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 �>�Dare Me by neverdoubted

   Dare Me - Chapter 15 - Doctor's Orders (Part 4)

   I placed her shoes on the chair next to me and draped her dress over my
lap.  She had picked a conservative pair of chaste, white panties just in
case she ended up having to show them off during her physical.  No chance
of that happening now that they were in my lap.

   I picked up her bra for inspection.  She had been complaining all spring
about her bras growing too tight.  But I was in charge of the budget.  And
because we didn't have any extra money, I was making her wait until the
start of school to get new ones.  She was growing so fast in the chest
department; it would have been frivolous to buy them before the very end of
summer.  She had adapted by going braless most of the time and only put
them on when she absolutely had to.

   I palmed one of the still warm cups, amused to find how naturally it fit
in my palm.  I idly mused how helpful it would have been if I could track
her chest development by assigning her a number or something.  It didn't
even occur to me to find the tag and check her bra size.  Heck, I didn't
even know bras came in specific sizes until I was in tenth grade!  But
that's a story for another time.

   Some more people entered the waiting room, and I quickly hid her bra and
panties I had been fondling inside the dress and folded it over so that it
just looked like a big pile of chiffon.

   Every time someone appeared in the doorway or walked down the hall, I
looked up to see if it was her or her doctor coming to find me.  Ten
minutes, then fifteen, I waited.  It was nerve-wracking, but I don't know
why I was surprised.  After all, they do call it a "waiting room" for a
reason.

   When I didn't hear any news after twenty minutes, I started to get
worried.  She should have been done by now.  How long does it take to show
a doctor you can touch your toes and screen your scoliosis-es?  As I
reached across an empty seat for a different magazine from the end table, I
heard something flutter to the floor beneath me.  It was Lucy's release
form!  I had been so focused on her clothes that I had forgotten to leave
it with her for the doctor to sign!

   Acting without thinking first, I hustled back to her exam room and burst
through the door only to find two strangers inside and no Lucy.  Luckily,
they were both fully dressed at the time.

   "Oops!  Wrong room," I apologized, and backed out of the room as quickly
as I could.

   Then it hit me.  The nurse said she needed the room cleared for other
patients.  The doctor must have taken Lucy upstairs!  On a mission, I
looked around for a stairwell and eventually found it around a couple
corners.  I headed up, not even thinking to go back to the waiting room and
grab her clothes first.  That release form was the only thing on my mind.

   The nurse had mentioned something about a building remodel.  There was
more evidence of it upstairs than down.  The worst part for me was that
someone had come through and taken everything off the walls so they could
repaint them.  Not a single door was labeled and there were no signs to
follow.  One turn up there and I was immediately lost in an endless maze of
unmarked offices.

   With my concern growing, I searched frantically up and down the hallways
for any sign of my missing sister.  But every door looked identical to the
one before it.  There weren -(TM)t even any windows to peek through and see
what was behind them.  I got disoriented multiple times.  Just when I
thought I had mapped the layout in my head, I would turn a corner expecting
to be back at the original stairwell only to find another long hallway.

   After at least fifteen more minutes of fruitless searching, Lucy
actually found me.  She stepped right out from one of the doors, still
completely naked, and nearly bumped into me.

   "Mikey!" She looked relieved to see me, but also a little frantic
herself.  Her head was still wrapped in the bandage and there were little
red circles on her chest where I guessed the doctor had attached some
sensors.  True to my instructions, she wasn't covering herself, but kept
her arms at her sides with her hands balled anxiously into fists.  Her
whole body was glowing with the exertion of recent exercise.  But her
puckered pussy, hairless as always, sported a little extra shimmer.  Seeing
that always made me smile.

   "Are you finished?" I asked, holding up the form, "where's the doctor?
He has to sign this."

   She pointed at the door but had more important topics to discuss.  "Can
I please get dressed now? ...Where's my dress?"

   Just then, a nicely dressed man in a white coat stepped into the
hallway.

   "You must be Michael," said the man, stepping around Lucy so he could
formally greet me, "I'm Dr.  Alabar."

   He was young and not bad looking, with wire frame glasses and a vaguely
foreign, possibly European accent.  He didn't seem the least bit rattled by
Lucy's nudity.  He offered his hand, and I nervously shook it.  I found his
demeanor non-threatening.  Maybe naked physicals were normal in Europe?

   "I'm glad you're here.  I would like to discuss something with you in
private, if you don't mind." That didn't sound good.

   He walked across the hall and opened a door to what must have been a
private consultation room.  I dismissed my sister by saying, "your things
are in the waiting room.  You can get dressed, but don't you dare leave
that room!  I don't want to be running around looking everywhere for you
again, ok?"

   Her solemn nod reminded me that she still thought I was giving her
dare-style commands, like the one about not covering up.  It brought me
comfort knowing I would at least be able to find her when it was time to
leave.  I watched the naked patient pad silently down the hall until her
pale bottom jiggled out of sight around the corner, then I turned to meet
with the doctor.

   He motioned me to a seat when I entered the room.  "Is everything ok?" I
asked shakily.

   "I just wanted to ask you what you can tell me about her condition," He
replied casually.

   I gulped.  "Uh...what condition?"

   "So, you don't know?  Fascinating!" he responded enigmatically.  He had
been holding Lucy's file.  He now opened the folder, laid it out on a small
writing desk, and scribbled something."

   "I'm not a psychiatrist," he clarified, "so this is not exactly my area
of expertise.  But I have reviewed your sister's medical file, and after
observing her, I believe I have an accurate diagnosis.  Your sister suffers
from Persistive Waxing Concupiscence Syndrome.  I remember learning about
it from a case we studied in med school - exceedingly abnormal...it ended
quite tragically.  I never thought I would see it in person."

   I gasped.  I didn't have a clue what most of those words were, but I did
know what a tragic end was.  Not good.

   The doctor continued, completely unaware of how alarming his big, scary
words might sound to me, "while the presentation differs slightly, your
sister exhibits key markers which bear an uncanny resemblance to the other
case.  The most notable are her unconventional augeo-biological
stimulus-response mechanisms.  But I find it fascinating how certain of her
stressors, particularly related to compulsory corporeal exposure, have come
to be linked to what appears to be a nominal and healthy sexual expression.
If I were still a grad-student at a research institution, I would jump at
the chance to study her further and see if I could form a concrete
connection between the two.  A noteworthy paper could likely be published
about her condition."

   My head was spinning.  Half the words he was saying were gibberish and
the other half sounded terrifying!

   "When I first met her, and I pressed her on why she refused to wear the
standard issue hospital gown for her physical, your name came up.  She
mentioned it was suggested to her by you as a particularly challenging form
of dare.  Tell me, is this something you two regularly engage in?"

   I nodded my head slowly, unsure where he was going with this.  Was I
about to get in trouble?

   "And you just think these up on your own?  It's not part of any
treatment plan assigned by her psychiatrist?"

   This time I shook my head and said, "Uhh...Lucy doesn't have a
psychiatrist." I hoped he wasn't about to say she needed one to live.  How
would we ever be able to afford something like that?

   He made another note in her file but did not seem too concerned to hear
she didn't have a psychiatrist.  "I observed signs of arousal throughout
the physical.  Her reaction was strongest near the end when I asked her to
follow me to the second floor.  Even then, she refused my offer of a gown
and insisted on going without.  Are you able to identify the signs of
female arousal response?  Have you observed such signs in your sister
during her dares?"

   I nodded again.  No point in denying it now.

   "And have you witnessed her achieving an orgasm in response to being
given or completing a dare?"

   This time, I didn't even have to answer.  He could see the truth in my
blush.

   "Fascinating!" he exclaimed again - his favorite word - and began
writing furiously and chattering, mostly to himself, at the same time,
"-so, the sexual stimuli are not affected.  But that means the hormones
which encourage sexual reproduction beginning with puberty which should
normally be expressed by the exercise of masturbation or sexual
intercourse, should have been completely blocked by her WC.  They should
have built up into an endocrine storm.  The key...must be the formation of
new chemical pathways!"

   "The other patient experienced frequent endocrine storms which drove him
to erratic and dangerous behaviors.  Because of the tragedy that befell him
as a result, he didn't live long enough to gather meaningful data.  Your
father likely suffered a similar tragedy, for that matter.  You can
understand why I was eager, since the syndrome is hereditary, to see if
both children had inherited the same genetic markers.  But I now see, just
from sitting across from you, that it sadly does not appear to be the case.
A shame.  Two subjects would have provided such insight!"

   I could feel tears welling up.  Was my sister --dying?!  Pressing his
glasses back onto his nose, the doctor really looked at me for the first
time in a while and saw how petrified I must have looked.

   "My apologies," he was quick to say, "my bedside manner is still a work
in progress, and I sometimes forget I am no longer in the world of
academia. I'm only working here temporarily as repayment for my student
loans.  I'm sure, sadly, being a public health facility, the county clinic
would consider such a research assignment frivolous, and never pay for it,
no matter how intriguing her case may be.  Please allow me to explain why I
don't think she is in any real, physical danger."

   I wiped my eyes and gave him a chance.  But on the inside, I was still
reeling.

   "Lucy has a different wiring than most people," he said, trying to dumb
down his explanation enough that even I could understand, "her condition
blocks certain chemicals inside her body from being expressed as they
normally would.  When she experiences an onset of her WC symptoms, those
chemicals, which have nowhere to go, simply build up inside her body and
could affect her behavior in unpredictable and potentially dangerous ways."

   "Think of the human body like a sports car with an engine capable of
producing immense horsepower when it is revving.  Lucy is by all accounts a
fine specimen, and her engine, her body, is in excellent condition.  But
her axle has been disconnected.  So, the wheels never turn no matter how
much she revs, and the heat just builds up. -�

   "This is where your ingenuity and willingness to help her is really
quite admirable!  By introducing these regular dares to Lucy at a young
enough age, pre-pubescence at least, you appear to have stumbled upon a way
to effectively redirect her chemical pathways before her condition began to
emerge.  The dares may have other consequences on her life, but at least
you figured out another way to reconnect her wheels!  For that, young man,
you deserve to be commended.  You may have a bright future in the medical
field."

   Dr.  Alabar held out his hand and I shook it.  But I didn't feel proud
of his commendation.  I felt sick.  Something was wrong with Lucy? 
Something to do with her sexual development?!  He stood up as if the
consultation had ended and I started to panic.  I still had so many
questions.

   I was only fifteen and he had just dropped a lot of responsibility on
me. I needed more than just a firm handshake and a pat on the back. 
"B-b-but, how do I help her?  Does she know about it?"

   He gave me an answer, but because he had already shifted back into
doctor-speak, I struggled to follow along.

   "It is unclear what causes the symptoms to manifest.  The patient in the
case study didn't live long enough to gather meaningful data on that matter
and there's just too little research available for me to form a solid
conjecture.  However, coincidence with the onset of puberty could be
significant and could indicate that a patient may eventually outgrow the
condition as they mature."

   "For Lucy, if it hasn't already happened, the periodical manifestation
of her symptoms will likely continue to expropriate nominal sexual response
and function until the two are inextricably linked.  However, assuming her
symptoms are managed properly, I have no reason to believe she couldn't
live a long, fulfilling life.  But as for telling her about her condition,
it won't make much difference.  The chemical imbalance makes self-awareness
of the syndrome nearly impossible.  That's why she's lucky to have someone
like you around who cares about her and is willing to help."

   As he started to gather up the paperwork and tidy the space, I sensed I
was running out of time for answers.

   "Wait a minute," I begged, "that's it?  Can't you do something to fix
her?"

   He contemplated my question then shook his head.  "You could send her in
for intensive inpatient psychotherapy.  But even that would just be
palliative.  I'm afraid there is no known cure for WC.  But don't worry. 
She is in otherwise excellent physical health and appears to be a very
well-adjusted young lady.  The risks to her are more social, now, than
physical."

   I furrowed my brow at that news.  How was that any better?

   "Let me explain," he said, "uncontrolled endocrine overload would drive
her to reckless and dangerous behaviors.  These behaviors, combined with a
temporarily diminished capacity for risk-management, could be
misinterpreted and make her susceptible to exploitation by others."

   "But since Lucy can come to you and ask for a dare whenever she feels
the onset of her symptoms, and because she is critically able to achieve an
orgasm by performing a dare, her newly formed chemical pathways will remain
open, and her condition should be manageable.  As I said, she's fortunate
to have someone like you in her life who truly cares enough about her to
ensure she always has a way to manage her WC without taking advantage of
her."

   He thought for a moment, then pulled a big, important-looking notepad
out of his pocket and started writing.  "Unfortunately, by now her pathways
appear to be inextricably linked to physical exposure.  I do see your
predicament in that regard and I'm afraid I can't do much to help you
there, societal norms being what they are.  But I can at least offer you
this.  I hope you will find occasion to benefit from it."

   He handed me the note which had been handwritten on clinic letterhead,
complete with official county seal on top.  I tried to read his cursive but
couldn't make out anything other than to identify that he had signed it at
the bottom.  It felt like an empty gesture.  I needed answers, a
prescription, a plan; anything but some stupid letter!  Standing up, I
folded his note and resentfully shoved it in my pocket.  I assumed I would
never look at it again and it would never come in handy.  How was I
supposed to know that very letter would be my salvation before the day was
out?

   He ended our consultation by offering some final advice.

   "I suppose there is a marginal risk of her body building up a tolerance
to your treatments, requiring ever greater forms of exposure to manage her
symptoms.  But the build-up of toxic chemicals resulting in an
uncontrollable chemical imbalance should always be the greater concern. 
The worst thing you can do, when her symptoms begin to manifest, is
undertreat her.  So, as difficult as it may seem, you shouldn -(TM)t hold
back.  Even if she resists, it's for her own good."

   After that, he signed the school's medical release form and wished me
well.  He had given me so much information - so much responsibility.  I
felt like the weight of the world was on my shoulders as I descended the
stairs.  Of course, I loved my sister and would do anything for her.  But I
was only fifteen!  I could barely take care of myself.  What if I messed up
or made a mistake?  Suddenly, I felt very tired.  I needed to go somewhere
and sit alone for a while and think.

   I returned to the waiting room expecting to find my sister dressed and
ready to go home.  I saw her clothes still draped over the chair where I
had left them.  But Lucy was nowhere to be found!