“Day and time?” I bark.
“Six o’clock, Thursday evening,” the deep voice responds.
“Was the other situation taken care of?”
“Yes. I spoke with him this morning. He should be back tomorrow.”
“Wish I had been there,” I mutter darkly into the phone.
“You and me both, brother.”
“I want in on the next one.”
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“You got it.”
Anticipation fills me at the prospect, but I push down the excitement.
Soon, the voice in my head whispers.
I pull a file in front of me and flip it open. “I’ve gotta go. Keep me updated if any problems arise.”
“Got it. Later.”
The line goes dead, and I look down at the top sheet of paper in the file. Amelia Tanner, my two o’clock, is here for her annual exam. For the first time since I received my medical degree, the sexually disturbed part of my brain doesn’t trigger. It’s a part I’ve forced myself to ignore for years. My field of expertise isn’t psychology, but even I know the vulgar part of my psyche that gets aroused from touching my female patients stems from my disturbing childhood.
On the outside, I’m very clinical and professional with my patients. I’ve never touched them inappropriately or taken advantage of them in any way. What they don’t know is, on the inside, my mind is going wild with sexual fantasies of touching them. They don’t know my body tightens with need, or that my dick gets so hard I could hammer nails into concrete with it.
It’s a secret only my brothers know about, because the last thing I want is to make my patients uncomfortable. Maybe I shouldn’t have a career in the medical field, and my license would probably be revoked if the medical board found out about my perverse cravings, but I love my profession. Not because of those cravings, but because I genuinely enjoy what I do. I like helping people. It’s challenging and the rewards of solving medical problems and creating a plan of care or showing them how to manage is extremely rewarding.
It also gives me control. Malus is mine and my brother’s town. We own it, along with the people who live here. It’s been that way since we moved back to town ten years ago. We’ve made it what it is today, which is much more than what it was when we got here.
I close the file, picking it up as I get to my feet. Mrs. Tanner’s had enough time to strip down and don the paper gown we provide our patients to cover themselves with. Walking out of my office, I see Susan waiting for me outside of room two.
“Ready?” she asks.
“Yes.”
I tap a couple of times on the door as a warning before pushing it open. Amelia Tanner, a woman in her late twenties, sits on the end of the bed with her hands placed in her lap and her socked feet crossed at the ankle. The paper gown she’s wearing on the top half of her body crinkles as she moves when Susan and I enter.
I offer a smile. “How are you today, Mrs. Tanner?”
“Just peachy.”
“Are you ready?”
She laughs nervously. “Is any woman ready to have her privates looked at clinically?”
I chuckle and turn to the sink to wash my hands, throwing over my shoulder, “I guess not.” I grab a paper towel. “Do you have any concerns you need to discuss with me?”
“Not today.”
I nod, toss the paper towel in the trash, and walk over to her. “You know the drill. Why don’t you lie back, and we’ll get the breast exam out of the way first?”
She does as I ask, and before I can prompt her, she lifts her arms over her head. I grab the opening of the gown and pull the pieces apart until her chest is in view. I wait for the usual tingle I get in the base of my spine from seeing a woman’s breasts, and it comes right on cue.
“Sorry if my hands are cold.”