Witness for the Prosecution

At that point I was thinking more about how much longer I should be in the sauna than about him. It was all so ludicrous, but he was a doctor, and he had me embarrassed about even thinking he shouldn't be touching me there. He was being clinical and using words I couldn't understand and he was probably making up. I went semihard and was embarrassed about that, and then I came almost immediately, He tut tutted and said that was fine, and actually indicated I might not have a problem, but that he'd have to do it again to be sure—that I'd need to be hard, and I wasn't fully hard the first time. I was being dopey, and he thought I probably was being coy—neither really, I was still just struggling with myself and being confused. He did ask me if I had enjoyed it—that there might be a problem if I'd had pain rather than pleasure.

He asked me if I had any trouble performing sex and whether I was hetero or gay. I told him I was hetero and that I was embarrassed that I had come when he touched me. He told me again there was no reason to be embarrassed and said it was quite healthy to have both hetero and gay sex. He was even then giving me a second slow hand job, though, and I just sat there and let him jack me off again—taking much longer this time, but me getting much harder too. I sat back against the wall, and widened my leg stance and closed my eyes, telling the world I just wasn't there—had no idea anything was happening—but concentrating every fiber of my senses on what was happening between my legs, engraving it all in my memory so I could play it all back to myself later—and maybe make even more out of it than it was already was.

He complimented me on the good shape I was in and touched and prodded me in a couple of other places on my body, like he was giving me a muscle tone exam of some sort.

He asked me again if I'd ever been with a man before, and I said no. He told me then that either I might have a problem or not—he didn't think so, but if I did, it was something I needed to take care of immediately or it would get far worse quickly. He said it could quickly lead to impotency if not corrected. Then he said it wouldn't take much to determine whether it should be followed up but that the procedures that needed to be done should be done in a doctor's office. Almost as an afterthought, he asked me if I was busy that evening—that his medical office was nearby and he could do the testing himself. If that was OK with me. It would save me the worry of trying to get an immediate appointment with my regular doctor.

"And when you went to his medical office that evening, Mr. Philips, is it not true that he restrained you and drugged you and engaged in penetration sex on you?"

"Yes."

"No further questions then. And that, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is what, in legal terms, we call entrapment, holding victims in captivity, and raping them—criminal offenses against the state, not to mention against innocent victims. In this case perpetrated by a medical doctor, entrusted by the community to save lives, not to prey upon the young. Thank you for being so forthcoming in an embarrassing position, Mr. Philips."

Then the prosecutor turned to the judge and said, "I am finished with this witness now. The prosecution now rests, your honor." He looked very pleased with himself as he sauntered back to his chair.

And well he should, because although I had been able to answer all of his questions truthfully, a more detailed version of the story wouldn't be anywhere close to being as incriminating as he made it out to be.

Yes, I had gone to the doctor's medical office that evening, each of us driving separately, so that he wouldn't have to bring me back to the gym. But I couldn't directly testify that I didn't know what would happen in that medical office. And I had thoroughly responded to that second hand job in the sauna, and I knew it was sex. I knew by then that the medical jargon and explanation was just a cover.

And the prosecutor didn't ask me what the doctor was doing with his other hand while "testing" my ejaculation reflexes that second time. He was using his other hand to "test" his own reflexes, and I was enjoying watching him doing it, even though when he signaled he would prefer me doing it for him, I wasn't ready to go that far. And I watched him ejaculate as well. And if he'd asked me to do it for him again at that point, I would have been ready to do so.

In the examination room, the doctor left to change into his surgical coat after telling me to strip down and climb up on the vinyl-covered table with a strip of white paper down the center. When he returned, he asked me to lie down on my back on the table and he secured my legs in stirrups that held them spread out and elevated. That was the restraint the prosecutor had referred to. It's true my legs were secured in a stirrup device, but I could probably have escaped the table if I had wanted to.

The doctor was wearing a white medical coat, and he had surgical gloves on and was carrying a jar of salve.

"The first test is one where I milk you," he said. "Do you understand what that entails?"

"No."

"Do you know that you have a prostate? Sort of a men's G-spot, in your ass channel. And that if that's stimulated, it will cause you to harden and ejaculate?"

"Yes, I've heard of that."

"I can stimulate it with my finger. You will feel pleasure and the need to ejaculate, which is exactly what you should do. And there is no need to be embarrassed. It's a normal medical procedure. I thereby can tell if your testacies are working as they should. You are young and in excellent condition. If everything is working, this will help determine that is so. Are you ready for that?"

"Yes, I guess so."

He slathered up the fingers on the glove of his right hand and placed his left hand on my belly. I moaned and grabbed hold of two handles on the side of the table. I tried initially to suppress my moaning, but the doctor said that this was natural and that we were alone and I could just let it go.

He then encased my engorging cock with his left hand, the glove on that hand now slick with the salve, and between sliding his hand up and down on my cock and the finger up in my channel rubbing back and forth on my prostate, I began to roll my hips and moan deeply and moved to a prodigious ejaculation.

"There, that's fine. You did splendidly," he said brightly. "All of that seems to be in perfect working order."

I watched as he stripped off the gloves and tossed them in a nearby trash bin. And then I watched with more interest as he unbuttoned his medical coat and pulled it aside to reveal that he was naked—and had a raging hard on.

"The next procedure is that I fuck you," he said, using a matter-of-fact tone, giving no dramatic signal that we were moving from the self-delusional over into full reality. He stood there, looking into my eyes with his, challenging me to try to maintain this charade of ours.

This would be the point at which I could have objected and accused him of what he was being criminally charged with and made every effort to leave the room. But I just lay there, naked on my back, with my legs spread and lifted in metal stirrups, and all of my senses tuned up to high.

Assured that I had not reacted negatively to his stripping away of pretenses, the doctor continued, in that clinical of his, "Now, you say you are a virgin, that this will be your first time. For full pleasure for your first experience, I would suggest a mild sedative. Are you allergic to anything?" He was being so matter-of-fact, so clinical and soothing even in this circumstance that I just dumbly lay there, assuring him that I had no allergies and just watched as he came up with a needle and turned my arm over, patted me in the crook of my arm until a vein rose to the surface, and inserted the needle.

I felt a warm sensation. I was at peace with the universe. No cares in the world. No concern, as I watched him crown his cock with a condom. Just the feeling of tightness as his bulb pushed against and then into my opening. And then a long sigh in stereo—both his and mine—as he slid up into me, slowly. And then the faraway sounds of grunts and moans and groans—which at some point I realized were coming from me—as he began to pump my ass in long, deep strokes, his hands grabbing my waist and pulling me in hard on his cock as he thrust inside me—at first slowly, deliberately, and then, as he lost control, with a frenzy of taking—until we were both drained.

"I have just a few questions for you before you step down, Mr. Philips." The defense attorney was standing in front of me, rocking a bit back and forth on his feet. His expression suggesting that he had swallowed the canary.

"How many times did Dr. Martin engage in penetration sex that evening?"

I thought hard on that. The prosecutor hadn't told me how to slide away from that one. "Once. No, twice, I think."

"Twice?" the defense attorney said. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I think so. I'm not really sure. I was sedated." I was, in fact, sure. It was three times. This was my first lie. And I didn't like having to lie.

"And was your movement restricted each time Dr. Martin formed sex on you, Mr. Philips?"

"Yes." It wasn't really a lie. I was almost immobile from the drugs and Martin was a powerful man. He held me tightly with or without the stirrups. And that last time, it wasn't the doctor performing sex on me.

"I mean, were you physically restrained by the equipment after the first time?"

There was a long pause, but I wasn't going to flatly lie again. "No."

"And after the first time, where did the second act of sexual penetration occur?"

Another long pause.

"Please answer the question, Mr. Philips." This admonishment came down from the judge's bench.

"On the couch in his office . . . and then on his bed in his adjoining residence."

"And when did you leave the residence?"

A slight pause until I sensed the judge was about to speak up again. "The next morning."

"Before or after another act of sexual penetration?"

"After."

"While bound, or just on his bed?"

"On his bed."

"And did Dr. Martin try to prevent your departure any time during the night. Did he not sleep during the night?"

"No he didn't have me bound all night. Yes, he did sleep."

Waking to find him stretched beside me, an arm on my chest, his palm covering my nipple. Laying there, watching him in repose. Thinking of what he'd done to me. Grateful I had been freed of the wonder and worry of it, but guilty at having gone beyond that beaded curtain, knowing I couldn't go back—not after having experienced it. Guilty at having enjoyed it, wanting more of it.

I moved my hand to his penis and lifted it from his body. A chill ran up my spine at the heft of it, even in repose—at the knowledge of where it had been, how monstrous and filling it had been—that I had managed all of that. The closeness of that—man in man, a merging connection. That he had wanted me, wanted to be inside me. Feeling wanted, needed, possessed. Had schemed to have me. My hand tingled at the new-found power. I moved my hand on the shaft, shuddering and enjoying the thrill of feeling it grow, harden at my caress.

A snort and a sigh and a movement in his legs, turning his body toward me, a slight undulation in his hips as he added movement, moving his hard cock back and forth inside my cupped-hand embrace.

I felt his hand at the back of my head, gently pushing it down, toward the center of him. A tentative taste and a feeling of pleasure, a feeling transferring from him as he moaned when my lips moved down over the glans of his cock. Stretching my lips, widening my jaw, making my mouth cavity as voluminous as possible to accommodate the invading flesh and hard muscle.

A frenzy of moment, a gagging and a groaning, but ever so brief, as my need, my own want overcame me. And I was straddling his hips with my thighs, panting and whimpering and sighing as, slowly, relentlessly, only slightly painfully, we became joined once again, him deep inside me, and I began to move my channel on the sheathed sword, trying to feel every touch of him against every square inch inside of me. Swaying and moving in waves, bucking and crying out. Him not fucking me. Me fucking myself on a mighty, throbbing mast.

"And did you ever visit the doctor's office or house again—for repeated acts of sexual penetration?"

"Yes." It was a whisper, but I'm sure everyone in the court heard it.

"And on what occasions, Mr. Philips?"

"Whenever he asked me to come."

"And have you had sex in the sauna at your gym with other men, Mr. Philips? Since your encounters with Dr. Martin."

I just lowered my head. There was no half-truth, side-stepping way to respond to that question.

The defense lawyer's voice dripped with victory. "Judge, may counsel approach the bench?"