It had to happen; it was only a matter of time. The warning bells have been there — Jees, like forever. It's all to do with drink, you see. Specifically, the effect of a heavy night's drinking the following morning. It makes me randy as hell. So randy that sometimes it hurts. My mind becomes ruled by tostesterone, and any rational thought that's required appears to be handled by that dangling thing between my legs. It is not a good condition to be in. But this morning ... hey, shit, Jesus wept ... this morning I finally blew it! And I'm a doctor. I should know better.

To start it off, I almost hit a pram. On a goddam pedestrian crossing! On account of some drop-dead-gorgeous female I'd never seen before in my life. No more than a fleeting glimpse, but jees, that was enough! She was stunning, legs a mile long, looked as if she'd been poured into the sharp charcoal suit she wore, sashying across the pedestian crossing with a wiggle like a model on a catwalk! Me the punter, open mouthed and drooling, watching her instead of the pram. Stopped just in time, brakes squeeling like a banshee outa hell. She didn't bat an eyelid. Probably used to the sound of brakes in her wake!

"Ms Rose, is it?" I say, still shaking from last night's alcohol, and the pram, and the near miss, and the mile of leggy honey, gaping at the file my receptionist just brought in. Not daring to look up in case the first patient of the day catches the flush on my face and assumes I'm some sort of pervert.

"Yes," says a very feminine voice. Too deep and melodious to be true. I have to look up.

Oh ... Shit!

It is the honey from the crossing. The one who causes cars to run into prams. The charcoal suit, the squeeling tyres, the mile long legs, the cat walk wiggle ... the ensuing sexual mayhem. My eyes dive back to her file like a panicking penguin escaping a bear. A really angry polar bear. I should never have drunk these brandies last night. What in heaven's name was I thinking of? I know, I know, how it makes me feel. It makes me feel like this! Unbelievably, excruciatingly, randy.

"Perhaps you could slip off your suit?" I suggest before I have thought what I'm saying. And once I have said it, I freeze. So absurd does what I have just suggested sound, so crassly unacceptable, I feel she will not have heard me. It is as if the suggestion's sheer absurdity will render it somehow nonexistant. I haven't even asked her why she's here. It may be about her ... I dunno, baby son, hulking father, world heavyweight champion wrestler of a husband? (Is she married?) I knew I had surgery this morning, so why did I drink? I know what it does to me, for chrissake! And I should never have gone into gynaecology. I should have done surgery. Or sick kids. Been a vet! What made me do gynaecology?

"Shouldn't there be a nurse?" she asks.

OF COURSE THERE SHOULD BE A FUCKING NURSE!

My eyes are still locked on to the first (blank) page of her file, like a limpet to a rock, I mumble something vague about ... something-or-other ... hoist the file, almost knock over my chair, then make for the door like a polar bear chasing a penguin. I poke my head out the door.

"Where's Maggie?" I hiss at Sophie, our receptionist, and notice there's another patient waiting.

This one I recognise. "Oh. Good Morning Mrs..." I start, but her name disappears, caught up in looks that cause cars to run into prams that is sitting in my office right now! Then I remember her name. " ... Elmore," I finish, stupidly.

"Good morning, Doctor," answers Mrs Elmore.

Mrs Elmore does not do to me, brandies or no, what the absurdly arousing Ms Rose does. Thank Christ! Should I handle her first? Make my excuses to the Rose and take on this safer assignment?

"Maggie phoned in sick," Sophie whispers. "Dr Venture's off with the same thing. Flu, I think. That's why Ms Rose is seeing you." Dr Venture is not a gynocologist. Sports medicine's his thing. Sprains and breaks and pulled seven irons and fluffed drives is Tab Ventures bag. I should have gone into that. I stare at Sophie. I have a headache. It hurts like hell. My second month here and already I have a sick nurse.

I lean closer to Sophie. "How can I run a surgery without a nurse?" I hiss.

She looks hurt. "Dr Cameron managed," she said, defensively, referring to my predecessor. Dr Cameron was eighty years old. Or eighty one. He would never confess to which. "It's all right so long as you ask them," says Sophie, with a ring of authority, although this is a new one on me. I turn, and return to the surgery. Dr Cameron, as I have mentioned, was ancient. He attended church. He probably never felt randy in his life. Whereas I am in the prime of life. And randy as hell.

"No luck?" comes melodious notes when I bring my head back into my office. I close the door and turn around. To my surprise and horror, Ms Rose is standing in the middle of my surgery, next to the examination table on top of which a fresh paper sheet is spread, in a bra, brief panties, and self-supporting stockings with lace flowers around the top. She looks like a million dollars. Fuck a million — a billion! For a time I cannot form words. My lips feel like rubber. That, or they belong to a goldfish. Eventually, by looking towards my desk, digging my fingernails into the palm of my hand, and curling my toes in my shoes so hard they start to hurt, I regains some semblance of control.

"I'm afraid not," I say, not daring to look near her. "She's called in sick," I add, by way of explanation, by way of keeping my attentions from the image that's still in my mind, this lusciously appetising form so close, dressed in so little, looking so devastating. I could no more examine this gorgeous creature without a nurse to supervise, (me, mainly, ) than I could ... I don't know ... out-swim a penguin? ... wrestle a polar bear to the ground? "So ... I'm sorry," I say, sounding sorry, rather than merely suicidal (at what I am passing up). "Perhaps we can make another appointment," I add, seeking some professionalism to add to my good sense. I only recently qualified, you understand.

"I really would rather do it now."

Her voice sounds like the whisper of a breeze through autumn maple. I have to look at her. It would be wasteful not to. Her shoulders are smooth as molten gold. "So would I," I say, without giving it the thought I should. I think to back-pedal, but my heart isn't in it.

"Shall I get on?" she asks in a throaty whisper, slender fingers touching the leather top of the examination table.

"But..." I start, and then go on, "I have no nurse." I try to incorporate within my tone a note of discouragement to such a plan.

All she does is nods, clearly undiscouraged. "Do we need a nurse? Surely it's not complicated," she says, referring to I know not what. The look of her discourages thought. Rational thought, at any rate. Her legs are as shapely and long as legs ever get. The same honey gold as her shoulders. Good God! I turn to the cupboard for a mask and rubber gloves. "Oh shit!" I say out loud. The cupboard is locked. And Nurse Maggie bloody Townsend has the bloody key! I turn to my patient. "No key," I mumble sheepishly.

"What for?" Melodious notes drift back at me. She has her hips angled left, it curves the slender muscles of tummy and shows them off to perfection. She is slender yet firm and strong, you feel. I feel, I think. And then I try not to think. Not about firm and strong, at least. Or her.

"My gloves and mask," I say, downcast. "They're in the cupboard." I am mortified. "My nurse has the key." What a berk! I'd love to impress this creature, yet all I am doing is stuffing things up!

"Can't we do it without them?"

I don't know. Can we?

What an entrancing voice she has. And what an idea, to examine her with my bare hands! To cover my embarrassment — and shaking hands — I pour a cup of water from the bottle in the corner. At the last moment I remember my manners. I turn, "Water?'

"No thank you," she says, and then, "Shall I lie on the couch?

"Please," I say, getting a second cup of water and draining that too. Will nothing assuage my raging thirst? I turn around. She is stretched out on her back on the leather examination couch, one leg laid casually over a stirrup that rises up from the end of the table like some grotesque antler. The other leg between it. I put down the cup. I dry my hands. I say a small prayer to the mirror over the wash-hand basin, then I go to the examination table.

There should be a sheet of disposable paper over the leather that covers the examination table, but Maggie's not here to put it on. And I don't know where Maggie keeps the paper. And besides, how could I ask her to move? She looks too perfect to disturb. I lean over her. I try to keep my breath from her lips. My brandy breath. What lips they are!

"How do you feel?" I ask.

"Overall, I feel fine," she says, looking up at me. Trusting. Almost naked! "Just this ... niggle," she says. I glance at her bra. It is black. The cups are full to overflowing. I swallow.

"May I?" I ask.

She gives her assent, or so I assume, by closing her eyes.

I control my shaking hands as they go to the front clasp of her bra. I should not be doing this. I know I should not be doing this. I slip the clasp. This is madness. I look at her to see if the wrongness of what I am doing is apparent to her. But her eyes are closed. I'm surprised her eyes are closed. My hands go to her breasts. So warm. Oh good Christ how warm they are! "Any pain?" I ask. The expression on her brow seems confused. Her head gives a slight shake.

Hardly surprising, really. All I have done is put my hands on her breasts. I give them a slight squeeze. I try desperately to keep my hands from shaking. I try desperately to keep the squeeze from being any more than just a squeeze. Her head shakes again. I move my fingers over the skin. So smooth, so soft. I touch the nipples. I dare to circle them. "Is this your first examination?" I ask.

A tongue comes out and moistens thick lips. "Like this, yes," she says. It is a whisper.

Shit!

I stop myself. As I was gazing at her lips I let my fingers continue at her nipples. Had she noticed? Her eyes were still closed, The nipple on her left breast, I note, is hard. I run my fingers back over it. Rock hard. "Any swelling?" I ask. My fingers, fascinated by what they have just achieved with her left nipple, circle the right. I begin to talk. Meaningless pointless prattle. My fingers wander over her breasts as I talk. I'm trying to excite her. No other purpose. No other excuse. She has no swelling, there is no discoloration, no lumps, nothing untoward. They may be the two healthiest, shapliest, most succulent looking breasts on earth. They are certainly the most outstanding examples I have ever seen.

Both nipples are now erect and quite obviously aroused. I am still talking. Still she has not opened her eyes. I circle palms over nipples. They play a taught game back. I talk, and bear down on her. I talk, and softly squeeze. I talk some more, and caress. Her breathing has altered, slightly, I'm sure of it. I look for the flush of arousal. There it is! A darkening is taking place on her throat. I talk on. Mindless drivel. The red flood is spreading. I let my fingertips circle the dark nipples again. All is hard there. Hard and pulsing. I talk some more. I note the spread of flush. It is rising to her face, spreading down to her chest. "When did you last make love?" I ask.