The Doctor and His Nurse – Part 1
By Wanderer
The doctor finds he needs a partner.


This is adult material. Please do not read if you are under age 21 or laws in
your country forbid you to do so. Any similarity to actual persons, living or
dead, is unintentional and purely coincidental.

Copyright 2005 by Wanderer

It was one of those hot, hot days in Texas that causes everybody to turn the
air conditioning up to maximum. The result frequently was that the energy
system got overloaded and broke down. It would stop working completely for
several hours until the temperature cooled down and the problem could be
fixed. This Saturday afternoon was no exception. It was 2:00p.m. and over one
hundred degrees already and the electrical system couldn't take the load.
Ordinarily Saturdays and Sundays were my days off, other than Wednesdays when
I played golf, but this Saturday afternoon I found myself with a surgical
operation scheduled for early Monday morning at the hospital, and foolishly I
had left the X-rays in my medical office.

Damn, I had to leave the comfort of my swimming pool on my suburban estate and
drive into downtown Dallas to my office to get the X-rays. Crap. Thank
goodness my Mercedes has a very adequate air conditioning system.

Of course, one of the advantages of going in on a Saturday was that more than
likely my head assistant nurse, Petra Wheatley, would be in the office feeding
the animals we used for our experiments. We were doing investigative work for
some of the cosmetic companies. Because of animal rights groups picketing
their offices these companies no longer concentrated their research efforts in
central locations. They actually broke up their research efforts and farmed
out their investigative efforts to smaller contractors like myself. I didn't
care much for that type of animal research but it paid extremely well. The
rumor going around was that some of the companies used twenty-five or fifty
cents worth of ingredients per unit and sold the product for fifty or one
hundred dollars, so they had lots of extra income to pay for research.
Besides, I turned the monitoring of the research over to Ms. Wheatley. I
didn't feel so guilty that way. I merely read the research reports and signed
them as my work product.

Ms. Wheatley would come in on weekends to tend our lab animals, feed them and
place water in their cages. I paid her a little bit extra for this service.
Luckily, I didn't have to pay her very much because she was an animal lover so
she did it almost gratis. I never went into my office Saturday or Sunday if I
could avoid it but when I came in every Monday morning I could see that the
animals had been well tended. Except this Saturday I had to go in to get the
X-rays of the patient I had scheduled for surgery early Monday morning.

As I turned my key in the lock and opened the door I was hit in the face by a
blast of heat coming from the interior of my office. The air conditioning was
off in my Dallas office too, of course. I could hear singing coming from the
animal lab. Evidently Ms. Wheatley was entertaining the animals, so I entered
the lab to let her know I was in the office and to say hello.

Imagine my shock. Ms. Wheatley was standing by one of the animal cages,
clothed only in a very tiny bikini panty and a stethoscope!

"Ms. Wheatley!" I exclaimed. "What is the meaning of this? You have no clothes
on!"

"Oh, doctor," Ms. Wheatley answered. "What an unexpected pleasure. Why are you
here today? It is Saturday, isn't it?"

But I couldn't reply. Being a physician I was well versed in the anatomy of
the human body. For some reason, the basis of which I was not aware of, I
found the configuration of Ms. Wheatley's legs - specifically the calves - to
be intriguing. If possible, and unobtrusively, I would find myself following
her from exam room to exam room as she went about performing her required
duties in my office. I would even find observation of the flexing of her
calves as she moved from room to room a stimulus to my groin area. I was
unable to fathom the reason for my response. Perhaps, since I subliminally had
an interest in perfection of the human anatomy as daily I dealt with so much
imperfection - obesity, anorexia, and so on - the opportunity to observe a
perfect configuration of any part of a human body served as a stimulus to my
neural system. Of course, this is probably so much bullshit, but it served the
purpose of maintaining my professional persona. Anyway, if I had the
opportunity to follow Ms. Wheatley I usually made sure to be carrying a
patient file that I could conveniently place in front of my crotch so that my
erection would not be observed by any of my staff. That would have been very
embarrassing.

One day as I followed Ms. Wheatley, surreptitiously observing the calves
flexing large as she placed one leg in front of the other, I noted that her
need to move each leg in a slightly circular movement to get one calf past the
other created an up and down movement of her hips which was quite enticing. To
be crass, it could be characterized as wiggling her ass. It was quite sensual,
something perhaps better observed in a strip club and somewhat out of place in
a professional office. But being well versed in the anatomy of the human body
I understood it to be a compensation required for her to be mobile. This one
day as I followed Ms. Wheatley, ruminating about her sexy ass and hoping not
to be observed, I heard Ms. Wheatley say, "Big, aren't they?"

She had caught me off guard. I had to refocus my thought processes to the
situation at hand. "Beg pardon?" I questioned.

"My legs," Ms Wheatley said. "My calves. They're big, aren't they? Do you
think they're too big, doctor?"

I cleared my throat. "Ahem," I said. "Why, I hadn't noticed, Ms. Wheatley. I
assume their proportion is commensurate with your physical dimensions."

"Well, doctor," Ms. Wheatley giggled. "Of course you've noticed. You follow me
from room to room every chance you get. You're so obvious about it."

I was chagrined. I thought my actions were going unnoticed, and here she was
telling me she was well aware of what I was doing.

"Ahem," I cleared my throat again. "Ms. Wheatley, as a student of anatomy I
have found the disproportionate size of your calves in relation to the rest of
your body to be a very interesting phenomenon. I have been reluctant to get
into such a personal discussion in my professional office but, now that you
have brought the subject up, do you know the circumference of your calves?"

"Of course I do, doctor," Ms. Wheatley said. "They measure twenty inches
around."

"My goodness," I said. "Your entire leg must be way out of proportion. I dare
say with a twenty inch calf it is probably as large as or larger than your
upper leg, your thigh." In the back of my mind was the thought that my own
thigh measured twenty-one inches and she, as a female who was shorter than I
was, would have a thigh smaller in circumference than my own. I think here I
should explain that Ms. Wheatley comes to work in her starched white uniform
and leaves work in her starched white uniform. It always seemed a trifle large
for her, but then it was pretty obvious that she needed a large size as she
seemed to have a rather prodigious bosom, and had she worn something more form
fitting it might have proved to be a distraction to our office routine. The
only reason we knew about her calves was that female employees were not
permitted to wear pants in the office and so her calves were on display daily,
and the rumor floated around the office that she was somewhat of a weight
lifter, but other than that no one really was aware of her physical
dimensions, so her next statement was quite revealing.

"Goodness, no, doctor," said Ms. Wheatley. "My entire leg is quite in
proportion. My calf is twenty inches and my thigh is thirty-two inches. Don't
you think those are proper dimensions, doctor?" And she flashed me her
dazzling smile.

I was flabbergasted. At my height of six feet my own calf measured fifteen
inches and my thigh twenty-one inches. Here was a female of the species, who,
at five feet eight inches had a calf that was twenty inches, and a thigh at
thirty-two inches, considerably larger dimensions than my own leg. Somehow at
that moment I felt inadequate.

"Very nice, Ms. Wheatley," I mumbled. "Is my next patient ready?" Anything to
get out of this embarrassing situation in a hurry, as I felt my penis
inflating.

"Of course, doctor," Ms. Wheatley giggled. "She's been ready for the last ten
minutes as you've followed me around the office. Room 4-B, doc."

I took off in a hurry, not even stopping to admonish her about the use of the
familiar term, "doc." I could put out an office memo later about etiquette in
our office. I always tried to maintain a proper amount of decorum. Maybe I was
a little pompous, but of course it goes with the territory. I mean I was a
medical doctor, so what would you expect? But I tried not to be overbearing. I
did insist on proper use of our names in the office. Office personnel had to
call me Doctor Martin, whether it was in front of patients or in private
circumstances, and I addressed my employees by their family names. The
receptionist was Ms. Culver, my nurse assistant was Ms. Wheatley, and so on.
But now, as I stood in front of Ms. Wheatley with what I was sure was my mouth
wide open, she brought me out of my reverie by repeating her question.

"It is Saturday, isn't it, doctor?"

I didn't answer her question. Instead I said, "This is unseemly conduct, Ms.
Wheatley. You have nothing on except ... er ... a stethoscope."

"Oh, hell, doctor, I wasn't expecting visitors. Besides which, it isn't like
you haven't seen a naked body before. I mean, you are a medical doctor, aren't
you? I don't have anything you haven't seen. It's just that I have more of
it," she laughed. "And the animals don't seem to mind," she added, with a
giggle.

Her saying that she had 'more of it' gave me permission to focus my attention
on her body. Yes, she definitely had more of 'it'. My eyes traveled from those
twenty inch calves to her upper leg, her thighs. It was shocking. She was
slowly moving towards me now and I could see cables of muscles moving across
the front of her thighs. To myself, who had twenty-one inch thighs which I
considered to be normal size, maybe even a trifle on the large side, Ms.
Wheatley's thighs looked impossibly large. Leg muscles like that on a woman
were impossible and scary. I had a brief vision of them being wrapped around
me and breaking a few of my bones. Of course that was just a whimsical thought
as we were employer and employee, and obviously the opportunity for Ms.
Wheatley to place these heavily muscled thighs around my body was never going
to arise.

But I continued my gaze upward because looking at this body was fascinating.
Surely the rumors were true. She had to be a weight lifter, and a dedicated
one at that. Bodies like hers are made, not born. She had a wonderfully
defined six pack at her mid-section and booming, heavily muscled shoulders
that sported deeply striated deltoids and topped by trapezius muscles that
arched fully, yet gracefully, into her very feminine neck. But her arms left
me speechless. More speechless than I was already. They were full. Big. Round.
Indescribably full. They weren't natural. "Nurse Wheatley ... you're so ... so
... muscular."

"Like it, doc? She flexes a bicep. "Twenty-four inches. What do you think?"

"My God," I said. "Your arms ... they're enormous! They certainly aren't in
proportion to anything on your body!"

"Oh, they are, if your chest is sixty-two inches and double-D" she giggled.
And to emphasize her point Ms.Wheatley, who now stood right in front of me,
took a deep breath. That act expanded her chest to press against my own and
force me back a step. Her hard nipples pressed fiercely into my own chest
almost to the point of hurting.

All of a sudden it hit me. This very muscular body on a very feminine woman
was not created solely by physical exercise. "Ms. Wheatley! You have been
partaking of the topical steroid compound whose development we have been
experimenting with for the drug companies! How dare you? You know it is
unethical to participate in this study unless you do so under strictly
controlled conditions! You know development of this compound is to determine
its possible usage in postmenopausal women and you are nowhere near that stage
in your life! The topical application for older women might possibly restore
some youthful elasticity to their skin. A young person like yourself might
absorb some of the compound subcutaneously, with severe consequences. Your use
of this compound for any other purpose is highly inappropriate and totally
unethical! Besides which it could be highly dangerous for a female like
yourself to be using such a steroid compound at this early stage of your life!
You could develop secondary male characteristics!"

"Oh, can it, doc," was Ms. Wheatley's irreverent reply. "Do you see any hair
growing on my chest? Are you going to give me an electric razor for Christmas
so I can shave my face? No, this compound is specifically designed for
females, and if it didn't work I didn't want to sacrifice any of my animals,
so since it was meant for women I used it on myself. It's been great. It made
my weight lifting go easier. I doubled my poundage in about six months. I was
strong and muscular before but look at me now. Oh, my nipples may have grown a
little longer and my clitoris seems to be a little more fun for me to play
with now, but I'm still a living doll, don't you think, Tom," she said, with a
sly little wink and a little hip toss.

It was true. Ms. Wheatley had been with me for five years and I had always
admired her good looks, and her magnificent physical development took nothing
away from her appearance. I'm standing there in front of this muscular
creature and I know I've got an erection trying to poke through my pants, and
I'm hoping she doesn't notice as I read her the riot act.

"Petra, you more than anybody has to understand the side effects of using a
steroid. How in the world did you ever get the idea to try the steroid
compound on yourself?"

"Well," Nurse Wheatley said, "we've been using the steroid compound on the
skin of the female monkeys to see if there were any side effects. One
Saturday, without even thinking about it, I put Sheila the monkey in the same
cage with Jimmy the monkey just so that they could do some monkey business.
They chattered back and forth for a while, as if they were arguing, and then
Sheila attacked poor Jimmy. Now Jimmy is twice Sheila's size, but Jimmy was
terrified. This half-pint female monkey is beating the shit out of Jimmy, then
she grabs his penis and she forces him into having sex with her even though he
looks too afraid to do it. It was a case of total role reversal and poor Jimmy
didn't know how to deal with it. It amounted to ape rape," Petra giggled.

"All right," I said, "I'll admit steroids can maybe help you develop unique
musculature for a female, but it isn't worth it if you develop secondary male
characteristics like facial hair or an enlarged clitoris, and then you have to
consider the possibility of developing uncontrollable anger or even steroid
rage."

"Oh," Petra said, "you mean ladies should be polite and submissive and
compliant to male control, that we don't have the permission or the right to
become angry once in a while when confronted by the male chauvinist?"

"Well, I don't mean that exactly, Petra, but it would be unseemly for you to
present yourself in a disagreeable manner," I said.

Ms. Wheatley said, "You mean like the other day when I was driving?"

"What happened?" I asked.

"Well, I was driving my little sports car in town. It was another hot Texas
day, and I had the convertible top down, and a guy is driving one of the
biggest SUVs I've ever seen in the left lane. I mean this guy even had it
painted U. S. Army camouflage khaki color so it looks like some kind of
modified army tank. I figure there has to be some major general riding in it.
Then this guy decides he wants my lane. He moves right over, doesn't even use
his lane change indicator, and almost pushes me into the next lane over right
into a car being driven by a woman with three children in it. Gee, doc, I got
furious. Well, I'm not entitled to rage. I mean I'm just a woman. Guys can get
road rage, not a woman. You know how I love my little sports car. I polish it
at least once a month. I take it to the car wash once a week, I polish the
chrome wire wheels, and here this guy almost puts a big dent in my left front
fender. It happens so fast I don't even have time to blow my car horn. He's
making the lane change right at an intersection and the signal light changes
and he slams on the brakes. His SUV is so huge I can't even see the stop light
and I almost plow into him from the rear. Luckily my little car is light
weight and I stop just in time, but my heart is in my mouth. I get out of my
car and I approach him on the driver's side and climb up on his running board
so I can see him.

"Excuse me, sir," I say. "You almost just ran me off the road there."

"Yeah, so what?" he says.

"Well, sir, you're not supposed to change lanes until it's safe to do so, and
you're supposed to use your indicator light to alert other drivers as to your
intentions when you change lanes."

"Yeah," he says, "my intention is to smack you in your ugly face if you don't
get off my car," he says.

"Now I may not be the world's most beautiful woman but I know I'm not ugly. So
now I'm getting a little angry," Ms. Wheatley says. "Oh, sir, I didn't know
this is a car. I thought it was a military vehicle on some kind of vital
secret mission since you have no respect for any other cars around you."

"You mean that little piece of crap you're in you're calling a car?" he
laughs. "Isn't that a modified tricycle, you dumb broad?"

"I was getting more into my rage by the minute, but I tried to control my
temper," Petra said. "Gee, I'm sorry, sir, I really should have gotten out of
the way of your tank. Can I take a peek at your machine gun, or do you keep a
cannon in here?"

"The only cannon you're going to see, piss head, is my prick if you don't get
your ass off my running board. This is the last stop light in town, and if you
don't move your butt I'm going to drive out to the nearest open lot and shoot
my cannon right into your mouth. You're going to get a real quick lesson in
firepower," and he roared with laughter at his little joke.

"Oh, sir, I don't think I'm going to be very impressed by a cap pistol," I
said.

"What? What did you just say to me? Why, you stupid bitch, I ought to knock
the crap out of you right here and now!" said Mr. SUV.

"Well, sir," Petra said she told him, "I would welcome your teaching me proper
respect. I'm sure it takes a big man to maneuver such a monster truck so I'm
sure I can learn from you. Here, let me help you out." Now this SUV had those
utilitarian door handles - nothing fancy - the kind that stick out a little
from the door so your fingers can grab on to it. I gave it a good wrench and
it just broke off in my hand, as I knew it would. He couldn't believe it.

"Mmmm," Petra said, "no wonder the guys in Iraq are complaining. These things
certainly aren't very serviceable."

"Well, the guy was practically apoplectic. He was so red in the face I thought
he was going to break a few blood vessels," she said.

"What? What did you just do? You broke the door handle on my $85,000 SUV! I'm
going to kill you!" He climbs down out of this thing and I can see he's at
least six feet two inches compared to my five feet eight so I realize he's not
going to be any problem. He takes a swing at me, I duck a little, and his fist
goes right over my head.

So now it's my turn. I reach up, grab him right where his jawbone and neck
come together, and I lift him up off his feet with my right hand, holding him
against the side of his SUV. Then I pulled him out from the side about six
inches, and slam him up against his car. I kept holding the guy off the ground
using his jaw and upper neck for my hand hold, and I carried him up and down
the side of his monster tank, banging him into the side. But what I discovered
was I wasn't doing much damage to his tank, this hold was only letting me bang
his head up against the vehicle and all I was doing was breaking some window
glass. He could get the glass replaced easily enough, so this wasn't what I
wanted to accomplish. I wanted him to remember tiny little sports cars with
little ladies like me driving them the next time he figured he could just take
over the road, the asshole. So I let him down onto his feet, and before his
battered body could sink to the ground I put my hands under his armpits and I
raised him up that way. Now it felt like his body was more like a battering
ram. I walked up and down the driver's side and I punched his body into the
side of his monster vehicle. Well, I probably cracked and broke a few of his
ribs, but now I had the satisfaction of seeing some damn good sized dents in
that SUV. That was going to cost him a pretty penny to fix. Even if he had
insurance he was going to find it hard to explain the dents, and even if they
paid his claim he was certain to get a raised premium the next time he had to
renew. The driver's side was pretty much a mess. The sheet metal crumpled
easily. No wonder the soldiers in Iraq were complaining bitterly about the
safety of their transportation vehicles.

But I wasn't through with him yet. Since he cast aspersions on my sexuality I
wasn't about to let that go unchallenged. After I was satisfied with the
damage I created using his body I dumped him on the ground, on his back. He
was semi-comatose, that was for sure, but I wasn't finished with him. I
unzipped his fly, pulled out his pecker, such as it was, held it delicately
between my thumb and forefinger, and examined it carefully. Hell, I think I
have a bigger one. "Hmmm," I said, "I think I'm right. This is no cannon. At
the most it's a pop gun, or maybe just a pee shooter." Pretty clever play on
words, don't you think, doc? Anyway, I slammed the zipper up into his prick
just as hard and as fast as it would go. I think his scream was heard around
the world. They're not going to unzip that one easily. And I'm sure now he's
going to give little sports cars a wide berth.

"Satisfied with the damage I've done both to him and his monster truck I
dropped him alongside his piece of crap and I climb back into my spiffy little
sports car and I drive off just before the police get there. Well, next
morning it gets reported in the newspapers as a case of road rage. The driver
of the SUV claims he got attacked by a guy at least six feet nine inches tall,
and he says his attacker was so huge that he was probably a professional
wrestler. Do I look like a six foot nine inch professional wrestler, Tom?
Well, there were conflicting stories. One of the spectators said to the
reporters that he thought that the attacker was a woman, and everybody laughed
that off. So you see, doc, a little steroid rage isn't always a bad thing. I
bet that driver is going to now look when he wants to change lanes, and I bet
he'll use his lane change indicator lights too, so I think I've helped to
create a model citizen," she giggled.

"That's just what I'm talking about," I said. "Steroid use has created this
rage inside you. Had you not used our experimental steroids to build your body
I'm sure you would have acted in a more ladylike manner and proceeded calmly
about your business."

"Oh, what's the matter, doc? Men can be assholes, give women the finger, cuss
us out, drive us off the road, and all with impunity because they're men? But
if a woman has the capability of responding they're supposed to say, 'Oh,
excuse me sir, I'm sorry I got in you way, sir, I won't do it again, sir,
please let me kiss your ass, sir!'"

Well, I guess I was a little embarrassed by her logic. "No, Petra," I
muttered. "I didn't mean it that way, exactly. Now don't get all riled up," I
said, as I could see a red flush starting at the base of her neck and working
its way up to her cheeks. I was her employer and she had to properly respect
me, but looking at her muscular body and being aware of some of the possible
consequences of steroid rage I was becoming a little apprehensive.

"Look," I said, "even if a little rage works for you now and then you still
have to contend with the secondary male characteristics that you can develop."

"As a matter-of-fact, there are some sex changes," Ms. Wheatley said. "I think
you're right, doc. My nipples seem to have extended themselves. They're now a
mouthful, where they used to be quite small. You'd like that, wouldn't you,
Tommy baby?" I didn't like the way this conversation was going.

But there didn't seem to be any stopping Ms. Wheatley now. She was on a roll.
"Look at me Tom, no facial hair, right? Do you see my breasts getting any
smaller? God, I think with the weights I can lift now because the steroids
have given me such big muscles I've put six inches on my chest circumference.
Sixty-two inches with a double 'D'. You'd like that, too, wouldn't you, doc?
I've seen you staring at my chest when you think I'm not looking. I bet you'd
love to get your hands on these big boys, wouldn't you? The only other change
I seem to notice is my clitoris, and I think you'll like that, too. I'm going
to give you a chance to take a good look at it soon. A clinical evaluation, of
course," she giggled.

Because of the aggressive behavior Ms. Wheatley was now exhibiting towards me,
probably induced by her steroid use, I knew she had no intention of the
evaluation being only clinical. I knew that there wouldn't be anything
clinical about her intent to have me examine her clitoris. A feeling of dread
was welling up in me. I instinctively knew that the use of steroids had turned
this mild mannered woman into a sexual predator, and I was to be her prey. I
had to change the focus of our discussion.

"Ms. Wheatley, may I suggest that you put some clothes on?"

"Doctor, may I suggest that you take some clothes off?" was her response. "I
want to inspect your package. See what it is that keeps you so entertained
when you follow me from one exam room to another and then run off into your
private office for a little 'session.'"

"Ms. Wheatley, I don't do that," I lied. So she knew. Does the whole office
know? I was embarrassed to death. And speaking of death, was her steroid rage
going to mean harm to me?

(Find out if the doctor lives or dies in part 2).