The Reawakening of Dr. Clark Ch. 23

"Look, I've already agreed she can come back and watch our kids. Can't this wait? Or I could do it over the phone maybe?" Greg grumbled to his reflection as he pulled the knot of navy and forest green striped tie tighter against his neck.

"I happen to think it's important you let her know in person," Gina called back, "And since we were invited to her parents' party, what better time?"

"How about you go then?"

"No way. You're the one that fired her for being a 19 year old college student AND being smart enough not to drink and drive, you are the one who has to fix it now."

The doctor considered pushing the info further but ultimately opted to hold his tongue. Things had not been great around the house as of late. Gina seemed to be avoiding him, they were picking at each other over the smallest things, and their sex life had dropped off a cliff. Most of the time, they were too annoyed with each other to want it and when they weren't, Gina only seemed to want a quick, perfunctory session—limited foreplay, no teasing, slam bang and over—or she said that all she could hear was him saying "that word"—"fuck" to be specific, although she refused to repeat it—and would stop the whole thing dead in its track.

At the same time, Greg had avoided Mallory for three weeks, since that late Christmas Eve night/early Christmas morning slip up. He had stopped letting himself think about her, look at those pictures she had left him in their secret email account, and continued to resist Gina's pressure to give Mal another shot as their babysitter. But now he had run out of excuses and, rather than be honest as to why exactly he did not want the coed back in their house, he had caved.

Greg knew what was going to happen when he left this house. He knew his marriage was in as rough a place as it had been ever and that his libido was running wild. He knew he was very much not past his wildly inappropriate wanton desire for the blonde 19 year old. He knew that when he got to her parents' house that it was inevitable their affair would reignite. And if it was as out of control as it was when he thought he was happy in his marriage...well, who could predict how it would be when he knew he wasn't.

Gina was living in frustration too. She did not enjoy the quibbling, the fraught silences, the generally dispirited love making. She was consistently doubting her plan and mad at her husband for having the kind of desires that were making her think of it in the first place. She did not really want him to go see that teenager with her tight body, great skin, and navel piercing that she knew he'd not be able to resist fetishizing the moment he saw it. She hated the whole damn thing, top to bottom, but the alternative was worse.

File for divorce and be at the mercy of the court and public opinion? No thanks. Acquiesce to the man she married whispering profanity in her ear, sullying their sex life? Unthinkable. Live in married misery for years, waiting for him to break first? The very thought of it made her want to burst into tears.

No, forcing her husband to stray to ensure his guilt would let her control the terms of their divorce had to be the way to go. She might shudder at the very thought of him stripping Mallory's clothes off her, of his hands all over her smooth skin, of their mouths hungrily reaching for one another, only breaking to gasp or moan, but what other choice did she have? What options was she left with?

When Mallory's parents first told her that the Clarks had said one of them would be attending their annual "We Survived the Holidays" party, she went ahead and assumed it was Gina. Despite how wonderful Christmas Eve had been, she knew the doctor was avoiding her and that his wife had seemingly made no headway in reversing his attitude towards her resuming her babysitting duties. She had spent some time wondering how Mrs. Clark would deflect her parents asking why she hadn't been babysitting for Shelly and Martin in weeks, but otherwise gave it little thought.

Then, two days earlier, as she was helping her parents pick up party supplies, her mom let drop, "Oh and won't it be nice to see Dr. Clark? I know you get to see him all the time, Mallory, but I think it must be almost a year since we talked to him in person.

"You just want to stare into his eyes," Mr. Rich joked.

"Not just, dear," she corrected him, "Mostly, yes. But he's also very funny."

"Too bad he's married or you could run away with him."

Mallory blushed in the backseat, thankful neither was paying attention to her. This was a very awkward moment for her.

"Oh knock that off," Mrs. Rich mock slapped her husband, "You know I only have eyes for you."

"Uh-huh," he smirkingly replied.

"Well, you and Pierce Brosnan. But what are the chances I'll ever run into him?"

They all laughed, Mallory hardest of all, as if she was trying to force the discomfort out of her with the giggles.

Since then, the teenager had been gripped with anxiety. Thrilling, thrilling anxiety. She tried not to let her imagination run too wild, but she couldn't help it. She was thankful she had an apartment to escape to. It gave her a place to go to be as noisy as possible in without fear of her parents overhearing her as she gave her dildo and fingers quite a workout. More than once, she was disappointed that Brenda had opted to spend the entire break back home as she could've certainly used a helping hand or two. Or mouth. Or tongue.

Now, she flitted around her room, pulling her dark green thin v-neck sweater tight against her skin and smoothing out her loose, billowy—flowy as she thought of it—tan knee length skirt. She took a long look at herself in her old bedroom's mirrored closet doors, debating once again whether she should run back to the apartment and change.

Finding an outfit for the night had been an exercise in threading an infinitely small needle. She wanted to be sexy enough to entice the doctor's baser instincts to the surface but not so blatant as to catch her parents attention or violate the "dress up for this party" edict that had become the tradition over the years. The skirt was relatively demur, the sweater tastefully tight, the neckline appropriately cut. Not a bad outfit for a formal class presentation and certainly good enough to pass the parent test.

To ensure Mallory's primary goal, she added chunky brown high heels, left the bra at her apartment, and opted for a cream colored thong that she knew Greg had a particular appreciation for. Even though he couldn't see it yet, knowing she was wearing it gave Mallory a jolt of confidence and a bit of swagger in her step. She looked over herself in the mirror, the sight of her toned bare legs, the subtle way her breasts moved beneath her sweater that would reveal to anyone who took a moment to stare that her tits were unrestrained. Her skirt fluttered a bit when she moved quickly, allowing a bit more of a peek of creamy thighs but it was a slight enough to play innocent if someone called attention to it. She sighed and allowed herself to admit that, yes, she looked good. She wanted to be a little naughtier, push the envelope a little bit more, but this would have to do.

"You look very pretty, hon," her mom intoned from the hall, "I really like that skirt on you. Is it new?"

"Yes, mom...I get it with one of my gift certificates from Christmas."

"Well, good choice."

"Thanks!" Mal smiled wide and hugged her mom.

"Oh...Mallory..." she began to whisper, "Did you maybe...forget something?"

The coed gave her mom an odd look until Mrs. Rich tentatively gestured to her daughter's chest.

"Oh! My bra?!" Mallory giggled, "Laundry day. Besides, it's not like I have anything for people to notice?"

"Hrrmm," her mom tutted as she left the room, "I think you underestimate the number of dirty old men your father is friends with."

Mallory bit her lip to hold back a smile. If only her mom knew that hooking a dirty older (but not really old) man was her entire goal.

Greg could not help but notice how sweaty his palms were as he walked up the path to the Riches, bottle of wine in hand. He was not a tremendous fan of parties like these, filled mostly with people he barely knew or didn't know at all, all thrilled to share whatever ailment was bothering them with him the moment someone mentioned he was a doctor. He loved a good time, but he preferred one where he was free to be himself and relax, not dole out medical advice and remain stone cold sober lest he sully his professional name.

Of course, he admitted to himself, all this internal grumbling had little to do with what was really making his palms sweat. Somewhere in that house was Mallory, her firm, smooth skin sheathed in a thin layer of clothes. Clothes that no doubt would flatter her. Clothes that would leave him straining for some glimpse of her flesh. Clothes that might test his ability not to transparently ogle her with lustful intensity in front of her parents.

He could practically test her in his mouth, smell her in the air as his mind ran away from him for the third time on the walk over. He awkwardly slipped his hands into his pocket to shift his already half hard cock over a bit, hiding his inappropriate bulge under the far less noteworthy one created by a fist in the pocket.

What really made him nervous though wasn't the mere presence of his college aged mistress. It was how he felt when he woke up early Christmas morning to an empty house, a fire smoldering in the hearth, power returned, naked in a sleeping bag. Despite his drinking the night before, he remembered everything with clarity; the taste of her mouth with scotch still lingering on her tongue, the deliciously familiar feel of her tight wet sex enveloping him, the fire her words ignited in him. He had grown used to these post-coital mental recaps that he found himself unable to stop. This time though, he couldn't help but realize something was missing. Guilt.

He had grown used to the queasy adrenalized feeling recalling his sexual encounters with Mallory produced. The quickly rising hunger to do it again right away, the pleasant ache of a body after an intense workout, the undeniable rush of getting away with something, and, of course, the disgusted guilt about his personal weakness. That morning, however, the feelings that rose up in him were devoid of the guilt. And without the guilt, he found himself unsure of how he could ever control himself around her.

Just the thought of it, in fact, caused him to grow thicker and harder again his pocket and the knuckles contained within. He paused and bent over, pretending to tie a shoelace, buying himself a moment to try and deflate his amoral dick a bit. He half wished he had driven the ridiculously short distance because at least then he could continue on to some isolated spot and, with the relative privacy his car would grant him, perhaps reduce some of the tension.

Instead he swallowed once more, tightened his jaw, and stood up. Glancing downward and deciding he had brought himself back to a reasonable size, one enough to at least not be wildly obvious upon a mere glance, he knocked.

Ms. Mary Greene, the local neighborhood trophy wife, answered the door. She was dressed, as always, like a Stepford Wife come to life but updated for times that allowed a dress to show off a particularly well made set of fake breasts.

"Well hello there Doctor," she smiled brightly and reached to hug him.

He waved her off, claiming, "I think I might be coming down with a little something. Best to keep a little distance. To be safe."

She accepted his excuse with a small shrug and Greg was able to slip past her without letting her feel his cock against her stomach. Breathing a small sigh of relief, he nearly ran headlong into Mr. Rich.

"Have you started already, Gregory?" Mallory's dad asked, his full throated laugh already rising.

"No, Frank. You know I like to keep my wits," Greg assured him, "It's just your official greeter was a bit of a distraction."

Mr. Rich half whistled, "Yes, the hills do seem to be rather...friendly today, don't they?"

"Very much so," the doctor concurred, "Now if you could just take this wine off my hands and point me to a place to throw my coat, I can regain my composure a bit."

The host again let his laugh peel, grasping the cabernet and pointing towards the back right corner of the house, "We're just putting them in the office. Remember where it is?"

"I certainly do," Greg replied, keeping his voice chipper.

He wasn't friends with Frank Rich per se, but he had always liked him. He didn't expect to feel nearly as awkward as he did. "Hey Frank, great to see you. What? Oh, not much. Mostly same old same old. Been fucking your daughter on and off since June so I guess that's new. No, no, I know it's wrong. She's just so good at it you know. You raised quite the naughty little girl, sir," Greg thought darkly to himself.

Mallory glimpsed Greg across the room, looking crisp in a charcoal suit, white shirt, and striped tie. She first appreciated how he looked, tall, broad shouldered, and clean shaved. A brief image flashed through her mind, of him—his shirt unbuttoned to expose his chest, his tie pulled loose and flopping with each thrust, his pants undone but still on—fucking her as she clutched his back with one hand and ran her nails down his pecs with the other, her skirt hiked up lewdly, her sweater stretched out and down, exposing her breasts to his large hands. She delighted to the sudden blush she felt creeping over her skin, the undeniable tide of wetness between her legs.

Her second thought was far less pleasant, a sudden inexplicable fear that Greg was telling her father all about their affair, about how she had seduced him, and the slutty things she wore, said, and did. She shook her head at the ridiculousness of it.

"Mallory?" her friend Veronica said, bringing her back to the present.

"Sorry," the blonde offered, "Just got distracted for a second."

"Oh?" Brynna wondered, "It wouldn't happen to be that hot guy with the shaved head over there, would it?"

"Wow, good spot, Mal. Very tasty," Veronica joined in. Her boyfriend Mike playfully shot her a dirty look.

"Knock it off you too! That guy's Shelly and Martin's dad."

"A dad?" Mike reacted with surprise, "Damn...I hope I look that good when I'm a dad."

"Is DILF a thing?" Veronica asked the group, "Because, yeah, he's one."

"You guys are terrible. Brynna, he's the dermatologist I told you about."

"Really?" she smirked, "Well, I think I could handle him giving me an exam."

Mallory rolled her eyes in reply, trying to maintain her "what are you guys talking about, he's just the guy I babysit for" aura.

However, as Greg crossed the room, long coat clutched in his hand, she couldn't restrain herself from grabbing his attention.

"Doctor Clark, Doctor Clark!" she raised her voice to catch his ear, "Can I steal you a second?"

He hesitantly nodded, and walked over to her group of friends.

"Doctor Clark, this is my friends Veronica and Mike from high school and Veronica's cousin Brynna."

"Hello, good to meet you all."

"Brynna is wondering if you have room for new patients. She's got...some skin thing," Mal facilitated.

"Nothing weird," Brynna rushed to say, "I just got these like...hot spots I guess. The skin get like tough and warm and itchy out of nowhere."

Greg nodded and handed her a card from his suit jacket pocket, "Sure, we have room. Give the office a call Monday and we'll check out your insurance and everything to make sure I'm in network for you. If you're not, we'll help refer you to someone who is."

"What if I only want you?" she pouted flirtatiously.

"Stop that, he's a married man," Mallory shoved her, "I'm so sorry Doctor Clark. She can be so inappropriate sometimes."

He shifted one foot to the other while letting Brynna off the hook, "It's okay, Mallory. It's nice to know young women still think I'm worth flirting with. Very flattering."

"See? He's fun," Brynna said, pushing Mallory right back.

"Oh, I know he's a great time," Mal replied to her, but keeping her eyes on the doctor.

"Right, well then, I'll leave you guys to have young people fun," Greg uncomfortably excused himself, "I have old people to pretend to listen to. And Brynna, please do call. What you're describing is often stress related but it never hurts to be certain."

The group watched him leave until Veronica voiced what was foremost on Mallory's mind, "Wow...a great ass too."

"I've already told you," Mike played along, "No threesomes with dads. Respect the rules of our relationship."

"Fine," she sighed dramatically before turning to her cousin and Mallory, "One of you just needs to fuck him and tell me all about it then. Vicarious sex!"

Everyone giggled in response with Mallory hoping she was not laying her laugh on a bit too thick.

"Yes, of course. Just call the office and make an appointment. I'm sure it's nothing but I'd be happy to take a look at your son's moles," Greg said to an anxious partygoer, trying desperately to derail her twenty minute long "story" about her the moles on her child's back.

"But...cancer!" the woman stuttered.

"It's possible, but very very unlikely. And I won't even have a guess at that until I see him. So call and set a date. We'll have him squared away in no time, okay?" the doctor offered, already slowly sliding left, distancing himself from the overly concerned mother.

With a small "okay" she finally let him slip away. Moving towards the kitchen, he reflexively rubbed his temples. As predicted the party was lousy with people looking for free consultations. Even amongst them, however, the "every skin blemish must be cancer" crowd was of particular frustration to the dermatologist. They always left him feeling annoyed and run down. Being conscientious and concerned was great, but being concerned death was coming at any moment was more than a bit too much. As was there refusal to contemplate any other outcome without copious test results.

As he was snagged by another vague acquaintance, this one trying to sell him ad space on the Little League fence, Greg couldn't help but let his eyes wander about the room, telling himself he was looking for someone more fun to talk to. Of course, inevitably, he just ended up finding Mallory. She stood in roughly the same place as before, with the same high school friends plus a couple of others, one of which he recognized, vaguely, as a former patient. He was pleased to see that the kid had benefitted from the acne prescription and now had clear unscarred skin. As this guy— Ben Wellmore Greg seemed to remember—continued to sing the economic benefits of Little League stadium advertising, the doctor allowed himself some brief—and perfectly harmless, he assured himself—scanning of Mallory, from head to toe.

As usual, her legs looked great, enhanced even further by the heels. As he watched, she crossed one in front of the other, rubbing her calf against the shin of the other leg. It was nothing at all, an unconscious moment caused by an itch perhaps, but Greg found it oddly tantalizing. He continued upward, noting how the skirt hugged her hips, hypothesizing that it no doubt swoosh nicely back and forth were she to strut or turn around quickly, leaving him to wonder what sort of underwear would be exposed to a keen eye if she did so. Whatever she was wearing beneath the skirt, he hypothesized, would highlight her ass quite nicely should she offer a glimpse. His eyes lingered on her thin sweater as he realized her breasts were almost certainly bare beneath. Her nipples pushed against the fabric, making two undeniable points of interest sure to catch the eye of all the people in the room with even a passing interest in the female form. He glanced about to confirm his suspicions and sure enough, he caught at least three other men and one woman "casually" and repeatedly letting their stare settle on Mallory's chest. He struggled with who to be more disgusted with: them or himself.