CAMP DENTISTRY
Disclaimer: the following story contains depictions of somewhat intensive sadomasochistic activities.
Camp Colmillo, way out in the New Mexico desert, caters mostly to groups of Boy Scouts but also Girl Scouts, Venture Scouts and the occasional workshop of Christian families. They come for a week at a time, then the weekend comes. And then the counselors have the place to themselves.
Everyone told me those would be the best days of my life, but my first summer at Colmillo, the summer I turned 20, I took a while to get to know people. I loved it out there -- the smell of dry pines mingling with dust, the stars at night -- and I got along great with the kids who came in every week, and with their parents. But the fratty carnival of sports games and fishing trips and beer-drunk bonfires that took place on the weekend was never my thing. So whenever my bunkmates at Staff Camp would invite me out, I usually would just say "No, thanks", and spend the weekend reading in the quiet corners of camp.
The only strange friendship I made that summer was with Keaton Brown, the camp medic. We were pretty different. I was quiet and shy; he was tough and loud, a Navy vet who wasn't afraid to say or do anything. But in a way we both were odd men out. Maybe it was because he was in his late 20s, which made him way older than most of the other counselors. Or maybe it was just the way he was. Half the time he would go to parties or on trips with the other counselors. If he played sports with them, he played to win. If he drank with them, he would stir up the most trouble. But just as often he would stay behind.
After a while he started forcing his company on me without a trace of shyness. He would sit right next to me in the empty camp with a "Howdy" and break out his knife and start whittling, or tinkering with a watch, or whatever else. Often he'd just work quietly, so I didn't mind. But every once in a while he'd make some comment or ask me about myself, and sooner or later he was a friend.
I think I was one of the few people that saw this side of Keaton. Otherwise he was known as someone to look out for -- a loose cannon who always had the gleam of trouble in his eye. When he told you "Come over here, I wanna show you something", you hesitated. Maybe he'd shove you into a headlock and, before you could protest, crack your neck roughly like a chiropractor. Maybe he would hold out a ghost pepper he brought back from the county store and innocently dare you to try it. Complain of a splinter or a tick around camp, and he'd appear out of nowhere eagerly clicking the sharp end of a pair of tweezers: "Want me to get it?" Pass out drunk in his cabin, and he'd grab a packet of smelling salts from his kit and boast to his audience, "Watch this, he'll be up in one... two... Liftoff!"
Yup, Keaton Brown -- or Doc Brown, as he claimed to have been called in his Corpsman days -- had a definite streak of mischief. A streak which, in my opinion, bordered on sadistic. And he had the face to match, which made him no less intimidating: one of those faces whose thick eyebrows permanently slant down and inward, making every grin look like a wicked grin; every blank expression look like a fierce frown. His jaw was thick and bony, his nose turned slightly up, and he had a redneck's goofy sideways smile, which with his intense stare could make him look a little bit deranged. And his body was wiry and powerful, thick veins underlaid by ropy muscles.
Yes, he was hot, which was another problem. At 20 I wasn't out yet, and even though everyone at Colmillo was welcoming as can be, I took the Boy Scouts' passively hostile stance towards gays seriously. When Keaton would work out shirtless in the empty camp, I couldn't help staring over my book a little too long, drawing playful comments.
"Take a picture, it'll last longer," he'd say.
I'd always laugh and look away, trying to diffuse the tension. Making it into the joke he probably meant it to be. Until the day I found out his jokes could get more serious than I thought.
This is that story.
It began like any other Saturday. Keaton was sitting at the picnic table of the empty Staff Camp polishing some tools. I was reading a couple feet away, in a hammock strung between two pines.
At some point I looked up, and did a double take. Keaton was holding a tool I had never seen before: a metal pick with a sharp curved end like a hook, carefully wiping it down with a towelette. It was a nasty-looking thing, and I had a feeling it was for medicine, not for mechanics.
His eyes flashed up to me, and immediately I looked down. Weirdly, I got the same feeling as when I'd been caught watching him work out.
"Hey, Whisman."
Keaton always called me by my last name, Whisman. I looked up and met his gaze for the second time in a few seconds. Today he was dressed in Army camo pants and a tank top, which revealed the constellation of freckles and the layer of soft blond fur that covered his thick arms. A backwards cap held back his wild sand-colored hair.
"You know what this is, Whisman?" Keaton asked. He held up the pick, point-forward, surveying it with satisfaction.
I shook my head, but I did know, and I said it as a guess. "Looks like something a dentist would use."
"That is correct," Keaton said lazily, still staring at the hooked tool as he rotated it. His voice was just deep enough that its vibration rang slightly in your bones.
"I didn't know you fixed people's teeth over in the med cabin," I said casually.
"I didn't," he said, his slight Arkansas drawl making it come out like "diiint". He put the tool down and picked up another one, a sickle-like thing that looked even nastier than the first. "Kit just came in the mail the other day. It's for cleaning teeth. Problem is, I've only got myself to practice using it on."
"Oh," I said. "Does it work well? Like, do your teeth feel clean when you use it?"
"Tools like this only work as well as the operator," Keaton said, wiping the sickle-shaped pick now. Then he set it down and shifted his position, beckoning towards me with both hands at once. "Whisman, come over here for a second, won't you?"
I froze, my heart beating in my chest. "No, thanks."
Of course this never worked. "Whaddaya mean, no thanks?" Keaton exclaimed, arms going wide in an incredulous shrug so I could see the round inner surface of his biceps, the blond tufts of armpit hair. "What, you think this is a game of tag? I'm right here, I'm not asking you to do much. Don't be so aggravating."
"Alright, alright," I grumbled, and dog-eared my book and clambered out of the hammock. I sat on the bench across from him at the table. "What is it?"
He simply patted the bench next to him, indicating me to sit closer.
I sighed heavily, and shuffled around the table, Keaton watching me all the time with a smirk. I sat next to him. "What's up?"
"There, that wasn't so bad, was it?" he asked. A hand reached up for my chin. "Now lemme take a look at your teeth real quick."
I dodged the hand. I should have known where this was going. "No way," I said. "Don't touch me with those things."
"Did I say anything about touching you?" he said, though he had frozen with his arm half-outstretched, obviously to touch me. "I just wanna take a quick look, buddy. Just for a sec."
I sighed, and reluctantly let him grasp my chin with his hand. The thick strong fingers were rough as sandpaper. "Open wide, now."
I felt him jerk my chin upward, and I obeyed. I breathed heavily and awkwardly through my open mouth, watching his eyes flit up and down as he steered my head gently one way, then the other. Then he let go, and I closed my mouth.
"When's the last time you got your teeth cleaned at the dentist?"
I didn't like this quick shift from day-off Keaton to officious, medical Keaton. "Why, who's asking?" I said defensively.
He shoved me, lightly, but just quick enough for it to feel aggressive. "Your camp medic is asking, bud," he retorted. "C'mon." That was another word where his drawl came out like a thunderclap, making the end of "C'mown" rhyme with "down."
I shrugged. "Not since I left high school, I guess," I admitted.
Keaton raised his eyebrows. "High school?" he said, incredulous. "You know you're supposed to get that done every six months, don'tcha?"
"Yeah, I guess," I said. "But I aged out from my pediatric dentist, and you know. My teeth are fine."
"I'll be the judge of that," Keaton said, and this time he didn't ask before he grasped my head again, pushing my forehead back with one hand while he pulled my jaw down in the other. "Doesn't look so good in there to me, fella. I think you need a visit to the med cabin."
I squirmed out of his hands. "What? Forget it. You're not a dentist."
Click! Keaton closed the shiny metal box from whence the dental tools had come. "And you'd better be damn glad I ain't!" he said. "That shit's expensive. Man, I'm offering you a bargain. Free teeth cleaning? You got a yard with an insurance tree?"
"Yeah, it's expensive," I shot back, getting up from the table. "When you have it done by a professional."
At this Keaton just scoffed. "Pff, it's not rocket science. Besides, you know I got steadier hands then a surgeon. Or don't you trust your buddy Doc Brown?"
I thought for a second. I definitely didn't trust him: not to tell me the truth, not to not hurt me, and not to respect my boundaries. But -- and maybe it was his cockiness getting to me -- I trusted that he was a damn good medic. He might like messing with people, but he wouldn't mess up.
Besides. My stomach turned over again, and I felt a weird type of fear which was... almost enjoyable.
I sighed. "You really want to play dentist on me, huh?"
Keaton grinned his wide crazy grin. "Call it work instead of play, if it makes ya feel better," he said, and rose swiftly from the table. "Meet me at the med cabin in fifteen minutes."
"What, now?"
"Well, would you rather we make an appointment?" He slapped me hard on the shoulder before he headed off. "Now go brush your teeth, Whisman. I'll be waitin'."
Camp was empty as I made my way over a few minutes later. The med cabin was tucked under an oak tree next to the dining hall. My stomach was full of butterflies as I knocked on the door.
There was a moment of shuffling, then Keaton opened the inner door, peering at me through the screen. He'd thrown a short-sleeve camp uniform shirt over his tank top, though he hadn't buttoned it. "If it isn't my favorite guinea pig," he said, and opened the screen door for me. "Come on in."
I had never been inside the med cabin, and for some reason my heart beat faster when I entered into the antiseptic-scented air. The place was something of a cross between a true cabin, and a 1930's medical bay. The waiting room had the same old Adirondack furniture as the rest of camp, but the walls were painted shiny white. I followed Keaton through a door marked "TREATMENT ROOM", into a room which really felt like an Army medical bay. The walls were lined with makeshift drawers, except for one corner, where there was an old sink. In the center of the room stood an examination chair -- not exactly like a dentist's chair, but close enough.
"I've never had you in here before, have I, bud?" Keaton said casually, closing the door behind him. The short sleeves hugged his thick upper arms, and they rode up his bicep when he reached out, making them even shorter. A stethoscope was slung casually around his neck.
I gulped. "Nope," I said.
He whistled. "Then it must be my lucky day." He put the stethoscope in his ears. "Quick listen?" He took my shoulder and yanked me towards him, slipping the stethoscope under my shirt without a trace of shyness.
"I thought you were gonna clean my teeth, not my chest," I grumbled.
"Shh." He listened intently for a moment, then removed the metal piece of the stethoscope. "Gotta keep it professional, since we had you talking shit." Then he reached around my side to pull the back of my shirt upward, making way for the stethoscope to swoop in and press my upper back. The motion, with Keaton's arm around me holding me in place, felt oddly like an embrace. I reddened.
He didn't react, but removed the stethoscope a second later, took it off his ears, and yanked my hand outward by the wrist so with his other hand he could rest a finger on my pulse. "A little quick," he said. "Not nervous, are ya, bud?"
"No," I said defensively.
"I wouldn't blame ya!" With a hand on my back he steered me towards the chair, then pushed my shoulders calmly but firmly downward, buckling my knees so I sat down. "I'm not the biggest fan of going to the dentist. That's the great thing about being a medic." He winked. "Everything's a lot more fun when you're the operator."
I rolled my eyes. "You're such an asshole," I said vehemently. "And I can't believe you talked me into this."
"Din't take much talkin. Lift your head up, now." He billowed a white cloth bib down onto my front, tying it swiftly behind the back of my neck. "Comfy?" he grinned.
"Just get it over with, Keaton," I grumbled. "This isn't how I planned to spend my Saturday."
"Hey. It's Doc Brown in here." There was a tinkling noise as he dumped all his dental tools down onto a metal tray attached to the edge of the chair. It really was a pretty similar setup to a dentist's office. There was even a big round light, though it looked more like something from an operating room. I shivered.
He reached for a drawer and opened it, taking out two crumpled white latex gloves. I laid my head back, trying to relax, maybe even pretend I was somewhere else. But Keaton moved to stand directly over me. He smirked as he pulled on the first glove, directly in my field of vision.
"Now, I haven't done this in a number of years," he explained, wiggling his long fingers as he adjusted the glove. "But I used to fix teeth all the time back in the service."
"Really?" I said. "Do they train you to do that?"
He froze, his other hand poised at the entrance of the second glove, and looked at me like I had asked a stupid-ass question. "Brother, when someone needs something out in the field, you train yourself pretty quick." He slipped the second glove on swiftly, with a flourish. "And I've yanked out plenty of teeth in my day." As he said it, he pulled the glove over his watch and down his wrist, letting it go with a huge SNAP. It made his comment feel almost like a threat.
I gulped. "Reassuring," I said.
Keaton grabbed a dental mirror. "Ready for me to take a look, big boy?" he asked. "Open up."
I hesitantly obeyed, opening my mouth slightly. Then Keaton's thumb and forefinger invaded my mouth, forcing my jaw open as he inserted the mirror. The empty hand pinned my head down to the headrest, and with me immobile, the mirror delicately moved. I looked up and saw Keaton glaring down at me as I breathed in the rubbery stench of his latex gloves.
"Mmmm-hmm," he said. He removed his fingers, freeing me, only to swiftly switch the mirror into his other hand and shove a gloved fore- and middle finger back inside, retracting my cheek. I made an indistinct "Ungh" as the grip tightened. He smirked slightly.
"Alright," he drawled. "Yeah, I see where we can start." Then he withdrew, and this time he plinked the mirror back down and straightened up, allowing me to close my mouth and lick my dry lips.
"See, that wadn't so bad, was it?" He patted my cheek. His glove felt strangely smooth.
"You didn't do anything," I snapped.
"No, I most certainly din't," he said with glee. He was grabbing something else from a drawer: a paper dust mask, which he now put on. Even though his mouth and nose were hidden, I could see the deranged smile in his eyes. "But I'm just about ready to start."
I just let out a noise between a groan and whimper, and sank deeper into the chair.
"Cheer up, Whisman," Keaton said. He switched on the operating light with a click, blinding me. "You might even enjoy it."
What? I thought, hearing the clink of him picking up some tools. But I didn't have time to think before I felt the smooth touch of a gloved finger on the bottom of my chin.
"Open wide," his voice growled, close to my ear.
I opened my mouth. The operating light was partially blocked as he leaned over me, then he shoved a well-chosen finger into place, which seemed to keep my whole head from moving. I felt a sharp sensation as something metallic moved between my back teeth and my gums. Then the sensation got stronger as the thing moved irresistibly deeper.
"That hurt?" Keaton murmured.
"Mm-mm," I said, shaking my head slightly.
"Hold still," he chided me. "This thing ain't no Popsicle stick."
And he started working. Unable to move, my mouth pried open in Keaton's hands, I felt the sharp, solid shape of the pick scrape and explore. It was not a huge instrument, but there was all the strength of Keaton's muscular arm in the relentlessness with which it traced its lines. With each movement of the pick I could different tendons of his hand twist and tense underneath the glove. A moment later, I winced as he poked soft gums. Keaton reached for a piece of gauze and pressed it to my mouth. I tasted salt.
"Mmmgh!" I cried out.
"I know," Keaton said, not removing his hand which clamped the gauze firmly to me. I spluttered for a moment more and he briefly removed it.
"I'm bleeding!" I protested.
"Buddy, you haven't had a cleaning in almost two years. What'd you expect it to be easy?" He shoved the gauze back inside, and as he held it pressed down he switched his pick for a mirror, using it to retract my cheek as he peeked around. "Do you floss?"
"Ungh," I said, but I was thoroughly annoyed. Had I ever seen Keaton floss? He wasn't a dentist!
But I had no way to say any of this, and a second later the gauze was out and another pick was back, its point hovering above my face. "Open up and hold still," Keaton ordered.
I did, and he got back to work. I tried not to look up at his face, the thick slanted eyebrows glowering in concentration above the mask, but there was nowhere else to look. With one hand he shoved a probing thumb downward, almost to gain traction for the han working with the scraper. Every once in a while he would shift the position of the hand holding my mouth open -- sometimes subtly, so I felt the soft surface of his glove rustle against my cheek; and sometimes roughly and without warning, removing his hand and then shoving a different finger into another part of my mouth.
I noticed after a minute that he was going more or less around the curve of my mouth, and as soon as I was done so, he started explaining it. "See, your mouth is divided into quadrants," he explained, talking at a low gruff murmur, since he was inches from my head. He didn't stop working as he talked either, meaning that the words came in a sort of slow trance of concentration. "I'm gonna start with the lower left quadrant, lower right, then move to the upper two." He paused in his scraping and tapped each part of my mouth as he said this, on the last bit pulling back my upper lip with his forefinger and poking the roof of my mouth with his middle.
"How long is this gonna take?" I asked.
"Long as I need, buddy," he said. "Or do you wanna bleed any more than you need to?" He pressed a thick finger against my closed lips, almost to pry them apart: "Now open up."
Now his hand curled around the outside of my chin as he started working on my bottom front teeth. I could see his forearms flex each time he dug the pick into the space between teeth and scraped hard up the crack. I felt strange and incredibly vulnerable. Like that tiny tool in his hands was entering places of my body I hadn't even known existed.
He started working in the lower gumline, and a sharp cold knifelike pain accompanied each move of the pick. I groaned, squirming, but felt the vicelike grip on my chin tighten to keep me still.
"You're bleeding like a Tarantino movie," Keaton said cheerfully, but he didn't remove the hand holding me down for long enough that I could complain. He pressed with the gauze, then kept going, starting on the back of the teeth. "Yeehaw! Look at that plaque." He held the pick up to my eyes to show me a lump of yellowish material on it, then wiped it on my bib and continued.
His thumb, thick as a hot dog, was wedged between my upper and lower jaws. It felt like I was choking on it. There was nowhere else to put my tongue. I brushed my tongue over it by accident, and I could feel how tight his glove was, pulled smooth over the shape of his thumbnail.
Then he re-tightened his grip, digging his thumb deeper, and when I looked up I couldn't believe how close his masked face was to mine. His eyes stared down at me, but not at me -- at the work he was doing in my mouth. Had he noticed I was looking?
As soon as I thought it, he uncurled and curled the fingers of the hand holding my mouth open, and then brushed against my cheek. It could have been just an absent motion, the way to adjust your grip on something heavy after a while. But it was a bizarrely intimate gesture, the feeling of his smooth fingers curling into my face, stroking me. I let out a small groan.
"Good boy," Keaton murmured, and I was too distracted to register that it wasn't quite a normal thing to say. I tried to swallow without closing my mouth, causing my body to convulse slightly, but Keaton's grip held my head still. I felt vulnerable, but oddly thrilled.
He dug into the back of my lower front teeth with the pick, bringing a stab of pain. "Unghh," I groaned. A firm scrape upwards. Then again, and this time he dug in deeper, tracing around my gums. "Unngh!" I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling tears well up in them.
"Mm-hmm," he said, a slightly condescending sort of noise, like Yeah, of course it hurts. I was struck how soft his voice was, inches from my ear. "Just hold still for me, buddy."
And strangely, maybe because I had nothing else to concentrate on, I tried to. I grunted, but surrendered to the jerking motions going on inside my mouth. I surrendered to the strong grip of the fingers prodding at me. I kept my mouth open, limp, as strong fingers swiftly pressed and removed the salty taste of blood.
The pain suddenly increased scrape by scrape -- sharp, acrid, sour like nails on a chalkboard -- and my eyes squeezed shut; I tried to pretend I was somewhere else. But I couldn't picture anyplace. And I realized I wasn't really concentrating on trying. I was concentrating on the pressure of Keaton's fingers probing inside my mouth; the shape of the bony joints shrink-wrapped in latex; the pressure of them.
"Now close," purred Keaton's voice close to my head.
I closed my mouth, but he hadn't withdrawn his hand completely; his thick pointer finger remained inside. Without thinking, I wrapped my lips around it, ran my tongue over it like a Popsicle, and sucked.
My eyes shot open.
Keaton didn't say anything; but above the dust mask, his eyes were crinkled tight in a wicked smile. They met mine, and slowly he drew his finger out of my mouth, a tiny string of saliva keeping us attached for a second. This string, returning to his characteristic douchiness, he wiped lazily on my chin.
I was paralyzed with horror. Apologies ran through my head. But Keaton acted as if what had happened was the most natural thing in the world.
"See," he said simply, "I knew you'd be a good patient." He put down the tool he had been holding and grabbed another one, holding it high in front of his eyes. Apparently he had to double-check that its shape was pointy and terrifying enough. "Now," he started, "I saw something else interesting in there, and I wanna check it out." He twirled the new tool between two fingers like a baton, the way a jock does with a pencil in a boring class. "Open up wide, now."
I did so, and the hook of a hand on my chin fixed me roughly in place a second afterwards. The masked face leaned over me, eyes squinting. I tasted rubber- and metal-scented air as the tool entered.
Then Keaton said, "This might hurt a little."
And suddenly it hurt.
"Auugh!" I cried out, giving a start. The hand holding my mouth open tightened at the same time as my muscles jerked, so my head barely moved; but Keaton pulled the tool swiftly back. He gave me a look of wide-eyed scolding. "C'mown!" he exclaimed. "You want me to give you a tongue piercing?"
"That really hurt!"
"I know." Uncharacteristically, he backed down. "Sorry, bud. But I gotta check something. Can you hold still for me a second longer?"
I nodded, and without another word his hands moved back into the center of my vision. I felt my body tense up as they invaded my mouth. A tendon flexed sharply in Keaton's forearm as he poked downward with the probe, and I grunted. Stinging pain pierced into my jaw, then there was a strange wrenching. My hands white-knuckled the armrests of the treatment chair, but I didn't move. A moment later, it was over.
"Very good," Keaton murmured, and as he withdrew his hands I thought one latex-clad thumb stroked my neck. Not as an absent gesture this time, but definitely on purpose. A shiver went down my spine.
He was holding something. "You know what this is?" he asked, pulling the dust mask below his chin. The item was tiny and silver, and after a second Keaton dropped it into my hand. My heart sank.
"It's a filling," he said. "One of yours."
"Great," I grumbled, tonguing the place where the pain had been. Sure enough, a small crater was there. "You pulled out one of my fillings? You're a dentist like a bull in a china shop, Keaton.
Keaton smirked. "That sum-mm-bitch popped out like a watermelon seed, kid," he said. "Or would you rather have it come out in one of the dining hall biscuits?"
He sighed theatrically and crossed his arms. Like, It's not my fault you didn't floss, but here are your options. It felt exactly like what a real dentist would do, which only made me madder.
"Look," he said. "Luckily for you, I happened to be a resourceful and extremely skilled medic. I can put in a temporary filling."
"You can?" I perked up. That, honestly, would solve things.
"Very temporary," he finished, raising his eyebrows. "You won't be able to eat, and you'll have to go to Las Cruces tomorrow to see a real dentist."
It felt like he was inviting me to ask something. Like this was option A. "Or?" I pushed him, only half playing the game. "Can you fix it better?"
He scoffed, his tone mocking. "What, and do real dentistry?" he said. "I'm not trained for that..." He had made his way to a drawer, and opened it carefully. "But I do happen to have this bad boy."
From it he pulled an electric tool with a cord and a few pieces, much bigger than an electric toothbrush. It took me a second to see the way the thick cord went from a box-like module to a small ending; to recognize what it probably was. My stomach turned over inside of me, and my eyes popped out.
"What is that?" I croaked.
I saw now that Keaton had been watching me, something like a smirk in his eyes as he gauged every tick of my reaction to the drill. He set it down lazily on the counter, letting the cord uncoil.
"I inherited it from the last medic," he said. "Always wondered when it might come in handy." His eyes flashed to me. "But it's like you said. I ain't no dentist."
"But you'd drill," I said, not sure why I phrased it that way. A statement, not a question.
Keaton took a step toward me. He pulled absently on one of his gloves, now both so tight with sweat that they clung to the shapes of his fingernails. "Alright, Whisman. Let's not act so scared," he said in a low voice. He took another step. "You're enjoying this as much as I am." Step. "And you know I won't make a mistake." Slowly, he put his hand to my chin, and I felt his eyes burn into me as he lifted my face upward. "Or don't you trust your doc?" he asked mockingly.
I swallowed, my eyes not leaving his. My mouth was dry.
"OK," I mumbled.
His grip tightened, giving my head a rude jerk like an angry drill instructor. But he was grinning. "Okay what?"
"You think you can fix my tooth?"
He tut-tutted. "I know I can fix your tooth, Whisman," he said, and with a brotherly pat on my cheek he let me go.
Immediately his back was to me, making clunk and click noises as he set up the drill. "But it's gonna hurt. I hope you know what you got yourself into."
I groaned, wanting to say that I hadn't known what I was getting myself into, no, I had been manipulated. But I just watched him prepare, slumped in the chair passively waiting my turn. Something had filled my stomach, a white-hot crackling static. I was terrified, but also... excited.
Excited? What was wrong with me? This was going to hurt like hell. But I liked watching Keaton work. I liked being the subject of his work.
"Time to lay back," Keaton said, flicking a chrome switch. I jumped as the black leather couch I had been laying on slowly lowered, the old gears buzzing like a garbage disposal. He stripped off his gloves and tossed them, then put a new pair at the ready on the silver tray of tools. Next to it went the dental drill, Keaton draping the cord ably across the tray, the way the Crocodile Hunter would move a python.
"You ready?" he asked, bringing a rolling chair next to the treatment couch. Now I really did feel like I was at a dental office, and I started regretting it. Whatever weird tenderness had come between me and Keaton, it felt gone as he grinned wolfishly, taking a pair of safety glasses from a drawer and propping them on his head. "Safety first," he said by way of explanation. "I have a feeling this might get messy."
He rolled back to one of the drawers, and there was rummaging as he grabbed more things, tins and forceps and cotton balls that all went on the tray. "I hope you don't mind if I get a little more comfortable," Keaton said, and with one motion he arched his arms backwards so the unbuttoned uniform shirt slipped off, leaving him in only that white tank top. My eyes went up and down the angular muscles, the thick veins, drinking in the sight. Then I saw that and his gaze was fixed on mine, watching my fascination thirstily. I gulped.
"Time to get to work, Whisman." He picked up one of the gloves. With an agile flutter of his hand he snapped it on swiftly; but then he took his time adjusting it, wiggling his fingers like a magician as he pulled it tight, snap, snap. He watched his own hand as he did this, as if fascinated by the sight. Then came the second glove, his hand extended over my face as his sinewy fingers slipped into the latex, stretching it tight. He grinned down at me as he pulled the cuff halfway up his forearm, making a show of letting go. Snap! The loud sound made me jump.
"Now," he said, and picked up the drill for a little test drive. Vrr, vrrrrr! it whirred into life. "You gonn' hold still for me?"
I just nodded. He smirked, putting down the drill, reaching for something else.
"That's good," he said. "But see, the thing is, I don't believe you. Open wide."
I did, and felt something metal being forced into my mouth, worming its way between my back teeth. It looked like a giant pair of forceps. "Ahh," Keaton coaxed me, then I heard a rhythmic clicking noise and felt the thing expanding, forcing my jaw open. It was some kind of surgical gag: a mouth spreader. When Keaton was done, he surveyed his handiwork.
"Now close?"
I couldn't, which was the point, of course. I started breathing heavily, desperately, feeling a sense of panic.
"That'll keep you from gettin' tired of keeping still," he told me, sitting up. "You'll thank me." He pulled the mask up over his face, then flipped the safety glasses down over his eyes. They looked more like shooting glasses to me. Face half-covered, muscley arms bare except for the latex gloves, he looked ready to work on a shop project more than anything.
"Open," he said again, which was pointless. But he didn't seem to notice as he stuffed one side of my mouth -- the one not held open by the forceps -- with cotton.
"See, this is the one thing I don't have any substitute for," he drawled as he poked it into place. "Suction. And I reckon you'll be drooling up a lake by the time I'm done with you. So this'll have to do."
With the cotton in one side of my mouth and the forceps in the other, I felt strangely out of my body. It was like I was a shop project, clamped in the vice and ready for the mechanic to work on. Keaton certainly didn't look like himself, bent over me with his face covered up except for his mean slanting eyebrows and the shock of his blond hair.
He reached up, and the light went on. Then he grabbed the drill.
"This is gonna hurt," he said, and lowered his hands to my mouth.
First there was the invasion of his roughly shoving fingers; then the noise, the noise of the drill. That was bad enough. I winced as it kicked into life, whining in my ear. Then there was the vibration.
And then the pain started, just little spurts of it. I imagined my nerves like the veins of color embedded in a stone of quartz, bloody little caches bursting like firecrackers as Keaton's drill found them. He went on drilling; and as he did the pain became deeper. Not the pop of firecrackers, but the slow burn of being touched with a hot griddle, pressed to it longer and longer. The sound of the drill bored into my brain.
I groaned but Keaton kept going, that slightly wild look in his eyes. A jerk of pain jolted me as the drill went deeper; I jerked, involuntarily. But his hand was there, and I saw his triceps gulp like an Adam's apple as his grip tightened in perfect time, keeping me fixed to the chair.
He stopped. I thought I saw a mischievous smile, but behind the mask and the gleaming screen of the safety glasses it was hard to tell.
"C'mown," Keaton rumbled in a low voice. "Take it like a man."
He rolled his seat over to the side of the treatment chair, leaning over me forwards so he was no longer upside-down. One gloved hand went to my forehead, pinning me back to the headrest, and the drill whirred back into life. Then the pain started again.
I gripped the armrests, screwing my eyes shut. I thought I felt tears welling through them. Take it like a man, I repeated to myself; but a particularly sharp stab made me convulse. Every part of my body twisted involuntarily except for my head, which was pinned to the chair with a grip like a vice. One arm flew free, brushing against the crotch of Keaton's pants.
My eyes widened.
I had felt something.
Keaton stopped drilling for a second and glanced down, but otherwise said nothing. Then he said, "Stay open for me now," and his tone was unmistakably playful as he leaned deeper in, his face hovering close above mine. His crotch brushed up against the handrest.
Keaton had a boner.
Vroom-vroom! The drill whirred back into life, and my eyes searched Keaton's sharp glare behind the safety glasses as he went back to work, looking for some clue. I forgot about it a second later as the pain stabbed back into me. I let out a gasp. Floundering, my hand shifted again, not quite by accident this time. I brushed it over the springy tip I had felt, firm in shape, giving it a bit of pressure through the camo pants.
And for just a second, the drill stopped. Keaton's eyes flashed from my mouth up to my own eyes, lightning-fast, and saw that I was watching him. The resolve in them darkened, the fierce slant of his eyebrows steepened. But it seemed to me it was the resolve of a predator, tinged with the glee of the hunt.
Vrr-vrrrr! The drill whirred back into life.
Pinning my head back against the chair with renewed force, he started drilling deeper.
And now I boldly grabbed at his dick through the fabric. I worked it up and down, letting it consume my thoughts instead of the pain searing into my jaw. I made guttural choking noises under the drill, but I barely noticed. Instead I noticed that Keaton's dick throbbed under my touch; noticed its shape, the firm roundness of the head. When I groaned again, the drilling paused. He withdrew the power tool from my mouth.
"Unzip it," he said in a hoarse voice.
I fumbled with the zipper, then said something muffled through the gag. It was tinged with the whine of complaint. Keaton must have correctly interpreted it as "Why don't you do it?", because he held his hands up in front of my face.
"I'm wearing gloves, idiot," he snapped.
I had gotten it open by then. An STD joke dangled in front of me -- what, why can't you touch it with gloves, are you infected? But it would have just been a bunch of muffled gibberish. And besides, as I wormed my hand into the space of Keaton's fly he leaned in again, filling my mouth with the metal tool and his rubbery fingers. Keaton's patient, it seemed, did not get the last word.
"Hang on tight, Whisman," he said, and now there was no doubt of the grin in his wild eyes. Once again I felt the probing of his fingers tighten into a tight grasp; I felt the whirring vibration make contact with my jaw. And, as I worked my hand over the long rod now poking out from Keaton's fly, I felt a searing burst of pain.
"UNNNGH!" I cried out aloud. But my head didn't move; the latex-covered fingers held it; the vice of the surgical forceps held it. My fingers moved, and Keaton's dick responded. Or maybe it was responding to my muffled groans, because I was sure he was enjoying this. Soft skin touched my fingers as his member came free from the fly of his boxers. I felt a bead of precum, which I smeared down the length of the shaft.
No way, I thought. This is not happening. Or at least, 20% of my brain thought that as the other 80% focused on the sound, the squeal, the horrible crunching vibration drilling into my head. I looked up at Keaton's eyes, wild above the mask, and suddenly felt like whatever tool was in my mouth that I couldn't see was an extension of him, an extension of his metal-strong fingers. And as I watched his fingers twitch and flex, working the drill, I felt the white-hot pain of Keaton entering me, entering me, entering a place somewhere inside my bones where no one should be allowed. Where only a medic with his sharp points and power tools and wicked grin would ever dare to invade.
I pumped on Keaton's dick, and there was another rough groan. But it wasn't me. It was him. I saw him clench his jaw. Though he didn't close his eyes, a tic passed through them, like it was taking an inhuman effort to focus on his work.
But focus he did. He muttered, "Yeah" as he pushed the drill deeper into my tooth, making me grunt with pain. I pumped faster. "You like that?" he muttered, holding my jaw down tight as the drill went deeper and deeper; and I groaned louder, because I didn't like it, but because I liked watching him glare down; because I liked watching him do what he was doing to me. The pain arched into me like a rod of lightning. I whimpered. I kept pumping.
"Yeah, take it like a good boy," he growled, but I wasn't. Tears were trickling down my cheeks. I was letting out an ongoing moan. "Hold still for the doc." I felt his hips grind against the chair. I was pumping furiously now; it was the only thing in my mind besides the pain.
"Nnnngghhr!" Keaton let out something between a growl and a roar, and he reared up. He ripped off the mask, breaking the string, leaving only the safety glasses on his face. He was breathing hard, teeth clenched, a look of mad triumph on his face. Then I gave one last pump and he was coming, hot liquid streaming onto my dental bib. The first thrust of his hips rammed hard into the treatment chair and rattled it sideways, making me jump. His hands were held high in front of him, like he needed to keep them sterile through it all, and he shuddered as his hips gyrated involuntarily, again and again, finally slowing. A last pump of my hand, and he was still.
A moment passed. Delicately, he put down the drill. He removed the mouth spreader, then the cotton balls. Then he offered me a canteen of water.
"Now rinse," he said.
Wordlessly, stunned, I did. As soon as the water hit my tooth I grunted, the cold almost as bad as the drill itself.
"What the hell!" I complained when I had spit. I saw Keaton was grinning at my reaction to the water. He shrugged.
"What'd you listen to me for? I said I ain't no dentist." He was zipping up his pants, and now he stripped off the glove he had touched himself with, reaching for a new one. "Now let's see if we can fill this up."
I was indignant. No mention of what had just happened? The supreme gayness of it? The cum still cooling on my bib? Spluttering with rage, all I could manage to say was, "That's all?"
He looked sharply at me, surprised delight on his face. "Oh, you want more?"
I would have punched him, if I hadn't known he'd pummel me in return. "I mean, that's how you decide to finish drilling," I exclaimed. "When you're satisfied? That's... that's..." I was at a loss for words. "You drilled my tooth to a pulp just to get off, is that it?"
His hand went suddenly to my collar, the one he had degloved. It was a shock to feel his bare skin brush against mine as he grabbed a fistful of shirt and drove it into my sternum. His face zoomed dangerously close. The smile had dropped.
"I'm the camp doc," he said slowly. "I drilled your tooth the way I see appropriate. And now I'm gonna fill it the way I see appropriate. And I'm gonna do a damn good job of it." He gave me a single, violent shake. I flinched. "Any questions?"
I shook my head.
"Anyone at camp gonna hear anything different?"
I shook my head again, fast this time. A definite no. My part in this was anything but scot-free.
He must have realized that, because he chuckled as he released me. "Good to hear, Whisman," he said. Then his hand wandered down my chest to my own crotch, giving a cursory flick. His eyebrows raised.
"Aha!" he said. He had found the beginnings of an erection there. Somehow, after all the events of the past few minutes, that's what made me turn beet-red. An erection from being threatened by Keaton Brown. How twisted could you get.
"Maybe there'll even be something in it for you," he teased, and a trace of boldness returned to me. The strange trance in which I had submitted to Keaton's torture was fading into the past, but also solidifying: it had really happened. And he had gotten off on it, torturing me. If I was twisted, we were two of a kind. And holding a share of the secret -- a share of the pleasure -- I held a share of the power.
"Oh really?" I asked. "What might that be."
"Well," Keaton drawled, "I dunno how your general health is." He raised one eyebrow as he snapped the fresh glove onto his hand. "But I dabble in proctology."