My job is not interesting. It pays the bills and from time to time there are some perks, small satisfactions that get me through the week. I spend my time peering into people’s cavities. I see the innermost secrets of their lifestyle, guess their petty habits, and put a clean sheen on them till the next time they visit me. Some have bad breath, some have sore gums, some have uneven teeth. Old and young, middle-aged and teenagers, they all sit in my chair and open up wide for me.
I chose this job as people cannot talk once I start working on them. It allows me to focus on the job at hand rather than having to chat about the niceties of modern life, the weather or other such inanities that two people who rarely meet exchange under the guise of politeness. Once the traditional form of greeting passed, they put themselves at their ease, or not, as the case may be, and then I set to. For the next half hour, in the best of cases, the only sounds are the sucking of the air, the whirring of my machines and the gurgle of the water in the basin. At the end, I give the traditional recommendations, press a few samples into eager hands, and then say goodbye. Limited human contact.
What I had not anticipated in electing to join this profession was the proximity, the sheer physical closeness of the thing. As I lean over, my breasts brush an arm, my face is as close as a lover’s. I reach into their cavity, wide open, and tickle the nether parts on each side, delve into the hidden folds and push and scrape. My hair is firmly tied back, so that it neither suggests an erotic sensation nor gives rise to any further contact than is necessary. My white coat gives me some measure of distance, but in some cases still not enough.
I have been endowed with a rather large bust. My breasts are my best feature. They stand proud and erect, steadfastly facing the future. I massage them every night with almond oil to keep the skin firm and soft. My nipples are rather large and when I am excited, stand to attention rigidly. I have had multiple orgasms just from fondling my own breasts. I have heard that if you are pregnant and the baby will not come, you can get the labour to start by fondling breasts. If mine are anything to go by, I would miscarriage any baby as soon as it was conceived. Men love my breasts. They bury their faces in them, they fondle them, they suck at them and they pull at them. Like babies seeking to return to the womb. I quite understand their fascination with my pair. They are outstanding. But no one can care for them quite like me. So I guard them jealously, only sharing them when needs must.
My white coat is most necessary. Some other professionals only wear underwear under their coats. You can see the colour of their underwear and the brand of bra from the cut. A good bra is so important. So many women have no idea how to shop for bras. A bra has to be a statement of who you are. Like a good setting for a precious stone, it should show breasts off to their best effect. How many women does one see with breasts hanging low on their stomachs, spilling flesh over cups that hug too tightly, fold of fat settling under the bra line on their backs, while others wear bras too big for them, the edge of the cup floating under clothes that reveal too much of too little. I have all my bras specially handmade in the best tradition of high class lingerie.
I wear clothes under my white coat. Even though in summer I get very hot, I always wear high-necked blouses. I used not to. Until that day. The day I had to leave my previous employment. When I had to move out of town. After that day I began calling my breasts Clausewitz and Sun Tsu.
Some people are frightened of coming into my chair. Others are indifferent. And still others, namely some men, a particular type of man, I should say, always look forward to it. Never mind the scalers and curettes, the proximators, stainless steel picks and the mirrors, what they really look forward to is the cheap sensation of a brush of their arm against my proud breasts. Before, they used to try and glance sideways to look at my cleavage. As I would scrape, poke and polish, out of the corner of my eye I would see that kind of man first gazing up at the ceiling, then slowly sliding his glance first to the left, away from me, then to the right, pretending to seek comfort, in fact positioning himself to get a better glance at my taut, silky cleavage. I would clear my throat menacingly, concentrating on the work and frowning, and generally that was enough to pull his eyes back to the ceiling or to the posters on the wall.
That time, however, it was not enough. He was the last person before lunch. The morning had gone well and when he strode in, tall, lean and tanned, I thought that it was a nice way to tie up the first half of the day. It was his first time with me. When I went to get him in the waiting room he stood up and gave me a quick up/down. His eyes lit up as they came to rest on my breasts. I was wearing a light summer shirt under my white coat and the first few buttons were open. He reached forward and grasped my hand to greet me, squeezing it a little more than was usual, stroking the end of the handshake rather than opening his hand to release mine. He licked his lips and gave me a broad smile that sent a shiver down my back. His teeth were white. He was carnal. Feral. Alpha male. Dangerous. My nipples stood on edge and I could feel the sudden wetness between my legs.
“After you”, I said, showing him the way, determined not to let his gaze follow me as I walked in front.
“Thank you,” he replied graciously, and strode over to the reclining chair.
I kept a respectful distance, looking over his file as he sat down and swung his legs onto the leg rest. Lawrence. An elegant name. An erotic name. David Herbert had dared to break the class taboos writing about sex. Henry Miller had been friendly with another Lawrence. Yet a third had ridden the wide Arabian deserts and tasted the sensuality of the sand and the wind. This Lawrence’s hair was black, with side wings of grey. He reminded me of a wolf, graceful, muscular and primal. A hunter. I clipped on the bib and sat down on my swivel chair, my breasts a barrier between us. He turned to gaze down into my cleavage, enjoying the sight. I cleared my throat. He looked askance.
“Open your mouth please.”
Instead of opening his mouth, he sat up again, pulled my head to him and kissed me squarely on the mouth. His lips were warm, sensual, and his tongue pushed my mouth open. He tasted of liquorice and honey.
I pulled away.
“Excuse me, but would you mind sitting back properly?” I asked lamely. My nipples were hard and I was having trouble focusing on the task at hand. I just wanted him to kiss me again, to fondle me, to fuck me.
“Why, aren’t you enjoying it? It must make a welcome change from your usual fare.” he replied.
“This is my workplace, not a playground” I said primly, “Would you mind allowing me to do my job?”
“By all means, let me oblige,” and he sat back and opened his mouth wide.
I put on my gloves and leaned over to peer into his ivory cavern. I realised that he had placed his right arm so that my breasts would have to rest on it. I could not work without leaning over him and I would not ask him to move his arm. I felt his arm quiver as my left breast touched it. As I put the mirror in his mouth, I felt rather than saw his left hand move slowly up, and felt a light caress on my right breast. He began on the outer side and slowly circled till he was over my nipple, looking straight ahead with a slight grin on his face. Normally I would have slapped him, but his touch was both delicate and firm, suggesting greater skill and a deft handling that few men achieve. I cleared my throat and leaned back a little. Instead of dissuading him, this enabled him to stroke upwards, across and down into my cleavage. His hand was dry and warm. He was in control. I crossed my legs to try to ignore the heat that was growing there and glanced at the door. Just checking. I always worked with the door closed. Not any more.
His left hand unbuttoned my white shirt and my blouse. Paralysed with desire, I stayed immobile, my body no longer my own. The brief vision of his mouth had shown me that he had perfect alignment, healthy pink gums and pearly white teeth. The taste of him had confirmed that he was indeed all I had dreamed of. I leaned back and put down the mirror, waiting, inviting him to dare more. He sat up, without stopping his caress, and pushed my blouse off my shoulders, revealing my purple bra and gleaming breasts. He leaned over, still caressing my right one, and licked between the two. A long, slow lick. More like a tickle than a suck. His right hand reached up to caress my right breast. I stood up and took off my top and bra. Half naked, revealed to his soft touch and liquorice licking, my breasts responded to him and made my whole body vibrate with desire. He slowly pulled his hands back and, standing up, fastened his mouth on mine. I pushed the unit away and, pushing him down onto the reclining chair, lay my full length on him. The chair creaked. He was hard and, judging from what I could feel, well hung. I wanted this man.
I reached to his zipper, locked in a French kiss that made me want to swallow him whole. He fondled my breasts and caressed my back, the slow gurgling of the water basin as a backdrop to our union. I pulled out his erect penis, confirming as I did so its perfect feel and size. Smooth, straight and thick, it leapt in my hand as I stroked it, returning stroke for stroke every movement he applied to my breasts. I was on the verge of an orgasm, but wanted to feel him inside me, so I pulled back, sat up opening the way through my matching purple lace panties into my warm, wet sex, and straddled him, sinking slowly down, gripping tightly inside, till I could feel him all the way inside me.
For me, slow sex is the best sex. I like to feel the whole length of a man’s member, millimetre by millimetre, hardly moving except for the steady penetration to the core. A strong immobile penis that fully occupies the space, while my partner focuses on my breasts, sucking, stroking, licking, pulling, kneading and I fondle his balls and anus. Still sex. I can come just on the strength of my imagination. I closed my eyes, savouring this man like a rare wine. My muscles gripped and let go of him, deep inside, and I felt him responding. He did not thrust, just concentrated on my nipples, biting them, nibbling, licking till he felt the muscles around him tightening rhythmically as I reached my climax. Then he thrust, once and I felt the spout of warm semen flow into me as there was a knock on the door and the dentist thrust his head through the sudden gap, quickly withdrawing with a gasp.
I will spare you the details of what happened next. I never saw my beautiful lover again. I had to move cities. I understand that women with magnificent statuesque busts are now barred from dental hygienist schools.