My Hot Doctor Fucked Me (Patreon)

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Chapter 1: "What about a prostate check?"

I woke up the morning after eating shit on my skateboard and my balls were on fire. I lay in bed with one hand cupped over them like my nut sack was a baby bird.

Ball trauma is kind of a tradition with me and my boys. That's the kind of friend group that was. We'd seen everything. We had jerked off in the same room for years at this point, side by side, no big deal. Nobody's hog was a private thing. I had gained my reputation back in the day after successfully completing a dare involving one testicle and the golf ball cleaner at the course in town, and even though that pain had been insane, I was fine the next morning. This was different.

The truth is, though, that I'd always been a little bi-curious. None of my friends did it for me, but I was always fascinated by the real beefy dudes in porn, big muscular guys who could lift you up and throw you around. And occasionally a friend's dad, if the guy was cool. My friend Greg's dad could move a whole boat by hand when it was on the trailer. The first time I saw him do that, I thought about it for a full summer. I never acted on any of it. Everyone I'd dated or hooked up with had been a girl, and that always felt fine.

Anyway. 

I stood up that morning very carefully, and decided this was past the point of private suffering. Somebody had to know.

I shuffled into the kitchen in the shirt and underwear I'd slept in, one hand hovering over my crotch. My mom was at the counter.

"I have a thing," I said.

"What is it?"

I gestured loosely at my crotch. "I need to see a doctor."

"Oh my god are you okay??"

"Yes just take me."

"Ah, boy problems. Well, I can take you in."

"MAN problems," I said.

"Sure," she said, and smiled genuinely. "My little man."

She drove. I rode in the passenger seat with my weight shifted onto one cheek, keeping every ounce of pressure off the precious cargo between my thighs.

At the clinic they handed me a clipboard of questions that were all, somehow, about my cock and balls, and my mom read along over my shoulder until I angled the board away from her. We sat in hard, barely padded chairs next to one of those bead maze toys for toddlers, and I sat with my knees wide apart, trying to avoid grazing them, taking up a lot of space.

My mom looked at me with her special, knowing look, suggesting that I was doing something wrong, or being rude.

"I'm injured," I said curtly.

A guy walked into the front door and crossed the waiting room, and my eyes locked onto him immediately. Big dude. His shoulders popped a bit in the polo shirt he was wearing. He looked like a rich guy, mid-twenties maybe. Good jaw, dark hair pushed back, coffee in one hand. He was dressed like a cool guy.

He caught me staring. He looked right at me before I had the chance to look away, and he half-smiled, kind of genuine and nice.

He lifted a white coat off a hook by the reception desk and put it on, and my entire skeleton reorganized. He was a doctor. 

I started hoping, hard, that he was my doctor, and I knew exactly how stupid that was, but I kept hoping anyway. 

Suddenly my hormones had overridden the searing pain in my balls.

"They have good parking here," my mom said.

"Yeah," I said, not even registering what she had said.

A nurse called my name. My mom stood up with me.

"No," I said flatly.

She scoffed. "Fine, Mister Man."

The nurse walked me back, weighed me for some reason and took my height, and handed me a folded gown. Everything off below the waist, she said, doctor will be in shortly. Then the door clicked shut and it was just me, bare-assed on an exam table in a gown designed by somebody who hates the human body, the paper crinkling every time I breathed, staring at the door with my heart thudding away at the front of my chest.

I sat for a bit, playing on my phone, texting my friends that I was getting my nuts checked out. Their responses were normal: "Probably cancer" "Probably vagina cancer" "Probably aids" "Get your prostate checked" and stuff like that. 

I chuckled and ignored them, switching to instagram to try to find my doctor's profile. He seemed cool. He must have one. I got half an erection just thinking about what if we became friends. The blood flow suddenly made things hurt less in my balls. I wondered if this was just a passing ache.

····[]····

The door opened and it was him.

Up close he was even hotter. Bigger than he looked in the waiting room, hands that could palm my whole head, and a face that looked too young to be in charge of anyone's organs. Just another day on the job for him, helping people.

"I'm Dr. Lawson," he said, rolling a stool over and sitting down a couple feet in front of me. "What's going on?"

I was up on the table, feet on the little step, hands flat on the paper under my thighs, and I gave him the skateboard story, "I tried to grind a rail, and I ate shit."

"When was this?"

"Yesterday. Last night. Yesterday."

"Which side hurts more?"

"Left. Both. Mostly left."

"Any color change? Worse standing or lying down?"

"Um." I had spent all night both standing and lying down and could not produce one single fact. I was embarrassed that I didn't know the answer. "Standing? And I've barely looked. I think they're normal color. Maybe redder. I was scared to look."

He watched me sweat for a second. "Relax, man. I've seen a thousand of these."

That did not relax me. A thousand of these meant we were about to do the part I'd been bracing for.

"Stand up for me."

He snapped on a glove while I stood up, and then I was planted there with my feet apart and the gown bunched in both fists at my stomach, and he stayed seated on the stool, which put his face at exact eye level with my dick. Nothing in my life had prepared me for that arrangement. I stared at the top of his head while he got a good look at my cock, which I could feel tingling already just from being looked at.

His gloved fingers came up under my sack and lifted, cool latex on the outside, warm hands underneath it, and he rolled the left ball between two fingers with a specific, careful pressure, checking one, then the other. He touched this and that.

"What's the pain level?"

"Like, really bad this morning, now it's suddenly like, not so bad."

"Scale of one to ten?"

"Like a four now, maybe three."

"Cough for me."

I coughed. He pressed. I coughed again.

"Where's it hurt. Here?"

It stung right where he touched it.

"There. Yeah. There."

And through all that, my dick was getting less soft, and climbing, and it was inches from his face, literally resting on his knuckles, twitching again every time he touched me. 

My face burned. I watched the top of his head, the part in his hair, just looking at this huge unbothered man cradling my nuts in one palm.

He pressed one gloved finger into the bruised spot and my whole dick jiggled with every poke, and he watched it happen without one muscle in his face moving. Then he kept feeling around after he had to have finished checking, thumb dragging up the seam of my nut sack, unhurried.

"Okay. You can pull your pants up."

I did not have pants. I dropped the gown back down over myself.

He peeled the gloves off, washed his hands, and delivered the verdict half-turned away, already typing into a tablet. "Bruised testicle. No torsion, no rupture, blood flow's fine. Ice and time. You'll survive."

Relief arrived and then drowned immediately under a suddenly much more important fact, which was that this was ending. He was about to type two more lines and walk out of my life in that coat.

He turned to look at me, and I hadn't moved to grab my pants or anything. 

"You're gonna be fine, buddy," he said. "You have any questions?"

Buddy, I thought, we could be bros.

There was a pause, where he waited for me to talk, but I didn't say anything. He reached for the door, and I blurted out the only thing I could think of.

"What about a prostate check?" I said, my voice cracking in the  middle of the words.

The half-second after it left my mouth was the longest of my life. I heard it echo around in my skull. I heard exactly how it sounded. There was no reeling it back in.

He stopped typing and turned around on the stool.

"You don't need one," he said, level. "Not at your age. Not unless you're having certain symptoms."

"I have them."

He had not named a single symptom yet. I knew that even while it was coming out of me, and I said it anyway, and then I stood there in my dumb gown, a complete idiot.

"Is that right."

"Um. Yeah."

"Are you a hundred percent sure? You know what a prostate exam is like?"

"Yeah. I know."

He set the tablet down. He was not smiling yet.

"I'm not doing an exam you don't need," he said.

I looked at the floor. My ears were roasting. It was the longest few seconds of my life, longer than when my one nut was sucked into the golf ball cleaner, longer than anything.

"Okay," he said. "Symptoms. Constant pain in your lower back, your abdomen, your groin, you've got that, but it's from the recent trauma."

"Yeah," I said. "All of those."

"All of those." He leaned back on the stool. "Burning when you pee?"

"Yes."

"Sharp pain when you have an orgasm, when you ejaculate?"

I swear the room got hotter. This grown man in a white coat, sitting three feet from me, saying "ejaculate" to my face with total composure, like it was a normal word, while I stood there in a gown with nothing on underneath it. My whole lower body tingled. It felt perverted and wrong and unbelievable, being asked about my loads by an authority figure who had just cradled my nuts in his palm.

"Yeah," I said nervously. "Sharp. Really sharp."

"Sharp pain when you ejaculate," he repeated back, drawing it out this time, and I understood he was doing it on purpose. He wasn't writing anything down. He knew. He was watching me squirm on the hook I had baited myself. "That's a lot of symptoms to develop in the last ninety seconds."

I just nodded. He looked at me for a long moment, arms crossed over his muscular chest.

"If you want me to put my fingers in you, say that."

I looked him in the eye, my heart thudding in my chest.

"I want you to." It came out small, breathless.

"Say it looking at me."

I dragged my eyes up to his face. "I want you to."

Then he smiled. I understood that he knew, completely, and that any hope of being written off as a hypochondriac was dead in the water, and I found I did not mind at all.

"Bend over the table."

I slid off the table and stood there in the gown. He stayed planted on the stool and watched me, eyes on my face first, then lower, and I liked it. My dick started thickening up further under the gown right in front of him. The pain in my balls was gone completely, burned out of my body by pure horniness, and I could feel my heartbeat in my whole body, even my ass. 

I turned around and bent over the exam table, forearms down on the paper, feet on the floor, gown hanging open behind me, facing the wall. A fresh glove snapped behind me, then the cap of the vaseline clicked, and his hand came down on my butt cheek, bare, no glove, big enough to cup one whole glute.

"Relax for me," he said. "You'll feel some pressure first." 

The gloved finger pressed against my hole, cold with the vaseline, and he worked it in slowly, giving me time to take every bit of it. 

"There you go. Keep breathing." I wasn't sure, but I thought I felt the hand on my cheek squeeze, just slightly, right as his finger slid the rest of itself into me. 

My dick swelled so hard and so fast it almost hurt, pinned flat against the cold side of the table, where he could definitely see it. A moan slipped out of me, small, out loud, before I could shut my mouth around it.

He said nothing. He just pressed deeper.

The stretch was nothing like my own fingers. It was thicker, surer, and someone else doing it. When he curled it forward it found a spot in me that lit up my whole spine, and my breath shook out of me against the paper. He drew the finger out and pushed it back in, slowly at first, then in an actual rhythm, and then, suddenly, it was two fingers, and the burn of the second one melted into a pleasant sensation within a few strokes. 

He really knew what he was doing. 

My hips started rocking back to meet his hand. I heard the paper dragging under my forearms, and my own breathing, loud, and behind me nothing, total silence, just the wet sound of his fingers working me open.

The fingers slid out, and I was empty and I hated it. I heard him moving behind me, fabric, maybe a zipper, and I did not look. A hand settled on my lower back, right above my ass, big and warm, holding me in place firmly.

I said it into the paper first, mumbled. "Shouldn't you be checking with something… bigger than a finger?"

"Bigger than a finger," he repeated. He wasn't asking. He was handing it back to me. "Look at me."

I twisted my head around over my own shoulder, forearms still down on the paper, face red, dick still pinned against the side of the table. I saw a hot doctor with his big dick out, hairy, muscular, hard as steel, aimed right at my ass.

The cap clicked again. I felt it, a lot bigger than fingers, press against me, blunt and hot, and I braced my whole body.

He pushed in. A groan started climbing up out of my chest, and before it escaped his other hand came around and clamped over my mouth firmly, pulling my head back against his shoulder, and I understood immediately, because the door was thin and my mother was out there playing Bejeweled on her phone. 

I wanted the hand there.

It hurt, but in a good way. The stretch burned all around the rim of me, deeper than the fingers had prepped me for, and there was one moment, maybe a third of him in me, where I thought, I can't, it won't fit. 

And underneath the burn, at the same time, was the deepest pleasure I had ever felt in my body, a pressure against a place in me that made my knees buckle. I leaned back into him.

He worked me back onto himself in increments, an inch, a retreat, a little more, patiently, the hand on my lower back sliding down to grip my hip and pull me back to meet each push. Every stroke reached further than the last, and every stroke my hole burned a little less and gripped a little more, until at some point the rhythm stopped being careful. It turned greedy, his hips smacking into my ass, and my forearms slid on the paper so I braced against the far edge of the table and shoved back to meet him.

I felt like a slutty girl from the porn I watched. 

His breathing came up rough next to my ear, the first sound he'd made this entire time, and that wrecked me as bad as what his dick was doing inside me. I kept groaning into his palm, muffled and repetitive, and at one point I bit the heel of his hand, actually bit it, and the hand didn't loosen even slightly. My own dick dragged against the edge of the table with every stroke, smearing wet streaks on the paper, getting jerked off by the furniture. Bent over an exam table getting fucked in the ass with my mom in the waiting room, and I had never been happier in my life.

His arm came around my waist, and his bare hand closed around my dick, warm and carrying a layer of vaseline, and he jerked me in rhythm with his own strokes, and I saw nirvana. I lasted maybe two tight pulls. I squirted instantly, hard, all over his fist and the edge of the table, and my hole clamped down on him in a vice grip, except his dick was in there holding me open, and my ass being blocked from closing somehow turned it into the best orgasm of my life. My whole body shuddered back against his chest while his breathing rasped hot at my ear, making it tingle, and I moaned my whole orgasm out into his palm.

I felt him swell bigger in me, his body clapping faster against mine, and then he buried himself fully and stopped, pressed flush, and I could feel him pulsing, actually pulsing, unloading in me in throbs I could count. He gave a couple more slow pushes after, riding out the last of it while he breathed heavily above me, his hand still gripping my hip. I stayed bent over the table and took them, my hole squeezing around him in little aftershocks. Then he pulled out, slowly, and the drag of him leaving me shook a breath out of my chest. I felt open and empty, and right away I felt his load leak out of me, warm, running down my thigh in one long line. I tried to squeeze my hole shut, but I was fully gaped.

I peeled myself up off the table and looked down. My dick was still rock hard and dripping white goo, and a string of it connected the tip of it to the puddle on the table edge.

"Nice," the doctor said.

He gave my butt a gentle smack. "Tight little bubble butt."

By the time I turned all the way around he was already completely reassembled. Coat on, hair still perfect, tablet back in his hand. I didn't even get to see his dick again. Just a professional man in a white coat, typing in another note, while I stood there, wrecked, in a paper gown with cum running down my leg.

"I'll write you a prescription for tylenol," he said, turning toward the door.

"Can I call you?"

He paused, looking back at me with a genuine smile.

"Yeah. Find me on instagram, cutie."

I smiled so wide my face hurt.

"You're going to want to clean up in here," he said, nodding at the table. "And stop by Maria at the front desk before you head out, to schedule a follow-up."

"Okay," I said, turning to look for my clothes, dick still hard and swinging in front of me, dripping.

"Hey."

I turned my head back to that face.

"See you soon." He winked, and slipped out the door.

The last thing I noticed before the door closed was his hand, a gold ring on his second to last finger.

I wiped down the table with paper towels from the dispenser, destroying the evidence. I dressed with everything still slick and aching, and caught myself in the little mirror over the sink, red-faced and grinning like a lunatic, rubbing my ass which was a new kind of sore. 

At the front desk Maria found me slots for the next week without looking up, and asked if mornings worked for me. 

"After school is better," I said. 

She scheduled me and handed me an appointment card. I looked down at it like it was my golden ticket. I thanked her twice.

Then I walked out to my mom, and the whole time I crossed the waiting room I kept clenching my hole, over and over, feeling the ache in it flare each time, and each time it flared I liked it more. I felt like I was floating a foot above the carpet.

"What took so long? Are you all right? You're walking weird now."

"Yeah," I said, a dazed, dizzy smile stuck on my face.

"Well, what was it?"

I looked over at the reception, and saw Dr. Lawson appear suddenly, handing a stack of paperwork to one of the girls behind Maria. He looked up at me briefly, winked without stopping his sentence to the girl, and went back to what he was doing. 

"Just... boy stuff."