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“Mr. Jackson!” greets Brenda the receptionist. Her eyebrows fly up so high they practically paste themselves onto the ceiling. “We didn’t expect you until tomorrow.”
“Where’s Melissa?” I snarl, practically baring my teeth at her. “I need to see her now.”
Brenda trembles a bit in her seat, those blue eyes blinking owlishly behind her glasses.
“Um, Dr. Carter is with a patient,” she says. “But I’ll let you know as soon as she’s free?”
I snarl again, a literal roar bursting from my throat. Good thing there’s no one in the waiting room because I start pacing like an angry tiger, three steps forward and then three steps back, wearing a hole into the rug.
“Mr. Jackson,” cries Brenda. “Can I get you some water? Please calm down, sir. Dr. Carter will be with you in a moment.”
But I ignore the receptionist. What the fuck is this about? On the one hand, I can’t wait to see the sweet physician. I need to fill my hands with her curves. I need to dip my fuckstick into her creamy twat in order to calm down. I need to suckle at her nipples like a baby at its mother’s breast.
But on the other hand, dread fills my chest because memories of my uncle’s untimely death come rushing back. They caught the cancer pretty early, but it didn’t make a difference. A year after he was diagnosed, Uncle Robbie was gone. And let me tell you, prostate cancer isn’t a good way to go. Your balls shrivel. Your dick dries up. Not to mention, all your hair falling out, muscle mass vanishing from your frame, and the severe dehydration that turned Robbie into a gray corpse by the end. It was painful just to see, and I can’t imagine how it felt.
So what the hell? I want to have sex with Melissa desperately and lose myself in a fine female form to take my thoughts off the trouble ahead. In fact, I want to pump her full of my semen so that she grows heavy with child. But it’s not right. Not just because of the taboo factor, but because she’s in charge of telling me that I’m dying. Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Kill me now. Literally, not figuratively.
Fortunately, the door opens at that moment and it’s Melissa herself.
“Mace,” she says firmly, that curvy form hidden by a lab jacket once again. “Come in. Exam Room One, please.”
In two steps, I’ve swept by her, but not without brushing my massive chest against those huge tits. She gasps, cheeks flushing, nipples going hard, but merely follows me without words into the exam room before closing the door firmly behind herself.
“How are you?” she greets me, clipboard in one hand. “What can I do for you today?”
I glare at her.
“You know what I’m here for,” is my nasty growl. “What the fuck is up with this letter?” I ask, shoving it under her nose.
She takes a deep breath but doesn’t flinch.
“Right. Your test results,” she says, inhaling deeply before looking me in the eye. “Mace, your tests came back elevated.”
I sit down, the blood draining from my big form. Because this is what I expected to hear, and yet facing it doesn’t make it any easier.
“How elevated?” I ask, voice hoarse. I already know what she’s talking about.
“Your PSA levels are in the high-risk zone,” she says in a low voice. “I’m so sorry.”
In a rage, I crumple the paper in one big fist before turning my wrath on the poor woman.
“What the fuck?” is my snarl. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Melissa doesn’t get intimidated, nor does she back down. Instead, the curvy BBW holds her ground with her arms crossed against those plump tits, a defiant light in those eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” she says again evenly. “But the tests are clear. Of course, we can re-do them if you like.”
I shake my head, gazing at blank space of the white exam room wall. Images seem to appear and disappear before my eyes, black and gray squiggles that are the product of a stunned mind. Because it’s really happening. This was the first step down the cancer road that led to Uncle Robbie’s funeral, and as a result, I feel like I’ve been handed a death sentence.
“Fuck,” I curse again under my breath, still staring at the wall like an enraged bull. “Fuck this shit.”
Melissa sits slowly.
“Mr. Jackson, we can do the tests again,” she says. “You know they’re not a hundred percent right all the time, and last week … well, you know what happened. I didn’t get a definitive reading during the digital exam.”
“You mean during our finger fuck?” I ask harshly, turning her way with dark streaks blazing across my cheekbones. “Was that before or after you sucked me off?”
She maintains her composure admirably.
“I didn’t get a good reading,” she repeats again. “And I’m happy to repeat the exam. As well as the blood test. We’ll do them both,” she says firmly.
