The Red Side of Dr. Greene (Billionaire Doctor x Virgin)

Chapter 3- Doctor Who?

EMILY'S POV

My pale hands are shaking as I nervously step out of the yellow cab. My appointment day has finally come, and I have no choice but to do this. The best mom in the world, who's with me right now, had set it up three days ago, without my knowledge and approval.

Turning around, I stare at the large, white, and red building now in front of me. The words WOMEN'S ROYAL HOSPITAL that is located on the top right side were boldly assembled in light red, sending chills down my spine as I read it. Everything about the hospital seems so spotlessly clean, as almost all hospitals do, yet my stomach churns when I step inside its premises, as I can smell the antiseptic disguise of all the sickness in the world.

I find it depressing.

The last time I remembered going to a hospital was when I had finally had my braces removed. Our family dentist's office was situated in the outpatient department. I was around twelve at that time, and remember bringing my favorite stuffed toy, a panda, with me in excitement. Having a metal fence on my teeth for almost three years was like having a mouth full of metal, and when I finally got them removed, it felt a hundred times better even than getting your underwire bra off after a long, long day. I literally licked my smooth, straight teeth every minute or two for several days straight afterward, enjoying the wonderful feeling of freedom.

If I have a choice, I will not take another step closer to the medium-sized building.

But I have to.

I feel my mom's hand grabbing mine. Somehow, her reassuring smile and tender soft brown eyes glinting in the morning sun make me feel better. They slow the pace of my heartbeat down.

A puff of air suddenly escapes my mouth; apparently, I had been holding my breath unaware. With sudden determination, I nod at her. A rush of rubbing alcohol mixed with disinfectants and other such medical stuff attacks my nasal passages.

My mother walks towards the information desk to inquire about where exactly we need to go. I look at the sign on the wall with a long list of physicians' names and their corresponding floors.

I can feel my intestines twerking upon seeing my doctor's name.

"Dr. Samantha Jacobs, OB/GYN, Consultant"

So she will be the one seeing my most intimate parts...

We walk to the closest elevator and press the UP button, my finger lingering on the red light momentarily.

"Mom? Do you think this is something serious?" I ask her, my eyes fixed on the steel doors that have closed in front of us. She lets out a soft chuckle and gently squeezes my hand.

"Don't be so nervous, Sweetie. Just think about getting better after this, okay?" she whispers reassuringly. I can feel the familiar light-headedness as the elevator swiftly catapults us up to the third floor.

The elevator doors open into a large lobby, and immediately ahead an island of a reception area welcomes us. I walk towards it, trying my best to smile.

"Good morning! I have an appointment with Dr. Jacobs. My name is Emily Maxwell."

The pretty brunette nurse with thick eyebrows and thick eyeliners behind the glass window hands me a clipboard with three sheets of paper attached.

"Just fill this out," she instructs in a not-so-welcoming manner. My eyebrows instinctively rise; I was not informed that nurses here would not be friendly.

A hug from my back distracts me from my thoughts.

"Sweetie, I'm going to just take a quick visit to the comfort room, okay?"

I weakly smile at Mom as her petite form turns and makes its way down the hall. I walk over to a chair in the waiting room, as far away from everyone else as I can possibly get. I begin filling out each sheet with my handwriting looking like it is owned by a fetus due to my trembling hand.

I'm having a hard time answering the menstrual history with specificity because I really don't remember the exact date that my period had ended, and they are asking for it.

Maybe you're just some freak of nature and have gone into menopause at twenty.

I need to clarify something about the family history of diseases and look around for my mother. It has been a while since that dwarf-like little angel went to the comfort room. Anyway, as far as I know, no one in my family tree has had any gynecological and other related diseases...or I don't know. I hope it won't matter anyway.

I scrunch my nose upon reaching the s****l History portion of the interrogation. It contains a lot of embarrassing questions that make me begin to sweat.

Do you have a s****l partner? I put a big, bold, and pretty circle around "No" for emphasis.

How many s****l partners have you had?

Uhm, can you give me one?

When was the last time you had s****l intercourse?

Why don't you give me a s****l partner first, then we can talk about that stuff?

Goodness, gracious. I swallow hard at the questions. My circles get a little less perfect or bold as I answer "No," "None," or "N/A" to almost all the questions.

I know that this all is most definitely the business of the primary medical caregiver of your s****l health, and she won't judge or worse, laugh, but I'm still embarrassed just by reading the questions.

Zero experience – you're a prude. Got some experience from more than two partners – you're a slut. That's the reality, Hun.

So what if I'm still a virgin? I'm only twenty. Someday, I know I'll be experiencing s*x but I don't think I'm ready yet...

You just need that one person to help you get ready for it...

I bite my bottom lip when the image of someone suddenly enters my mind. Swimming through my thoughts are vague images of his masculine torso with all those tattoos.

Why in the hell are you remembering him right now?

I admit he had had an odd effect on me, even with such a brief encounter. I walked my way home that night with my upper thighs gliding smoothly against each other. Friction was nowhere to be found, and I swore I felt my...down there...having a heartbeat of its own.

A red tinge crept across my face. I shake the unholy thoughts off and quickly finish the paperwork. I return them to the station and sit back down in my isolated seat, my mother still nowhere to be found.

My knees are bouncing up and down rapidly as I look around the waiting room.

I wonder why no one else looks as nervous as I am. Probably most of them are here for routine, annual checkups, unlike me who is dreading not only my first vaginal penetration, but also the fear of having a serious disease, or worse, ovarian cancer.

And the Over-reacting Award goes to...

"Emily Maxwell?" The same "friendly" nurse calls out my name as she pokes her head from the hallway where all the exam rooms are apparently located. I stand up and feel my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest; I can literally hear it.

Leading me through the entrance and pointing at a door, the nurse hands me a plastic bag containing a specimen cup with a red cover.

"This is the restroom. We will need a urine sample. Just follow the instructions on the back of the door."

Ugh. I hate peeing on or in anything but toilet bowls, but I nod obediently and step hesitantly inside the restroom.

It smells like fresh Detol or something inside here, and the orange-ish light is straining my eyes. I quickly scan the instructions and then pull my leggings down and start to pee. I shudder with the hissing sound of my urine going first into the bowl, then the cup.

When I finish, I put the cup on the window ledge and take a peek through the small window. The bathroom is adjoined by a small laboratory. Before going out of the restroom, I take a quick glance at my reflection in the mirror.

Oh my, who is this beautiful fairy?

Fairy? More like, a single 40-year old teacher who lives alone with her 22 cats.

Enough with your hyperboles already!

But that's how stressed you look, Honey.

My eyes look sunken above my eye bags – or, rather, luggage. The faint freckles scattered on the bridge of my nose seem more prominent today, and my lips are dry as a barren desert. My hair is a total mess, with random strands sticking out everywhere. I pointlessly scoop them up into a messy bun. Why bother to fix myself? I'm sick anyway.

I step out of the restroom and Nurse Friendly's annoyed face welcomes me, appearing as if she had been waiting for me for three years rather than three minutes. I follow her back to a small room where there is some basic medical equipment: scales, file cabinets, anatomical posters, and a desk. She let me stand on a weighing scale and notes my height and weight.

Five feet six inches and fifty-five kilograms (120 pounds) respectively. Oh great, I have lost three kilograms in two months.

She then has me sit in the chair and throws a BP cuff around my upper arm. Most probably it will be horrible, given that my pulse has been racing continuously since before I even left home. I softly cringe as she keeps on pumping the cuff over 200 mmHg.

I feel like my arm will burst. My hand is pale and tingling –another reason why I hate hospitals, because of this and other uncomfortable monitoring procedures.

"Nervous?" She asks nonchalantly after pulling out the earpieces of her stethoscope and deflating the cuff.

"A little bit."

"Your blood pressure is a bit high, but probably just from nerves. Relax, Dr. Greene is great. You'll enjoy the hands-on experience."

She grins a mischievous one.

Wait, Dr. Greene? My mind buffers. "Uh, I think my mother scheduled me an appointment with Dr. Jacobs."

Her eyes narrow for a split second and immediately recovers. "We sent a message to the number that was given to us when the appointment was made."

Sensing my continued confusion, she adds, "Dr. Jacobs has had an emergency leave, but Dr. Greene was available."

I try to shrug it off. Mom never checks her messages. Anyway, I need a gynecologist, and this is going to be awful no matter who it is, so in the big scheme of things, it doesn't really matter.

"Oh, okay."

"Follow me." Nurse Friendly sashays briskly down the hall, her firm ass swaying from side to side. Judging her whole physique from the back, she can be a model, but I whisk those random thoughts away and try my best to keep up from behind, as she is walking way too fast.

She's not so nice...

We pass by several closed doors – exam rooms and doctors' private offices with their names and corresponding specialties engraved on metal plates. My body convulses slightly in the dreadful anticipation upon seeing another patient with a gloomy face just coming out from one of the exam rooms.

Reaching literally the very last door at the end of the long hall, she says "In here," opening it for me.

For a fraction of a second, I caught the name of the doctor that was engraved on the metal plate on the door before the nurse had opened it: Dr. Alexandra Greene - Gynecologist.

I walk into the room. It's not very large, and not very brightly lit. The walls are painted gray and on the largest wall, there's a huge portrait of a woman's upper torso in an erotic side-lying position, reaching from the upper part of her thighs to her breasts. The detail is impressive and my eyes linger on it for a few seconds.

A wooden desk with a leather chair sits on that side of the room as well. I take a quick inventory of the desk: a mug of most probably cold coffee, a clipboard, a personal computer, a stethoscope, a couple of folders, and a Canon DSLR? What is a camera doing inside a gyno office?

My eyebrow arches up in question. It is kind of out of place...

All the doctor's stuff is neatly organized on the table. Certainly, nothing is very feminine, other than the painting, of course.

In the middle of the room, there's a dark green leather examination table that makes my insides churn in anticipation. It is slightly reclined, and there are the infamous metal foot holders, comically called stirrups, on either side at the end. The length of the center of the table is covered with white paper, and sitting atop is a plastic sleeve containing presumably a gown.

So I'll be lying there, with my legs spread for the doctor? My goodness.

There's a machine next to the exam table with a monitor on it, which I presume is for the ultrasound. Next to the wall on the right side is a cabinet with drawers and on top of it a large microscope. There is also a large metal tray with very scary-looking metal tools lined up on it, as well as folded towels and a metal lamp affixed to a bending, twisted stem. A rolling stool sits near the cabinet.

On the opposite wall is a long set of cabinets with a counter and sink below them. The counter is lined with boxes of alcohol swabs, gloves, tissues, educational pamphlets, and even more medical instruments.

"Okay, Miss ..." Nurse Friendly glances at my file, "...Maxwell. I will be leaving you here. Just undress and put on this gown," she gestures towards the table, "...open to the front."

"Wait, so I am to remove everything, right?" I gulp. I know I have to.

"Yes of course. Is this your first time?" she asks, glancing at my file again, this time with a perfectly raised eyebrow.

I nod, pissed at her inquisitiveness which seems designed to embarrass me.

"Okay, good luck."

Is it just me, or does she really not like me?

"Just hop on that table when you're done, and Dr. Greene will be here in a few moments," she mutters something indecipherable before disappearing through the door. I think I will buy her a name tag for her crisp light blue scrubs ... NURSE F.

The door closes, and here comes that feeling again ... nausea, panic attack, and stomach doing flips, all of the above. My body clearly senses that it is about to be invaded. I take a sharp intake of breath and exhale loudly.

I walk slowly towards the table and open the plastic sleeve which contains a mint green paper gown with flowery designs. I can tell that Dr.Greene likes the color green. I smile a crazed one.

I unfold the gown and notice that it's the same gown you see in most hospital scenes in movies, except, as Nurse F. had instructed me, mine was to be open in the front. I puff out another wave of air from my lungs before finally accepting that I have to strip off everything.

I don't know what I'm actually more afraid of – being naked in front of another person, or the dreadful thought of having some cancer.

Probably both equally...Sounds fun.

I reluctantly peel off my white cashmere shirt, pluck my bra off, and fold the two items before setting them aside. I hug myself as the coldness of the AC kisses my skin.

I slowly pull the paper robe on before pulling down my leggings along with my cotton panties. I look at my mound and somehow feel satisfied at its baldness. Last night, I shaved everything down there up to the last bit around the crinkled brown opening of my butt, just to be sure to look neat and presentable to the doctor. I look closer and wince upon seeing the ugly stubbles; there is actually like 2 mm of hair growing. Seriously?

No one has ever seen mine down there, except of course for my mom when I was younger, and my younger brother Lance when walking in on me in our adjoining bathroom like five years ago. That bastard had seen me naked, and I still remembered the stupid mocking grin on his face, before he acted like it was the most disgusting sight his eyes had ever laid on.

Shivering a little, I hop back up onto the exam table with my legs dangling on the side. I move the flimsy gown so that it won't gape open the way it is trying to. I feel half-naked, which I actually am, and my n*****s hurt from their sudden stiffness rubbing against the coarse, rigid paper.

I heard a rustling noise outside the door. It must be the doctor already. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, purse my lips, clear my mind, and slowly exhale all the air from my lungs.

I'm ready...

And there's a knock. Before I could squeeze out the words "Come in," the doorknob turns, and my heartbeat instantly races. My hands are sweating bullets.

Relax, Emily...

I crane my neck trying to peer around the door as it opens slowly.

My eyes grow wider when the doctor finally enters the room.

Wait a minute...

*****To be continued*****

A/N:

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