The Doctor Will See You Read online

  THE DOCTOR WILL SEE YOU

  A Pure Pleasure Romance

  LANA BRAZEN

  Copyright © 2019 Laura Dunbar

  Writing as Lana Brazen

  L.B. Dunbar Writes, Ltd.

  https://www.lbdunbar.com/

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.

  Content edits: Serena McDonald

  Line edits: Jenny Simm/Editing4Indies

  Final proofreading: Karen Fischer

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Epilogue

  Keep in touch with Lana Brazen

  Nibble of When the Handyman Comes

  Dedication

  The inspiration for this story was fanfiction.

  Thank you, Alessandra.

  Thank You

  Serena McDonald – I cannot express the depths of my gratitude

  1

  I didn’t know what I’d gotten myself into. Recently divorced, I’d met a young woman who just listened to me rant. I didn’t know why I felt the need to expound my current sexual status on her, but the dating apps had frustrated me. Who could you trust on there? Singles adventure clubs? The annual fees were high, and only half the activities interested me. And then there were the simple singles bars, which I entered once before turning right back around and leaving.

  Being unmarried sucked in this aspect. The issue was I still wanted sex. I didn’t want to be alone with only my fingers. I wanted the feel of a man—the wet of his tongue, the curl of his fingers, and the strength of his hands on me—and I was getting desperate.

  “Have you ever considered swinging?” she suggested, and I nearly fell off my chair. A southern Florida coffee shop seemed like the last place to have this kind of discussion and with a stranger, no less, but she didn’t look like a social deviant. In fact, she looked normal. Average in height, dark brunette hair, the body of someone still youthful, with friendly eyes, and a wedding band.

  “Never thought of it,” I said after choking on my tea.

  She paused for a moment as if she were assessing me and then added, “Not everyone who swings is married. Some are in relationships, and some are single. People participate in all manner of combinations. Couples who want a third party or a single participant looking for a couple who shares. Sometimes, it’s just a mutual agreement between three, but the term comes more so from those looking to experiment within a relationship.”

  I stare down at my paper placemat, uncertain how to respond. It sounded crazy and a bit obscene, but I wasn’t one to judge. I was jealous, in a way. Maybe if Stan and I had experimented more or been a bit more adventurous, things wouldn’t have gotten to the point where they ended. Especially with him in the bed of his secretary.

  “Here’s my name,” she said, offering it on a paper napkin along with a phone number. “If you have any questions. Otherwise, I’d recommend contacting this number. He’s a doctor.” She winked after handing me the napkin, and I took it, smiling good-naturedly even though I knew I’d never call.

  However, the numbers haunted me, and a week later, when I was cleaning out the old receipts in my purse, the napkin remained intact with her perfect script and two phone numbers, the second marked with an asterisk.

  “Dr. Lubton’s office,” a masculine voice answers on the second ring, and the professional confidence in his voice surprises me.

  “I…I’m looking for the doctor.” I swallow back the sudden stutter. “Jessica DeMarco suggested I call.”

  A heavy pause of silence weighs through the phone for a second, and I wonder if I’ve lost the connection. “Hello?”

  “Were you looking for a full exam?” he questions, and I remember Jessica mentioning to request such a thing. I nod, and then recall he can’t see me.

  “Yes.”

  “And will your husband be joining you?” I blink down at the napkin, pinched between my fingers.

  “I don’t have a husband.” Silence falls again, and after another weighted second, I ask, “Do I need one?”

  A soft chuckle fills the line, reassuring instead of mocking. “No.” Pause. “But may I ask if this will be your first exam of this sort?”

  Closing my eyes, I think, What am I doing? I’m no longer certain, and not certain how to answer, so I go with the truth. “Yes.”

  “I see, and for the purposes of an initial consultation, would you prefer an assistant be in the room?”

  Did I want someone else present? A witness to my humiliation? Again, I wasn’t certain what exactly I was getting myself into, any more than I knew how to answer the question. Deciding that embarrassing myself in my lack of knowledge should best be done alone, I reply, “I think I’ll be okay without one.”

  “Very well.” There wasn’t a hint of a smile or frown in his tone, but the continued smoothness of a true doctor. Good bedside manner. I want to laugh out loud at the pun. Instead, I wait for his instructions on how to proceed.

  “I have an eleven o’clock on Thursday open.” It’s strange to consider he does this more than one time a day with more than one person, possibly more than one person at a time, and I realize I’m at great risk of making a fool of myself. Not to mention, can I muster my libido midmorning on a weekday? Remain open-minded, I remind myself. He called it a consultation. Maybe he really is a doctor. Maybe we only discuss options. Maybe he can explain what’s happening to me at forty-five as a single woman, previously married, and desperately seeking pleasure.

  “Thursday would be fine,” I say, knowing my calendar is flexible. I’m a real estate agent. The southern Florida market ebbs and flows based on weather predictions and the hurricane season. I’m mildly successful but wish I was doing better. Older people are a key to my accomplishments, and I fear one day I’ll be classified as one of them. Old.

  “Please dress comfortably and be prepared to sign a consent form.” The instructions surprise me, and once again, I nod. “I look forward to meeting you.” He finishes the call with the address.

  + + +

  On Thursday morning, I pamper and prep, taking a bath to relax and then a shower to shave the areas I’m most concerned with. I haven’t graduated to the waxing craze, and I’m assuming today I’ll learn if that’s necessary. Once present at the medical center, a surprisingly ordinary-looking building, the receptionist greets me, then asks me to take a seat for a second.

  As I sit, my legs cross but shake uncontrollably. I raise a hand to swipe back my silver-blond hair and realize my fingers tremble as well.

  “Whatcha here for?” an older woman next to me asks, possibly noticing my tremors.

  “Routine exam,” I say with a weak smile. Her runny eyes narrow at me, and I worry she’s sick. I hope she isn’t contagious. Thankfully, my name is called out, and I greet the receptionist once again, who gives me a bored expression, waving her hand dismissively to a set of doors.

 
“Down the hall to suite 3B.”

  I nod and enter the wide hallway, surprised by the antiseptic scent. The quiet corridor is lined with medical suites, some with blinds exposing their private waiting areas and others closed from view. When I reach suite 3B, I hesitate outside the door. Nondescript, the door offers no explanatory label other than the room number. The specialty within the office before me is unknown, and once again, I question what I’m getting myself into. I’ve already passed a rheumatologist, a podiatrist, and a psychiatrist. Maybe the last one is the office I need. My frame of mind needs examining.

  But my hand reaches for the handle, and while my heart races, I push through the unlocked door.

  I enter some kind of exam room, complete with extra seating, a scale, and a blood pressure cuff, and I’m concerned I’m in the wrong place. It looks like a phlebotomy lab, where blood might be drawn, and I wonder if I need to give blood to participate. Recently, I’d been to my OB/GYN for a routine female physical, and I brought the paperwork with me, just in case any of this was legitimately medicinal.

  As I stand, waiting for what comes next, I hear the soft tinkle of a bell through this intake room and tilt my head to see a second room with a physician’s exam table and additional seating. A man dressed in blue scrubs with a white lab coat slides into view on a rolling stool.

  He’s an older gentleman, no more than fifty, which immediately puts me at ease with my seasoned age. His face is freshly shaven with etched features, and he stands, reaching for some antibacterial soap as he exits the second room. Rubbing his hands together, he draws closer to me and greets me.

  “Lana, I’m Dr. Lubton. Please come in.” His tone is crisp, deep, and soothing, and while my body continues to quake, I’m lulled by his cadence as he directs me to the inner room.

  I take a seat on one of the two extra chairs he points me toward and cross my legs once again, which visibly bounce. If he notices, he doesn’t comment but returns to the rolling stool and scoots over to a desk then back to me with a clipboard in hand.

  “How are you feeling today?” he begins, cool as a common doctor.

  “Nervous,” I admit with a chuckle.

  “Understandable. You mentioned this is your first time, but Jessica recommended me?” A question lingers in his voice, and I’m hoping I don’t have to explain how I met her. He doesn’t explain his acquaintance with her, either. “Let’s consider this a consultation. We’ll see how far we get, what we conclude, and then we’ll know better how to proceed.”

  His eyes are a pale shade of blue, warm and inviting, and I smile without thought in response.

  “Before we begin, I’ll need you to sign some paperwork.” He hands me a clipboard, and I glance down at something that at first gaze appears like a HIPAA form or a medical release, but as I begin to read, the details are nothing of the sort. It’s a contract which begins:

  - I, Lana Blasen, understand Dr. James Lubton is not a medical doctor, and any medical advice that he gives will be ignored.

  The contract continues with an agreement that I may leave the office at any time I grow uncomfortable and a safeword is presented. Crumbles.

  It continues to cover my acknowledgment that I have not brought recording devices for sound or video into the office, that I agree to be alone on this initial visit, and that this visit will be kept confidential. It explains he must follow the rules as well. Then the list begins. The list of things he might do to me.

  Stripped. Kissed. Touched.

  Fingers. Mouth. Penis.

  Vaginal. Anal.

  Ass slapping. Dirty words.

  And the performance of sex.

  It specifies that he will wear a condom, he’s been rigorously tested and clean of any transmittable diseases. I agree that I am clean as well and not pregnant.

  Scrolling the remainder of the page, I try to make sense of the legalese while trying to make sense of this decision. Am I really going to let this man do all these things to me?

  I glance up at him, and he smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes, but it isn’t forced. It’s comforting, in a professional manner. Despite all my doubts, I sign on the line and pass the clipboard back to him.

  “Good,” he says crisply, still calm, still controlled. He takes the clipboard from me and stands. “I’ll just step out a second while you undress. Please put on the gown, open on the front, and be sure to remove all undergarments.”

  As he leaves, I watch his masculine form retreat. It’s a bit clinical, I begin to worry the experience will be stagnant and forced, and not at all what I expected. I remove my shoes, slip out of my skirt, and take off my blouse. Tugging down my underwear, the scent of my arousal hits me. My core already aches with anticipation. When I pull my bra forward, my nipples stand erect and my breasts tingle. I unfold the disposable gown and slip it on, feeling foolish for a second as though this is a real doctor’s office. The gown narrowly covers my backside, and I drape the front over my large breasts.

  Suddenly, I worry about the doctor’s disappointment. Should we have talked? Should we have discussed if I’m his typical patient-type or something unexpected? I suppose I’ll know after this consultation if I meet his approval. Then I stop my thoughts. This isn’t about him but me. Will he meet my expectations?

  As he re-enters, hesitating a moment to see that I’m ready, I make a mental note that his physique already checks off my standards. The slight gray to his hair. The wrinkles near his eyes. The soft curve of his lips.

  The room is chilly, and I’m hyperaware of each movement of the paper gown. The crinkly sound. The bareness of my body underneath. The continued pulse of anticipation. He returns to the rolling stool, positioned just off the edge of the exam table where I’m seated. When his warm hands cup my feet first, I flinch and then nervously laugh at the awkward response.

  “Today, we’re going to assess a few things. A general exam to begin.” He rotates so he’s better positioned between my feet, massaging them before covering my ankles and then stroking up my calves.

  “Good muscle tone,” he comments.

  “I walk every day.” I bite my lip. Walking doesn’t make me physically fit, but it keeps my heart pumping, and with short legs, those might be one of my best features.

  “Lots of freckles. A sun-worshipper,” he continues, a question already answered by the damage done to my skin from years without proper sun protection.

  “It is Florida,” I tease.

  He covers my kneecaps and squeezes my upper thighs. On instinct, I draw them together, and his eyes leap up to mine. He stands, retrieving a medical hammer, and taps at each knee, the reflex test forcing me to kick forward. He returns his warm hands to my upper thighs, stroking and manipulating the muscles.

  “Open wider, please.”

  My knees fall apart at the questioning command, and cool air brushes between my legs. The papery gown draws up to my hips, nearly exposing my bareness. My scent again wafts between us, and the anticipation reaches an agonizing pulse. I’m sensitive to him standing between my legs.

  “Let’s go a little wider. Really open up for me.” His tone is kind and encouraging as he gently presses at my inner thighs, forcing my knees to the corners of the table. My center cries for attention, but I follow his lead.

  “Lift one arm over your head,” he instructs, and I do as he asks, keeping my eyes straight ahead. The gown slowly gaps, and the lower portion separates with the movement, the Brazilian strip peeking through the opening. The paper also slips over my breast, nearly exposing my nipple.

  Lowering my arm, he directs me to lift the other, and I do as I’m told, forcing the gown to once again brush open, scratching against stiff nipples. He rubs at my shoulders, his body between my knees but not touching me in any other manner than a light massage.

  He works at the tightness of my right shoulder a minute longer, and I begin to relax.

  “Good,” he murmurs as if inspecting me. His voice remains experienced and confident.

  “I’ll n
eed you to lie back for a breast exam. Is that okay with you?”

  Reaching for the loose covering near the apex of my legs, I attempt to tug the material closed as I curl to lie back. One of his hands rests on my shoulder blade, guiding me down, while the other lowers to my hand near the hem of the paper gown. He covers the back of my hand, gently moving it, allowing me to release the paper once again to expose a larger hint of what’s underneath.

  “Open your gown for me,” he dictates, and I pull at the thin paper, exposing both breasts at once. His affect is reserved and again clinical, but my skin prickles with my eagerness. A single finger glides along my collarbone, from throat to shoulder, and then dips down my chest to circle my breast.

  “Are they sensitive?”

  I don’t have the wherewithal to speak as they typically are not, but with his practiced hand and tender touch, they ache. He continues the circular trace of his finger, round and round, drawing closer and closer to the nipple in the center before pinching it with his forefinger and thumb. This is no typical breast exam, and I bite my lip.

  My heart races, and my chest heaves. I swallow back a moan. He reaches across my body to examine the other breast in a similar manner, working to the point of pinching once again.

  “Your breasts are in excellent condition.” I want to snort at the compliment. They sag to the sides from an advanced age although the swell is still large.

  “One of the reasons I assume you wanted to see me today was about your arousal levels. Is that correct?”

  The question shocks me, but it shouldn’t. He’s repeating his attention to my ample breasts. Circling. Teasing. Taunting the sharp peaks. He squeezes the swells together and then makes a suggestion.

  “I’ll need your assistance in this manner. I’m going to keep touching your breasts, and I want you to slip your fingers inside yourself and tell me how wet you are.”

  Oh. My. God.

  My shaky fingers lower over my belly, cautious and curious. They cross the apex of my legs, over the soft landing strip and lower for sensitive folds. Laying the flat of two fingers against myself, I rub at my clit, and my eyes close.