Clarissa & The Doctor

I looked down at the slowly spreading puddle of coffee on the floor. I looked at the nice warm coffee stain on my lab coat. I looked up, slowly, at the coffee splashed on the shirt, tie and lab coat directly in front of me. I closed my eyes. I didn't want to know.

"Miss Blackwood."

I opened one eye, then the other, and looked up into the exasperated face of Doctor Michael J. Hanlon, my Attending Physician, wunderkind cardiologist, and scourge of St. Stephen's Hospital medical students.

"Sir?" I managed.

"You really ought to watch where you're going." He frowned and sighed, wringing out his tie. "Excuse me."

Off he went, I assume, to change into coffee-free attire. I bent over and picked up the now-empty styrofoam cup, and tried to wipe up the coffee puddle with a mooshed Kleenex I found in my pocket. I was close to tears. Out of hundreds of St. Stephen's employees, it was just my evil luck to run into Dr. Hanlon, nearly knocking him over and soaking him with scalding coffee.

We hadn't exactly started out on the right foot a month before, when I'd started a cardiology rotation at St. Stephen's. It was the last rotation of my fourth year of medical school, and the light at the end of the tunnel was definitely starting to look less like an oncoming train and more like the glow of residency in July. I was looking forward to finally getting my teeth into my specialty, which if all went well, would be Internal Medicine. I had done well if not spectacularly in med school so far, getting decent grades, interacting well with fellow students and instructors. Most importantly, my patients seemed to like me just fine. Then I met Dr. Hanlon. Just over six feet, maybe thirty-five. Black hair, cut short, spiky on top. Huge dark eyes. Sensual slash of a mouth under a fine, straight nose. Fair skin, rosy cheeks, and an easy, boyish smile that made nurses and female patients go weak in the knees. Cool, precise, every hair in place. Expensive cologne, good shoes, stainless Rolex. Everything about him said total professionalism and understated money, and not new money, either.

I had heard about him for a long time at the hospital and seen him around; I'd been at St. Stephen's since my last rotation. He was, I heard, wonderful to work with, great with patients, staff loved him, blah, blah, blah. Unless, of course, you were a medical student. Dr. Hanlon believed that the best way to deal with med students was to terrorize them into learning. I think he placed us somewhere between trained seals and sentient insects. Never one to make waves, I did my best to do my work and stay out of trouble. Would that it could have been that easy. Dr. Michael Hanlon made me nervous. He was impatient, exacting and tyrannical. However, I'm as human as the next female, and in spite of all of that, I privately, rapidly, developed a large crush.

Michael Hanlon was not only handsome, but an incredible doctor as well. His knowledge of medicine and rapport with patients and staff were really something to see. He published. He lectured. He was gorgeous. That combination did me in. I was smitten. And I couldn't do a damn thing about it. I knew Dr. Hanlon was single, but med students and Attending Physicians don't exactly hit the corner bar for a cold one after a long day at the hospital. Add to that the fact that for some reason, the guy couldn't stand me. It was as if he'd taken one look at me and developed an intense and extraordinary dislike. I couldn't seem to do anything right. I wasn't serious enough. I wasn't dedicated enough. I wasn't applying myself. Do you really want to be a doctor, Miss Blackwood? He'd said to me on more than one occasion. You'll have to do better than that. So here I was, more distracted than I had ever been by a guy in my entire life. And the guy didn't even like me. And this was about the worst time in my life to be so distracted. Inevitably, I started screwing up.

It was my habit to carry lollipops in the pocket of my lab coat. I had been trying to quit smoking for awhile, with limited success. (You'd be amazed at the number of docs and nurses who smoke!) However, the lollipops were helping. Every once in awhile I'd hand one out to a patient, when appropriate, or maybe somebody's kid. One morning I went in to check on a new cardiac patient, an elderly woman, admitted the night before. With an all-too-quick glance at her chart while we chatted, I made sure she was comfortable. Now, the woman wasn't my patient, but I figured that a few kind words and a lollipop couldn't hurt. I hadn't remembered seeing anything on her chart precluding it. People of all ages like candy, and I prided myself on my own patient rapport, and I was more than eager to play Kind Young Doctor. Feeling groovy, I bounced down the hall to admit a new patient.

Forty-five minutes later, I was in the middle of writing up a history and physical, humming while I worked. It was shaping up to be a good day.

"Miss Blackwood."

I looked up. There stood Dr. Hanlon, his face a perfect thundercloud. I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry.

"In my office. Now." He turned on his heel and strode down the hall. I almost had to run to keep up with him.

We entered his office. He closed the door. It's never good when they close the door. Despite my feeling of impending doom, I looked around curiously. I'd never been in Dr. Hanlon's personal office before. Expensive original art on the walls. Huge teak desk. Handwoven oriental rug. The place was messy, though. Many docs' offices are apt to be a bit cluttered; they're busy. Dr. Hanlon's, however, looked like the aftermath of an explosion. Empty styrofoam coffee cups and junk food wrappers littered his desk and the floor around the wastebasket. Dozens of CDs and cases were stacked precariously. Medical journals and manila file folders covered every available surface. Dr. Hanlon threw himself into the chair behind his cluttered desk. I noted with some amusement that he'd had pizza for breakfast; one congealing piece was now firmly stuck to one of the file folders. I knew now why he used another office for consultation.

He did not offer me a seat.

"Did you give the patient in 408 a lollipop?"

Uh, oh.

"Yes,doctor. I, uh, didn't feel that it was inappropriate."

Dr. Hanlon smiled, but it wasn't a nice one. "Really? The patient in 408 is diabetic. You did read her chart? You know, the one that says she's diabetic? Or let me guess. You were too busy being Patch Adams to notice that small but salient notation. Was she your patient? Did you admit her? No, and no again, Miss Blackwood. Do we interact with other people's patients unless there's an emergency or unless we're asked? Godammit, this is inexcusable. Luckily, nothing happened, but you could have severely compromised that patient's care. You're in your last year of medical school, Miss Blackwood, and I know you've worked very hard to get to this point. But you still have a long way to go, and unless you want to be called Miss and not Doctor for the rest of your life, I'd suggest you start acting like a doctor."

Oh, Christ. I guess I'd been so busy chatting with the patient that I hadn't read her chart as carefully as I obviously should have. He was right. I had done a Very Stupid Thing.

I stood there, mortified, my cheeks crimson. I didn't know whether to cry or vomit."I'm sorry," I managed.

Dr. Hanlon sighed. "I'll see you tomorrow, Miss Blackwood."

*********************

Doctor Michael Joseph Hanlon paused, en route to his car, to watch Clarissa Blackwood drag herself wearily across St. Stephen's huge parking lot. He grinned in spite of himself as he looked at her. Christ, she was something! She had absolutely no idea, none, how pretty she was, nor how extraordinarily attracted he was to her. Hanlon would have laughed, but it was more pathetic than funny: a crush on one of his med students! Good lord, he could barely breathe when she was around. His cock got hard just looking at her. He'd wanted her since the first day he'd seen her, bent over some patient's chart, sucking on one of those ridiculous lollipops she always carried. He'd watched her full, pink lips slide slowly over the candy, her little tongue lapping at the small, cherry red ball on the end of the tiny white stick. Jesus, he'd almost come in pants right then and there.

Not that the girl consciously did anything to make herself attractive, that was for sure. She dressed like a freaking bag lady: shapeless, drab dresses, tan nylons, cheap shoes. No makeup or jewelry. No, her beauty was natural. She was tall, at least five-nine, and slender. Great figure underneath those horrible clothes, if Michael was any judge of body types. Nice breasts, probably 36C. Beautiful pale skin that contrasted nicely with her black hair, which she wore in a long, tight pigtail. Michael often found himself wondering what it would be like to unbind that hair and spread it on a pillow. She had enormous black eyes, thick lashes. Beautiful little nose. Her mouth was, in Michael's opinion, perfect. Juicy pink lips, full and luscious. How many times had he imagined those lips around his cock? And there was something else about her... Unlike most of the other females Michael had encountered professionally, this girl had a sweet vulnerability and ripe innocence that begged to be exploited. Michael would've bet money that if he snapped his fingers and told Clarissa to bring him coffee, she'd jump to comply. And not out of fear, either. No, there was an aura of submissiveness about the girl, and Michael Hanlon liked his women submissive. Oh, he was a goner on Clarissa Blackwood.

Which was precisely why he was so godawful hard on her.

Michael Hanlon knew damn well that any fantasies he had regarding Clarissa Blackwood would remain just that: fantasies. Attending Physicians did not fuck their med students unless they wanted to bend right over and kiss their own professional asses goodbye. Clarissa drove Michael crazy. To give himself the detachment from her he so desperately needed, he had gone out of his way to make her dislike him. He knew he made the girl nervous. He knew he'd often been unfair. Better that than shoving her into the nearest supply closet and screwing her brains out, which was one of the tamer things he wanted to do with Clarissa Blackwood. Michael hoped like hell that his detachment offense was making him seem as unpleasant as possible, because he was becoming increasingly more obssessed with Clarissa each day.

Michael shook his head, slowly, still watching the girl as she got into a beat-up Escort. The car looked like it had seen better days. Michael smiled, wondering just how far in debt Clarissa Blackwood had gone to pay for medical school. He unlocked his car, tossed his briefcase and lab coat on the passenger seat, got in, and turned the ignition key. The Mustang responded smoothly. Michael smiled, listening to the sweet music of eight gorgeous cylinders. He patted the dashboard. "Good girl," he murmured. The car was, after medicine, his One True Love. A sixty-nine Mustang, lovingly restored, fire-engine red. Black leather interior. Scrupulously clean, inside and out. Michael loved the car with much of his heart. His four brothers, all younger, teased Michael mercilessly about the car. Michael had been told on more than one occasion by more than one brother that his chances for snagging a girlfriend might increase if he'd stop spending so much time and money on the Mustang.

Michael drove, thinking. Girlfriend. Not that he didn't want one; Michael's sexual appetite was huge. Unfortunately, years spent in medical school, residency, and Michael's own workaholic tendencies had made keeping a girlfriend difficult. Michael avoided one-nighters as a rule; in this day and age, it wasn't worth it. And so, contrary to what most of his friends and colleagues believed, Michael Hanlon hadn't been with a woman in almost two years. Unless you counted that nurse last summer. Michael chuckled, remembering. That had been a weekend fling, albeit a nice one. She'd been short and big-breasted and blonde and gave great blowjobs. Michael's cock stirred as his thoughts turned inevitably from the nurse to Clarissa. God, he wanted her. He imagined taking her dark hair in his fists and forcing her pretty little mouth down on his prick. Oh, she might struggle a bit at first, but that always made it better anyway. Her mouth would be warm and wet. He'd tell her exactly what he wanted done, and how she was to do it. He envisioned those tasty breasts of hers, freed from the confinement of her bra, jiggling sweetly. He wondered if her nipples were big and pink. Michael loved big, pink nipples. Jesus, he was hard, and a wet spot was beginning to form at the crotch of his pants. Michael licked his lips, which were suddenly dry, and decided he'd better concentrate on driving.

Michael sighed, turning the last corner into the parking lot of his apartment building. Huh, that was another thing. Unlike most men of his age and profession, Michael lived in a six-room, barely-furnished apartment. He'd been there ever since he'd come to St.Stephen's three years before. He had no plans to move. The nurse had giggled when she'd seen his place, calling him an overgrown med student. Michael's parents despaired of him ever settling down. On his last visit home, at lunch with his mother, Michael found himself telling her once more that yes, he was quite happy where he lived, and no, he wasn't looking for a house. Mrs. Hanlon wished her son would grow up, get married, and start a family. Once more, she said so. Rather forcefully. Lunch had ended badly.

Michael parked the Mustang, reached into the back seat, and pulled out a folded car cover. Grabbing his things, Michael got out, closed and locked the car, and tenderly blanketed it. " 'Night, honey," he whispered, stroking the car's warm hood.

Michael grinned sheepishly as he entered his building, wondering for the hundredth time if habitually talking to a car was pathological. He stopped at the mailbox, extricated a wad of envelopes, and climbed two short flights of steps to his apartment, sorting mail as he went. Gas bill, Victoria's Secret catalog (he did not wear the underwear; he looked at the girls), coupon pack, and a letter from one of his brothers, studying medicine in Nova Scotia. Michael unlocked his apartment and walked in, hitting the light switch as he entered. The light on his answering machine was flashing; he ignored it. If it was really important they'd page him. Tossing his stuff in the nearest available chair, Michael grabbed a half-empty fifth of bourbon from where it sat, amidst Taco Bell wrappers, loose change, and empty beer bottles, on a rather sticky coffee table. Opening the bottle of bourbon, Michael upended it into his mouth and took a long swallow. He exhaled slowly as the liquor burned its way down his throat. Wiping his lips, he carried the bottle into his dirty, neglected kitchen and opened the refrigerator.

"As if," he muttered disgustedly, looking at a rotting orange, two pieces of unwrapped, dried up pepperoni pizza, and a scary jar of cocktail olives. Michael grabbed one of the pieces of pizza and went into the smaller of the apartment's two bedrooms, which he used as an office. Loosening his tie, Michael plopped down in front of his computer and booted it up. He chewed for awhile on ancient pizza. Taking another pull on the bourbon, he reached absently across his desk , groping for a squashed pack of Winstons. He shook out a cigarette and, taking a silver lighter from his pants pocket, lit up. Michael often wondered what the good folks at St. Stephen's, not to mention his colleagues, would say if they knew that Michael Joseph Hanlon, crack cardiologist, had a pack-a-day habit. Michael grinned. He wondered as well what they'd say if they knew he liked to tie up girls and smack their asses with a riding crop. That he went to bondage and discipline clubs on a regular basis. That he had a collection of pornography and sex toys that would shame a professional dom. And now, dammit, he was thinking of Clarissa again. "Shit," he muttered, and opened his e-mail.

For the next three hours Michael answered e-mail, surfed for porn, and took a half-hearted stab at an article he was writing. When he finally looked at his watch, Michael was astounded to find that it was three am and that he was out of bourbon.

Michael pulled himself to his feet and strode into the bathroom, pausing to look at himself in the mirror as he grabbed his toothbrush. He sighed sadly. "Jesus, Hanlon," he said to his reflection. "You are such a loser. Stop thinking about her."

Angry at himself, Michael brushed his teeth so hard his gums bled. He dragged himself down the narrow hall to his bedroom. The only furniture in evidence was a box spring and mattress and a cheap nightstand. The nightstand was piled high with more of the same sort of junk from the coffee table. Piles of clothing, clean, dirty, and unknown, lay everywhere. Michael undressed, adding his recently divested clothing to what he hoped was a dirty pile on the floor. He paused, naked, and stretched, looking at himself in a full-length mirror. He guessed he looked okay. He knew he was handsome, and enjoyed the effect he had on women.

He was well aware that there was probably not a woman at St. Stephen's, married or single, who wouldn't fuck him at the drop of a hat. At thirty-five, Michael could pass for thirty, maybe younger. He grinned. Good old Shanty Irish genes. His body was decent. He worked out regularly and had some nice muscles to show for it. Hard biceps. Well-formed chest, flat stomach. Lean waist, despite his dreadful diet. Michael dropped his hand to his crotch and fondled himself, hardening almost instantly. Nothing wrong with his cock, either. Seven-and-a-half inches long and almost two inches around. He'd never had any complaints. He continued to stroke himself. God, what he wouldn't give to slip his prick into Clarissa Blackwood! Michael's hand moved faster as he re-ran a now-familiar fantasy in his mind. He'd get her into his office, alone, presumably to discuss her progress.

He'd smile and joke and charm her, and she wouldn't have a chance from the outset, because Michael Hanlon could charm any girl right out of her panties. When she was settled in her chair, he'd praise her, telling her what a fine physician she was going to be if she kept up the good work, et cetera, anything that sounded good. He'd tell her she looked tense. Smiling sweetly, he'd get up from his desk, come around behind her and place his hands on her shoulders. "Relax," he'd say, massaging her, slipping her lab coat down over her arms. Before she could protest, he'd lean over and gently, gently, kiss her neck, sliding his hands around to cup her breasts.

She'd melt, moaning softly, arching her tits into his hands, leaning back against his stiffening cock. He'd rub his thumbs slowly, steadily over her nipples, which by now would be like two pencil erasers, straining at the fabric of her clothing. He'd undo the buttons at the top of her dress and push the dress down over her shoulders. Her breasts would heave deliciously as her breathing sped up, indicating her increased excitement. Michael would unhook the front of Clarissa's bra, sending her breasts spilling out. He'd play with them, massaging them gently, feeling their firm weight, rolling the huge pink nipples between his skilled fingers, pinching them hard. Each cruel pinch would send jolts of pure pleasure through the girl's body. Clarissa's skin would feel wonderfully creamy and silky. She'd spread her legs slightly and start to writhe in the chair.

"Whatever is the matter, Miss Blackwood?" He'd murmur, his lips at her ear.

"D-don't," she'd gasp. "We shouldn't."

Immediately, Michael would stop. "You're quite right," he'd say, seriously. "You really ought to be sucking my cock." He'd snap his fingers. "Get up. Undress. Every stitch."