The Athletic Trainer Read online

  “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 need 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.

  “Do
you like that?” he asks, and I nod, unable to open my eyes and look at him. “I’m still going to need your verbal explanation. How wet are you?”

  “Soaked,” I choke, as my fingers examine myself, and my sex beats heavier than my pulse. He continues to manipulate my breasts, tugging each once, and then palming them while his thumbs rub over the stiff nub.

  “Tell me, Lana, when was the last time you were fucked?”

  Read the rest of chapter 1 here: The Doctor Will See You

  About the Author

  Lana Brazen is the alter ego of a best-selling author specializing in sexy silver foxes and feisty vixens eager for sexual experimentation and happily ever after in a consensual environment. Love has no age limit…neither does sex.

  Let this be your disclaimer. It’s hawt! in these books.

  Look for Lana Brazen exclusively on Amazon.

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  Keep in touch with Lana Brazen

  Nibble of The Doctor Will See You