Dr. Zoptic Pt. 05 – Nudie Cuties by thomas_dean
Dr Zoptic: Pt 5 Nudie Cuties: Blowing Hot & Cold
Around midnight one July evening, I was sitting at the kitchen table in my favorite oversized Che Guevara T -Shirt and panties. A continental high settled on Capital land that summer shrouding the gabled buildings of the state capital in hazy, hot humid days and still, stifling nights.
Now about to begin my second year in law school, I had been in these cozy rooms with my roommate Dr Rebecca Barton, whom I nicknamed Zaftig for almost a year.
“From a blustery North Country winter to a blistering Continental summer,” a weather announcer on the radio I had playing in the background quipped. My loose Che Guevara T shirt was sticking to the back of the chair. I’d have loved to have installed an air-conditioner in this quaint brownstone I shared with my roommate Rebecca Barton, now a recently graduated medical doctor whom I called Zaftig.
I chuckled when the announcer ended the weather report on a positive note. “Take heart! In 16 short weeks, we’ll be digging out from under a real North Country blizzard. Just think hot and cold are relative.”
•••
Only a couple of hours earlier I had been in the sweet, sweat-free, artic blasts of the air-conditioned fertility clinic. After hours, Zaftig’s classmate tall, bronze tinged skinned Al Mandy installed himself and his operation. “Besides boasting of its own theat — re,” Al vocalized the British spelling, “a plus, this location, in this bloody heat, beats running my operation out of a school shuttered since end of May.”
Escorted to the theatre in the office, I snickered as I climbed onto the podium, “I guess I should strip. Usually,” I joked as I put my bag down, kicked off my shoes and unbuttoned my skirt allowing it to slide to the ground, “this step should follow a date, a few drinks and dinner and a trip to a seedy motel.”
“I got another order, same researcher,” Al informed me.
“Why not give him my number,” I needled Al as I carefully lifted off the shirt dress waitress costume over my head and cast it aside, “Then, I might actually get drinks and dinner before I have to strip.”
“It might kill the illusion,” replied Al. “You’ve taken well to medical modelling,” Al positioned my shoulders. After he unhooked my bra, with a formal, “Allow me,” Al delicately ran his finger down my concave chest.
“I allow no one to touch me there,” I complimented Al, “You’re excepted!” I exclaimed with a smile, “You’d make a great doctor in practice with a wonderful bedside manner. Why do you jerk yourself off around filming nudie cuties?”
“For the moment, it’s more productive,” Al laughed at his play on words, “to work in a fertility clinic. You resist touch. How do you live with Becky, who is quite the exhibitionist? She jumped at the chance to do a nude shower scene when I had signed her on for a fully clothed role as a nun.” Al recalled, “buxom baps bouncing and round rump racing, Becky’s compact frame bound down the corridor. What did she say standing under a shower spigot with shapely birds?”
“I wonder,” I sighed, “After getting drugged, stripped and left helpless by her classmates at a graduation party she’d be so willing to be quite so risqué.”
“The cutie who adlibbed the double – entend with such an innocent smile into a shower scene, `Good things come in small packages.,’ would molt into a prude,” Al exclaimed.
I shook my head. “You were so shocked that I thought you were going to cream yourself when you blurted out, `And sweet Becky! You once wanted to be a nun!'” I paused. “I assume that you arranged our meeting for a purpose larger than idly reminiscing.”
•••
Arriving, after my meeting with Al, at the apartment I shared with Zaftig, I was bathed in sweat. I felt the sweat dripping as soon as I left the refrigerator cool of the Fertility clinic for a ride in my rickety, old car through the broiling, insufferable heat and humidity of the breezeless capital land night. Why hadn’t I found some cozy corner in the clinic to sleep comfortably in the glorious stream of cool air? I had complained of the cold while I was with Al. Why had Al wanted me there in the first place?
•••
Al Mandy had wanted me on hand in the Fertility Clinic while he spoke with a new prospect he was trying to recruit for the upcoming planned production. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t be the bother,” Al apologized when he appeared at the restaurant where I worked, “Except that I am reaching out to Ashleigh Keytone, a comely woman with whom I have had a passing acquaintance. As far as I knew Ashleigh has no experience on camera and never shown any interest in acting or modelling.”
“Then,” I asked Al as I modelled for more medical research photos, “why would you think this Ashleigh Keytone would have any interest in appearing in one of your nudie — cuties?”
“Ashleigh, dear Erica was Carter Plessenger’s eh — informal fiancée,” Al explained, “Ashleigh supported Carter throughout medical school. She expected the ring … ”
Taking a moment to adjust my posture, by running a finger up my spine, Al continued, “Naturally, Ashleigh was more than disappointed. She was tossed from the apartment she paid for all those years Carter was in school.”
Joining Al in the Fertility Clinic’s theater after my shift in the restaurant ended, I complained about the cold blast from the AC while I posed nude for photographs for a medical researcher.
“Turn it down? That would be bad for business,” Al insisted. Answering my skeptical glare, Al declared, “Of course the researcher is devoted to purely scientific pursuits, but he’s a man. He finds your delicious dark nips go erect signifying arousal; if goosebumps appear, hmm, that shows anxiety. It might appeal to a sadist streak that runs through medicine. Professionality, huh! Even that is all staging.”
“You’re terrible Al.,” I declared in the Fertility Clinic, “I swear you invite me here to amuse yourself looking at my deformed chest. Why don’t we just go out on a regular date?”
“I pay my obligations — unlike Carter,” came Al’s repartee, “Just ask Ashleigh.” After Al thought for a second or two before he reached into a pocket of his lab coat and pulled out an envelope with cash.
I laughed. “Al, I’m in bare skin, wearing nothing more than a smile. I have no pockets in my skin. Do you think I have a pouch like a kangaroo?” I deliberately bent over to wiggle my tush in Al’s face I stuffed the envelop in my bag.
“Carter’s break — up with Ashleigh was particularly messy,” Al commented.
“What,” I chuckled, “did Ashleigh Keytone after putting Al through med school learn she would be jilted–given the old heave — ho the very night of the graduation party?”
“While Carter organized the college frat type prank,” Al informed me, “Ashleigh suggested drugging Becky, stripping her and leaving her naked — as `a fitting tribute to Becky’s performance as the porn star and whore Dr Zoptica.'”
“How does that make Ashleigh our friend?” I asked.
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” thundered Al.
“And I thought,” I teased Al leaning forward to dangle my stubby breasts in Al’s face, “that was a bizarre expression from the lands of the bazar, not `The Home Islands.’ I stand corrected.” I declared pompously.