Posted on behalf of the author Auguste Hand

Meera and I are intimate strangers. At our first meeting twenty years ago we flirted, told funny stories about our spouses, even exchanged recipes. Then she lathered on the icy gel, her hands professional, her touching sensual. I noticed two extra buttons undone on the silk blouse under her lab coat.

At our second meeting six years ago Meera’s only conversation was instruction, until I asked if her family still enjoyed my baked oatmeal recipe for breakfast. My carotid artery exam included neck caresses and eye fucking, the fragrance of her arousal while bent over my bare chest, reassurances of attraction, a mutual acknowledgement of desire.

This year my exam was at the new hospital. Meera’s walk was a shuffle, the dance of her lovely ass gone. She was her grandmother, mourning an empty nest. The room was quiet when I told Meera to get naked, then explained that the procedure to remove her insecurities would take gentle hands, hot sex and twenty minutes. Meera giggled and stripped.