Doctor Does Diesel Ch. 01

He arrived home from Iraq on a morning that was stifled with the scent of things dead and living, some of them newly refreshed and ready, some wilted flowers brushed at his subconscious, rubbing themselves against the scuffed toe of his boots, at which he winced. He looked at the card in his hand; the script was cursive, curly, embossed against the stark ribbed white of the card. Dr. Madison Attard, PhD. He hated doctors. He shrugged off his bag and let it fall into and stir the dirt. He felt his shoulders sag, fought of the sudden urge he had to crumble, join his bag in the dry choking sand.

He was at Redmond Medical Center. It was a plaza, newly built with freakishly perfect landscaping and generic red brick and a gray and black checkered rooftop. People, mostly those of the geriatric persuasion, walked in and out, looking dazed, some in wheelchairs, others leaning on the strength of their loved ones. Diesel ran a hand over the stubbly surface of his head. He was hungry, horny, hot. The last thing he wanted to do was sit in some scarily comfortable leather chair and pour his heart out to some saggy breasted self-important old bitty who probably wouldn't know a good lay if it slapped the notebook out of her hand. She would ask him questions about his tour in Iraq, ask him how it had made him feel, stare at him with fake understanding and empathy, when all she really felt was her superiority and the dollar signs clanging around in her head. There was no way that anyone, save for his company and the others that had served with and before him, could understand how being in the dry suffocating heat of Iraq had been. And he wasn't for God's sake, referring to the temperature.

"May I help you sir?" asked a short older orderly who had wandered from the concrete path leading from the building to the parking lot to question him where he stood, right near the stone fountain, in the heat parched flower bed. He stared down at her, dumbfounded for a couple seconds. She looked unfamiliar, inhuman for a second, as if she had begun melting in the blaring summer sun. Was he even at home? He looked down at his boots again, the scuffs really beginning to get to him. He stared up at the sky, blue, silken, foreboding. "Sir?"

"Yeah," he shoved the card at her, and she examined it closely.

"You're here to see Dr. Attard?" she asked, palming the card as if holding it ransom.

"yeah."

"What times your appointment, I think I just saw her leave for lunch."

"Not until 2:30. What time's it now?"

"Just now one. Are you alright, you look a little sick. Why don't you pick up your bag and follow me inside. It's air conditioned and you can eat something in the cafeteria."

She doesn't say anything but Diesel is sure that the combination of his uniform and his dazed look, his demeanor suggests that he might have been one of the many that had been chewed up and spit out by this everlasting war. He picked up his bag, straightened his stance a bit, and followed the woman into the building. She led him into a small sweet smelling room with five round tables surrounded by expensive looking cloth chairs. She pulled out a chair and he seated himself. She disappeared around a corner and minutes later returned with a plate heaped with everything he had dreamed of devouring the moment he stepped off the plane in Nevada. Steak, sweet, tender steak, sat steaming against a mound of buttery mashed potatoes and green beans. There was a saucer holding corn on the cob and two pieces of wheat bread. A bowl holding a helping of smoking chicken broth based stew of some sort rounded out the most perfect meal he'd ever seen. He didn't even remember her leaving, all he knew was that she sat the plate down and then she was gone, and all he could see, all he cared about, was the food.

The room was empty when he came in, but he suddenly felt a presence other than his own in the room, and turned to see a thin woman come in and drop her purse on the table directly next to his before she disappeared into the same place the woman had brought his food from. He felt himself tense, not up to forcing conversation and answering questions about his uniform, about the blank and no doubt dazed look he was sporting as blatantly as his marine garb. He stood, primed to move far away, his tray of food in hand, and then she returned.

Her breasts. He couldn't help it, it was the first thing he noticed, that and the way her skirt stopped way higher than he would've imagined a skirt in such a professional setting should've. She had the air of someone who worked in the hospital. He wondered about their dress code. She sat down without giving him a second glance. He sat down quickly, suddenly feeling foolish, an alien emotion to him. She didn't seem to even notice him, so he relaxed a bit, picked up his spoon and continued to ladle the delicious brew into his mouth. He'd just finished the soup when her voice severed the silence of the room. It was high, feminine, and it made him ache all over. He caught a glance at her out of the corner of his eye, forcing slyness he didn't think a man of his size could pull off.

She was on the phone, had it pressed against her ear with her shoulder while she rummaged through her massive purse for something she wasn't finding. "It's in my purse you fucking asshole. Here's a tip, if you don't really mean anything behind it, a fucking diamond ring don't mean shit!" she said, this statement, laced in her soft, unthreatening voice sounded inviting, laughable almost, because Diesel knew she was trying to be sharp with whoever was on the other end. Something went wrong and the purse toppled from her lap, assorted items scattered everywhere, many of them landing beneath Diesel's table. Diesel scooted out of his chair, watched out of the corner of her eye as she slammed her cell shut without saying goodbye and bent down to pick up her belongings. Diesel concentrated on picking up her things, made himself ignore the fact that her skirt was really, really too short. So short in fact that as she stooped to pick up her spill it betrayed the fact that she wasn't wearing any underwear, and was a stickler for a well groomed pussy, as well, to Diesel's arousal. And her blouse, it was way too tight, her large C's, Diesel guessed that they were either 36 C's or a small D, were stressing the fabric of the pink cotton shirt so much that he was sure that the fabric was going to tear and release them at any second.

"Thank you so much, I'm so clumsy sometimes." She looked up at him, catching his blue eyes with her dark brown ones. Diesel could tell she was flustered, a hint of a blush could be detected beneath the dark brown of her skin. Her lips, perfectly shaped and shining with colorless gloss stretched into a smile, revealing pretty teeth, an almost undetectable gap between the front two. Diesel simply nodded, handed her her things. She dropped everything into her purse, then began to frantically search inside the purse again.

"Shit!" she cursed.

"What, still missing something?" he asked before he knew it. His voice deep and distinct, felt too big for the room.

"Yeah, well, no. Well, shit I, my fiancé, ex-fiancé's ring. I need to find it."

"Why you need it if he's the ex?" Diesel wasn't sure what had gotten into him. Sure, she was hot, but he was not a talker, especially to strangers.

"So I can throw it at his ass. Why else?" she laughed, Diesel felt a smile crack his stiff feeling face. They both stood, him having about a foot on her in height, she stared up at him, with an amused look on her face. "Where are you from, that accent is lovely." He felt heat rise to his cheeks. He'd never heard the word lovely in relation to his accent. He thought he sounded as dirt poor and country as he actually was. Alabama born and bred, the accent only reminded him of why he had gone into the service in the first place. People like him didn't have many other choices besides the military.

"I'm from Georgiana Alabama." he said, sitting back down, turning away from her, suddenly feeling his chest constrict. He began to gnaw on a piece of steak, could feel her eyes on him.

"Well, thanks again. I guess the ring's better off lost. That way he won't get his money back and I won't have to feel the weight of it in my purse." She turned away, picked up her tray of untouched food and dropped it in the trash, then disappeared into the ladies room at the far side of the cafeteria. Diesel stood soon after, threw the few remnants of his meal he'd left behind into the trash, then shouldered his bag. He was just about to leave the cafeteria, walk back outside, say fuck the appointment, when he saw it out of the corner of his eye. Right beneath the trash receptacle.

He bent down, plucked the ring from of its hiding place. It was heavy, sickeningly ostentatious, a glinting trio of canary diamonds, a large one flanked by two smaller ones in a platinum setting. He dropped it into his pocket, feeling a little better knowing that he was about to get a pretty penny for the ring from the closest pawn shop he could find.

Outside the sun had dipped lower, but the heat hadn't lessened. Diesel began his trek back to the car he had rented to get him home from the airport. He'd been as obedient as he was going to be for the day. They'd sent him home and required that he see a doctor before reporting back to the base the next morning. He was to have a signed doctor's note and everything, just like he was ten trying to get excused from school.

"Sir?" his hand on the handle, he knew he should've just climbed inside, and sped away, go find a strip joint, at least see a naked woman if he wasn't going to be able to touch or fuck one tonight. He thought fleetingly of the woman from the cafeteria, was surprised by the sudden blood rush to his dick. He turned to the voice, saw the orderly from before rushing toward him. "Sir, Dr. Attard is in, you're gonna be late for your appointment if you don't hurry."

"Thanks ma'am but I think I'm gonna skip it. No offense but ain't no doctor ever told me nothing good." He opened the door to the sedan, tossed his bag inside, and almost got in himself before he felt the cold soft hand on his arm. He looked at her hand, her hand obscuring part of the U.S.M.C. tattoo on his bare forearm.

"Look, my son, he's still there, he came back for a while, but they sent him back. Just a baby, only nineteen. But he saw Dr. Attard while he was here, before he went back, and it helped him a lot, and I don't claim to know nothing' about you, but I think it would help you also. You remind me of him. You guys had that same look in the eye after you came back from that horrible place." She was quiet then, and Diesel felt something fluttering in his stomach. His eyes stung a bit, as if he might cry. He looked down at her. She was a small woman, with wispy grey hair, pale, pale skin and watery blue eyes. An air of warmth surrounded her. She resembled his grandmother, whom he'd lost while he'd been away.

Before he knew what was happening her hand was guiding him back into the building, and he was following her up a set of marble steps to a door adorned with Dr. Attard's placard. She opened the door for him and he stepped inside, when he looked behind her she was gone. The receptionist's desk was empty, occupied only by a sign up sheet filled with crossed out names. She sure goes through them fast, Diesel thought to himself. He'd broken out of whatever trance he'd been in and was about to skip out on the appointment for the second time when the receptionist came barreling in from behind him.

"You got an appointment?" she asked, seating herself at the desk.

"Uh, yeah." he said, fishing the card out of his pocket and handing it to her.

"For 2:30, you're just in time, she hates late patients and she ain't in the best mood today." the receptionist said, smirking. She then pressed a button on the nondescript black phone sitting on the corner of her desk. "your 2:30 is here Dr. Attard."

"Send him in," crackled a voice over the speaker, distorted by the static. The receptionist nodded at him, and he took a deep breath, shoved the door to the office open.

The hard on returned with a vengeance, she had his back to him, leaning over her desk doing something, but he recognized the small polyester skirt, the pink shirt. Her ass was just right, and he hadn't noticed before, the seams of her thigh highs caressing the length of her long legs. He adjusted himself quickly in an attempt to mask his hard on.

"Have a seat. Mr. Olsen. Just cleaning some stuff up here." she walked away from him, placed a thick file into a tall metal cabinet near the window. He examined the small office, caught a glimpse of himself in the full length mirror hung from a closed door on the left wall. His hair was still buzzed short, so blonde it appeared white. His biceps, much bigger now than when he left, also more tattooed, had a slight shine to them, he had sweat on the ride here and just now when he'd been trying to leave. His camouflage green tank hugged the planes of his sculpted chest like it was painted on. He was proud of his body, he had earned it, and it had helped him while he was there, better health and considerable bulk was the one good thing he'd gotten from serving. His chin had a slight dusting of stubble though, he needed to shave, and his twice broken nose seemed extra crooked to him today in the strange lighting of the room. His face looked different to him now anyway, bad lighting or not, his ice blue eyes a little harder, the scar near his right ear fresh and noticeable, but a welcome wound that reminded him that the maniac hadn't killed him, or really got the jump on him.

"Oh my gosh, it's you." she said when she finally turned around. She looked pleased to see him, but then apprehension colored her features. "I acted so unprofessionally back there, you probably want to go running for the hills now that you know I'm your therapist."

Diesel smiled slightly, took a seat in the wooden hard backed chair in front of her large Mahogany desk. He'd guessed wrong about the comfortable chairs part. This chair felt just like the ones he'd used in Iraq. "No, put me at ease really." he stared hard at her, watched her seat herself before him, thought of her bare pussy being only inches from him. And he couldn't remember the last time he'd had good, really, really good, satisfying sex. He couldn't help but wonder how long it had been for her.

"Um, well, I guess I should apologize for how I acted at any rate."

"Don't," Diesel said, waving her words away. "Let's me know that you don't think you're perfect. Let me see you as a real person really. Makes me a little more comfortable, I guess. Plus, you're beautiful, I'm sure you can get anyone to forgive you for anything." Diesel wasn't one to dole out compliments, but she was absolutely breathtaking. Her hair had been pinned up in the cafeteria, now it hung loose and thick about her face and shoulders. He wanted to pull it, preferably from behind. Her hands, holding a felt tipped pen were thin and delicate, the left ring finger had a ring of skin on it lighter than the rest. He thought of her ring in his pocket.

"Thank you, stop," she said, blushing, cheesing like a teenaged girl. He wondered how old she was. She appeared young, maybe a year below or above his 25 years. "Well as you know I'm Dr. Attard. I understand you were referred to me from the Marine Corps. I read your file, you had a pretty bad attack while on duty in Iraq, is that what the scar is from?"

"How many of your patients want in your pants, do you think?" Diesel asked, evading the question, but also really wanting to know. "I mean, you wear an outfit like that, with legs and tits like that..." he knew what he said was inappropriate, but he couldn't help himself, it'd been so long...

"That is not a welcome line of conversation Mr. Olsen. We're here to talk about you, not me. What I wear is of no pertinence to what we are here to do, nor do you need to be entertained with descriptions of the actions of other patients."

"I'm sorry, but it's just that." he leaned forward, "when I was helping you pick your stuff up down there, I saw that you weren't wearing any panties, and I've been thinking about that ever since. And I got this hard on here," he said, sitting back in his seat so she could see the considerable bulge it was making in his camo's. "And I don't know about your other patients, how they handle the hard-ons they get from seeing you sitting there all fine and shit, but me, I need relief. It's been about seven months since I got some, and I don't know how long I'll be able to deal with this without doing something about it."

"What's that supposed to mean? Should I call security?"

"You can't take a compliment, Dr. Attard?"

"That sounded more like a threat than a compliment, and neither are welcome." Dr. Attard began busying a thread on her sleeve. "Now we can talk about you, and your tour in Iraq, or this meeting is over."

"Fine. You want to hear about Iraq, huh? You all do at some point or another. Well I'll tell you about it. It was hell. I watched children blow themselves apart for their parents' agendas, watched a colleague of mine hang himself because he couldn't sleep without seeing images of all the blood and the death. I was sliced by some crazed extremist who I had to murder with my bare hands. Every night there's gunfire, bombs going off all over. I saw more dead bodies than any person should ever see, and for a year I feared for my life every, single, moment that I attempted to live it. I haven't touched a woman in months, I haven't smelled, tasted, a woman's sex in so long I feel like I've forgotten the joys of it, and I think to do so would bring me the only relief I can stomach right now. So sorry if seeing an attractive woman who for whatever reason ain't wearing underwear makes me a little hot blooded. That what you wanted to hear, doc?"

"I forgot." she said quietly, her voice low.

"What? What are you talking about?"

"I got dressed this morning and fucking forgot my underwear, okay? And I've been so fucking busy and fucking fucked up the last week that I didn't pick up my dry cleaning and this hootchie ass outfit was all I had in the closet. I'm not some sex crazed---sex addict."

"Damn, I was hoping." he said smiling. She smiled also, sat back in her chair.

"It's been a while, huh?"

"Yup. What about you?"

"Longer than you would think." she laughed. "My ex-fiancé is my ex-fiancé because I caught him in bed with a man, and then it all came to me, why he was willing to wait until marriage to have sex. He's gay." she laughed again, unhappily, and put her head in her hands. "Who needs the psychiatrist now?"

"Shit, I know." He began to laugh, and she began to laugh, too. It went on for a comfortable minute before she stood, got up and locked the door to her office. Diesel liked where this was going, but didn't want to jump the gun.

"You probably get so tired of that question, huh? The whole, 'How was Iraq' question."

"You don't even know."

"Well, I think I do. I know marriage, it isn't as serious a thing as Iraq, but you can't imagine how tired I got of hearing people ask me when the wedding date was, when I didn't even know." she stood in front of him. "I've been with him for two years, he hasn't touched me once, not the right way. And today, I feel like being, touched, caressed..."

"I don't know how much gentle touching and caressing I'd be capable of. It's been a while, I probably wouldn't even last..."

"Just...come on before I change my mind."

"Yes ma'am," Diesel said, and instantly he was on his knees, shoving her skirt and thigh highs down so roughly she almost fell over. He buried his face in the folds of her sex, her wetness instant and christening his cheeks and chin as his tongue explored her, shoved itself inside her, tasted her. He moaned as he did so...it smelled so good, and he could feel her wavering on her feet as he became more feverish. He picked her up and dropped her into her plush leather chair unceremoniously before spreading her legs and suckling her, her clit a prisoner to his teeth and tongue, his spit, her come all over her thighs, coating his face.