Nanny with Benefits

by Amy Brent

  I grabbed my stuff and shut down my office for the day. I’d headed across town to my appointment and was sitting in the office when my neck began to ache. I closed my eyes and felt the headache slowly waft up my back. My shoulders creaked as I stood at my name being called. That had to be sure proof I was aging at twice the normal rate.

  “Melissa Conway? The doctor’s ready for you.”

  The nurse guided me back to a room, and I shut the light off after she left. The headache was growing into a migraine, and I groaned as I lay on the patient bed. Tears stung the back of my eyes as my mind started to run away from me, and before I could stop it, his face popped into my mind.

  That face I’d never be able to forget.

  “Miss Conway?” the doctor asked. “Are you in here?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, groaning.

  “Can I turn on the light?” he asked.

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” I said.

  “All right. Writing down ‘migraines’ before I come in,” he said.

  The door opened, and I felt a person at my side. There were some light touches around my head, some poking of my nose, and then he started in on his wellness exam. He rolled my stomach and checked my breasts for lumps. Then he slowly moved each of my joints and noted which ones popped and which ones caused pain. He jotted down some notes on his pad before he told me to open wide, and I stuck my tongue out as he examined my throat, my ears, and my nose.

  “I’m going to ask you a few questions, but I think I know what’s going on,” he said. “Are you still experiencing the sleeplessness?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Just as frequently?” he asked.

  “Uh huh.”

  “I clocked pain in your knees, hips, and shoulders. Anywhere else?”

  “Right now? My neck and head.”

  “Did that just start?” he asked.

  “In the lobby when I sat down, yes.”

  “Are those frequent, too? The migraines?”

  “Not as frequent as general headaches, no,” I said.

  “Let me ask you this, Miss Conway. How many times a week are you crying, and are you producing mucus when you cry?”

  “That’s an odd question,” I said.

  “I need to know if your sinus ducts are draining. How many times?”

  “Um, five or six times a week, maybe? And yes, mucus every time.”

  “Uh huh. Experiencing any mood swings? Drastic changes that happen on a dime?” he asked.

  “Sometimes, I guess. I wake up sometimes feeling happy. Then I get going, and my mood changes.”

  “Are there triggers for the changes?” he asked.

  “Not always. Sometimes I wake up, and my daughter’s written on the walls or gotten into the milk, but I never get upset with her. I just clean it up and keep going.”

  “Do you get sad about it?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Sometimes I cry over spilled milk,” I said, grinning.

  “A joke! That’s good. All right, one last question. Do you ever wake up crying?”

  “I do, yes.”

  “Are you ever dreaming about anything specific when you do?” he asked.

  “Not always. There’s this droning that I can’t seem to get out of my head. I know I sound crazy, but that’s usually it. Just a droning.”

  “Not crazy at all. How’s your head feeling?” he asked.

  “Not too good.”

  “Let me go get you something we can give you for it, and then I’ll be back with my diagnosis.”

  I wasn’t sure how long he was gone. I nodded off in the dark, my mind wafting back to the days when I was younger. I could remember his eyes, those baby blues juxtaposed against his dark black hair. His touch had been so gentle, and his strokes had been so kind. He’d listen intently as I complained about my parents and all the things they’d never let me do. He was the first boy I’d ever loved. The boy I knew I’d love the rest of my life.

  Until he left for school and came back with a beautifully thin Russian bride.

  “Miss Conway? If you could roll up your sleeve, I’ve got something for that migraine.”

  I reached over and groaned, my shoulder popping as I rolled up my sleeve. I felt the cool alcohol pad trace circles on my skin before a pinprick and then the burning sensation as the migraine immediately began to subside. I sighed with relief as the bandage was placed on my skin. Then the light slowly increased, and I got a glimpse of my doctor.

  “Hello, there,” I said.

  “Hello, Miss Conway. I’ll make this quick because I know you have to get your daughter. I believe what you have is something called Major Depressive Disorder.”

  “You think I’m depressed,” I said.

  “I’d even go out on a limb and say I know you are. And from the sounds of it, you’ve been this way for quite a number of years.”

  “Years?” I asked.

  “Yes. When chemical imbalances like this are left to ravage the body, it begins to break down things like fat and muscle tissue in order to keep going. The breakdown of fat results in weight loss, which I can see by your charts you’ve experienced in droves, but the breakdown of muscle leads to the pains you’re experiencing. Especially in the major joints of the body.”

  “So, what? I need to see a shrink?” I asked.

  “I think you need to see someone, yes. There’s a psychiatrist in the area who is renowned for the work he does. He’s established all over the country, but his headquarters are right here in L.A. I can get you his card, and if you want, I can put in a referral for you. That way, they can call and help you book an appointment.”

  “All right. Sounds good,” I said.

  “Let me get you checked out, and I’ll get you his card.”

  I slid from the bed as my mind continued to swirl. One of the only memories that still brought me any semblance of happiness was the night I was with him. His dark hair was soaked with sweat as he worked to pleasure my body. I could still feel his breath huffing in the crook of my neck. I could still feel the way his body filled mine, taking from me the virginity my parents never talked about. That boy opened my eyes to the world around me, promising to teach me things in and out of the bedroom. I could remember the whispered promise he made in my ear. A promise to come back for me once he had his degree.

  I smiled as I felt my neck prickle with delight as his voice echoed off the corners of my brain.

  “Here’s his card, Miss Conway,” the doctor said. “I’ve got the referral prepared. All you need to do is call and let me know whether or not to put it in.”

  “Thank you, doctor. Really,” I said.

  “Don’t wait too long on this, Melissa,” he said. “You’ve been through enough.”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  “You’re free to go whenever you’d like.” I watched him leave the room as the lights slowly came all the way back up. I squinted, holding the card to my face as I tried to make out the name on it. The numbers came into focus as the gold and blue lettering focused. It reminded me of his eyes that had sparkled in the fluorescent lighting of the staircase we always met in just after school.

  Just before my parents expected me to be home.

  But as the name came into focus, my heart dropped to the floor. The breath fled from my lungs as tears sprang to my eyes. I read his name over and over, telling myself it wasn’t real, that I was seeing things and my mind was playing tricks on me.

  That he wasn’t still here.

  “Brandon Black,” I whispered as a tear washed down my face.

  Suddenly, all the memories fled my mind. Memories of his echoed promise and his body, writhing against mine in the school stairwell. Memories of his smile and his touch, how soft they were. How much it seemed like he cared. Memories of how we laughed together in the grass and how he would sneak me out late at night to watch the stars with me underneath the shade of the tree in my backyard.

  All that was left at the forefront of my mind was the moment I saw him aft
er college.

  The moment he introduced me to his bride.

  The moment I realized he broke the one promise that kept me afloat when my parents disowned me.

  Brandon Black was the love of my life, and my doctor wanted me to see him for my depression.

  Chapter 2

  Brandon

  “Fuck me, Daddy. Fuck me good.”

  Her fake tits were bouncing around in my face as I pinned her to the wall. Her come dripped down my dick, soaking my balls as I slipped in the wet spot on the ground. My legs flexed, causing her to moan out as I caught her before she tumbled. Her massive tits and puckered nipples were flopping against my face. She moaned again, and I could hear her giggling with delight as her reconstructed pussy gobbled down my cock.

  “You like that, Daddy? Like that tight pussy?”

  Fuck, I wished she would just shut up. My week had been rough. All my on-call patients had needed refills of their prescriptions and someone to talk to late at night. I hated fucking being on call for my own damn practice. But the people who worked alongside me needed their breaks every once in a while. Some went home to their wives and kids. Some took vacations and got themselves some sun.

  Me? I liked to find drunk women in bars and fuck them senseless.

  I felt her pussy clamping down around me as her legs locked around my waist. I pressed her harder and harder against the wall of the bathroom stall, my hands tugging at her hair, exposing her neck to me. I nipped and sucked up her neck, wanting her to pull the come from me. I wanted to spray her with it as her body gobbled me down. She felt so warm, and I’d had such a rough fucking week. Soon my hips were stuttering as I felt my orgasm shoot through me.

  She shoved her hand between her thighs, trying to find her release as my cock twitched inside of her. I pulled out, spraying my come over the bathroom floor, soaking her thighs as she grunted fruitlessly. I didn’t give a shit if she got off. She probably did this kind of crap all the time on the weekends. If she’d been looking for a generous lover with a big cock, she’d only get half of that with me.

  “What the fuck?” she asked as I put her down. “I didn’t finish.”

  I tucked myself into my pants as I shrugged. My legs were wobbling with my orgasm and that heady feeling was back. Masturbating never gave me the kind of high that a nice, tight pussy could. Her face grew angry as she tucked her huge fake tits back into her dress, and I slammed out of the bathroom, headed back to the bar. A bit of the stress from this past week released from my shoulders, and I sighed when I saw it was officially ten o’clock.

  I was no longer the psychiatrist on call.

  I sat down beside Michael at the bar as he sipped the beer he’d ordered. The woman came storming past us, brushing up against me as Michael eyed her curiously. He looked at me with a smirk on his face before he shook his head and then raised his hand to the bartender.

  “I think you need another drink,” Michael said.

  Michael worked with me at the private practice I owned. I rented out the rooms in the building to the other professionals for a cheap price, essentially having the funds for the building fall back on them. Even with all the bills paid and nothing coming out of my pocket, their rent and usage of the building were still lower than it was anywhere else in California. Michael’s office was right next to mine—I didn’t believe in sitting on some perch in the sky—and we’d grown closer over the years he’d worked there. He wasn’t the kind of psychiatrist who just shoved pills down his patients’ throats, and that was a stance I could get behind.

  He still wanted to help people. Just like I did.

  “She any good?” he asked.

  “Eh. It did its job,” I said.

  “You left her high and dry, didn’t you?” he asked.

  “Not my fault she didn’t rub her clit sooner.”

  “You know, you should warn those women that you’re not a giver before you start.”

  “Think of it as me creating more customers for us,” I said, grinning.

  “You’re fucking terrible, you know that?”

  “Only when I try. So, who was your worst client this week?”

  “I had someone make a new appointment with me and start off by telling me he was recently diagnosed with cancer,” Michael said.

  “Holy shit. He gonna be all right?”

  “That was the beginning of the conversation. It only escalated from there,” he said. “What about you?”

  “It was just rough. It was my on-call week, so I had scheduled patients as well as everyone else’s panicking patients. I’ve got one I need to check out. Called for three different refills this week. Not sure what’s going on with that, but I want to make sure someone isn’t abusing their prescription pad in my building.”

  “Oh shit. Any idea who the doctor is?” he asked.

  “Yep. I can’t talk about it, you know, confidentiality and all, but I’ll be talking with them after the weekend’s over. I can’t handle more bullshit today.”

  “Oh, speaking of new clients. You know that one that we couldn’t get medicated for depression?” he asked.

  “Yep. Any luck with finding something?” I asked.

  “Fucking get this. Ketamine. There’s a hospital that allows their anesthesiologists to legally admit chronic major depressive individuals for actual ketamine treatments. Fully monitored, and the shit works wonders. That patient came into my office Tuesday and was acting like a completely different person. It could be a fucking case study depending on how these chemical test results come back.”

  “I’ve heard ketamine is the new major breakthrough in treating those suffering from major depressive issues. I’ve a patient who’s two more drug prescriptions away from it. I’ll have to look into it, see if it can help them too.”

  “It’s promising,” Michael said. “If you can, just send them now. It’s not worth making them suffer.”

  “If you want to do a true case study, they have to exhaust all medicative avenues. But, if you’re up for it and want your name on something, you can use that patient I have as well in your studies.”

  “Dude, thanks. Anything to help these people out,” he said.

  “No problem.”

  “My workload’s increased by twenty-five percent this week, too. Had a flood of new patient sheets come in, and I’m not sure how much more I can take on. I’ll have to rent out more rooms at the rate we’re growing just so I don’t work myself to death,” I said.

  “Hey, it’s both good for business and bad for the way our world is going. Mental health issues keep us in business, but at what cost?” Michael asked.

  “It seems like everyone’s coming to me for help, and I don’t know how to help all of them.”

  “Even with the branching out you’ve done with the practice?” he asked.

  “Yeah. The branches in New York, New Orleans, and here are doing wonderfully.”

  “Well, you can’t beat L.A. Especially with the pussy you enjoy slaying,” he said.

  “But, it feels like it’s almost not enough. I’ve got people going to the website and asking me if I’m going to open up a practice in Hawaii of all places. Hawaii! Apparently, people on our little island are struggling just as much as they are here,” I said.

  “Well, do you have the funds to expand?” he asked.

  “More than enough. But at what point do I admit I can’t help the world?”

  “Never, Brandon. That’s when. Because the moment you do, you lose that fervor. That zest that helped you start this thing in the first place,” he said. “If your caseload is that great, I’ll take on a few new patients. I know my specialty is in depression and bipolar states, but if you don’t want to open another room to rent out, then that’s what it might take.”

  “I’ve got a lot to think about this weekend before it’s back to the grind on Monday.”

  “No wonder you were only chasing yours tonight,” he said, grinning. “But honestly? I feel kind of like I’m losing clients.”

&nb
sp; “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “My schedule’s seem, I don’t know, thinner and thinner.”

  “Well, then maybe you should take it as a compliment. You’re helping people, and they’re feeling less and less inclined to come back and talk. You’re helping them cope and live their lives the way they need to,” I said.

  “I know. I just … is it weird that I panic about that? I mean, I still need a job. An income. Right?” he asked.