Aside from going to the doctors, I’ve spent a lot of the last year trying to cure myself. I spent time online reading medical sites, trying to understand what was going on with me, trying to see if there was someone out there who had experienced similar symptoms to mine. So far, nothing.
I also tried to cure myself with sheer willpower. Mostly that involved forcing myself to go outside. Sooner or later, the symptoms would invariably start. I would gaze with joy at the sky and practically rejoice in the feeling of the real ground beneath my feet. But my nose would always start to run, my throat would start to constrict, my eyes watering to the point that I couldn’t see out of them. Sounds just like any old allergy attack, right? Well, it was… sort of. My body would start to swell up like someone with a shellfish allergy eating a couple pounds of fresh lobster. Then I would pass out, and they would take me to the hospital for emergency treatment, pumping me full of whatever chemical cocktail would revive me.
And then I’d wake up again in my room. My room, my prison. It’s really the same thing. There’s no difference anymore to me… I might as well be in jail for all it means to me.
Despite not wanting to see yet another doctor, probably to hear the same thing again, I can’t help feeling more than a little excited about the possibility of having a visitor here in my room.
I know, pathetic right?
But that’s how starved I am for social contact.
And who can blame me?
It’s been an entire year.
An entire year without so much as a single date.
You can’t really date when you’re like this. An entire year without so much as a single kiss…
Oh, and I’m still a virgin, and it doesn’t look like that’s ever going to change. I went through high school as the goody two shoes straight A student, figuring I’d have time for boyfriends once I got to college.
But then I started to get sick.
I think I got close once to losing my virginity, in my first semester of college. A hot but somewhat geeky guy had asked me out, and we were back at his place, facing each other on the couch. He was making some awkward conversation and truthfully all I could think about was just getting it over with. I didn’t want to have my virginity hanging over my head anymore, the way it had been for so long.
I finally blurted out, “Do you want to sleep with me or what?”
He grinned at me and led me awkwardly into his bedroom. I mean, he was good looking and all, but I knew he wasn’t exactly the sort of guy I’d spend the rest of my life with, let alone date seriously or anything like that. But at that point I wasn’t even looking to get off. I didn’t care about enjoying the experience to come. I just wanted to get it over with.
If I could have signed some sort of official contract, the way you do when you go to the bank to apply for a loan to buy a house, I would have just done that instead.
If I could have sacrificed a goat to a god, the way they used to do back in the “old” days, I would have done that instead.
But there wasn’t anything else to do but follow this vaguely awkward guy into his bedroom that smelled like old fish and let him put his penis inside me.
That’s how I was thinking about it—totally mechanically.
Unfortunately for me, we didn’t get very far.
Maybe it was the smell of the old fish, which he assured me very passionately was just the smell from his old socks, as if that was any better. Or maybe it was the stress. Or maybe it was something else altogether.
But I got a reaction, one of my first.
My throat started to swell up, to the point that I couldn’t talk. The guy was asking me what was wrong, telling me that my face was getting red and ballooning up like an inflatable swimming raft. To this day, I still don’t know why he felt it was necessary to compare my face to a swimming raft, no matter how bad the swelling was.
So I feel like you know the rest of the story.
The reactions got worse and worse, so I decided (along with my parents, the dean of admissions, and just about everyone else) that I needed to take some time off and get my medical situation sorted out. I figured I’d go to a couple doctors, take a couple pills, and be back for second semester, not having missed much that I couldn’t read about online.
But things got worse and worse.
And now I’ve been stuck in my room for a year, without a single prospect of losing my virginity, let alone getting out of here to go for a simple walk around the block.
At one point I was complaining about my virginity so much to Shelly that she offered to send over someone who was apparently very willing. She’d shown him pictures of me.
I grudgingly agreed, despite the horribly awkward nature of the situation.
But once we got down to discussing how he’d need to change his clothes, and not wear any deodorant, and that a latex condom might send me to the hospital… He lost interest.
And he was going to have to sneak past my parents by climbing up the side of the house where there’s a convenient trellis on which grows a beautiful wisteria vine that’s been there since I was a kid. He was fine with that part, because I guess he’d seen something like that in the movies. But there’s nothing in the movies about your date essentially being the real life bubble girl. Something about that phrase just doesn’t seem to get the guys hot and rarin’ to go.
The afternoon seems to be stretching forever. I’d like to call Shelly, but she’s still going to be in her afternoon class.
My phone vibrates. It’s a text from my dad.
“You remember Liam?” it reads. “Here’s a link to his website so you can learn a little about him before he comes over tomorrow. Remember that he does much more than surgery.”
I click the link, and my phone’s browser takes me a hospital staff page.
“Liam Horton” is the first name on there.
Holy fuck…
I was expecting an old guy, some distinguished gray haired doctor.
I was not expecting a guy with a jawline so sharp it looks like I could brush up against my phone’s screen and cut myself on it.
I was not expecting the way his colored shirt simply cannot hide his muscles. There’s no doubt in my mind that he’s packing a six pack, maybe even an eight pack… rippling ab muscles that I can just imagine pressing against me…
My imagination’s already starting to get carried away a little bit…
I’m getting wet, and I can’t help sliding my hand under the thick elastic band of my panties (the ones that are completely not sexy, but comfortable as hell), letting my finger brush against my pussy that’s opening up and starting to get glistening wet…
Chapter 3
Liam
I’m taking the motorcycle today, a pristine vintage 1964 Triumph T100, the same bike that Dylan crashed so many years ago before going into seclusion in New York.
The only downside of taking the bike is that I can’t blast tunes.
But the glowing green trees, the smells, and the scenery all make up for that.
Sometimes I feel like I’ve never felt freer than when I’m cruising on my bike, my wrist bent back on the throttle, my leg brushing against the exhaust pipe that’s just starting to get uncomfortably hot.
It’s the little things about this bike that make it perfect. It’s special because it’s decidedly not perfect. It’s got a hell of an engine, but it’s a bike that you need to tinker with. It’s not the type of bike for guys who don’t know one end of a wrench from another.
I still remember how to get to John’s house. It’s down a winding road where the trees form a canopy over the center. The houses are big and spaced out.
John’s never been poor, and he’s certainly not doing badly now that he’s retired. I remember he happened to have a knack for picking exactly the right stocks at exactly the right time, to the point that others sometimes got upset with him for his good luck.
Me? I’ve never worried much about money. I make it and I spend it. To me, the
re’s not much point in keeping track of every last penny. Even when I was in in med school and hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt, I never bothered to worry much about my expenses.
John’s house is a big one with pink shutters. His wife must have picked those out.
In every respect, it looks exactly like a respectable well to do family home in the suburbs. Only in reality we’re still within the city limits, although you wouldn’t know it from the large well manicured lawns and soccer moms walking groomed poodles.
I ring the bell.
John answers, looking older and more weather beaten than the last time I saw him.
“Thanks for coming,” he says.
His tone is serious and his face is the same.
“If there’s anyone who can help, I know it’s you.”
I don’t much go for all this somber crap, even in the hospital when someone’s dying. I just like to see what I can do to help. There’s no point in over thinking things.
“Where’s her room?” I say.
“I’ll show you. Here, follow me. Now, you’re going to have to…”
As I follow him up the steps, past the family photographs from ten years ago, he explains to me the many steps that I’m going to need to complete in order to enter the room without his daughter passing out.
“First you’ve got to change all your clothes. Don’t worry, I’ve got a spare set that’ll fit you. Then just imagine you’re back in the surgery room. You’ve got to do the whole thing… gloves, a face mask… you know the drill, you’re a surgeon for crying out loud.”
I almost tell him, “Look, John, I know you care about your daughter and all but this is a little extreme, even for me…” But then I remember how he really did help me out of that jam. Bedding nurses is one thing, but bedding two of them in the hospital when you’re supposed to be on shift is another thing altogether. In reality, I should have been fired on the spot, but John has some pull with the administrators, and he got me some leniency that in truth I didn’t deserve, except that I am a great surgeon.
“All right, John,” I say. “Anything else I should know before going in there?”
“There’s a shot of epinephrine on the wall, and an emergency phone that’s dialed right to the hospital in case anything happens.”
I let out a sigh.
“I’ll take it from here then, John,” I say. “Don’t worry, we’ll find something for your little girl.”
John gives me a weak but worried grin and disappears down the hallway where his nervous wife is waiting. I give her a wave, but she disappears behind a door without responding. Oh yeah, now I remember—I must have offended her once, twice, or even three times. The memory is a little hazy now, but it had something to do with me and a waitress behaving “inappropriately” at a country club dinner that she’d invited me to.
Whatever. I’ll just go in and see their anxiety ridden daughter and get out of here. I’ll recommend a good psychologist and a cocktail of antidepressants and antianxiety meds.
As I go through the whole rigmarole of getting myself surgically clean, I realize that there’s really nothing else medically that could be wrong with this girl. It simply must be anxiety.
Decked out with plastic wrapped all around me, and a mask over my face, I knock hard on the door. Three quick rasps from my knuckles. I need to get this over with so I can head out to the club where the nurses hang out after work and score myself some sweet tight first year nurse’s ass.
“Coming,” says a voice unlike any I’ve heard. It’s sweet and innocent and almost knocks me back on my feet.
“I’m Liam Horton,” I say. “I’m a friend of your dad’s…”
The door opens slowly, and if her voice didn’t surprise me enough, her body is the fucking surprise of a lifetime.
Holy fuck, is all I can think.
My mind’s almost blank. Blank from her curves.
I had no idea John’s daughter looked like this.
Where the hell has he been hiding her away? Oh yeah, in her room, under the pretense of some horrible un-diagnosable allergy.
She didn’t look anything like this the last time I saw her. I can only vaguely remember her as a gangly awkward teenager with braces that seemed to take up her entire face.
Now she’d give any model or actress today a serious run for their money.
And what a crime that she’s locked away in this cramped little room.
Her ass is like two gorgeous volleyballs stuffed into the skin tight yoga pants that she wears. Her breasts are equally hot, preposterously hot.
My cock instantly springs to life, a stiff steel spear that calls out to me, that wants to impale her and make her cry my name as she comes like she’s never come before. All I can think about is riding her until she cries out not for me to stop, but for more, more, and more…
“Hi,” she says, her voice soft and sweet like a meadow, a meadow on steroids that make it impossibly sexy… the sexiest meadow that’s ever existed. Where the fuck is my mind going?
Her body has got my mind all twisted up into nonsense.
Finally, I regain my composure.
“Your dad wanted me to check in on you to see if there’s anything I could do,” I say, adopting my professional surgeon voice, still standing in her doorway.
“Yes,” she says, introducing herself as Mia, and asking me to come in. “I’ve heard all about you. My dad says you’re great, and that you can find the cure for anything.”
“Well,” I say, sitting on an armchair that she gestures towards. “I should clarify that I’m a surgeon, a brain surgeon, actually. So it would be an understatement to say that this isn’t my area of expertise.”
She sits down on the edge of her bed, putting her stretched out arms on her knees. She has excellent posture, letting her back stay straight, just enough curve in the spine for her pert breasts to stick out. It feels like they’re drilling right into my eyes. I have to tear myself away from glancing at them. She’s wearing a casual t-shirt but it’s tight enough to really show her body.
Bringing my mind back to what I came here to do, my first impression (and first impressions, in my world, mean quite a bit when it comes to diagnosing patients), she doesn’t seem the least bit odd, anxious, bipolar, or anything else that falls under the vast umbrella of mental problems.
She seems too sane, actually.
“So what can you tell me about your symptoms?” I say, taking out a pad of paper. The pad helps me keep my eyes off her.
She tells me what her dad told me, but goes into much more detail. She tells me how it all started gradually, and how she’s forced herself to go outside many times, always to disastrous consequences. Eventually she stopped trying because she kept ending up in the hospital over and over again. It simply became too dangerous to continue.
“And what about your blood work?” I say. In reality, I want to tell her to kneel down in front of me and wrap her gorgeous lips around my massive cock. I’m conscious of her glances down towards my crotch, but I’ve never been one to care about whether women can see my erection. It’s just natural, after all. I’m not going to apologize for the way a woman makes my body respond.
“All normal,” she says, her large eyes wide, innocent and beautiful, looking right at me.
It’s almost too much for me.
I want to throw her down on the bed and plunge my cock into her tight pussy.
But of course that would cause her to have an allergic reaction, and I’d have to drive her to the hospital on my motorcycle, trying to keep her on the bike with my own strength.
No, that wouldn’t be good.
But would it be worth it?
I know she wants me. That’s not unusual, though. Almost every woman wants me.
“Well,” I say, continuing to play doctor. “Maybe you can send me the lab work. Maybe there’s something in there that everyone else missed, but I doubt it. So you’ve been to see…”
“Yes, I’ve been to see plenty of th
erapists, if that’s what you were going to ask,” says Mia, her eyes turning playful. “I’m not crazy, and I’m not imagining it, although I can certainly understand why someone would think that. Hell, I thought that myself for a long time, but it kept happening over and over again.”
“I see,” I say, making a note.
I write down “crazy” with a question mark after it, before crossing it off.
Honestly, I’ve dealt with plenty of patients with mental issues of all types. I spent three years in the emergency room, and I learned to spot things that aren’t quite right. I don’t have anything against people with mental issues, and I know it can be a real struggle. But sometimes they make a hell of a patient to deal with if you’re not aware of what they’re struggling with. I found that getting better at diagnosing them on the spot made my job a lot easier.
“I never thought you were crazy,” I say, lying a little. “But honestly I did assume that anxiety must have been in play… but meeting you, you seem quite well adjusted for a young woman living alone in a room in her parents’ house. This would drive me insane.”
Mia laughs.
Her laugh is simply gorgeous. Her whole body goes into it, and I can tell that she really means that laugh. It’s not one of those high pitched false laughs that the nurses give me when I say something that’s not even intended as a joke.
She’s genuine, and genuinely gorgeous.
“It is difficult,” says Mia. “All my friends are out in the world, living it up, living their lives…”
A look of a sadness passes over her face like a shadow. But it doesn’t make her look any less beautiful.
“How old are you?” I say, holding my pen in the hopes that it seems like I’m just asking a standard medical question, rather than inquiring for personal reasons.
Doctor's Virgin (Innocence Book 3) Page 2
