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Doctor's Orders	By : TENEBRE Category: +S through Z > Simpsons Views: 23060 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Simpsons, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Doctor's Orders
- 2-The Last Straw
- 1
- 2
     "Will there be anything else?" the man shot Marge a strange look, his eyes wet with gracious tears like he'd subdued a smile to the point he was so happy he was crying.
     Marge stammered, not totally aware of what he was gracious for, "No. I'm fine. We're fine."
Marge turned and Lisa gave her the same look that she herself must've been making.
They turned and walked away. The man leaning over his counter and watched Marge's ass move through the tight denim of her jeans. Smiling he rubbed the bulge hidden beneath the counter.
Marge sat down, with Lisa beside her, and they waited for their number to be called. Marge felt nauseous all right. The feeling only got worse when that man looked at her funny. It felt strange to her the whole, take a number and not make an appointment. This was a doctor's office after all, more particularly a therapist's office. She'd decided though that whatever she was going through it was almost entirely in her head. Dr Hibbert couldn't unburden her of this suffering. There was nothing medically wrong with her.
After all was said and done there was only one place to go, and that was Shelbyville. Marge had never felt more out of place since she'd gotten here though. People, and men in particular had been staring at here with rapt affection. A marathon of eyes with undivided attention and salacious grins thick with gratitude. Just as had been with that man a moment before; she'd seen that look in the faces of so many men since she'd come here. From the gas attendant at the station, to the cop that pulled her over, to the old man at the crosswalk.
There was only one place to go to if something was wrong and a medical doctor couldn't help, only one place and only one person. And he didn't practice in Springfield, his home was Shelbyville. Marge, despite living beside the town her entire life, had never actually been in Shelbyville and the entire town seemed dipped in a thick fog of dread. It was as if she'd left reality and driven into some town from a Stephen King story. The people and all their preoccupations, whatever those actually were, were unreal to her. There was a faint sense of artificiality to every, particularly the women she'd seen. And there were very few women. Comparing the situation to that of Springfield, where women outnumbered men three to one, here men outnumbered women five to one.
Marge reached down and picked up a magazine. Men's Health. She reached for the one beneath that. Racing. Beneath that. Maxim. Beneath that. Rolling Stone. Beneath that. Co-ed. Marge was starting to see a trend here.
She sat up and looked around. There was only one woman and she seemed to be here with her husband. Her husband was looking at Marge though. His gaze permeated the sort of confidence that often came with an individual who had gained the upper hand. Marge wasn't sure what that upper hand might have been but that particular facet of his expression was transparent. Marge looked at the other men in the room, they were looking at her too, smiling, legs folded, occasionally adjusting the front of their jeans, khakis or slacks. A knowing gaze, an insatiable appetite precipitated from each one of them.
This made Marge self-conscious. To the point that she felt like pulling a bag over her head and just locking out the world. She wished she had a cell phone. She'd call Homer and tell him to pick her and Lisa up. She didn't even to drive through this town again. Some strange subversive tone moved through every thing and every person and it gave her the creeps.
As much as she felt it would be wrong, even dangerous to leave Lisa behind in this room, she had to do it. She had to get to a restroom. She felt like she was going to snap out here. She needed to scream or at least relinquish some moment by herself.
She turned to Lisa, "I'll be right back."
She stood and as she moved for the ladies room the gaze of the men followed her. She closed the door behind her and locked it. Her breathing sped up its rhythm and for a moment she thought her heart would explode. She'd had other panic attacks lately and wasn't sure for the precise reason. The first one though, she thought she was having a heart attack. But her heart didn't fail and when all went to black she wasn't dying. She woke up on the floor of the kitchen, forty minutes shy of kids returning from school. Sweat had soaked through her clothes to a pool on the floor. Her eyes were bloodshot and her ears were ringing. If she could only remember what exactly had triggered the attack. But she couldn't and Dr Hibbert didn't have the expertise or sense of detection that it would take to locate that one thing that had devastated her to the point of seizing.
Now, she put her hands to either side of the sink and turned her eyes from the sink basin back up to her reflection. Her eyes weren't bloodshot yet and her skin still had its color. She almost looked like she'd faked this just now. The woman staring back at her wasn't even startled by this discovery. Marge stared down at the white blouse she'd worn and realized she hadn't left the house with a bra on underneath. She could make out her breasts ghosting through the cotton. She would feel even more self-conscious now. She wondered if that was what all those men were staring at knowingly.
Marge couldn't give herself a good reason as to why she'd even make the mistake of not wearing a bra. It was true that she didn't need the support. Her breasts were large but also hung high on her chest and their shape had always worked counter to the objectives of gravity. Not long ago Lisa had gotten into a discussion with some friends at school and it had drifted off to discussions about plastic surgery. Lisa had defended a woman's right to choose what she did to her own body, not because of actual opinion but because she thought her mother had gotten breast implants. Lisa respected Marge but also had made the same assumption as most, but Marge's breasts, thankfully were real. And real big at that. Though she'd made it a point to only leave the house with a bra on she'd been forgetting lately and the guilt behind each revelation had led her to ask if she was really doing it by mistake. She thought she knew herself. It worried her that maybe she didn't know better after all. Maybe some sinister part of her enjoyed the attention, despite the fact that she'd always gotten enough from her husband. Some part of this braless phase she had gone through did feel like a blow to her marriage, or more specifically the loyalty she'd always had to her husband.
Knowing now what those men were probably smiling about didn't make her feel any better though. She wished she'd brought a jacket at least. Or maybe worn a darker color blouse. She would've splashed some water from the sink up to cool her face but was afraid it would hit her blouse and make her attire all the more explicit. So she decided against it and, taking a deep breath, went back out to the waiting room again.
Sitting down she folded her arms across her chest, hoping that it would obstruct the path of the menÕs' eyes to the dark circles of her areolas. She gave the one man sitting across from her a sort of condescending grimace. The man went on smiling though, enjoying the way that with her arms folded her breasts were pressed together and made bigger by Marge's decision.
A number was called and Marge looked at the ticket that Lisa was holding. They just called 24, and she was 41.
End of the line, she thought. She looked around and realized she they were indeed the last people to come in.
Just then Marge began to feel her nipples start to go hard. She froze and she felt them moving across the cotton inside her blouse, as they grew longer. Beads of perspiration began to run down her brow. This went on until she felt more sweat, now pasting the blouse to her back and running from her collar down between her breasts. The antiperspirant beneath her arms wasn't doing anything to impede it either, she felt long lines of moisture drool down her rips and glue her blouse to her shoulders and midriff. The nervous look that Marge shot across the room was met by the man sitting across from her when his smile seemed to double in its intensity. The lips curled until his cheekbones hung beside his nose, each the size of a golf ball. His smile reminded Marge of the 'what? Me worry?' face that the mascot of Mad Magazine used to make.
Marge looked down and now the contrast between her shoulders, stomach and chest was drastic enough so that her breasts stood out like an enormous mountain from the otherwise plateau of her profile. She could only imagine what she looked like right now.
Or, she thought herself and felt her blood run cold; I could just ask the guy across from me. I'm sure he's got a great view. Bastard.
Marge turned, picked up one of the magazines, and pulled it open in front of her. The page she'd opened it to show a busty woman washing a car, her breasts mopping the suds from the front windshield. Inside the car a salesman was sitting beside a customer ready to purchase the vehicle. The salesman looked shocked but the customer is overjoyed. Below the picture, the caption read: "Even your wife will thank us."

     The short fat man stared at Marge awhile and then, after fiddling with the line of his thin mustache, asked, "So why have you come to see me today?'
     Marge sat down and pulled her blouse so it was no longer matted to her skin, "Well, my doctor referred me."
     "I mean...what is it you would like to help me with."
     "Oh...yes. Well, I've been having panic attacks and I don't know what's causing them."
     The doctor reached behind his desk and pulled out a legal pad and began to scribble something down, "Has anything changed recently in your life...a recent brush with death or an argument with your spouse?"
     "No, that's all fine."
     "Oh, anything else unusual."
     Marge bit her lip, "Lately I've been---"
     "Its okay, this stays just between us."
     "When I get dressed to leave the house I keep forgetting to put a bra on."
     The doctor furrowed his brow, "Have you felt ignored lately?"
     Marge thought of all the people she'd seen and that had seen her since she'd come here, "No."
     "Have you noticed any change in the way that people act around you then?"
     "How do you mean?"
     "Since you've been forgetting."
     "I haven't noticed."
     "Well, if you haven't been looking that means you're not looking for anyone's attention."
     "Then why am I doing it?"
     "How does it make you feel?"
     Marge looked down at herself, "Naked."
     The doctor put the legal pad aside, "Good or bad?"
     Marge, "I told you."
     The doctor picked up his legal pad again, "No. You told me you feel naked. Depending on which patient of mine says that it can mean very different things."
     "I feel bad then. Self-conscious."
     "Anything else?"
     Marge looked down at herself; her nipples were still stiff from minutes before. She was reluctant to give this doctor any more ammo in case he had some predetermined impression of her already, but holding it back made her feel guilty.
     She looked back up at the doctor, whose face was facing the legal pad.
     She said, "Back in the waiting room...something weird..."
     "What?"
     "I think I...when I knew why they were looking at me...I think I was turned on. At least that's how my body reacted...I was totally scared but...my nipples got hard."
     "Sometimes being excited and being scared is the same thing."
     "Not for me."
     "Can we agree that you didn't find any of those men attractive or how they were acting around you flattering?"
     "We can agree."
     "Then try something. The next time your alone at home and your family is away try thinking about one of those guys in there and see what happens."
     "I'm not going to indulge you, I'm sorry."
     'Then prove me wrong. If you just feel grossed out than we've proven this theory wrong. But tell me, have you ever reacted this way around your husband?"
     Marge found herself staring out of the room, past the doctor, through the wall and toward where ever her house sat in the distance. Homer's touch had been the thing to coax her into these feelings. Never just the thought of him thought and never just his eyes or smile.
     "What can I do until I know?"
     "Would you like another appointment?"
     "I would like some answer."
     "I have anything yet, not a finite one at least."
     "So what comes to mind?"
     "I have a medication that is supposed to subdue panic attacks."
     "Anything I should know about this drug? Any side effects?"
     "If your forgetting is what actually causes these attacks then your worrying about that will less slack and you might be prone to forgetting more often."
     "So you're asking me to make a choice?"
     "Keep it or lose it."
     "No. You said I might do this more often, you're asking me to choose between giving up and losing what little dignity I have left."
     "Marge you can blame me all you want but not knowing why you do this doesn't mean you're doing this against your will."
     "What do you mean?"
     "Some part of you doesn't see it as dignity, but as an obstacle between you and something you want. Now I can't tell you what you want. Only you know that. But remember, no matter how embarrassed you get or how much you may think you don't want them to see that much of your body--some part of you does want that. Now when you do confront that part of you one of two things will happen. Either you will never make that mistake again or you'll decide it never was a mistake in the first place. Marge if you're confident in your self-control take the drug. If not, I can see you tomorrow."
     Marge felt trapped. If she took the drug her life could get worst and if she returned tomorrow the doctor might be reinforcing his idea that she actually wants to endure what she's been putting herself through. She had no other choice.
     She got up and turned toward the door, "I don't want to see you again."
     She'd have to deal with this in her own way.

     "Mom, I thought you were dying." the sound of it made Marge feel sick. She wondered where Homer and Bart were.
     She'd woken up in a hospital with little recollection as to what had gotten her here.
     "What happened?"
     Lisa wiped her eyes on her sleeve, "The doctor said you had a panic attack."
     Marge turned and saw how scared Lisa was. She was a genuine person but Marge had never even seen her like this before. Marge wondered what if this happened again. What if Lisa was around to see it? What would it do to her if Lisa was forced to endure this a second time?
     Marge looked at Lisa, "Find me a phone."
     She hadn't known she would have to see the doctor again, and even if she did she didn't realize, despite how obvious it should've been, that it meant that she would be going back to Shelbyville. But it did mean all those things.
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Doctor's Orders