Michelle: The Doctor’s Visit
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Author’s Note: Just a quick little story. I hope you have as much fun reading it as I did writing. Thanks to my buddy kimbalee for the inspriation and the read. Thanks to G for everything else.
You aren’t going to believe what happened to me today; what I did. Or maybe you will. You’ve always seemed to know me better than I know myself. My God, I think I’m still in shock.
You know how it is when you can’t have something? You think about it even more. You remember it and picture it. Salivate over thoughts about it. It becomes the only thing you can think about and you imagine that you simply cannot go on without it. Well, that’s how it has been for me all day long. Not having sex has made me crave it; long for it, ache for it.
I know it hasn’t been THAT long since the last time we screwed. A week, ten days go by and in our filled-to-the-brim schedule it sort of goes unnoticed. And then this back injury and another week is torn from the calendar only this one passes slower, stained with the knowledge that we not only has it been a while since we’ve had sex but that I’m not sure if I even can right now.
By the time I get to the doctor’s office I am practically out of my mind, knotted so tightly with sexual tension that I can barely think. The receptionist has to call my name twice before I notice, my mind drifting from memories of being bent over our bed and of positions we have not yet tried; places in our house we haven’t fucked.
I meet the Physician’s Assistant in the hallway. I didn’t want a man. Well, edit that. I wanted a man urgently, but not as my doctor. You know how I get. It’s like I wear two masks. The one that is the embarrassed beyond words whenever I feel someone’s eyes appraising my body. And the other, a shameless hussy who seems to feed on that embarrassment like a hungry wolf. Which one is the REAL me? I pretend it’s the first one. I fear it’s the latter. More likely it’s both.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Green.” He doesn’t offer a hand and that’s fine with me. I’m directed to an examining room near the back of the office.
The PA is a small man who doesn’t look old enough to have pubic hair. His voice is soft and reassuring though, as he asks me about my pain. When he finishes with the myriad of questions he stands and places his stethoscope in his ears. He has extremely large ears for the size of his head. Why hadn’t I noticed that before? That’s what I’m thinking when he asks me to remove my shirt.
Of course, you know that I’m freaking out now. I realize that he’s a doctor but fuck, I just met him and, more importantly, he is a HE. I run through a series of protests in my head but say nothing. You know how my words vanish at times like this. I think a gazillion different things but lose the capacity to verbalize even a single one. Swallowing my objections I begin unbuttoning my shirt, doing so with self-consciousness that is extreme even for me.
The doorway is, of course, slightly open as seems to be the standard procedure when a male doctor has examined me before. I personally would have much rather been behind a LOCKED door with one male doctor than risk having another stranger walk in on me disrobed. No, scratch that. A locked door would feel far too claustrophobic. So I try to focus on the slightly open door and mentally plan my emergency escape. Cool air floats in from the hallway and it brushes over my bare skin like a spotlight exposing my insecurities and fears.
The metal is cold on my back. Dr. Green stands close and takes care to slowly move the instrument left and right, up and down. I stare at a diagram of the pelvis on the wall and wonder what part exactly is causing my tingling there. Thank God there isn’t a picture of a vagina or a penis. I wonder for twenty-three beats of my heart if you can ask to not be put in the Penis Room. And then I inevitably imagine the disapproving look on the receptionist’s face if a person actually requested the room. Where do these thoughts come from?
Dr. Green clears his throat and I am slammed cruelly back to the moment. The heat from his hand contrasts sharply with the coolness of the stethoscope and it radiates through me like an electrical current, sending mild jolts to my groin. I’m perched on the edge of the examination table and I dig my heels into the metal base like a sprinter in the blocks. I’m sure he would catch me eventually. You know I’m not a distance runner. But I’m quick as a flirting glance for the first ten feet. Then I feel his arm hook around my body, trapping me, and the metal disc touches the top of my chest.
“Breathe deep,” he says as he pauses just below my collarbone.
Breathe! Are you fucking kidding me! All I’m doing is breathing.
I inhale as deeply as I possibly can, as much to clear my head as to follow his instructions. He slides his hand lower, and then lower still, now grazing the edge of my cleavage. It doesn’t take a precise medical device to see that my respiration is increasing and my heart is beating like drum roll. Passing nurses could likely Arnavutköy escort hear the pounding from the hallway. He moves to the lace on my purple bra and then slightly under the delicate fabric. I’m going to faint.
It’s just a whisper at my ear but I hear the young man’s voice crack just a bit and my excitement escalates with the thought of his youth. You know how my ear seems to be hard-wired to my pussy. Vibrations knife through me and his words tickle my clit.
I think, “If he touches my nipple I’ll just die.” And immediately following that thought; “If he doesn’t touch my nipple I’ll just die.” I close my eyes and give in to the sensation; so clinical and ordinary, yet as intimate as a secret.
The PA pulls back and steps away just before encountering my already hardened bud. I swear my heart stops at that moment. I foolishly feel abandoned, discarded, like an unfinished thought. I’m torn between relief and frustration; two sides of the same coin flipping endlessly without coming to rest.
A small bead of sweat has formed on the young man’s upper lip and hangs like a dangling tear. “You sound…ah, you’re fine. I mean, I don’t mean you’re fine in the sense that…not that you’re not an attractive woman. I’m just speaking as a doctor. So, having fully examined them…ah, I mean, you…well not FULLY but…I’m sorry. What I mean to say is that they are very healthy.” “They?”
“YOU! I meant, you. You are very healthy.”
I feel a little sorry for him but that emotion is being crowded out by my arousal at having such an effect on little Doogie. His eyes are fighting not to stare at my erect nipples pushing defiantly against the purple bra and I wickedly glance down to notice the pup tent forming in his thin, cotton medical scrubs. Alarm fills his eyes when he realizes I’ve spied his dilemma. Well, I think, that makes us even.
It is perhaps a touch cruel, adjusting myself as I do. I don’t mean to cause him pain. My bra really is pinching a bit.
He hits his shin on the stool and fumbles with the doorknob like he’s never used one. Finally opening the door he turns and says, “The doctor will be with you shortly” and hurries away.
You know I’ve never felt comfortable being even partially clothed in front of anyone but you. I am embarrassed, even more so when I realize that my arousal is becoming obvious. When I shift on the examining table I feel that familiar slippery feeling between my legs. Looking down I am horrified to see that a tiny wet spot has just begun to form in the crotch of my khaki colored slacks. I’m mortified.
I look desperately for a tissue, a gauze pad, a blow dryer but before I can locate the help I need the door opens and in walks my doctor. Well, not MY doctor. I have never seen this woman in my life.
“Hi, Michelle,” she says, pulling my name from a chart with a furtive glance. “I’m Dr. Cummings.” Of course she is, I think. Who else could she possibly be? She extends a well-manicured hand and gives me a warm smile. “You can just call me Susan.”
I’m near panic when “Susan” first walks into the room but you can’t know how calming her presence is on me. She speaks with an ease that I envy right away, as though we have been coffee buddies for years. Her laugh is almost melodious like a bell choir ringing through an old country church. I even forget momentarily that I am half-naked with a strange woman.
I guess her to be a little older than me, so perhaps mid-forties. Her auburn hair falls loosely to her shoulders and I like seeing the hint of gray highlights. It says to me that she is comfortable with who she is. Little makeup; just a subtle earthy shading at the eyes, a suggestion of color on her lips. The small hoops dangling from her earlobes pick up the gold flecks in her milk-chocolate eyes.
The rest of her is…fit. That seems to be the best word. And that is just ONE thing that Dr. Susan Cummings is that I am not. There are many others; like tall, lithe, small-chested, tanned and sexy. Oh, I know you’re going to say that I’m sexy, too and I’m so glad that you feel that way. But we both know that I’m a sexy that appeals to a smaller demographic. I think Susan’s sex appeal is pretty universal.
“So, I understand that you’ve been having some back problems.” A question in a statement.
I nod in confirmation and tell her how the pain has developed; first in my lower back, dull like a slight headache and now a broader pain that starts in the middle of my back and spreads halfway down my butt like someone is jabbing me with a pitchfork.
Did I do anything in particular that brought this on? I don’t think so. Have I had a problem with my back before? Only occasional soreness. Never anything as bad as this. What position feels the worst? The best? I’ve been trying to avoid the worst so I don’t know. The best is propped up at a slight angle on my bed with a tall bottle of cheap wine.
Dr. Cummings laughs and taps out a few more notes on her electronic clipboard Avcılar escort bayan and then sets it on a table. I feel a little rush knowing that I had made her laugh. And just as quickly comes the recrimination from my ridiculous thought process. What the fuck is wrong with me? Do I think I’m on a date?
“Stand up for me, please.”
Well, you know from my last few days at home that this is much easier said than done. I move slowly, trying to groan less than I had when I had gotten out of the car an hour earlier. I don’t want her to think I am a wimp. You, on the other hand, already know that I’m a wimp.
“Is that as straight as you can stand without pain?”
“Oh, you wanted WITHOUT pain.” I slouched back down an inch or two.
That laugh again. “You’re a funny lady, Michelle.”
I try not to feel proud but I can’t help it. I wonder briefly if her pussy gets slick when she laughs, the same why mine does now when I MAKE her laugh. Susan moves to my side and scans my posture like she is an art student studying a museum statue. And then, like someone flicked on the lights in a darkened room, I suddenly become aware again that I am standing in front of this woman without my shirt on.
I don’t what to blush. My cheeks already have a rosy hue from my time with the young Dr. Green. This new wave of embarrassment, though, promises to make that previous coloring look like the trickle of a stream compared to a raging river. It starts, as you know, in my chest like a rash and spreads quickly to my neck. I can feel the flush as it hits my face and the fact that I am blushing so severely in front of this woman makes me all the more embarrassed.
If Dr. Cummings notices at all she never lets on. After a couple lifetimes tick by, she finally moves behind me to bore holes through my back with her penetrating eyes. Not being able to see her is both a reprieve and a distress. I can no longer see that clinical stare in my peripheral but I am then left with the disconcerting position of imagining her critical expression as she takes in my backside.
“Michelle, I’m going to touch you.”
“I didn’t want to startle you and have you jerk. I just need to follow the curve of your spine with my fingers.”
Oh, is that all? I think. Why doesn’t she just run a match across my skin? Poke me with a salad fork?
But her touch is little more than a whisper. I feel her gentle pressure just above my bra strap. One finger. Then two. Perhaps a third? It is hard to tell. I am suddenly and irrationally glad that I have chosen one of my better bras today. What if it had been yesterday with that cotton granny-bra with the stitching coming out? You might just as well as shot me.
“Can you straighten up just a little more?”
For her? Oh, I can certainly try. I feel a twinge as I draw my shoulders back and my chest up. A deep breath masks the moan that tries to escape. Susan’s fingers trace a meandering path down the middle of my back and a giggle slips from my lips.
“I’m a little ticklish,” I said. A little? Well, YOU know. And you also know how arousing a tickle is for me. Does Susan suspect as much?
Her tender touch moves into the small of my back; that gentle curve where your hand rests when we walk. I stiffen, but only for a moment. I allow Susan’s soft massage to relax me, pushing the pain in my back to an afterthought. And then another twitch of a tickle. It’s strange how she seems to know just how much pressure is enough. She holds me suspended between loose and tight; between tranquil and aroused, between melting and molten.
“So, how about sex?”
“Wha…I’m sorry, what did…”
“Sex,” she repeats, like we’re talking about the price of chic peas. “Have you had any problems with your back during sex?”
Oh, thank God, I think. But shit, now we’re going to talk about sex? Now that her soft tickles have worked me into a comfortable state of arousal? Right when her hands are near my ass!
I try to focus on nothing but the relief of pain in my back. “Um, no,” I tell her. “Sex hasn’t been a real problem.” Why am I talking so fast?
Of course, what I don’t say is that we haven’t had sex for over two weeks; long before my back created a real reason to abstain. Your schedule, my schedule. Sometimes life gets in the way of living.
“Have you tried having sex since you hurt your back?”
“No, I haven’t.” A fairly safe question. “My back has only been hurting a few days,” I add quickly. Why do I not want her to think that it has been so long since I had sex? Am I ashamed that I’m not fucking more regularly? Like lying to your dentist about flossing twice a day. If she knew would she then be more aware of the stimulation she was providing?
“Okay Michelle, can you lower your pants for me?”
My pants! It’s my BACK that hurts. Why do I have to lower my pants? Can’t I just tell her all about it?
But how do I object to a doctor? What excuse sounds plausible? It’s against Escort Bağcılar my religion, I’m on my period, it’s too cold in here. Or the truth: that I’m embarrassed beyond belief. Not only am I uncomfortable with my body but I’m so wet between my legs I’m ready to puddle. Tell her that she has a voice that could melt chain mail.
You know I can’t say any of these things. I convince myself that she will not notice; that it’s just my hyper-awareness of my horniness that has me so nervous. I unhook my pants and lower them slowly but I can’t get them any farther than mid-cheek. My back injury won’t allow me to bend and gracefully lower my pants to the ground so I hold on to a belt loop for a few short seconds and then unceremoniously let the pants drop to my ankles. The sound as those slacks hit the floor threatens to make my heart explode.
I shift my weight and cringe in my soul when those slacks hit the floor and I feel my panties sticking to my crotch. I want to run. I want to scream. A tiny shudder moves through my body and I sway on trembling legs.
“Are you alright?”
Her voice comes from below me. I am so centered on my embarrassing predicament that I don’t realize that Susan has pulled up one of those stools on wheels. She is sitting now, her face inches away from my soaking pink panties. No, my bra and panties don’t match and, quite absurdly, this briefly becomes my biggest humiliation.
“I’m fine,” I lie, my voice sounding so much smaller than I hoped.
“Okay, I’m just going to lower these panties down a little.”
There aren’t words to describe my hysteria. I want to kill someone. I want to fuck someone.
I feel her pull my bikini style panties several inches down my ass and then her fingers pressing lower, near the sensitive spot where my cheeks begin to form and I flinch, though from pain or pleasure I cannot be sure. She continues as if she is unaware of my arousal. Can’t she see the wetness pooled in my panties? Her tongue is close enough to lick me. She must be able to smell my sex. Can’t she understand my shame?
“Well, as far as the sex is concerned, as long as you’re careful there’s no reason why you can’t still enjoy your husband.”
Oh hell, MORE about the sex? I can’t believe she wants to talk about sex NOW. Can’t we change the subject? Did you see all the weight Marie Osmond lost? So, how would you rate the Bush administration? Do you think the Sox have a deep enough bullpen to make a run?
Susan’s finger, or maybe it’s a thumb, probes deeper in search of the tip of my coccyx. Did I push back against the pressure? I didn’t mean to but…oh my God, I think I tried to grind my ass onto her finger! That’s it. I’m going to die of embarrassment right now.
“Just be careful to pick a position that doesn’t put a strain on your back.” Dr. Cummings continues like we’re sharing a daiquiri in a Sex in the City episode. I can feel her breath on my ass and the breeze chills the wetness of my drenched sex. God, this is a fucking doctor’s office, right? There have to be drugs they can give me!
“Missionary usually works well but I’ve had some patients say that they feel more stable with doggy style, or maybe bent over some pillows.”
I want to die. Did she just mention “doggy style” with her fingers so precariously close to my asshole? I feel a drop of fluid tickle down my inner thigh and I begin to search the room for a sharp object to impale myself on. Stop laughing. I’m about to have a stroke right now.
I put a hand out and grip the edge of the exam table for balance. My head is spinning with humiliation and pain and I’m so freaking horny that I’m seconds away from grabbing the back of the doctor’s head and jamming it into my pussy. You, of course, know I could never do that. But the fact that I’m thinking it lets you know just how overwhelmingly horny I am.
A short knock on the door and it swings quickly open. I shoot a terrified look over my shoulder to see Dr. Green’s boyish face. Oh, for the love of God! How tall is this fucking building? I’m throwing myself from the top.
“I’m so sorry,” he says hastily. “But we have…”
“Connor, get the fuck out of here!” Susan seems almost as unnerved as I am. Almost, I say, because I can’t begin to describe my emotions about being seen standing there with my undies pulled down and a woman practically finger-fucking my ass. I am mortified beyond belief. My whole body is flushed crimson and, much to my astonishment, I feel like I could come without ever being touched.
“But Dr. Cummings,” my intruder continues. “Ms. Peterson’s coding in Exam three!”
“Oh shit. I’m sorry, Michelle,” she says with surprising calm as she starts for the door. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
And then, quicker than a gunshot, I’m alone. Stunned, dazed. I’m not sure what to do. Should I get dressed? I suddenly feel silly standing in the middle of the room with my pants around my ankles. And what if someone else should walk in? How would I explain myself?
I bend slowly down to the floor and grab the edge of my slacks with every intention of pulling them back on. I know exactly what I should do. You know I always do the right thing; the proper thing. But then before I realize what I’m doing, my pants are back on the floor and my free hand is sliding down the front of my panties.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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