I found myself on my knees before I had time to process anything else. I looked up at him, worried at the fierceness I’d heard in his voice. His face was hard when I looked at him. “Sir” He said in a less angry tone. “Amy you are always to address me as Sir.” He was looking right through me, and it frightened me. “Do you understand that?” I paused before answering. I didn’t want to do anything else wrong. “Yes, Sir. I’m sorry Sir.” I felt myself on the verge of panicking at the realization that I’d disappointed him so much. “You need to remember everything I tell you Amy. Now you need to make up for your slip there. Stay on your knees. Good. Now open my fly.” Was that the hint of a grin on his lips? “Good girl. Now take out my cock.” I did. It was still soft and small. “Good girl. Now put your lips on me and don’t you dare stop until I tell you to.” It didn’t occur to me that what I was doing I was doing in front of a room filled with strangers (though I suppose it is better than a. I sat on the recovery room couch supported by my mother's arm, still wearing my brown rubber apron, and too groggy to do much more than keep my eyes open. I remember the gentle hiss the cylinder made, and the rhythmic Flub , , , Hiss . . . Flub . , , Hiss' sound the oxygen mask on my face made as I breathed in and out. Gradually my head began to clear, and then I could sit up unaided. Shortly thereafter, the nurse returned with a beaker of pink mouthwash and took off the oxygen mask. Then I remember standing at the sink rinsing what seemed a lot of blood from my mouth. The nurse helped out of my rubber apron, which like my previous gas experiences had become damp with my perspiration on the inside surface, and then after a final check that I could walk unaided it was finally time to leave the surgery. My mother helped me into my outdoor clothes.Then we went downstairs, said Merry Christmas to the receptionist sitting behind her little window and stepped through the front door of the.
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