Root Canal

The summer after my freshman year in college I had to have a root canal--a procedure synonymous with pain and agony--so I was dreading it.

Back in those days, you had to go for 4 or 5 visits to the endodontist to complete the procedure, so my initial reaction was that this would ruin the whole summer.

On my first visit, I changed my mind. The endodontist Dr. Clayton used laughing gas, the O2 and N2O tanks for which were right behind the chair. Since I have very long arms, when no one was in the room, I could just reach the lever for the N20 and tap it all the way from the 4 setting it was on up to the top setting of 12.

I got high as a fucking kite.

Moreover, his assistant, Beverly, who looked to be just a few years older than me, was a piece of ass, bearing a strong resemblance to Suzanne Sommers--complete with big smile and big tits, but slimmer. She always wore those zip-up-the-front type of uniform tops, which displayed her ample cleavage quite nicely.

He had a high-tech chair that lowered me down so he could work on my tooth from a sitting position, yet kept my feet raised up high. I was practically upside down, which gave me an even better view of Beverly's breasts, as she frequently had to lean across me to assist him.

Ironically, I came to look forward to the series of root canal visits. Laughing gas and a great looking chick. What a combo.

Beverly would lean over to hand a tool to the doc, and I could see her big, tan boobs hanging down just inches away. Well, I'll be--she didn't wear a bra! Often, her breasts would touch my chest or forearms when she leaned over, too, so I could feel how firm they were.

The gas took away what little inhibitions I had, and I decided that zipper would only need to come down slightly to allow her nipples to come into view, so the next time she leaned over, I carefully zipped it down an inch. She never noticed, or at least never let on that she noticed. Wow! She had nice dark and pointy nipples, and there were no tan lines, either. She must have lain out in the sun topless. What a treat for my horny nineteen-year-old eyes!

With each subsequent visit, loopy from the laughing gas and emboldened from the previous visit, I took more liberties. I'd zip her top down a little bit more until, by the last appointment, I could see practically all of both of her gorgeous ta-tas when she leaned over. And as I'd reach up to wipe my mouth after spitting in the little sink, I'd "accidentally" bump my hand into her boobs, pausing to watch them jiggle.

She never indicated any objection, and, if anything, she seemed to position herself so that I could more easily see and touch them. And occasionally she would brush her hand across my crotch ever so lightly. Was she egging me on? No way. Too good to be true. I knew that was merely thinking with the head of my dick, rather than the one on my shoulders.

At the end of the summer on my final visit, both she and Dr. Clayton left the room for a long time, and I just lay there inhaling the laughing gas deeply and as rapidly as I could breathe. Like the chair and every other bit of equipment in there, the stereo system was high end and sounded killer through the Infinity mini-speakers mounted up in the corners. I was extraordinarily high, listening, and—when my mouth wasn't full of cotton—singing along to the music on the local college's album rock station.

As I was belting out a Rita Coolidge tune, Beverly stopped by the door behind me and asked me what I was doing. High as Mt. Everest, I figured I was busted and just said, "Oh, nothing, just singing and waiting for the doc to finish up." She laughed and said they were finished, that I was out of there, but to stop by the front desk before leaving. As usual, she danced her way out of sight, wiggling her bodacious butt and jiggling her terrific ta-tas

Relieved that my max-out-the-N2O scheme had not been discovered, I leapt up from the nearly-upside-down position in the chair, snatched off the bib and mask delivering the gas, and scurried to the window at the front office down the hall.

The last thing I remember was the lady handing me some insurance papers. The next thing I knew, everyone is standing around me. "Why is everybody taller than me?" I stupidly asked. I was sweaty and warm and thought I was lying in a field of grass in the land of Brobdingnag before I realized I was on the floor of the green shag-carpeted waiting room, dental assistants towering above me.

"You passed out," said Beverly, standing over me. Apparently, with my system full of N20 and insufficient oxygen, combined with suddenly leaping up from the chair and rushing to the window, I had fainted.

That was the embarrassing part. The good part was looking up at Beverly. I could see right up her uniform skirt at her BARE PUSSY! That's right, not only was she braless, but she was also pantyless. And what a pretty pussy it was, with bulging outer labia framing a slit of red inner labia and prominent clit hood in plain view through scant blonde pubes. I was suddenly in no hurry to get up!

In a few minutes, Beverly said it was probably OK for me to stand up, so she stepped across my torso, a leg on either side of me, to help me up. When she bent her knees to hoist me to my feet, her pussy lips spread apart, revealing a brief but perfect view of her inner pussy lips--so meaty and red--and a glimpse of her big clit, all glistening with moisture. That certainly brought me back to full consciousness!

That was my final root canal installment, and I had the tooth capped a couple days later by my regular dentist. A week later, I was back in college in the other end of the state for my sophomore year. I gobbled women like popcorn, but the memory of the root canal with Beverly remained vivid.

Several years later, I was home for the summer again and went to visit a good buddy of mine at his older brother, Paul's, apartment. We started drinking beer, and in a while, Paul's girlfriend showed up.

I was introduced to the very good-looking, buxom blonde, and though she looked familiar, I couldn't place her. She resembled Suzanne Sommers, so I figured that was it. We sat down on the couch, and when my buddy and his brother got up to go to the kitchen to get some more beers, she said we had met before--at Dr. Clayton's.

Well, I'll be; what a small world. This Paul's-girlfriend Beverly was one-and-the-same as root-canal Beverly. I was embarrassed that I didn't recognize her immediately since, but for a different hair style and casual clothes, she looked the same, which is to say, fantastic. But I was quite surprised that she remembered me, its having been a few years ago and with so many patients in and out all the time.

She said she definitely remembered me, as I was the one who goosed up the laughing gas and gawked and played with her boobs!!! She said she always liked it when I came in that summer, that I made her day every time. She said she thought I was cute and really funny, and was surprised I never acted on the signals she was sending me, saying she thought they were pretty strong and clear. OK, so all that sexy flirty stuff she'd said and done, culminating in wafting her bare wet pussy in my face at the end of my final visit, had not been my imagination, after all. Well, I'll be damned!

She dated for a few more years Paul--a wild man if there ever was one--and they eventually married.

Before they were serious—which they were by the time I met her—she was but one of many, many hot women he dated, and like the rest of them, he was not at all reluctant to volunteer stories of their sexual escapades. This was the very gal about whom he'd shared those wild and kinky experiences, and I had let her slip literally right through my fingers. Talk about root canal, I could have easily slipped my root in her canal!

And to add insult to injury, Paul had met her at Dr. Clayton's when he himself was having a root canal! Chalk up another one on my girls-who-got-away list.

She never told anyone about what happened at the doc's, but she did give me a nickname that she still calls me by today: Zipper.