The receptionist looks at your insurance card, confirms that your address hasn’t changed, and checks you in. You’re about to turn away from the desk when she says “I’m sorry, Sir, but Dr.
Mason has retired. You have been allocated a new doctor, Dr. Feldman. They’ll come through to take you in.”
You’re somewhat irritated, but decide to go with the flow. Feldman sounds like a good name. He’s probably a competent man.
Soon, you’re taken into an examination room by an assistant and all the normal procedures are followed: your blood pressure, heart rate, cursory questions about why you’re here.
“It’s time for my physical,” you explain.
“Great! The doctor will be with you soon. In the meantime if you could please take off all your clothes and put on this gown with the ties at the back. Have a wonderful day,” and she hurries out.
You’re not really paying attention when the door opens. The first thing that penetrates your consciousness is her voice.
“Hello,” she says. “You’re here for your physical?”
A crisp English accent.
“I see it’s almost one year to the day. That’s very diligent.”
You’re suddenly unable to speak, and smile idiotically.
You take her in. Long dark hair in a strict ponytail. Probably early 30s. Subtle make up, shapely figure.
“I am Dr. Feldman.”
She holds her hand out to shake yours. Her nails are perfectly manicured but with clear polish.
You’re still unable to say anything and keep smiling, and nod.
She sets her laptop on a little table and pulls up a rolling stool. You hear yourself answering all the standard questions but all the while, you’re simply staring at her.
Her dress is short, the fabric pulled back on her right thigh as her legs are crossed. Her right foot bounces up and down a little as she types. She wears black pumps, thin heel, her calf
Luckily, she’s concentrating on entering information into your chart, and is focused on the screen.
“Right,” she says. “Let’s see how you’re doing. Please stand.”
You can feel yourself start to sweat as she approaches you. She holds your head in her hands and looks in your eyes, feels the glands on your neck, and then takes out her stethoscope.
“Please turn around.”
You’re suddenly very bashful, turning quickly so she won’t see your face. You’re exposed at the back, but it’s not your butt you’re worried about. You know what’s coming…
You breathe in and out deeply as the chilly stethoscope is placed on various parts of your back, continue to answer questions, try to ignore her prodding various parts of you, and vaguely hear
her say something about sending you for blood tests.
It’s clear she’s slightly uncomfortable when it comes to asking about sexual function, and you start to realize that she’s probably quite new to actually practicing medicine as a fully fledged
doctor. Nevertheless, you reassure her that everything is working as it should.
“Well, given your family history, as you know, we ask you to come in for regular physicals partly because of the testicular cancer check.”
You’re really sweating now.
She snaps one of her gloves as she puts it on and the sound adds to your anxiety.
“All right,” she says, trying to be soothing as she positions herself in front of you.
She pulls up the gown and reaches her hand down, searching.
This is it.
“Um,” she says. “I think I’m going to have to do a visual check as well. Could you lie back please?”
She stands to your right, and pulls up your gown with her left hand.
And there it is. The moment of truth. So many times. This has happened so, so many times.
“I’m sorry, I just-”
“It’s OK,” you whisper.
“No, no. I’m sorry. It’s just that… I mean I saw pictures in medical school but-”
“I mean I’m sure you’re wonderful with your wife in other w-ways…”
She’s completely lost control now.
“Really,” you say quietly. “It’s OK. I’m OK.”
But, of course, you’re not. You’re utterly mortified.
Usually, this situation has gone one of two ways: either there’s laughter and you’ve headed out the door, or you manage to get to work with your tongue and make the woman forget what she’s
seen. With your wife you lay down as she sits on your face, with you lapping eagerly.
But this isn’t that kind of situation. This is completely different.
This is her trying to be kind.
This. This is pity.
She seems to steel herself, her posture changes.
“I’m going to feel your testicles now,” she says, sounding very official, and she places her hand on you, massaging and manipulating.
And then it gets worse, because you feel yourself getting hard, that swell, that throb.
She feels it too, and clears her throat, massaging more quickly, wanting to get it over with, perhaps.
But then… surely this can’t be happening? She moves her hand onto your cock, massaging it along with your balls.
“I’m going to – uh – need to check visually.”
She leans over, a look of utter fascination on her face as she starts to move your cock around, lifting it, holding it on top of her outstretched fingers, mentally measuring it.
You feel shame radiating through you – a feeling so familiar that it’s like an old friend.
She loops her pointer finger and thumb of her left hand into a circle around the base and starts to tug downwards softly, cocking her head slightly to one side, like a confused puppy.
She’s a true clinician now. This is an experiment, empirical observation, cataloging information in her brain.
You hold your entire body taut, not moving at all.
“Fully functioning…” she whispers, tugging at you, watching as your cock grows redder, as you start to get close.
She cups her right hand a few inches in front of your dick and moves rhythmically now, ready to catch your come.
Has her breathing got shallower? You’re not sure.
You’re watching her, amazed at what she’s doing, seeing yourself through her eyes: a statistical outlier, a circus freak.
The pulses start and you buck only slightly as you come. Her hand catches most of it.
She’s still staring down, now evaluating the proportion of the ejaculate to the member.
“So interesting,” she whispers. “Fully functional indeed.”
Your come cupped in her hand, she walks to the sink, removes the gloves and disposes of them.
She gives you some wet wipes and you sit up and clean yourself, so aroused, so humiliated.
She reaches into one of the cupboards and pulls out a blanket and places it on the floor.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to kneel.”
You do as you’re told.
She stands directly in front of you and suddenly, you smell her sweetness. She pulls up her dress, whips off lace panties, stands closer to you and grabs the top of your head.
“Men like you with pathetic teeny tiny pricks are only good for one thing.”
And she shoves your face into her pussy.