Annual Physical

Editor's note: this submission contains scenes of non-consensual or reluctant sexual situations.

Author's Note: This story was written with the prompt: "Something medical/casual, where it's not acknowledged that anything sexual is happening."

--

"Dr. Carson is ready for you!"

Your head perks up, the words pulling you out from your half-asleep daze. You've been in this waiting room for 45 minutes, long enough to drift off and nearly forget why you're here. Your insurance company wouldn't stop sending nagging emails reminding you to get your full physical, and for what you're paying them every month, you're glad to milk them for every dollar of healthcare you can.

"Mr. Ian?"

"Yes, sorry, just a minute," you croak, voice gruff from sleep. You grab your jacket and follow the smiling nurse down the long, twisting hall into an exam room. The nurse gives you a paper gown and instructs you to put it on so that the opening is on your back, and steps out to give you privacy, letting you know that the doctor will be in shortly.

You change, stripping down to your underwear and pulling on the gown, bundling your clothes into a ball and leaving them on a chair.

It's a few more minutes before the doctor comes in. You're a little nervous, since this is your first visit with this doctor, and your first physical with a female doctor in your life, but you remind yourself that she sees hundreds of bodies a day and surely doesn't care what yours looks like, unless you have a glaring tumor or something. You're preoccupied with these thoughts when the door opens, a tall, beautiful woman walking through it.

"Hello, Mr. Ian, my name is Dr. Carson," she says, shaking your hand. "You're here for your annual physical today, is that correct?"

"Yep."

"Ok, perfect. Why don't we start with your height and weight?"

She walks you over to the scale and tallies down your measurements. When you sit back down, she takes a read of your blood pressure and oxygen saturation, asking you about your lifestyle in the meantime.

"How many drinks do you have in a week?"

"One or two."

"Smoker?"

"No."

"Good for you!" She smiles. "Are you on any medications?"

"None. Well, sometimes I take tylenol for headaches."

"That's fine, we don't need to put that one down." You nod. She asks about your diet and exercise and medical history, and then finally puts on her gloves to get started.

"Open up," she says, tongue depressor in front of your mouth. You do, and give the customary "aaah" as she shines a light at the back of your throat. "Tonsils look good, everything's looking healthy." She massages your throat with her hands to check your lymph nodes and asks you to breathe while she listens to your chest with her stethoscope. She shines a bright light in your eyes and you flinch, making her chuckle.

"Everything is looking good here," she says after a minute, and you smile. You feel at ease in her office, nothing like your last doctor. She's bright and funny, her presence relaxing. "Let's move on to the physical."

She runs her hands over your arms, squeezing here and there, and examines your hands and nails, now and then letting out a small "mhmm".

"Nail biter?" she asks, and you nod. "You know, they make a bad-tasting invisible polish you can put on to break the habit."

"I tried it, but..." you shrug.

"Hey, I know the pain. I was a nail biter for 10 years. Only stopped when my mom started taking me to get a manicure every 2 weeks. The judgmental looks of a nail stylist is motivation enough for anyone to stop."

You let out a small laugh, and she goes back to the examination, pressing into your chest and abdomen.

She goes around like this for a while longer, examining your legs and feet, checking your reflexes and balance as she goes. You've fallen into an easy sort of groove, relaxed by her soothing touches and calming voice, stretching and turning and coughing whenever she asks. It feels like you're completely outside of time in this office, your obligations forgotten in her rhythm. At times, she makes it feel more like a spa session than an annual nuisance.

"Have you had a prostate exam in the past year?"

You shake your head, uncomfortable.

"Don't worry, I know everyone hates it, but we'll get it out of the way really quick so you can get back to your life and hopefully not have to see me again for another year." You chuckle, again finding yourself completely at ease by her words. "Do you mind turning around for me?"

You do, and she opens up your gown from behind, letting out a small laugh.

"Your underwear is supposed to be off for this part."

You blush and awkwardly wiggle out of your boxers. Truth be told, you were hoping to avoid this part altogether, but she's right - no point making it drag on any longer than it needs to.

You turn back around, back to her, bracing yourself on the exam chair. "Ready?" You nod, and feel a slick finger circling your opening. You can feel your blush coloring your whole body, but try to avoid making any sound as her finger slides in and out, searching inside you. "Take it easy," she says. "Don't panic, but I'm going to have to do a more thorough test, just to make sure your reflexes are fine. Is that okay?" You nod again.

Her probing gets deeper, stretching you with two fingers, until finally you feel her removing her fingers to examine you with her other tools. You were prepared for a difference in size, but you're nearly bowled over with the pressure of the tool, feeling yourself stretched, full beyond belief. You've never felt anything like it, and it's immediately clear to you why they would never bring this out unless they absolutely had to.

You find yourself immediately, uncontrollably hard.

She doesn't do much for a minute, allowing you to adjust, and then she moves it a little deeper inside, before pulling it out and pushing it back in.

On the next thrust, you barely suppress your impulse to moan. You know that if you did, you would never be able to come here again, and you would really like to see this soothing, gorgeous doctor again. You fight everything inside you begging for release, willing yourself to keep it down, be fucking appropriate.

Her thrusts are rhythmic, and each time she hits your prostate, you feel your heart in your throat, your dick leaking onto the chair. You try to turn around to see what she's using, but the thrusts are too powerful.

"Your reflexes are looking good," she says, "but I'd rather complete the test and be sure."

You choke out an "okay", completely at her mercy. Her thrusts speed up, nearly jackhammering away at your prostate, thrusts punctuated with the slap of something almost fleshy against your thighs, and with a sound just as obscene. You're embarrassingly close to coming all over her chair and praying with every god you know to let you keep that last strand of composure intact.

She steadies herself against the chair you're leaning on, grunting with the pressure of pushing the instrument inside you, until finally you feel her stall behind you as you're filled with some kind of thick fluid. You feel it run down your thighs, and beg yourself to keep composed and not think obscene thoughts about it or Dr. Carson.

She takes a second to get back to it, obviously exhausted from shoving her instrument into you for nearly five minutes straight. When she does, her fingers slide in smoothly, assisted by the lubrication of the fluid she flushed into you earlier, three fingers sliding in easily where earlier 2 were an enormous stretch. She strokes your prostate once more, and you're coming, soiling the chair and gown with your release.

You're in complete bliss for a moment, shocked at your own lack of self control. When your heart rate comes down enough, you're filled with complete embarrassment, having turned her office into your own personal fantasy setting, dirtying it with your badly repressed lust and hunger. You hang your head in shame.

"Don't worry about it, Mr. Ian," she says, and you blush, clearly worrying about it. "There's nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, if you could believe it, it happens to nearly all of my patients!"

You nod, trying to smile at her, but unable to make eye contact. You gather up your clothes, wiping yourself off with the soiled gown, and make your way to the front desk. Dr. Carson gives you a little wave as you leave, looking blissed out.

"You're all done, Mr. Ian," the receptionist says. "Would you like to schedule a follow up appointment?"

You nod, keeping your eyes down.

"Perfect! I'll put you in for one next week. I know how popular our Doctor is with her patients!"