Chapter 3 – The Doctor Will See You Now

Dr. Cole

Weekday mornings always started the same.

Chart reviews. Intake notes. A lukewarm coffee I never finished. I liked the rhythm of routine. The predictability. Every patient was a variable, sure—but the steps? The process? Reliable. Methodical.

I didn’t expect her.

I glanced at the chart in my hand. Monroe, Elizabeth. 28. New patient.

I knocked twice, then stepped into the exam room. “Good morning. I’m Dr. Stacy Cole.”

She looked up—and I stopped. Not visibly. Not enough for her to notice.

But I felt it. That hitch in the center of my chest. The one that didn’t come from her chart or the sterile lighting or the folded paper gown she was wearing like armor. It came from her.

She was stunning. Long brunette hair pulled up, flushed cheeks, a nervous but composed expression. A hint of sharpness in her eyes—hazel, I thought—that told me she was used to holding her own. Her lips parted slightly in surprise.

“You’re Stacy?”

I offered a polite smile. “I am.”

Her voice lifted, an octave too high. “Oh. I… thought you were going to be a woman.”

There it was—that moment patients either backed out or barreled forward.

I softened my tone. “I get that a lot. I’m happy to reschedule you with our nurse practitioner—she’s just not in the office today.”

She looked down at herself, at the paper-thin drape and flimsy gown, then back up.

“No, it’s fine. I already committed to the outfit.”

I almost laughed. Not because it was funny—though it was—but because she said it with this dry, matter-of-fact delivery that caught me off guard. I’d met hundreds of women in this exact position. Nervous. Uncomfortable. Apologetic.

Not many cracked a joke with their legs half-bared and tension humming in the air.

“Fair enough,” I said, washing my hands at the sink.

I slipped on gloves. Focused. Steady.

But I was already rattled.

She answered my questions easily. No unusual symptoms. No medical history I needed to dig into. A straightforward exam, on paper.

But nothing about her felt straightforward.

“Any tenderness here?” I asked as I palpated her lower abdomen, keeping my pressure firm and clinical. Her body was soft and warm beneath the sheet. I watched her expression for cues. She gave me none—no wince, no twinge.

“Nope,” she said casually.

God help me.

I moved down. Glanced up. Her chest rose slowly with each breath. Not panicked—but not entirely relaxed, either. Her hands fidgeted slightly under the drape.

“Now you’re going to feel some uncomfortable pressure as I check the vaginal walls for any physical abnormalities.”

She nodded.

I inserted two fingers with practiced precision, checking depth, texture, tension. She was warm. Responsive. Slightly… swollen.

I’d done this exam thousands of times. I knew what arousal looked like—even subtle. Most patients didn’t realize they were giving anything away. But I felt it. The muscle clench. The subtle hitch in her breath.

And something deep in me responded.

I shut it down.

Focused on the angle of her cervix. The positioning of her uterus. I made mental notes, not emotional ones. But beneath the surface, there was a hum I couldn’t quiet.

She was aroused.

And I liked it.

Even as I kept my face impassive, my tone even, my hands steady.

I reached for the speculum next.

“This part’s the worst,” I said, keeping my voice low. “I’ll make it fast—as long as you can be still for me.”

“I can be anything you want me to be,” she muttered, too low for anything but instinct to catch. Then, louder, “Of course. Don’t want that in me any longer than necessary.”

My lips twitched.

Fast, gentle insertion. Adjusted the light. Took the sample. Removed it smoothly.

She breathed. I did too.

I covered her again, gently patting her leg.

“Let’s get you out of the stirrups,” I said, offering my hand to help her sit upright.

She took it.

Her skin was soft. A little clammy. She was nervous—but she met my eyes, and in that second, I forgot why I became a doctor.

Then I remembered.

Because no one should feel unsafe here. No one should feel small or exposed or like their body was anything other than worthy of care.

Still… she rattled me.

“We’re almost finished,” I said, clearing my throat. “Just a quick breast exam.”

She nodded. Her nipples were already hard—whether from nerves or temperature or leftover tension, I didn’t ask.

I placed a hand gently on her shoulder and slid the other beneath the gown, using the pads of my fingers to check for irregularities. Stippling motion. Gentle pressure.

She breathed deeply.

As I moved to the other side, a quick side glance from my peripheral and the perfect angle of the gown provided me with a visual of those perky breasts and hard nipples.

I repeated the exam on the other breast and as I withdrew my hand, the edge of my thumb grazed her nipple—firm, peaked, and sensitive. Her breath caught.

It might’ve been an accident.

But I wasn’t entirely sorry.

“We’ll give you a call in a few days with your Pap results,” I said, stepping back, stripping the gloves from my hands. “Everything else looks healthy.”

She sat up straighter, nodding. “Thanks for being… really professional. I wasn’t expecting—”

Her voice caught.

She rephrased. “I wasn’t expecting that level of care.”

I smiled faintly. “Glad to hear it.”

I handed her the after-visit summary and stepped out without another word.

I close the exam room door behind me, chart in one hand, gloves in the other, and head straight for my office.

The moment the latch clicks, I lean back against it, eyes closed. My pulse is still hammering. My cock is still hard.

What the hell, Stacy.

In twenty years of practice I’ve never once walked out of an exam like this—flustered, distracted, fighting an erection like a teenager. Elizabeth Monroe wasn’t just another patient. She was smart, beautiful, young enough to be my daughter… and clearly turned on while I was inside her. And God help me, I liked it.

A knock at the door.

“Dr. Cole? Your next patient is ready.”

Fuck.

“I’ll be there in just a moment,” I call back, forcing steadiness into my voice.

Footsteps retreat. Silence.

I drop the chart onto my desk and sit, trying to focus on typing my notes. My fingers shake. I can still smell her shampoo on my gloves, still feel the warmth of her breasts under my hands. My cock throbs against my zipper.

Another knock. “Doctor?”

“I said just a moment!” It comes out harsher than I intended. I wait until the heels click away before I push back from the desk and head for my private bathroom.

I lock the door behind me and brace my hands on the sink. My reflection stares back: salt-and-pepper hair, crisp white coat, and the look of a man who’s about to make a very bad decision just to stay functional.

The quickest way to get control back is to get it out of my system.

I reach for my phone and open the site I only ever use in private mode. Scroll until I find what I need: a young brunette with a slim waist and thick thighs, her body bent over in a way that makes my throat dry. She’s not Beth, but she’s close enough to pull the trigger.

I shove my pants and briefs down just far enough, wrap my fist around my cock, and stroke hard. My mind fills in the blanks—the paper gown slipping from her shoulders, those hazel eyes locking on mine, the sound she made when my thumb brushed her nipple.

It’s over fast. Embarrassingly fast. Maybe the fastest since I was sixteen in the back of my dad’s truck with a Victoria’s Secret catalog. Hot, hard pulses spill into my hand and across the counter. I grip the sink and ride it out, panting.

For a long moment, I just stand there, breathing, the shame and relief colliding in my chest.

Then I clean up. Paper towels. Soap. Cold water. Straighten my tie. Pull my pants back up. Doctor face back on.

By the time I unlock the door, I’m calm again. Professional again. Ready to see the next patient like nothing happened.

But as I walk down the hall, tablet in hand, Elizabeth Monroe is still in my head.

And that’s a problem.