My Hot Doctor Fucked Me 02: Full Workup (Patreon)

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Chapter 2: Full Workup

For the next week, I woke up hard every single morning. Not the normal kind that goes away once you piss. The kind where I lay there with my hand on it, squeezing it desperately, my brain replaying a loop of the doctor man's hand, huge, coming down on my butt cheek while he pressed his big dick into me, jerking me off until I came all over his table.

I jerked off first thing each day, squeezing my ass tight in pulses, feeling the soreness as it faded with each passing morning.

And it faded too fast. The first two days I could still feel it when I sat down in the hard desks at school, a deep sore spot that flared when I shifted my weight on those wooden seats, and I sat in the back row with my notebook in my lap because my tender hole was apparently wired straight to my dick. I clenched on purpose. I'd be halfway through looking at a slide about sine and cosine and I'd squeeze down, hunting for the ache, pressing on it like an obsession. But by Wednesday it was fainter, and by Friday I squeezed and got nothing. Just me, doing kegels in class.

Someone walked in on me in the school bathroom one day, trying to look at my ass in the mirror. I couldn't really get the angle right, and some guy just walked past and chuckled. I chuckled back and just left, not bothering to try and explain.

When I hung out with friends, I felt a bit absent from the usual banter. All I could think about was Doctor Daddy Dick.

My buddy Pete put a jar down after slamming almost all the pickles in it as part of a dare, and pointed the fork at me.

"How's your nuts, man."

"All good," I said.

"For real? No cancer?"

"Nope. All good."

"Sick," he said, and went back to the pickles. That was the entire medical follow-up my friend group required. I almost wished someone would ask about the doctor. I wanted to talk about it. I was so excited, on a pink cloud.

I looked him up on instagram that same night, but the account was locked. Private, a profile picture of him in sunglasses on a boat with two other guys, a bio with the clinic name and nothing else, and a decent follower count, belonging to a real man with a life. There was no window in. I did not hit follow or message. I didn't know if he was careless or whatever, if a notification would show my name on his phone while his wife was looking at it.

So I just waited. We had a followup appointment soon. I could just look forward to that.

The appointment card stayed in my wallet behind my debit card. I took it out to look at it more than I used my wallet for anything else. It had a date and a time printed on it in a little box, and every plan I made that week was in relation to the followup. Every "you coming Friday," entered my brain as, "you coming four days before the followup with Doctor Lawson?"

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When the day finally came, I skated it. Across town, right after school, down a big, dangerous hill known for perilous interactions with drivers, anything to get there fast, about twenty minutes with the wind pulling my shirt off my chest. I took the last stretch fast enough that my eyes watered from the wind on my face.

Outside the glass doors I kicked the tail and caught the board and tucked it under one arm, and I walked myself in. I signed my name on the sheet at the desk.

Maria looked up and knew my face before I got my mouth open.

"Hi, hon. Two-fifteen?"

"Yeah."

"Have a seat." She was already clicking.

The chairs were the same hard plastic-wood things. The bead maze was still bolted to the low table in the corner, and a little kid worked it, dragging a red bead up the wire loop and letting it clack down the other side, over and over. I sat down with my board across my knees and my knees together.

Last time I had spread out across the chair with a legitimate injury, taking up room, man-spreading, and now I had nothing wrong with me. My balls were fine. They had been fine for days. I was just a healthy male sitting in a medical waiting room.

My leg started bouncing and I put a hand on it.

The nurse came out with the folded gown already in her hand. She looked at me and recognized me. "Come on in."

I got in the exam room, same one as before.

"Everything off below the waist. He'll be in shortly."

I undressed with my back to the door, picturing how my butt would look for him. I folded my shorts and my underwear on the chair, put the board against the wall under them, and got the gown on, which I still could not tie correctly. Then I got up on the table and the paper crinkled under me, cold on the backs of my thighs.

I adjusted my balls between my legs, and sat there with my knees pressed together and my hands flat under them. 

My phone was next to me on the table, face-down. I had put it that way on purpose, because if I flipped it over I was going to check his grey, private grid again, in here, a few feet from where it happened, and I had some dignity left.

I ran lines in my head of what I might say to him when he came in. I practiced openers. I couldn't think of anything funny that didn't make me cringe. I was there maybe ten minutes, and never settled on what to say.

Then the handle finally turned.

He came in with the tablet already up in one hand, reading it, and shut the door behind him with his heel.

"Hey, buddy." He rolled the stool over with his foot and sat down. White coat, sleeves pushed up his forearms, a watch. "How are we doing? Balls."

"They're fine," I said.

"Fine how. Pain when you walk?"

"No."

"Sitting?"

"No."

"Let's look at it."

He pulled a glove out of the box on the wall and snapped it on, and just the sound of it made me hard as hell, throbbing under the gown. I stood up off the table and held the gown up in both fists at my stomach, and it was the exact same as last time, him seated, me standing, his face level with my crotch. But he was still clinical, letting my hard dick go un-noted, like it was a game of pretending everything was normal. 

He took my sack in his gloved palm and rolled the left one between finger and thumb, and pressed under it, and turned it.

"Any tenderness here?"

"No."

"Here?"

"No."

"Cough."

I coughed. He pressed. Nothing hurt. He did it fast and his hands didn't linger anywhere. He guided me by the hips, setting me down on the table.

"Good. That's healed. No swelling, no firmness, you're done with that." He peeled the glove off, dropped it in the bin, and started typing.

And that was my cover story, gone, in less than a minute.

"Hey, um." My voice came out thin. "I couldn't find you. On Instagram."

He kept typing for a second. Then he looked up.

"Oh right." He put his hand out, palm up, and wiggled his fingers. "Here's my real one. The other one's the public one, that's for patients."

I handed him my phone. He turned it face-up toward me.

"Unlock it."

I put my face in front of it. He took it back, and I stood there in a gown, leaving my bare dick out in the open, while a doctor thumbed through my apps, found Instagram, typed something into the search bar, and tapped follow from my account to his.

"There," he said, and dropped my phone on the table beside my hip, face-up, screen still open on his profile picture. Him on a boat. "Now you can message me whenever you want."

He picked the tablet back up.

"So..." he started, his body shifting slightly, "the other thing." 

He crossed one ankle over his knee and settled back on the stool. "Your prostate symptoms."

I smiled. "Okay."

"Burning when you urinate."

"As bad as ever."

"Ouch." 

He kept typing. "Pain with ejaculation?"

"It's so bad, doctor. I don't know what to do."

I was starting to find my voice.

"How often are you ejaculating."

"Every day," I said, and then, because he was looking at me and waiting, "a few times a day. Like three."

"Three times a day." He repeated it back, unhurried, and let it sit in the air of a room with a door that was not locked. "Frequency of urination, any change?"

"Um. Yeah. Sure."

"Are you sexually active?"

My face froze, halfway toward a laugh. He looked right at me with a smirk.

"Yeah," I said. 

"How many partners?"

"One."

Two people went past out in the hall right then, on the other side of the door, talking about somebody's kid's soccer game, close enough that I caught the word "Saturday," and still he didn't lower his voice. I lowered my gown out of instinct. 

He looked at the tablet again. "Any pressure or fullness in the rectum."

"Not since my last visit."

His eyes glanced at me, nodding, then back to his screen.

He typed. My dick was throbbing, tenting the gown straight out in the space between us, the paper so thin it traced the whole shape of it, even showing the throbbing head of it.

He set the tablet down on the counter, face-down, and looked at me. He dropped his hand to my thigh.

"Alright," he said. "Now the one I actually want the answer to."

"Yeah?" I said, feeling my heart race. I swallowed.

"What do you want?"

I opened my mouth and nothing came out for a second.

"Uh," I said.

"Look at me."

I did. His face wasn't cruel. That was almost worse. He was a big guy in a coat waiting for a straight answer from someone who was rock hard under a paper gown on his exam table.

"Whatever you want to do to me," I said, every other word cracking my voice.

He let it sit there between us for a second.

"Say that again."

"Whatever you want to do to me," I said, slower this time, keeping my eyes on his face, and my voice thinned out at the end, my mouth staying open afterward.

He leaned forward off the stool and kissed me.

I heard the wheels roll under him as his mouth pushed up onto mine. His lips were warm and dry and he pressed in with some weight behind it, moving my head back. His stubble scraped my chin. He tasted a tiny bit like coffee. The hand on my thigh traveled up under the hem of the gown, his fingers dragging over my bare skin, closing around my hip, that catcher's mitt wrapping almost halfway around me. His thumb pressed into the crease where my leg met my body, nudging my balls as my rock hard dick stayed exactly where it was. His other hand came down flat on the table paper next to me and it crinkled under his weight.

I kissed him back, badly. My mouth kept opening too far, too eager, and he corrected it with his own, slowing my jaw down, setting the pace. When my breath shook out against his face he pushed his tongue past my teeth, and drew it back, and my dick jumped under the paper gown hard enough that I watched the tent of it bounce. I was pretty sure I leaked a drop of pre-cum just from that.

He pulled back an inch and I chased his mouth instinctively, following the pleasure of his tongue on mine. He grinned at that. I felt his breath on my wet lips when he spoke.

"I cleared the rest of my afternoon," he said. "You're my last patient."

"Okay," I said, barely getting the word out.

"So, why don't we do a... full workup."