– Harlow
Here we are at the center of the dog and pony show. This is the part where I perform like a puppet on Dr. Davis’ string. He plays a video now on the projector screen, of the “before” Harlow, trying unsuccessfully to grip and use a pencil.
“Not only was Harlow disfigured in the helicopter accident, but he was set back developmentally as well,” Dr. Davis explains, as my video plays on the big screen that everyone is watching.
“He suffered brain trauma which resulted in physical deficits, which is part of the very reason I’m here today, talking to so many of you who are physical and occupational therapists. Because, as you can see, at first Harlow failed at such basic tasks as using a pencil. He couldn’t even write his name. But now, Harlow has progressed considerably, in every measurable area. Just look.”
Dr. Davis motions me to his podium and hands me a blank sheet of paper. I already know the drill. He also hands me a pencil and I write my name on the sheet of paper.
The crowd goes wild, as they are supposed to. The ladies are undoubtedly thinking, this hunk knows how to write his name again. He’s ready to get back to saving our country!
I never thought I’d get so much attention for the simple task of being able to write my name. But compared to how far I’ve come— the Harlow of eight months ago who could barely even pick up a pencil— it really is quite the achievement. So, I try to bask in the applause, although I still have mixed feelings about it.
“And now I will open up the floor for some questions,” Dr. Davis says.
“What will you need those of us at Kirtland Air Force base’s physical and occupational therapies to do for you?” asks a man towards the back.
“Great question,” Dr. Davis answers, “and a subject I was going to address next, so I’m glad you asked. Based on additional funding I’ve received—in large part due to the progress of Harlow and many others like him—I will be working with quite a few new wounded warriors. From every branch of the military.”
His statement reassures me that the fact that I’m Navy and he’s working on an Air Force base isn’t the reason for the hang-up with my paperwork. Always the worrier, I can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief as he continues.
“Many of the service members are airmen stationed here of course. But others come from all over. So, once these service members are out of their initial trauma recovery that takes place at Walter Reed Hospital, they will see me for facial reconstruction and then, depending on their status and treatment plan, some will see you for physical and occupational therapy. Harlow himself, in fact, will be receiving more physical therapy here, to help him progress even further.”
That’s the first time I’ve heard of this, I think, trying not to let disappointment show on my face for everyone in the audience to see. The hope that had just welled up in me suddenly pops like an overfilled balloon. I should know by now not to get too excited about anything; the future is always as uncertain as my fate was that day when the helicopter went down.
At this point, I’m trying to grapple with the reality of my continuing forced recovery period, which I honestly don’t think I need. I wonder how long my re-entry will be delayed based on this physical therapy I just found out I need.
A few other people ask questions, and then I notice that Lovely Mystery Woman has her hand raised. We lock stares for a brief second before Dr. Davis calls on her. I have a feeling she has been hit with the same instant attraction that I’ve been feeling for her. Perhaps asking a question is her way of getting my attention.
Despite knowing I should concentrate on the conference and not on fucking her silly, I can’t help but imagine bending her over and taking her from behind. I’d hold onto her voluptuous ass while my erect cock made its way, like a magnet, to the opening of her pussy. I’d tease her for a minute with the head of it just inside her pussy lips and then I’d spread her open and shove myself deep inside her…
“How long until this type of treatment is available to every man and woman who suffered a traumatic brain injury while serving our country?” she asks Dr. Davis.
Dr. Davis looks rather confused— or is it annoyed?— by the question. And I personally feel rather surprised that she’s asked such a serious question. My own confusion probably stems from the fact that I had just been imagining her mouth open wide to moan out her orgasm as I fucked her— or perhaps to eagerly accept my cock— rather than challenge the doctor who is the guest of honor at this conference.
“Of course, I’m only one doctor, but I’m doing my best to work with everyone who needs my services,” he says. “There is a lot of demand. A very long waiting list for the type of expert level skill I provide.”
“Is there a specific reason that you chose Mr. Bradford to receive your services, out of everyone who needs them?” she continues, barely waiting for him to finish.
What an odd question, I think, and one that I cannot help being annoyed at myself. Does she think I’m unworthy of this doctor’s help? She doesn’t even know me.
“Mr. Bradford was in great need of my services,” Dr. Davis answers. “And he had impeccable timing. I had just finished perfecting and patenting my technology.”
“I see,” the woman says, but it doesn’t look like she’s convinced. “And what is the success rate? How many other members of our armed forces have seen the level of success that Mr. Bradford has experienced?”
Dr. Davis looks visibly exasperated now, and I can’t blame him. Just who does this woman think she is?
And yet, I can’t help wondering about her question. Although I help Dr. Davis in his office—and I’m often asked to talk to patients preparing for surgery and treatment such as I myself have undergone—I rarely have continuing contact with them. And I’m the only one that Dr. Davis drags out for the dog and pony show.
“That’s a very subjective question that’s difficult to answer,” Dr. Davis says. “My methods are still in their infancy and there are varying degrees of ‘successful treatment’ still in progress.”
“And can we see more examples of Mr. Bradford’s progress?” she asks. “For instance, can he write a paragraph in addition to just his name?”
I have to restrain myself from letting my mouth fall open. I have no idea why this woman is challenging Dr. Davis and now me. Of course I can write a fucking paragraph.
The members of the audience look just as confused as I feel, as if some are wanting to see more demonstrations themselves just for the entertainment value, whereas others are wondering if the woman in the crowd is trying to challenge Dr. Davis’ statements.
I want to say “challenge accepted” and write a paragraph about how civilians—which she obviously is, to be asking such questions of someone so respected by the military, and casting doubt on an injured war veteran as well—should keep their pretty little mouths shut if they don’t want to be fired from their cushy defense contractor jobs with benefits. But I see Dr. Davis give a subtle nod to the conference organizers. Then the same man who had earlier told me I was needed on stage rushes to the podium.
“Those are enough questions from one audience member,” he says. “We need to move on to the next question.”
He looks at his watch but I’m sure it’s just to emphasize the point he’s making, since these conferences are usually planned out in minute detail with military precision.
“In fact,” he continues, after clearing his throat. “We are going over on our time limit as it is. We need to present Dr. Davis with his award now.”
I breathe a silent sigh of relief, glad that my time in the spotlight is up. I walk down the stairs to sit next to my unit members in the front row, but I can’t help throwing an angry glance in the direction of the mystery woman.
She’s looking back at me, but not with the same challenging look she used when she was addressing Dr. Davis. Now her look signals curiosity, or interest.
Although I’m upset by her questions, I can’t help but admire her tenacity, in addition to her tits. I’ve never heard anyone ask Dr. Davis such thought- provoking questions before. And I’ve never seen a rack that looked so good.
As I take my place, Jensen says “Good job, bro!” and Ramsey says, “Who’s was that fine-ass hottie asking all those weird questions?”
“Good question,” I answer, but Dr. Davis shoots me a glare from the stage.
He’s being presented with his award, and it’s my job to cheer him on. I smile and applaud where appropriate, just like I always do. As his acceptance of the award continues, I shut up and concentrate on the presentation, but not without lingering thoughts of the chick with the tenacity and tits.
Who the hell is this woman and why am I letting her mess with my head?