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Her long black hair fell onto her shoulders and the buttoned-up white doctor’s jacket accentuated her full tanned breasts. As she stood next to me, she leaned forward, her cleavage close to my face and whispered in my ear: “Runner.” Without question or second thought, I stood up and started disrobing. Not that I had many clothes to shed, my grey jumpsuit, my grey panties, bra and my work boots. I laid on the examination table and spread my legs open. Dr. Eve Deckard stood between my legs and put her cold hands on my thighs. She moved them closer to my vulva and spread those lips open with her fingers. “Just as I thought,” she said. “Shaved with an inactive clit.” “What…? I don’t shave down there. Never needed to,” I said, not knowing what the fuck is going on. “I’ve been waiting for you for 200 years,” Dr. Deckard informed me. She slipped her finger through the slit between my legs. “Do you feel anything?” she wanted to know. “Like what? What the fuck is going on here? Why am I. ‘How could anyone look better than you do right now in that negligee?’ he said. ‘Did you think that I didn’t notice?’ ‘Paul,’ she cooed, ‘I know that you’re flattering me—but I like it!’ Paul was not flattering her and her response vexed him a little, but he let it pass. Marge stood and the two embraced. Paul felt affection in Marge’s kiss, but not yet the passion that he was hoping for. He tried again, and as he kissed her he trailed his hands firmly from her ribcage down her waist and traced the outline of her hips. He felt her warm a little. He pushed his tongue between her lips and found hers, and guided his strong hands from her hips to the rear of her. Paul coursed his hands over the globes, and then clutched them. He felt Marge press closer to him, so he pulled her closer yet. They renewed their kiss, tongues groping. Paul sensed Marge heating and allowed himself to match her. Marge was a glowing ember. The heat she possessed was real and searing, but passive. It needed.
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