Doctor Patient Confidentiality 01

THE CONFIDENTIAL SERIES

Doctor-Patient Confidentiality

Volume One

Eme Strife

Copyright© Eme Strife. 2013. All rights reserved.

No part of this work may be reproduced without the author's express consent.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Dedication

For those who love hard, with passion, determination, and zero apology.

For those who are hesitant to try, out of fear, hurt and uncertainty.

But most of all, for those who really aren't sure where they stand with love—for everyone in between.

PROLOGUE

I lie here in this incredibly soft and cushioned California King Bed, draped by navy blue silk sheets in a room illuminated only by the dim glow of scented candles.

The blended aroma of lavender and jasmine fills the warm air, but despite the pleasant, therapeutic scent, I am hardly relaxed.

The sound of my shallow breathing fills my ears, and it becomes even more audible as I feel it getting slightly labored, no doubt with sheer anticipation.

My skin is heated and flushed, and my dark, curly hair is a tangled mess against the soft pillow underneath my head. I vaguely register the ticking sound of the large wall clock hanging high above the headboard.

I feel a bead of sweat trickle down my chest and between my breasts, tickling my skin as it moves further south to collect in my belly button.

I stare into the eyes of the gorgeous man on top of my naked body with uncertainty as he enters me for the fifth time tonight, wondering how it is exactly that I got into my current position.

Literally and figuratively.

I continue to behold his big, muscled body as it effortlessly covers mine. I don't think it'll ever be possible for me to get tired of looking at its impeccable display, clothed, naked, covered in mud, or in a glowy sheen of sweat like it is now. My eyes travel upwards to find him staring hard at me, and I feel my sex clench and throb violently, as if it's the first time his arresting gaze has covered me in goosebumps.

He remains silent as he pushes into me without warning or restraint, and I quickly feel myself getting even more flushed at the squelching, sucking sounds that his entry causes.

I feel myself gaping wide open as he quickly buries himself deep inside me, like he's done many times before. His strong fingers dig into my skin as he grips my hips roughly and brings them hard against his pelvis in one quick motion.

I'm unable to stop the yelp—a throaty mesh of pain and ecstasy—that escapes from deep within my throat at the deliciously forceful invasion. I arch my back and push my head further into the pillow in surrender, because frankly, that's all I can do.

This man owns me.

I'm certain of it now.

And I honestly can't believe just how willing I am to be owned by him.

I instantly cream myself and his now sheathed cock, still in utter disbelief at how much he fills me up. A moan escapes my quivering lips as my upper body is pressed further into the mattress by his incredible weight.

My fingers instinctively reach out and dig into his forearms, feeling the magnificently corded muscles and veins in them as I wrap my legs tightly around his waist. My feet are pressed against the taut skin of his firm ass. I feel his hips flex under my thighs, and I can't subdue the pleasured smile that sneaks its way onto my lips.

I'm all too aware of how much he stretches me open, and despite the embarrassment that still lingers, I love feeling the incredible heat and thickness of his cock pressing almost desperately inside my pussy.

I crave it.

Badly, sometimes.

The soreness I still feel presents raw evidence of what he did to me just twenty minutes ago, as does the pool of sticky wetness between my thighs, and I can't help but revel in the sweet pain. As twisted and obscene as it is, I always love reminders of how roughly and thoroughly he fucks me.

He pulls back, and pushes forward again with even more force.

He does it again. And again. And again.

And all I can do is surrender myself to his deliberate actions. All I can do is take every inch of each powerful thrust and allow my body to feel each and every second of the raw ecstasy that's running wildly through its veins.

The flickering flames of the candles cast shadows against the beige walls, and I watch our entwined silhouettes moving in sync to a frantic, sexual rhythm—like that of passionate, devoted lovers.

But that can't be further from the truth. We aren't lovers, and despite the romantic setting, this isn't a romantic getaway or honeymoon. The gorgeous man inside me is not my boyfriend or my husband.

In fact, he's someone else's.

Husband, that is.

And we aren't making love. Or even just having sex. This is good old-fashioned, raw, reckless, uninhibited fucking.

Just like he likes it.

And just like I've come to as well.

He looks at me with unapologetic lust, and his stare is unfaltering. He digs into my very soul with icy blue eyes that both terrify and captivate me. The same eyes that wouldn't leave mine the moment we met. The same eyes that have blatantly refused to leave my mind ever since. And the same damn eyes that still haunt my every waking hour, and won't leave my dreams alone when I sleep at night.

He moves faster and faster, pumping into me harder and harder with abandon. The sticky, slapping sounds of cock in pussy crack and echo through the stillness of the night, giving testimony to our raw and depraved coupling.

I want to kiss him, so much that it physically hurts. I want to press my lips to his full, pink mouth and suck on his tongue, like I've been dying to ever since I met him.

But I don't.

I can't.

Because I know he won't let me.

He never lets me.

It's the one thing he refuses to do with me; his number one rule for me to keep if I want...whatever this is between us, to continue—this arrangement of sorts. And as wrong as I know this is, I also know that I'm not ready to stop just yet.

Our tempo becomes even more hurried, more frantic, and each of his angry thrusts sends me deeper and deeper into an abyss of sheer ecstasy. My moans are turning into a mesh of cries, whimpers, and pleas. My skin is scorched, ablaze with lust and want, and all the pores on my body are screaming in emotional overdrive as I feel myself becoming feverish and drenched in sweat.

I can't believe how different things are now; how complicated my life has become in such a short amount of time.

It was never supposed to be like this. He's off limits.

He's always been off limits.

I keep telling myself that; that being here with him is not supposed to feel this good.

God, he's not supposed to feel this good.

I wonder what my life would have been like now if I had gone to the clinic on a different day, or if I had just insisted on going with the physician I was initially referred to.

Never in my life would I have thought that in the events that followed the beginning of a regular school week, a random check-up would end up spawning a highly angst-filled, incredibly confusing, and quickly-unfolding mess.

CHAPTER ONE

The wipers sway intermittently across the windshield, and their blades do a sloppy job of clearing the precipitation from my view. Their constant rubbing against the glass emits ear-wrenching squeaks that I wish I could ignore, but cannot.

These ancient wipers need to go.

At least that's what I've been saying for...how long has it been now? Five months? Yeah, about that long.

Every time I get around to changing these annoying wipers, something else more urgent suddenly comes up, and whatever money I'd been saving toward replacing them goes to that 'more urgent' thing. That happened again yesterday.

I spent the money I'd been saving for a pair of new wipers on a newly published music composition book that I absolutely need and can't seem to find in any of the libraries. I guess it'll be at least another month or so before I get rid of the ancient wipers—and that's if nothing else ends up taking priority over them before that.

Somehow, I highly doubt that things will actually go that way.

Maybe I'll get used to the squeaks.

Yeah, right.

A tired yawn escapes me as I reluctantly listen to the obnoxious voice of a man streaming from my car's radio. He goes on and on and on, blabbering away in an infomercial that's way too dramatic and really over-the-top.

The guy is desperately trying to make flannel jackets sound like magical garments that have been woven into golden pieces of fabric by Rumpelstiltskin, and then later catapulted into retail stores straight from a unicorn's asshole.

He really is doing—or saying, as the case is—far, far too much. I doubt the company's marketing team intended for their ad to sound this ridiculous. Or at least, I hope not, for their sake.

I'm extremely tempted to change the station, but I don't. As much as I'd rather listen to something that doesn't make my eardrums want to commit suicide, the obnoxious banter is effectively chasing away any sleepiness I still feel, and this early in the morning, that's something I desperately need.

Another yawn escapes me and I feel my eyes water slightly behind my glasses as the lingering sleepiness slowly evades them. I crank up the heat a bit and enjoy the blast of hot air that emanates from the heater.

There's barely anyone on the road now, and I'm glad I don't have to deal with so many other cars and their equally grumpy-from-sleep drivers so early in the morning.

My fingers are firm on the steering wheel as I hit the gas, speeding up and managing to pass a traffic light right before it turns red. Pretty soon, I'm pulling into the only unrestricted parking lot on campus.

Even at this early hour, the lot is fairly full, mostly because it's not that big, and most students without a parking permit, like myself, scramble relentlessly for a parking space here everyday. I'm sure some kids leave their cars here for days at a time just to ensure that they have a spot.

I circle the lot once and I'm fortunate enough to find a spot without as much hassle as usual, and given my morning crankiness and impatience, I'm pretty darn thankful for that. However, even though my car isn't big, the spot is pretty awkward, and it's not even a little bit bright outside. I suck at parallel parking, and being fairly new to driving a stick-shift makes maneuvering my '98 Volkswagen Polo right now even more frustrating.

After more attempts than I'd like to admit, I finally manage to park the old Polo without setting off World War Z. The rumble of the engine eventually dies down as I turn off the ignition, and the absence of any radio feed leaves me encompassed in complete silence.

I take a moment to look out through my blurry windshield, and I have just one word to describe my surroundings.

Depressing.

Actually, make that three words.

Depressing as fuck.

Except for the still cars that are lined up, the lot looks like some post-apocalyptic barren wasteland. Maybe I did set off World War Z.

I grab my satchel and reluctantly open my door. As soon as I step out, I'm greeted by an overwhelming gush of frigid wind, and I have to stand still for a moment so that I can adjust to my new frosty environment.

It's that time of year again, and winter has come back full force with a vengeance, rearing its ugly, frigid head once more. At six-thirty in the morning, the sky looks no different than it did at midnight.

Pitch fucking black.

It's way too dark out here, not to mention ridiculously cold. I walk briskly through campus, feeling the crunch of ice and snow beneath my boots as I take every shortcut I know of to head to west campus—home of the Liberal Arts School.

CHAPTER TWO

I tug on my jacket and pull my beanie further down on my head as I continue to brace myself against the mercilessly frigid onslaught. I say a silent 'fuck you' to whichever administrator is responsible for this currently fucked up parking situation.

Fuck, it's cold.

I realize that I say 'fuck' a lot when I feel like my blood is turning to ice.

It's my fourth winter in Milwaukee, and I'm honestly not sure I'll ever get used to how cold it gets here in Wisconsin. And to think I used to complain about winter in Manchester as a kid. What a joke. That was nothing compared to this. Even my winters in New York never got as bad as it does here.

I pull the sides of my brown padded jacket closer together as if doing so will make me feel any less cold. I knew I should have worn a third layer underneath before I left my apartment. Once again, I grossly underestimated just how cold it can get here.

The jacket by itself isn't nearly as insulating as it looks. Despite its deceptive size, it's not very practical. It's really big for no reason. I wish I had known that before I spent almost sixty bucks on the damn thing. What a waste of money.

Another gust of wind accompanied by snow flurries washes over me, and all I can do is groan in despair.

"Holy hell," I mutter. I silently curse for the umpteenth time, wishing like hell that I didn't have to head to vocal practice so damn early, especially when most of the campus is still sound asleep. What I wouldn't give to be cozied up in my bed right now.

Fuck Monday mornings, for real.

My teeth start to clatter uncontrollably, and most of my nose has already gone numb. I have to keep bringing my hands up to my mouth and blowing between my leather gloves to bring some of the feeling back into my face.

My glasses keep fogging up every fifteen seconds, and I have to struggle to see where my feet keep landing. It doesn't help my poor eyesight that the campus street lights are dim as hell.

What exactly are all the campus fee charges being spent on?

Christ.

I walk as carefully as I can, all the while trying to maintain my speed. I come close to falling twice, but manage to regain my composure each time.

"Good reflexes. Just like your mother," my grandma would say.

My chest tightens as soon as both women come to mind. I feel a bout of sadness creep up on me as I think of the woman who brought me into the world.

As I continue to dodge muddy mounds and slippery black ice, I idly remember the very first time I was allowed to play in the snow.

I was five at the time, and my parents and I still lived in Manchester then. It was the first time I had ever seen snow in real life, and I was so eager and excited to go out and play in all that immaculate goodness.

My mom had tried to persuade me not to, but of course, like any curious and eager child, I wasn't hearing any of it. Boy should I have listened to her.

My so-called snow play session ended with me crying hysterically with snot all over my face because my hands were throbbing in excruciating pain.

Apparently, yours truly thought she was a mini Einstein and figured it would be a brilliant idea to try to build a snowman with her gloves off. I think my mom let me have my way to teach me a lesson. That shit had seriously hurt. Needless to say, that was the very last time I ever did that.

I wish I could also say that that was the last time I did something unbelievably stupid.

Yet another wave of frigid air quickly brings my focus back to the present, actively pushing the memories aside. I can't help but be grateful. I don't like how I feel when I think of my mother, and I don't want to start my day off feeling any more crappy than I already do.

I hum Hayley Westenra's 'Across the Universe of Time' to keep my mind off both my mother and the numbing cold, as well as to hear something other than the sound of my clattering teeth. It's a song I love a lot, and it's also the song I chose to sing for my very first solo performance last year.

I'm still amazed at all the praise and acknowledgment I got from both the audience and the entire music faculty for it. I was even asked for an encore.

Needless to say, that performance had done wonders for my ego, removing so many doubts I had at the time and increasing my love for vocal music even more. That moment also felt like a confirmation that I had indeed made the right decision coming back to college, and that I really have a shot at a successful career in music after all.

I finally reach West Campus, and I thank the non-existent stars for getting here in one piece, even though I could barely see a thing on my way here.

I head past the English, Film, and Art buildings like I always do. A minute later, I'm swiping my ID card in the slot at the main entrance to the music building. I eagerly make my way inside, happy to put an end to this annoying, frost-bitten journey.

CHAPTER THREE

I'm immediately encompassed by hot air, and I'm incredibly grateful for the nice and toasty atmosphere as I feel the heat quickly neutralize the unbearable cold I felt just seconds ago.

I dust the snow off my jacket without halting my footsteps, and adjust the strap of my carry-on as I feel it digging into my shoulder, bearing most of its unnecessary weight.

I make a mental note to remove whatever items in it that I don't use daily. I have a bad habit of always carrying around a lot of stuff in my bag, but there's absolutely no reason to keep carrying a butt load of crap everywhere in this shitty weather if I don't have to.

The building is dead quiet from this end, and I make my way through the hallway equally silent. Even though I'm tempted to take the elevator to head to my department, I ditch it in favor of the stairwell as usual.

I make my way up the lengthy flight of stairs, taking two at a time like I always do. I consider this part of my daily workout routine, and between my hectic schedule and lack of a gym membership, it's pretty much the ideal daily exercise option for me. Plus, it helps to fully wake and warm me up for practice on early mornings like this.

Just right before I reach the very top of the stairwell, I wince as I feel an abrupt and discomforting sensation right below my chest that makes me stop in my tracks.

Ugh. There it is again.

This is like the fourth or fifth time it's happened since it started a little over a month ago. I don't know why I keep getting this random discomfort in my stomach. I have to hold on to the railing for support as I wait for the uneasy feeling to subside.

The first two times it happened, I just figured maybe it was my body's stress response to the hectic life of juggling two majors, a full-time job, and being constantly worried about money. Now, I'm not so sure it's as simple as that.

I close my eyes momentarily and take in deep breaths, trying hard not to mentally freak out. I find relief when the sensation fades away in a few moments. A few seconds later, I hear the door of the main entrance open again from below me, and a pair of familiar, obnoxious voices follow right after.

Even without looking to see who it is, I know all too well the distinctive, high-pitched and snarky voices of Wendy Gilmore and Julianne Hendricks.

Wendy and Julianne are, for all intents and purposes, first-class 'bee-otches'.

And that's by anyone's standard, including theirs, if they're honest with themselves.

They're your typical rich and snotty mean girls who have it out for pretty much anyone who isn't richer and/or more overbearing than they are—which, in my class, is pretty much everyone.

Although, I sometimes wonder how long their rich-girl partnership will last. From my own experiences, girls as mean and ruthless as they are always seem to have a hard time getting along with anyone for extended periods of time, even people who are exactly like themselves.