Doctor-Patient Confidentiality Box Set

by Eme Strife

  "Uh, Ramona's fine," I manage to croak. I'm not sure it even matters what he calls me. His voice would most likely still have the same attention-grabbing effect.

  He simply nods. "Alright, then. Ramona it is."

  Jesus, he really needs to stop doing that! The way he says my name gives me the most gigantic goosebumps ever. I’m not entirely sure if they’re the good or bad kind, but I’m more inclined to think they’re the good kind.

  He remains silent, and I realize he’s waiting for me to speak.

  I tell him about the hitches, when they first started, and how they seem to happen randomly. His expression remains thoughtful as I explain everything, his eyes unnervingly intense and observant.

  I lower my own eyes with record speed—speed that I honestly didn't think they possessed, darting my gaze away from his with a quickness when I catch him staring at me so intently.

  My heart picks up its pace and refuses to slow down even a little bit, even when I silently beg it to.

  I feel extremely nervous.

  He's making me extremely nervous, and I don't know why.

  "Lift up your shirt," he says suddenly, and my eyeballs damn near switch places.

  "Excuse me?" I know my shock at his statement—which, again, sounds way more like demand—is obvious in my noticeably strained voice.

  He pulls his stethoscope from around his neck and motions to my belly with his perfect looking finger. "Let's get you checked out."

  Realization sets in, and I feel nothing short of absolutely stupid.

  Before I can think of anything else, he comes around his desk and sits in the chair opposite mine, beckoning me to stand.

  He sets his free hand at the side of my waist, and even though he seems to do it absently, the resulting contact catches me way off guard.

  The sensations his fingers elicit are undeniably and terrifyingly electric, catapulting a million sharp tingles and prickles all over my body in seconds which quickly gather and collect in areas I wish they wouldn’t.

  Instinctively, I clench my thighs, pressing them tightly against each other at the overwhelming sensations that happily blast away between them.

  I feel blood rushing to my head, and for a moment, my vision becomes slightly blurry from the sudden lightheadedness sweeping over me.

  He places the stethoscope just below my bra, and I'm not prepared for the stab of cold it shoots through me. My body jolts involuntarily at the frigid sensation and I inhale sharply on a gasp.

  "Cold?" he simply asks without looking at me.

  I can only nod emphatically, afraid my voice will fail me if I try to speak right now. I think he feels rather than sees my response.

  "Just relax," he says, moving the stethoscope an inch from where it was. "Breathe for me."

  It’s only when he says the words that I realize I'm holding my breath, but I don't think it's just because of the cold stethoscope traveling all over my tummy.

  His fingers slide toward the front of my torso, lightly grazing my skin as they do, and I literally have to grit my teeth together because I'm afraid I might actually moan from how good they're making me feel. I clench my thighs even tighter until they start to hurt as I desperately try to breathe normally.

  He pushes the pads of his index and middle fingers into my belly, increasing the pressure on my skin again and again on various areas, looking for exactly where this hitch is coming from. He presses again, firmer this time, and I abruptly lurch forward, stumbling as I fall forward onto him.

  My hands reach out instinctively and my fingers clutch at his broad shoulders in an effort to brace myself from what would have been a very awkward collision, but I realize I'd still be okay even if I didn't.

  His grip on my waist is firm, and his hand easily stabilizes me. It's actually pretty ridiculous how little effort it's taking him to keep me in place.

  I realize I'm standing between his legs now, and I only realize that because my thigh accidentally brushes against his scrubs, and I feel a protrusion gently pressing against me that I can only hope is not what I'm pretty fucking sure it is.

  I feel myself completely stiffen as my mind registers two things; one, for whatever reason, this handsome stranger-doctor person that I just met has a hard-on, and two, I just practically rubbed up on said handsome stranger’s hard-on.

  And as a result, I can only manage to do one thing; freak the hell out.

  ***

  My body moves before I can stop it, and a mix of shock and fear and something else I'm not really sure I want to admit that I'm feeling force my hands to push myself off his shoulders, hauling me backward in a slight stumble.

  My abrupt reaction quickly puts some distance between us, but his other hand refuses to budge from its current resting place—my now very rigid waist. His grip on it actually seems firmer, if anything. I'm breathing hard, and the air enters and leaves my suddenly overactive lungs as if they're trying to use up all the oxygen in the room.

  I warily look at him again, only to find that he, on the other hand, is completely and utterly calm and unaffected. It's as if he didn't notice anything at all. And perhaps he didn't, but I highly doubt it. I mean, how can a guy not notice when his penis is stiff?

  I resist the urge to look down at it, forcing my eyes to stop well above his groin area. I'm not sure if I'm more afraid of confirming what I felt, or the possibility of him catching me red-handed staring at his Johnson. Either way, I manage to stop my eyes from wandering too far down, and they end up focusing on his.

  His eyes are still on my belly, their pale blue hue so direct and piercing it's almost as if he can see through my belly, and for a second, I actually picture him as Superman looking through my body with his awesome X-ray vision. I scoff at myself internally at the silly thought as he remains focused on what he’s doing and completely unaware of his superhero role in my random thought.

  His expression is thoughtful and focused as he proceeds to continue with his probing, gently pressing around the same region that caused my sudden jolt to see if it will happen again.

  And eventually, it does, but a lot less dramatically this time as his fingers don't apply as much pressure on me as they did before.

  "Here," he finally says, lightly tapping about two inches above my belly button. "This seems to be where your discomfort is originating from. I can feel a bit of unusual hardness right in this area here…almost like a mass."

  His fingertip circles the small patch of belly in question, warming the skin there. I don't understand—and honestly don't quite believe—how the hell a clinical exam is actually making me feel horny.

  "You said they've been becoming more frequent recently?" he asks, removing me from my deviant thoughts.

  "Yes," I whisper. I don't know why I'm whispering.

  "Do you do a lot of abdominal or torso intensive exercises?"

  "Yes. For vocal lessons."

  He looks up at me momentarily. "You sing?"

  I nod. "Yes."

  "Hmm. I guess music runs in your family, too," he says with an encouraging smirk. "And has this issue ever occurred while you were singing or during your vocal lessons?"

  I nod more emphatically. "Yes, a lot of times. In fact, it kept happening quite a bit this morning. It's never been this bad. That's why I was concerned and came over here after visiting the school clinic."

  Somehow, I feel better after telling him that, like I'm sharing a problem with him that he wants to help me with, even though I know he's just doing his job.

  I'm still trying very hard to ignore the fact that I know his hard-on is still there, standing at attention in confinement just below me.

  His hands move away from my body as he leans back in his chair, effortlessly draping the stethoscope around his neck once more before he proceeds to take down some notes in my folder.

  My skin suddenly feels so bare and cold without his fingers on me, and I hate that I feel that way. I shouldn't feel this kind of lust for someone else's husband. That's plain wrong,
and frankly, I'm angry at myself for reacting to him the way I am. I seriously need to get a fucking grip.

  His smooth, deep voice comes through again, forcing my attention back to what I actually came here for.

  "Well, I read the note that Jane sent over and I have to agree with her,” he says. “As with pretty much any symptom, there are lots of possibilities and factors that cause and/or influence them. I can't really tell you that much from just a physical exam, so the cause and full extent of the effects are inconclusive at this point.

  “An abdominal ultrasound would be the first step in figuring out what exactly is going on. Depending on what we find, we may need to do an endoscopy as well. You also have the option of doing an endoscopic ultrasound, which is a combination of both procedures done at the same time."

  Just great. Any inkling of encouragement I might have felt coming here just went straight out the fucking window.

  "How much would the endoscopy cost?" I ask, already dreading the answer.

  "The cashier downstairs can give a precise breakdown, but after insurance, it should roughly be around—"

  "I don't have insurance," I interject, cutting him off.

  He pauses for a second, and I can see a glimpse of uncertainty flash in his icy eyes before he speaks again.

  "Well then, you're looking at about a hundred and eighty for a basic ultrasound, and three to four thousand dollars for the endoscopy. There’d be additional costs for a biopsy and, of course, surgery if it comes to that, but we’ll take it one step at a time."

  I feel all the energy rushing out of me as I exhale in a long, tired sigh. This day can't get any more depressing.

  "Isn't there any other way to tell what might be wrong?" I plead. I hate how desperate my voice sounds, but I'm really at a loss right now.

  His expression remains neutral. "Sure there are, but they're much more expensive than an endoscopy if you want an accurate diagnosis. And we can't treat what we can't diagnose, Ramona."

  I'm at a loss for words, so I don't say anything for several moments. Surprisingly, he doesn't say anything either, and the resulting silence between stretches to a point way beyond comfort.

  I find him staring at me intently again, his eyes incredibly focused, sending a rush of chills and shivers through my spine. I'm actually starting to feel cold even though his office is fairly warm.

  His gaze quickly becomes too intense for me, and I have to break eye-contact in an effort to keep my frantically beating heart in my chest.

  I quickly stand. "Well, thank you for your time, Doctor Frost," I say, grabbing my bag and slinging it over my shoulder. I have no idea what I’m going to do or where I’m going to get that kind of money from, but I need to get out of here.

  "Not a problem," he says, standing as well and towering over me once again. I'm five-seven, but I don't think I've ever felt so small in my entire life.

  He extends his hand to me, and I hesitate for a split second before taking it. I hold my breath on impulse at the feel of his warm palm and strong fingers engulfing mine.

  I sneak one more glance at him, and I meet his eyes again, his relentlessly intense gaze still on my face. I can't even explain how paralyzing and intense they are, to the point where they actually scare me.

  I can clearly feel my pussy throbbing through my jeans, and it's pulsating with so much force that I'm afraid he might feel it, too.

  Hot liquid oozes generously between my thighs, and I know I've had enough. I take my hand from his and practically run out of his office, not daring to look back.

  ***

  My heart is still racing as I head to my car.

  I'm shaky all over, my hand visibly trembling as I reach for my door, and I know it's not because of the cold, despite the fact that the temperatures have dropped to below freezing right now.

  I can't get the look of his eyes out of my mind. They literally scare me…but they also make me feel something else; something I know I shouldn’t be feeling. Something I don't think I've ever felt before. The way he looked at me was just…crazy. Straight-up crazy!

  I know it's mostly in my head and probably my subconscious' way of looking for attention. That would actually make sense, since I was clearly looking for attention from an absolutely unattainable source. It’s probably for the best, anyway. With my aversion to love, I suppose I'd rather crush on a guy who I know I can't have.

  But is 'crush' even the appropriate word for what I’m feeling? Boys haven't mattered to me in that way for a long time now, so I can't be sure.

  Boys.

  I chuckle to myself suddenly, thinking about how absurd the use of the word is to describe Doctor Frost. He's clearly anything but a boy.

  That much is beyond obvious.

  All the same, it's been a while since I last looked at any guy who made my face heat up from thinking the kind of thoughts I wouldn't even share with my best friend.

  Speaking of Trixie, I really hope she's okay. And more than that, I really hope she doesn’t run into Gina, and if she does, I really hope it's not on campus. I know for a fact that it just won't end well, and Trixie sure as hell doesn't need any more drama with the university's student conduct department.

  One unfortunate incident her freshman year at a ridiculous frat party gone apeshit pretty much put her under a bit of a microscope with the School of Music's administration, and any more incidents—even minor ones—have the potential to wreck her record, and her future.

  And I can't have that. She's too dedicated and works too hard for it to all get fucked up over some chick who seemingly can't keep her legs closed.

  My mother really disliked women like that, and had no qualms about making her feelings known on the matter. Mary Maladines, she called them; after the prostitute, Mary Magdalene. Only, they were supposedly much worse; unrepentant, unredeemable, and came with a host of maladies.

  To be fair, she was never specific about what kinds of maladies.

  She always stressed that I dress and behave appropriately and ladylike—meaning super-duper conservative—so that I wouldn't ever become a Mary Maladine. Then again, she was raised uber Catholic, so I dunno.

  I let out a deep sigh. I don't want to think about my mom right now, especially when I'm having such a hard time keeping the good blue-eyed doctor out of my head as well.

  I turn the key in the hole and the engine roars to life, bringing my little old car into motion.

  I head straight to work, cutting through traffic as best as I can on the highway and through downtown as I make my way to the Mushroom.

  It takes a good twenty minutes, and by the time I arrive at work, I still have plenty of time to spare before my shift begins.

  By some miracle, the parking spot directly in front of the back entrance is vacant today despite the shit weather. I can't stop myself from doing a silent fist pump; my small—and probably lame—gesture of gratitude for this small sprinkle of fortune in an otherwise horribly shitty day.

  I practically run into the pub the second the car engine dies, doing my best to ignore how much the cold is biting into my body. I don't even bother to check if my parking skills aren't complete shit this go around.

  In my haste to get inside, I momentarily forget just how slippery the ice has become until it reminds me, and before I know it, my legs are up in the air and my ass is flat on the hard, cold ground.

  And it fucking hurts!

  Ugh. Nothing like a good crappy fall to top off a crappy day.

  I quickly get up and look around, saying a silent 'thank you' to whichever deity that's decided to give me a tiny little break when I see that I don't have an audience that witnessed my ungraceful tumble. 'Cause that's certainly the last thing I need right now.

  I head into the back room, which is sort of an unofficial lounging area for the pub's staff. I come here to study sometimes when the libraries are really full—especially during finals week—and whenever I don't feel like going all the way to campus on the weekends. The back room is completely v
acant when I enter, and mostly quiet, but I can hear slight shuffling and clinking of glass in the distance. It's obvious that business is slow and there aren't that many customers, but then again, it's a Monday afternoon, and a bloody cold one at that. And that's precisely why I love this shift.

  I look at my watch again. I still have about forty minutes until I take over from Nicole, one of the few other waitresses who still works here—although I'm sure she'll end up quitting sooner than later. That gives me plenty of time to get some studying done.

  I sink into the old and creaky but incredibly cozy loveseat that Larry adamantly refuses to throw away, claiming it's been in his family for generations. It's undeniably old, definitely a vintage item, and to be honest, it's not a lot to look at.

  Actually, it looks pretty damn ugly; possibly the ugliest love seat I've ever seen. It also has a bit of a smell, but it's one you get past once you realize how comfortable it is. The distinct scent kind of even grows on you after a while. I know it did for me.