Finally the door opened and the doctor's assistant called her name.
"Janet?"
Janet got up from her chair and didn't bother straightening or otherwise pulling down, her already shamefully short skirt. It wasn't quite a mini-skirt, but certainly a mini-skirt in training! The doctor's assistant, who had just celebrated her fifty-third birthday alone, but with cake, took one quick look up and down Janet's braless countenance and quickly pegged her as a young, uninhibited woman on good days, and a full-blown whore during moderate-to-severe flareups on bad days. But then again, she thought the same of all women with a body half the size of hers or smaller.
A thirteen year-old boy waiting to see the doctor watched Janet as she walked by. He couldn't muster the presence of mind to keep his eyes off her ass, or the lecherous, tranced-out look off his face. Later he would tell his friends at school all about the patch of hair he saw as she got up from her chair. There wasn't much to tell, but he would tell it, and he would tell it well. He would be god for a day or two.
Janet followed the assistant down the hall and into the examination room. Once inside, the assistant turned to her and, without looking her in the eye even once, said in the most rehearsed fashion, "Please have a seat. The doctor will see you in a few minutes." Then she turned and left, closing the door behind her.
Janet knew that a few minutes meant whenever-it-happens. That was ok with her because she was sweating profusely from her armpits, and she needed the time to get up from the chair and grab a bunch of paper towels from the dispenser on the wall. She unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse so that she could reach her armpits to soak up the sweat. This kind of thing always made her sweat, especially from her armpits thanks to her boyfriend Carl telling her that underarm deodorants are loaded with aluminum that gives people the Alzheimer's.
There was a light tap at the door. Janet quickly reached into her blouse and grabbed the wads of sweat-soaked paper towels from her armpits and threw them into the waste basket and didn't re-button her blouse. The doctor opened the door slowly and smiled as he walked in.
He stood at the sink counter looking down at the questionnaire that Janet had filled out in the waiting room. "So, you say here that you have unexplained pain in various parts of your body. Tell me about it."
"Well," she said, looking him right in the eye, "there's this pain I sometimes get that's about six inches below my left nipple, and about four inches to the right."
After a brief hesitation, the doctor nodded slowly and said, "You mean your . . . abdomen?"
"Sure," she replied with a slight grin. "we could call it that if you want."
The doctor hesitated for a second before averting his eyes, pretending to have suddenly discovered something of greater interest on the questionnaire than Janet's explicit directions to the site of her pain. "I see, and what other pains do you have . . . Miss. . . ." He continued looking down, pretending to be now concerned about her last name.
"Janet," she said, "Just call me Janet."
"Ok, Janet. What about your other pain?"
"Well, there's one pain about eighteen inches below and just to the right of my pussy," she said, placing undue emphasis on the first syllable, and letting the second syllable drag out and fade to a whisper.
All the cards were on the table now, but the doctor continued playing. "You mean your right knee, correct?"
In Janet's experience, nine out of ten doctors will tell you to leave and never come back. But sooner or later, one will summon an assistant and instruct her to cancel his last appointments of the day, at which time Janet would secretly turn on the voice-activated tape recorder in her purse.
After a successful hunt, Janet would have between one and five thousand dollars. She charged the doctor one thousand for your run-of-the-mill sex-sounds tape. But if she could get the doctor to disclose anything derogatory about his wife, she could get a full five grand easily. She would simply send him a cassette-tape of their sexual encounter marked copy #3 with a location and time for the money drop. Then she would secretly video tape him dropping the money off, after which he would receive copy #3 of that tape along with instructions as to how and where to drop off the money to cover that offence.
"Janet?"
Janet got up from her chair and didn't bother straightening or otherwise pulling down, her already shamefully short skirt. It wasn't quite a mini-skirt, but certainly a mini-skirt in training! The doctor's assistant, who had just celebrated her fifty-third birthday alone, but with cake, took one quick look up and down Janet's braless countenance and quickly pegged her as a young, uninhibited woman on good days, and a full-blown whore during moderate-to-severe flareups on bad days. But then again, she thought the same of all women with a body half the size of hers or smaller.
A thirteen year-old boy waiting to see the doctor watched Janet as she walked by. He couldn't muster the presence of mind to keep his eyes off her ass, or the lecherous, tranced-out look off his face. Later he would tell his friends at school all about the patch of hair he saw as she got up from her chair. There wasn't much to tell, but he would tell it, and he would tell it well. He would be god for a day or two.
Janet followed the assistant down the hall and into the examination room. Once inside, the assistant turned to her and, without looking her in the eye even once, said in the most rehearsed fashion, "Please have a seat. The doctor will see you in a few minutes." Then she turned and left, closing the door behind her.
Janet knew that a few minutes meant whenever-it-happens. That was ok with her because she was sweating profusely from her armpits, and she needed the time to get up from the chair and grab a bunch of paper towels from the dispenser on the wall. She unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse so that she could reach her armpits to soak up the sweat. This kind of thing always made her sweat, especially from her armpits thanks to her boyfriend Carl telling her that underarm deodorants are loaded with aluminum that gives people the Alzheimer's.
There was a light tap at the door. Janet quickly reached into her blouse and grabbed the wads of sweat-soaked paper towels from her armpits and threw them into the waste basket and didn't re-button her blouse. The doctor opened the door slowly and smiled as he walked in.
He stood at the sink counter looking down at the questionnaire that Janet had filled out in the waiting room. "So, you say here that you have unexplained pain in various parts of your body. Tell me about it."
"Well," she said, looking him right in the eye, "there's this pain I sometimes get that's about six inches below my left nipple, and about four inches to the right."
After a brief hesitation, the doctor nodded slowly and said, "You mean your . . . abdomen?"
"Sure," she replied with a slight grin. "we could call it that if you want."
The doctor hesitated for a second before averting his eyes, pretending to have suddenly discovered something of greater interest on the questionnaire than Janet's explicit directions to the site of her pain. "I see, and what other pains do you have . . . Miss. . . ." He continued looking down, pretending to be now concerned about her last name.
"Janet," she said, "Just call me Janet."
"Ok, Janet. What about your other pain?"
"Well, there's one pain about eighteen inches below and just to the right of my pussy," she said, placing undue emphasis on the first syllable, and letting the second syllable drag out and fade to a whisper.
All the cards were on the table now, but the doctor continued playing. "You mean your right knee, correct?"
In Janet's experience, nine out of ten doctors will tell you to leave and never come back. But sooner or later, one will summon an assistant and instruct her to cancel his last appointments of the day, at which time Janet would secretly turn on the voice-activated tape recorder in her purse.
After a successful hunt, Janet would have between one and five thousand dollars. She charged the doctor one thousand for your run-of-the-mill sex-sounds tape. But if she could get the doctor to disclose anything derogatory about his wife, she could get a full five grand easily. She would simply send him a cassette-tape of their sexual encounter marked copy #3 with a location and time for the money drop. Then she would secretly video tape him dropping the money off, after which he would receive copy #3 of that tape along with instructions as to how and where to drop off the money to cover that offence.
