The Stamp Paper Scam, Real Story by Jayant Tinaikar, on Telgi's takedown & unveiling the scam of ₹30,000 Cr. READ NOW
The Stamp Paper Scam, Real Story by Jayant Tinaikar, on Telgi's takedown & unveiling the scam of ₹30,000 Cr. READ NOW

Shyni Kuriakose



Shyni Kuriakose


Blurry Lines

Blurry Lines

8 mins

Blurry lines

25 March 2017



There was no doubt about it, every time I looked into his eyes, a lump formed in my throat. How is it that the doctor who is supposed to treat me, ends up being the one man I can't stop thinking about? 6 foot tall, broad-chested, dark and handsome, but most of all, irrevocably married.

2 years ago, I was diagnosed with intervertebral disc prolapse of the 4th and 5th cervical spine. Being merely 22 years of age, it was a frightening diagnosis to behold. A disease that is characterized by compression of the cushion-like material in between two vertebrae, It was a life sentence that I had no qualms exaggerating about, to anyone and everyone who would hear me out. Its symptoms included pain that started in my neck, radiating all the way to my fingers, occurring once every three months or so. My treatment was theoretically confined to perhaps once in 3 months whereupon I would have to undergo physiotherapy, traction, and so forth.

"Well, you're looking pretty good today young lady!" He said, bursting into the room with a fresh gust of energy, a bright smile, and a whole lot of positive vibes. I wondered if he was truly oblivious to the effect his words had on me. I smiled demurely. The nurses around him were hanging on every word of his. He waved his hand around, looked at some charts, reviewed the investigations, and proceeded to examine me. This was definitely the most anticipated part of my day. The examination.

Dr.Stevenson who had been standing by my side all this while gently bent to feel the side of my neck muttering "the muscles still seem stiff" and gave the side of my neck a squeeze or two. All the hair on my body stood up under the brush of his calloused fingers. "The places these fingers have been to." I wondered sheepishly. Meanwhile in real life, I pretended that it hurt more than it actually did, at which his eyebrows furrowed and he came closer, "does it still hurt that much?". There was genuine concern in his voice, but all my brain could register was the husky breath on my neck, the way his fingers brushed against my skin, and the all-consuming proximity that existed between us at that very minute. Perspiration broke out on my forehead and neck, I could feel the droplets drip down over my breasts, slightly dampening the T-shirt I wore, I licked my lips in subconscious arousal. I could feel my breathing quicken as I looked into his eyes. Then, as if acutely aware of himself, the hospital, the nurses, and all the attending staff around us, he suddenly straightened up and created a wide space between himself and me, smiled and said "well, let's look at your scan report and come to a conclusion. I'll call you in a bit to the OPD" he promised. "oh well, that’s something to look forward to" I thought and sighed inwardly. As I looked at him and the flight of women around him recede into the background, I was once again filled with wonder at how I can be so smitten by this man whose only crime is that he sincerely wants me to get better.

It wasn’t always like this. There was a platonic doctor-patient relationship between us, until a few months ago. Somewhere along the way, between countless chit chats and just as many professional examinations later I realized that being in his presence was the highlight of my week. I would schedule my appointment with him every week whether it was necessary or not and make it a point to prepare for the visit. I would put on my best dress (ironed three times), dab the most feminine perfume(doubly expensive- reserved for special occasions), sport sufficient but modest amounts of lipstick and makeup to suffice. It was important to wear clothes that were revealing but only moderately so. I couldn’t come off as someone who was intentionally trying to seduce him. Of course, that was the plan. But the beauty of it all was not his raw sensuality, it was how I could talk to him with ease. He made me feel comfortable, wanted, and cared for, in a way that no male had made me feel before. He did not undress me with his eyes each time I hopped in for review. With each visit he would grow on me, his smile, his words, his concern, an addiction I was starting to love.

The worst part of being obsessively smitten by a married, unavailable man is the inevitable secretiveness of it all. There was not a single soul I could talk to about this obsession of mine. People, being people would always point fingers and judge me for wanting someone so off-limits. He was the fruit in the garden of Eden, the grass on the other side, the football player with the exceedingly sexy girlfriend, that homecoming king. This feeling in my heart was undoubtedly my cross to bear, my very own sweet despair.

"Dr.Stevenson will meet you now" the tone of the nurse in my ward droned as she walked towards me. My heart skipped a beat, I could see him in less than a minute. I felt like a silly little girl about to ride a purple unicorn. People might be tempted to think that it is probably because I have no men in my life that I fantasize about this doctor day in and day out. However, On an average day, a minimum of 3 men try to hit on me either in subtle or alarmingly intense ways, but in vain. There are not many who can resist a cute, 5-foot woman with well-endowed breasts and buttocks with a narrow waist to hold on to.

"I hope I'm not taking up too much of your time doctor" I purred sweetly as I eased myself into his mahogany chair. He was one of those doctors who insisted on making his patients as comfortable as possible and that was the nth thing I loved about him in addition to the other million quirks I'd noted about him.

"Close the door behind you before you sit" he almost growled in an agitated manner. I was so shocked that I almost scampered to the door and shut it and hurried back. I was positively worried. I sat in silence.

"You have to stop" he said sadly looking into my eyes. Why had I never noticed those dark circles? He looked exhausted beyond compare. His muscular shoulders were slouched as if in pain. "Care to explain? You sound rather cryptic" I said with a slight laugh. "Sweetheart, I know what you're trying to do. I am not oblivious to it. Nor am I an idiot. And it is killing me. Please. Stop."

A strange coldness gripped my heart as I sat in that chair looking at my lap. It looks like I wasn’t so subtle after all. I probably should have denied the accusation or laughed it off; but I simply sat there, head spinning, eyes brimming with tears. There was truly nothing to say in defence or to justify me. He reached across and stroked my cheek. "please don’t cry. But I'm married. You should have known." he said in a hushed voice. "no one will know your story nor understand the reasons why you are the way you are. No one will see your heart the way I do, my dear and there is truly no hope for us. I have known you love me for a while now". He added, holding my hand, stroking it gently. I looked at his hand over mine, he elicited feelings in me that no other man ever had in my short life. He made me forget the pain that I had accumulated over the years. I could hear the longing in his voice, and the dilemma he was in. I knew that it wasn’t that he didn’t love his wife enough, but it was possible to love two people at the same time simply because love cannot be defined.

There was a split second of hesitation, after which I walked across the table and whispered "Do you think someone might walk in on us?".

"I've cleared everyone for a while" he admitted, sounding guilty.

I could see the anguish on his face as I sat down on his lap and swung my arms around him, buried my face into his chest, and inhaled deeply. The musky fragrance of masculinity engulfed my senses as I held him in my embrace." Be mine just for a while "I implored.

"it's not right" he muttered in anguish

I took his palm and placed it on my heaving chest and said" Can't you feel my heartbeat? There is no wrong or right. Just the in-betweens. I can't have your heart, so let me have a part of you if only to cherish for this little while."

There was some sort of melancholic poetry as we made love right then and there. On that examination table, surrounded by books, papers, and medicines. Like the moth drawn to the street lamp, we danced to the slow dance of this forbidden seduction. There was no rush, no judgment as his fingers passed over my numerous scars, the faded scars of yesteryears, the cigarette butt marks that told the story of a different time, a different life, the scars that ran in a linear fashion across my wrists forming tram tracks that reminded me of an age when I'd rather die than life, no judgment as he ran his fingers over my belly button, pierced and tattooed covering up the scars that knives had left, no judgment as his hands cupped my breasts, soft and supple, amply snug in his strong arms begging to be sucked, fondled and loved unlike how it had been handled in the past. No judgment as he kissed the tears flowing freely down my cheeks slowly as he undid the jeans. No judgment as he felt the wetness between my thighs through the fabric of my blue underwear, brushing against that sensitive area that defined my womanhood, that frequently violated treasure trove since childhood. I gave myself up, for the first time, with no regrets, to this married, Oh-So-Off-Limits man whose touch could only make me feel those things which poets write about, this man whose kisses left me breathless and moved, speechless with emotion, anguished because he could never truly be mine, and because I knew that he would eternally be, the yin to my yang.

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