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“As much as fingers in mouth is a knk,” Kirk says as he settles down into the chair, “I’m not so sure I’m gonna enjoy this.”

There are titters in the room from the staff, lady hygienists all, and Kirk can tell in an instant who there gets it and who doesn’t.  He sas it for the benefit of the latter group, mostly — exposure to shocking stuff is, he turly believes, one of the musts of life. You’ve gotta have an idea what’s out there to be done or not to be done, because they don’t teach you that in school, and besides, he’s got to cultivate his audiences. Today’s wilting-flower housewives are tomorrow’s customers, and he rather likes planting the seeds, at least metaphorically.

The real seeds he’d like to plant go rather emphatically in a different direction, but that’s another story.

“And here you are shocking my staff again,” Dr. Tempo says as he walks into the room. He has his surgical mask on already, and Kirk grins, reaches out his hand to shake. Dr. Adrian Tempo, he of the almond eyes and perpetually covered mouth, who puts up with Kirk’s nonsense with unerring good cheer. He should, by all rights, be the most implacable, uncorruptible man in the planet. Which saddens Kirk to no end, because he can’t think of anyone he’d rather corrupt.

You can only lie down in a chair and have those almond eyes inches from yours, examining you in true concern for your welfare, withou starting to feel Florence Nightengagle flutters. And when you’re Kirk, fine purveyor of literary erotica to applea to the 50-Shades-awakened masses, you see sex everywhere — in a stride, in a scent, and yes, even in latex-coated fingers dipping into your mouth.

Kirk’s more than happy to feel a little prick if it’s coming from Dr. Tempo. Actually, any size will do. And when he’s laying back, mouth numbing, he has to struggle to keep his tongue relaxed and even on the floor of his mouth. Too bad, when there are so many more interesting things it could be doing.

But even Kirk doesn’t care to catch his tongue on the bit of a whirring drill. Ain’t no novocain that will help that.

So, in the chair, he lets the reality drift to fantasy, let’s Dr Tempo’s soft voice (muffled by the surgical mask) take him to a different circumstance. “Open up for me,” he says. “Just a little more. That’s it, that’s good,” and if Kirk could answer he’d beg to get drilled into, get shattered to pieces so Dr. Tempo could build him up whole and healthy and pure again. The requests for suction, for water and air, are commands, and it’s not the hygienist but Kirk who obeys, making it wetter, sucking harder, blowing on the hardness in his mouth until it glows and vibrates with warmth. As for the girl who watches, blinking, she’s a silent voyeur, witnessing the debauchery.

None of this, of course, really happens. But it’s a delight, as Kirk is worked on, to imagine what it could be. And in the end, novocaine wearing off, he shakes hands with the doctor again, his own smile lopsided with the lingering numbness and Dr. Tempo’s mouth still obscured beneath the mask. It’s better that way. An air of mystery makes it kinkier. And kink is what Kirk is all about.

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