My regular urologist of ten years had recently relocated to Steamboat Springs, trading in full-time medicine for a cushy three-day work week and afternoons on the slopes. As a result, my upcoming appointment was reassigned to the new doctor who’d taken his place.
The attendant called out, “Patrick O’Malley.”
I stood and followed her down a long hallway to the last examination room, a part of the office I’d never been to before. It seemed like they’d expanded recently, likely to accommodate the influx of new doctors to their practice.
While I waited, my eyes wandered over the shelves and countertop. There was a plastic anatomical model of the male urinary system—bladder, penis, testicles, and all the associated tubes. The penis on the model was disproportionately large, which made me wonder if it was meant to spark conversations about the new enlargement procedure they were promoting.
Men are always conscious of the size of their cocks comparatively speaking. There was also one of the female plumbing. I recalled my first visit, when my old doctor had used similar models (but more size appropriate) to explain what might be causing my issue, a problem which long had been resolved. He’d given me a thorough explanation of how the prostate worked and ordered a PSA test to establish a baseline for future comparisons. His manner was reassuring, clinical, but never cold.
Two soft taps on the door pulled me out of my thoughts. A man stepped in — relatively young, probably in his mid-thirties —clearly not as seasoned as my previous doctor. I could already tell he was probably a heartthrob back in med school, a favorite among the nurses and female doctors. He had one of those five o'clock shadow beards, just scruffy enough to feel laid-back without looking unkempt. His tortoiseshell glasses gave him a professorial air, the kind that made him seem like one of those “cool” teachers who could actually make biology interesting.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Richard Feiler,” he said, extending his hand.
We shook hands.
Curious, I asked where he’d gone to college and medical school. He rattled off his summarized resume — University of Colorado, Johns Hopkins, and a residency at Anschutz just across town — as if he had done it fifty times already today. Impressive credentials, no doubt. It turned out he was also a Colorado native—which is rare these days, with so many transplants from Texas and California flooding the state.
“When I meet a new patient, I like to do a thorough exam so I can get a sense of their overall health,” Dr. Feiler said. “So this appointment may take a bit longer than scheduled.”
“That makes sense to me,” I replied. “I appreciate you wanting to look at the big picture, not just focus on one area.”
“Go ahead and take off your shirt.”
I pulled off both my shirt and undershirt.
Dr. Feiler cupped his hands and gave a few short breaths into them before picking up his stethoscope. I always thought that was a small but telling gesture—warming the instrument before placing it on bare skin. It showed a certain kind of doctor: one with a bit of compassion baked into the clinical routine.
He rested his warm hand on my chest as he thumped across various places. His shirt brushed against one nipple, then the other—soft fabric tracing over sensitive skin. It tickled, but I stayed still.
His hands moved from my waist up to my shoulders, firm and sure, tracing over the ridges of my back, then repeating the motion across the front. Each movement felt methodical but unhurried, like he was memorizing a map written just beneath my skin.
"What are you looking for?" I asked.
“Just any bumps or unusual lumps,” he replied. Then, after a beat: “Okay, go ahead and lower your pants and underwear so I can check for a hernia next.”
I let my pants drop to my ankles and slid my underwear down to mid-thigh. He gently pushed them lower, past my knees. The air was cooler there, the sudden exposure sharpening every sensation.
His fingers cupped me—warm, confident, almost possessive—and began to probe with a slowness that stole my breath. Each press lingered just a little too long, sliding, testing, coaxing my body to react. This wasn’t the detached efficiency of a checkup; it began to feel like exploration disguised as procedure, every movement balanced between authority and indulgence.
“There’s a small lump here,” he murmured, his breath grazing close enough to make me shiver. His fingers circled the spot, stroking as though memorizing it. “We may need an ultrasound,” he added, though the tempo of his touch made the words sound less like a diagnosis and more like a promise. His hand shifted, grazing deeper, and my pulse stuttered. “Turn your head to the left and cough for me. Now… to the right.”
Then his hand slid lower, closing around my shaft with a firmness that made me bite back a sound. He pulled the foreskin slowly back, baring the flared crown, his eyes fixed as if assessing me. The glide of his fingers was meticulous, almost reverent—more thorough than anything my wife had ever done in the name of intimacy, let alone medicine.
All this touching and caressing sent ripples through me, each one stealing control of my breath. My chest rose faster, heat blooming in my veins, blood thrumming louder than the doctor’s low voice. His hand remained steady, deliberate, as if charting every reaction, but the effect on me was anything but clinical.
The inevitable happened—my cock began to stiffen in his grasp, swelling against the confines of his fingers. The more it grew, the more intently he seemed to study it, his thumb brushing along the ridge of my crown in a motion that felt less like examination and more like provocation.
Then, just as my body strained against his touch, he withdrew with a suddenness that left me aching. His voice was calm, and professional.
“Everything looks good down here,” he announced smoothly, tugging off his gloves with deliberate care. “Now, I need to check your prostate. Lean over the table and spread your cheeks for me.”
The command landed heavy in the room, clinical words edged with something far more intimate. My pulse kicked harder as I turned, the cool surface of the table against my hands, my body caught between obedience and anticipation.
“Hmmm,” he murmured, his gaze lingering lower. “I see you shave. Tell me… why is that?”
I was grateful my answer didn’t require eye contact; my face was no doubt a crimson blaze.
“There are two reasons,” I admitted, my voice uneven. “First, my wife doesn’t care for a hairy man. And second…” I hesitated, swallowing hard, “…sometimes the hair would catch and almost garrote my cock.”
He spread me with calm authority, his fingers sliding deliberately between my cheeks. “But you shave your legs,” he observed lightly, “and even back here.”
The words had barely settled before I heard the sharp squeeze of a tube, then the slick sound of lubricant being worked onto his glove. A chill of anticipation rushed through me—followed by the cold, undeniable press of his finger breaching my darkness. The sudden intrusion stole my breath, a moan slipping free before I could swallow it back. His finger pressed deeper, twisting slowly as though testing my resistance, then retreating just enough to make the return all the more electric.
“Relax,” he murmured, his voice low, almost soothing. But the way he moved inside me had nothing to do with relaxation—it was deliberate, coaxing, finding places my own touch had never reached. Each curl of his finger sent sparks through me, building a tension that made my cock throb against the edge of the table.
The cool slickness of the lubricant only heightened the sensation, amplifying the heat that spread from deep inside. My hips shifted of their own accord, chasing the rhythm he set, needy despite the clinical mask he still wore.
Another moan broke from me, louder this time, my body betraying me completely. What began as an exam was quickly becoming something far more dangerous—pleasure blooming where I least expected it.
"Your prostate feels a little swollen," he murmured, and before I could react, a second finger pushed inside, prying me open, doubling the sensation that already had my cock leaking against the table.
"Ugh… doc, what's happening here?"
"You know, I’ve only ever seen two types of men who shave all their hair," he said, his voice low and teasing. "One: competitive weightlifters—and you don’t have the body for that. Two: sissies… which might just be the case for you."
"Doc, no, that’s not it!" I protested, my voice strained with arousal and embarrassment.
"Well, let’s find out," he murmured, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "I know what sissies want."
My body betrayed me utterly. My cock throbbed, leaking, while the stretching, slick intrusion inside made every shiver, every involuntary movement, sharper, hungrier. I wanted to look, to see what he was doing, but he kept me suspended in the tension, letting anticipation coil tighter and tighter.
The zipper hissed, a low, deliberate sound that set my senses on fire. I could feel the warmth through the fabric now, the undeniable press of him against me, and my moans came unbidden, echoing softly off the walls.
"That’s it," he murmured, almost approvingly. "Let yourself feel."
And I did—every inch of me alert, every nerve screaming as the line between examination and something far more dangerous blurred completely.
"Don't sissies spend much of their time on their knees?" he asked. "Show me."
My knees went weak at the command. Simply kneeling, surrendering to him, sent heat blooming through me. Every nerve screamed with the mix of touch, control, and exposure. Remembering the slick pressure of him inside me, each twist and push of his fingers, amplified the electric tension coiling along my cock.
He circled behind me, letting his fingers linger, twist, and press in ways that made my knees tremble. The heat between us was almost electric, his authority pressing into me as much as his touch. My hands gripped the edge of the table, searching for anchor, but every inch of me hungered for more, silently begging for it.
"That’s it," he murmured, low and possessive. "Good girl… feel every second, every touch."
With a deliberate shift, the tip of his cock brushed against my slick, sensitive flesh. My body jerked instinctively; a moan escaped before I could stop it. The teasing was unbearable—he pressed, withdrew, then pressed again, each motion driving me higher, tighter, desperate for release.
"Take it," he commanded, fingers still buried inside, twisting with precision. "You want it, don’t you? Show me how much you need it."
"Yes… I want it. I need it," the words spilled from my addled brain before I could even think.
I obeyed instinctively, rocking my hips against him, following the rhythm he dictated, my cock pulsing, every nerve burning with overstimulation. Each touch, each press, each whispered command blurred the line between surrender and ecstasy, leaving me trembling, utterly consumed by the dangerous, delicious power he held over me.
At last, he withdrew his fingers, the sudden emptiness making me gasp. Then he brought himself before me, his cock heavy, slick, and demanding. “Isn’t this what you really want?” he asked, his voice dark with promise.
“God… yes. I want it.”
My mouth moved before my mind could catch up, lunging for his thick length. I wanted to devour him, to drown in the taste of him, to return every ounce of the pleasure he had forced from me so far. My lips parted greedily, eager to take him in, desperate to show him just how much I needed it.
My lips closed around him, the slick heat immediately filling my mouth. A low groan rumbled from his chest, vibrating through me, and I felt my own cock pulse in tandem, slick and needy against the table. I sucked instinctively, letting my tongue trace the underside, exploring the sensitive ridges, teasing and drawing out every inch.
He leaned back slightly, one hand tangling in my hair, guiding my head with a firm, deliberate pressure. “That’s it… just like that,” he murmured, his voice both commanding and approving. “Show me how much you want it.”
My mouth and throat ached with the effort, but I didn’t care—I was consumed by the rhythm, by the delicious dominance in his touch and tone. My body ached for his release, chasing every flick of his hips, every thrust, every whispered instruction.
I could feel the tension building in him, hear it in the deepening groans that rumbled from his chest. Each movement, each wet, slick slide of my lips over him, sent jolts through both of us, blurring the line between service and surrender, between submission and shared desire.
“Good girl… just like that,” he breathed, his grip tightening in my hair, holding me perfectly still while I rode the edge of every sensation he demanded I feel.
I felt him tense in my mouth, his breathing ragged, every groan vibrating through me. My own cock pulsed wildly, slick with need, every nerve screaming with overstimulation. His hand held me firm, guiding, controlling—forcing me to match the rhythm he demanded.
"That’s it… just like that… take all my cum," he groaned, his voice thick with need.
I obeyed, swallowing greedily, chasing every inch, my lips and tongue moving in perfect sync with his thrusts. The taste, the heat, the absolute dominance he wielded—it was intoxicating. Every press of his cock inside me, every subtle throb, sent shivers through my spine, my cock throbbing harder against the table.
Then the tension coiled impossibly tight, snapping in a shuddering release. Hot, thick pleasure of his cum surged into my mouth — thick and salty — as I swallowed instinctively, moaning around him as his body shuddered. My own body followed moments later, jerking and pulsing uncontrollably, every nerve alive in a storm of sensation, releasing my own puddle in the sterile environment.
When it was over, he leaned over me, chest heaving, hand still tangled in my hair. I sagged against the table, trembling, utterly spent, my body still thrumming with the echo of everything we’d shared. The room was thick with our combined heat, the dangerous, delicious power lingering in every shiver, every slick trace of our encounter.
Even as I caught my breath, every nerve in me remembered. Every flick of a finger, every whispered command, every push and pull—they had left their mark, and I knew I would feel it long after the echoes of our pleasure faded.
"Mr. O’Malley, I’ll need to see you in two weeks," he said, his tone calm, almost clinical, "except this time… come fully dressed."
"What do you mean?" I asked, my voice still trembling with the aftershocks of our encounter.
He gave a slow, knowing smile. "I think you know what I mean. You can wear your boy clothes… over what you really are. And make sure you ask for the last appointment of the day."
The words sent a shiver down my spine, a delicious mix of challenge and promise. Even now, the tension lingered, leaving me ache with anticipation for the next time, when I would kneel for him again and offer every piece of myself without reservation.
I dressed slowly, my hands trembling slightly as I tugged on my clothes. The fabric felt different now, almost foreign, yet intimately familiar—the barrier between who I was and who I wanted to be. Every brush of my fingers against my own skin reminded me of his touch, of the deliberate, unrelenting control he had wielded over me.
I caught my reflection in the mirror and froze. The man staring back wasn’t just the person I had been before the exam—he was someone new, someone undeniably changed. The memory of his fingers, the heat of his voice, the weight of his cock in my mouth… it all lingered, like a live wire humming beneath my skin.
A small, shivering laugh escaped me. Two weeks. I would count every day, every hour, every minute until the moment I could kneel for him again. I would wear my boy clothes, yes—but underneath, I would carry everything he had awakened in me, every pulse, every tremor, every desperate, needful ache.
The anticipation was a delicious torment, and I realized with a shiver that I wouldn’t just survive it—I would crave it. And when the day came, I would offer him myself completely, exactly as he demanded, and I would do so with the knowledge that surrendering had never felt so intoxicating.
