world and rocking herself to a second orgasm, had created. She thrashed, whipping her long hair to one side, clenching the hands she had bound with a stethoscope and letting out a low guttural uuuuuuuuugh.
Her hands on his were a strange comfort as he fought the deprivation of oxygen. Her passion was a rapturous sight to behold even as his sight blurred.
Enough. He felt his body struggling to escape, his chest bucking forward, his jaw trembling.
She kept at it, grabbing her left breast and clawing at it with her nails. She bobbed over her victim for long moments as her spasms shook her, as his pelvis rose and lifted her off the couch, as she held her mouth open without moaning, as white dots began to appear in his vision.
He was afraid his own writhing would toss her off him; he was afraid whatever power was smothering his chest was going to break through his sternum before he could finish inside her; he could not scream but his eyes burned with tears.
He was not as aware of the violent ecstasy of his own orgasm as he was of hers. It still shook her. It shook her until she stopped, but she did not droop. She flickered in still images between pages of white. Eyes closed, chin held high, drenched in bliss. Before he lost consciousness he saw tiny red marks on her breast, shut his eyes to the sight, heard a roaring in his ears and swallowed, a dull pain in his throat.
He must not have been out for long. His cuts were healed, but the torn clothes were still a heap by the couch, and the upholstery smelled like sex. Orihime usually cleaned up those issues in seconds flat. Had he been of sound mind and body moments ago he should’ve known that cardiac arrest or asphyxiation were nothing to worry about with her powers.
“You scared me,” he confessed.
“I know,” She was still nude, wearing the tiny crescents of self-harm on her left breast, her body glistening with sweat. She looked down for a moment, her sweet expression so incongruous given what had just happened, and then she looked up, a no-holds barred honesty in her eyes. “I used you again. Will you accept my apology?”
“Please,” Doctor Ishida checked to see if his hands were still bound and saw that his stethoscope was draped over his desk chair. “No, don’t apologize. Ah….” He was still dizzy but managed to raise himself to his elbows. “Obviously I didn’t protest. This is the sort of thing lovers do all the time, you see.”
“No, I don’t mean I used you like that.” She threw herself against his body, which was also nude. The couch squeaked. She was so warm. He wanted to fall asleep with her against him like that.
“You’re upset,” He said, stroking her hair. “We’re both having a hard time. We’re tired….”
“I was about to tell you that I used you to find out something about myself, but yes, I’m sorry about the other part too—I mean, I almost killed you, you know, and you didn’t even try to stop me with your powers.”
“You can’t kill anyone—you said so yourself.” His voice sounded raspy even though his throat had been healed. “You can’t kill like this anyway—not me, right?” He didn’t like to state the obvious, but had learned that most interactions with hospital personnel required just that. With Orihime, he listened and listened and often found himself repeating her own words back to her, as if he were her mirror. Was he a mirror? He was fine with that. He was fine with being whatever she needed.
“I came here wanting to give you an examination, Doctor Ishida,” she said, and she tucked a lock of his hair behind his ear. “I wanted to test you somehow, to see how angry you would let me get. I think I… I always….” She frowned. “I had fantasies about you for years. I had fantasies about Ichigo for years. I always spend too much time in make-believe and I….”
He loved her. He loved her because for all his touted intelligence, her mind went places his never did.
“I wanted you to fix me, Doctor Ishida,” she said.
“And I can’t?” he asked. He wanted to. He wanted to lie down and die for her. He would, a million times over.
“No,” she said. “I’ve always thought that I needed someone to protect me, someone to stand up for me, someone to keep me from doing wrong, someone….” She took his fingers into hers. “Someone to teach me to be my better self.”
He kissed her forehead. “Let me help.”
“You have.” She lay her head against his chest. “I’m just now starting how to figure some of it out, how to fix myself. I want to do that.”
The pair lay in silence for a long while. Among the many familiar smells in the office, the scent of salmon-toast grew stronger, and Doctor Ishida realized it had been over half a day since he’d eaten anything. Orihime was comfortable in his arms at the moment, though. He was light-headed, but in a few minutes, yes, like the woman he loved, he would stand up for what he wanted. Some salmon-toast. In a few minutes, though.
Written while listening to the Velvet Underground’s “Pale Blue Eyes.” c Lou Reed, 1969
Sometimes I feel so happy
Sometimes I feel so sad
Sometimes I feel so happy
But mostly you just make me mad
Baby, you just make me mad
Linger on your pale blue eyes
Linger on your pale blue eyes
Thought of you as my mountain top
Thought of you as my peak
A thought of you as everything
I’ve had, but couldn’t keep
I’ve had, but couldn’t keep …
It was good what we did yesterday
And I’d do it once again
The fact that you are married
Only proves you’re my best friend
But it’s truly, truly a sin
Linger on your pale blue eyes
Linger on your pale blue eyes
If I could make the world as pure
And strange as what I see
I’d put you in a mirror
I’d put in front of me
I’d put in front of me