"Are you alright, Misses Wilson?"
"I'm fine."
No, no I'm not!
Your routine annual physical has taken a decidedly different turn now that the Physician's Assistant walks you down to a dark room at the end of the hall.
"I don't like the way these moles look. Let's just err on the side of caution."
You don't have the right to waste my time like this. Can I see a
real
doctor?
"The dermatologist will be in shortly. I'll get you something to help you relax while you wait." You don't normally like taking pills, but you accept the offer this time: your chest is pounding, a migraine is sneaking up behind your eyes, and you're alarmed because, yes, you've been overdoing it at the tanner lately.
Well, yeah, but I look fucking fantastic!
Your heart rate slows down after lying in the dim light for a few minutes. An unusual warmth begins to emanate from your belly, short-circuiting whatever panic attack was impending.
This medicine is making me so relaxed.
P.A. Amber returns ten minutes later and gently lifts your right eyelid.
What's she looking at? And why do my arms feel like lead?
She folds your gown down to your waist. The girls perk up in the cool air.
Ooooh . . .
"Ooooh," she smiles. "Great tan, Misses Wilson. Doctor Anderson will be in shortly."
Yeah, you already said that.
Almost immediately, the door opens and two men enter wearing white lab coats. One is tall, fit, and tan--the quintessential middle-aged hot physician who spends half his life on a golf course. The other one's a little younger and looks . . . ambitious.
Dumb and Dumber.
They look solemnly at their clipboards, glancing covertly at your tits. Dr. Golf closes in on your face.
Mmm, you smell good!
"How are we doing this afternoon?
We?
I'm Doctor Anderson. This is Doctor Bell. I hope you don't mind his assisting today. We're here to examine you for questionable lesions and atopic exzema associated with overexposure to ultraviolet A and B radiation."
You try to respond but your tongue feels very thick. A nod works fine.
Uhm, oh thay.
Each man takes a side. "We'll try to make this as painless as possible. I understand you've been sedated."
Whatever. Let's get this over with. Feeling a tad vulnerable here.
He takes the lead. Leaning over you, he moves his hands in tandem over your arms, shoulders, and chest. He wears a detached-but-intense look on his face as his fingers survey your upper body.
What's he feeling for, exactly?
After a couple of minutes he's apparently satisfied. He moves on, poking and prodding your breasts, lingering on the cysts you're already aware of.
Um . . . hey, aren't you guys supposed to be wearing gloves?
"MmHmm." He looks back at his associate, who now peers over Dr. Golf's shoulder.
"MmHmm, WHAT?"
His touch changes. He begins to circle your breasts--
lovingly?
-- with his fingertips. You feel your nipples harden as the arcs get smaller, closing in on your areolas.
Whoa. This . . . feels good and all, but, what the fuck?
You look to Amber with questioning eyes. She answers with a smile that says "Relax. You're in good hands."
With the same impassive look, he cups your left breast as if cradling a fragile bird, and lightly pinches the nipple.
"Any discomfort?" Your breath catches. A single butterfly takes flight. A little confused, you give no response.
Not sure what this has to do with screening for skin can--
His thumb and index finger roll your bud a bit harder. Low-grade sparks fly. Your pussy grows moist.
OK, this is feeling downright pleasura--
"Is this stimulus pleasurable?"
You manage a grin. "Well, to be honetht . . ."
In hindsight, it was your not-so-innocent eye pop that betrayed you, giving him the green light.
