“Fuck I’m coming,” he growled as his body arched back and his hips jerked up.
I rode him harder, not wanting him to be able to stop himself. My pussy gripped him as it seized and pleasure shot through me.
He groaned again, and this time when his hands went to my hips, it was to help them rock over him and draw out his orgasm.
The minute he was done, I was off of him. “Don’t you ever use me to punish yourself again.”
1 Nick
Nick, One Week Earlier
Working in the emergency room of a small mountain hospital was a far cry from my residency in San Francisco. Here in Goldrush Lake, we rarely had gunshot or knife wounds, and the ones we had were nearly always hunting related, not an attempted murder. We had heart attacks, strokes, and car accidents, especially in winter during the ski season when out-of-towners who didn’t know how to drive on slick roads would pile into town. We had quite a few outdoor accidents, such as breaking a leg skiing, or falling on a hike. Each summer, we had more than a few near drownings from boaters and swimmers on the lake.
Did I ever lose a patient? In the four years I’d been here, there were a few times that I was unable to save a patient. Twice, it was a heart attack that was too severe for medicine to fix. Last winter, a skier fell and hit his head, but didn’t seek medical help. By the time the headache brought him to the emergency room, it was too late. Internal bleeding in the brain led to his death. Those stood out, but there were others.
All deaths were difficult, but the one that haunted me was a car accident just over a year ago. Although she wasn’t my patient, being that we were a small town, I’d known her and felt the loss deeply. In fact, I’d known her all my life, so it had been like losing a member of my family.
Today, I hadn’t had any life-threatening ailments so far in my shift. I diagnosed eczema in a toddler and I stitched up a construction worker’s hand.
“Joyce is here to see you again, Dr. Foster,” Peggy Shoals, one of the nurses on duty today said.
I rolled my eyes. Joyce was my age, thirty-three, and a pretty woman, who either suffered from hypochondria or was trying to get a date with me. Since having moved back home four years ago, she was fairly regular in the emergency room. I’d checked her for ticks at least twice before, along with various sprains, migraines, and, my favorite, concerns that her breast implant had broken.
I made my way to the area where Joyce was waiting for treatment.
“Dr. Foster.” Her blue eyes lit up and she sat up straighter, showing of her store-bought tits in a tank top.
“Ms. Maynard, what seems to be the trouble today?” I asked, going to the computer to see what had been entered in the electronic medical record, or EMR, we’d been forced to adapt to several years ago. In theory, it was supposed to make treating patients easier, but in truth, it was a pain in the ass.
“I’ve got terrible stomach pains,” she said, lifting her shirt to expose her belly. She rubbed her hand over it.
“What have you had to eat today?” I pulled up her file on the computer.
“Nothing. I woke with a stomach ache.”
I motioned for her to lay back. I was sure she didn’t have a stomach ache, but I couldn’t dismiss her on the off chance she really was sick. “Any diarrhea?”
She made a face. “God, no.”
“Vomiting?”
She shook her head.
“When was the last time you had a bowel movement?” Maybe she was constipated.
She made another face. “Why are you asking about my shit?”
I took a breath to hide my annoyance. “Clues to the reason for a stomach ailment can sometimes be determined by … your shit,” I said using her term.
I did my exam, checking for anything unusual in her abdomen. She pushed her shorts down far enough for me to see that she waxed.
I ignored that as I pressed the soft tissue. “Any pain or discomfort?”
“No.”
I ruled out a variety of possibilities including appendicitis.
I pulled up prescriptions on her chart and noted that she was on birth control. Even so, I asked, “Any chance you’re pregnant?”
Her eyes widened. “No.”
“You haven’t missed any pills?” I looked again at the medications and didn’t see antibiotics, which could sometimes lower birth control pills’ effectiveness. “Have you been on any antibiotics?”
“No.” Her hand rested on my forearm. “The pills work great. Maybe we could test them.”
I tried not to roll my eyes. “You probably have a little bug. Have some broth soup, and maybe a few crackers, then see how you feel.”
She nodded. “Why don’t you come to Dina’s Diner with me for lunch. To make sure I don’t faint or something.”
“Have you fainted or felt lightheaded?” I asked, typing in the information into the EMR.
She hesitated and I turned to look at her. “Well … maybe a little.”
For the most part, I was amused by Joyce, but the truth was, she was wasting hospital time and resources each time she came in with a bogus ailment.
I turned my full attention to her. “Have you ever read the story about the boy who cried wolf?”
It took her a moment to grasp my meaning. “My stomach really does hurt.”
“Take some bismuth subsalicylate, it’s the pink medicine. Have a little soup and maybe a few crackers. If it continues, we can arrange to have a sample of your bowel movement brought in and tested,” I said, mostly to figure out how real this stomach ailment was. Anyone willing to gather a sample of their shit to bring in was likely feeling poorly.
She made a face. I suspected the next time she came in, it wouldn’t be for a stomach issue. She held her hand out so I’d help
