I'm horny for my dentist

I well remember the oral healthcare of my youth. Mr Stanmore, Barnstaple's full-time dentist and part-time sheep shearer, all rancid breath and beady eyes, would place one foot squarely against my scrawny pre-pubescent chest in preparation for a particularly stubborn extraction. Any indication of pain or discomfort would ellicit the casual response "it's mind over matter, young Fastrousers - I don't mind and you don't matter". How different the experience here in California is, where the only real pain is in the wallet. Although at least I never had to shuffle out of Mr Stanmore's surgery trying to hide an embarassing erection.

I should explain. By sheer good fortune, I happen to have registered with an extremely attractive dentist, who also has an extremely attractive assistant. The sort of dental surgery Hugh Heffner would opt for. Regular check-ups have become a joyful experience, as I lie back and have the undivided and flirtatious attention of two gorgeous young women. I know that the flirting is just part of the chair-side manner, a manipulative attemot to lessen the blow of the bill, but allow a man to dream. Never has the phrase 'now, spit' sounded so erotic.

I had three fillings this morning, and since there was a young intern in the surgery I had three young attendees instead of two. Tragically, the effect of the aneasthetic was to paralyse one side of my face more effectively than Sylvester Stallone's. The best conversational gambit I could manage was a highly dribbly grunt, but many an ex-girlfriend would probably consider that an improvement.

As the dentist leant over my prone form, allowing me complete scope to experience those deep brown eyes and that feminine scent, I couldn't help but notice that her left breast was pressed firmly against my cheek. Being a gentlemen, I attempted to stare neutrally at the ceiling, but it was no good. Oral discomfort battled against erotic stimulus, but after twenty minutes of this I'm afraid to say that the titty-pressing won, resulting in the usual male physiological response. Fortunately, my temporary entourage was busily engaged with dental composite, and so they didn't notice. I think this is the only time in life when I can genuinely say that I was grateful that a young woman was more interested in my mouth than my crotch. Three hours later, my gelid mouth is in need of a hot coffee, and my wretched soul is in need of a cold shower.

I've booked in for another appointment next week.