Tonight I’m Dr. Finn Baldwin. I’m on the terrace of Fay’s with a New York Times having a slow beer. The newspaper is a prop, of course. If I were reading my phone, one could make infinite speculations about the content. Could go either way. With the paper I appear trustworthy, smart—like Papá at the breakfast table.
Between headlines, I watch the brunette inside at the bar dine on grilled salmon and pale wine. She’s alone with a book. A prop? Her round chest is snug in her sweater. She periodically uncrosses and recrosses her legs at the ankle. (God, I want to grab each one and yank them apart.) She’s wearing burgundy pumps. Thigh muscles keep her legs pressed closed.
As she nears the last bite, before she asks for the check, I walk over and order another beer—a Belgian white ale served in a breast-shaped goblet with a gold rim. It’s a pretty glass that does nothing to detract from my sturdy appeal. I’m a good looking man. Solid. Prime. Still, that doesn’t serve my purpose. I get nothing from fucking women who want to fuck good-looking men. There’s no game in that. I don’t do easy.
My opening line is innocuous and irrelevant. There’s some small talk. I sit at the bar next to her and buy her another glass of wine. When it’s half gone, I say, “You have a beautiful chin.”
“Oh yeah?” She laughs.
“Could—? No. Never mind.”
“Could I touch your chin?”
More laughter. “Fine.” She’s got a great smile.
I give a single, staccato tap two inches below her lips.
“Yep,” I say.
I smile. No need to talk. She’s filling in the gaps now. I give her a damn woman, you’re sexy shake of my head, clinch my jaw, then sigh and say the two things every woman wants to hear from a man who looks like me:
- “I hate leaving. Surgery in the morning.”
- “Here’s my card. I hope to see you again.”
When she Googles me later tonight or in the coming days, she’ll (touch her chin and squeeze those thighs together and) find ample mentions of one Finn Baldwin, MD—none with photos. The university down the street will list Dr. Baldwin as a distinguished Professor of Neurosurgery, a Clinical Program Leader in a premier Brain Tumor Program. She’ll skim testimonials from students and patients who love “me”. She’ll read about the lives “I’ve” saved, about “my” mastery in surgeries that restore and preserve brain function. She’ll sit half-dressed by the light of her laptop and notice herself craving restoration and preservation. From me.
After three days she’ll text: Drink at Fay’s?
By the time she steps out of her pumps (evergreen this time), my hand on the small of her back, my tongue in her mouth, she’ll never have doubted my identity. She’ll believe I am the Finn she’s read about online. She’ll believe the hands that slide inside the back of her skirt and squeeze the curve of her ass are surgeon’s hands. She’ll believe she could never die in my presence.
Surgeon’s hands, she’ll tell her friends, can make her come like none before. She’ll imbue my fingers with god-like qualities and privileges, long and deep, massaging her every inner surface. She’d let me cut her if I wanted to.
Her belief in my groundbreaking contributions to the medical community will energize her suction, slacken her throat, bring her taut lips all the way to the base of my cock. She will lap tirelessly, sucking every inch, swallowing every ounce, every time.
Proven fact: doctors get better head. Don’t believe me? Try it. Google yourself an accomplished faceless name. Be charming. Wear a suit. Go get ’em, tiger.
Photo: Public Domain
This post was written for Wicked Wednesday, a site where writers share erotic stories (fiction and non) every week. The fun is hosted by the industrious and beautiful Marie Rebelle of Rebel’s Notes, whose endeavors you can support at Patreon.
Read the fabulous Wicked Wednesday “Identity” entries here!