Hard to See When It's Soft

Now this makes me feel old. When I was growing up, doctors were always so much older than me. They were ancient. Craggy. Wizened. Bearded (mostly men, to be sure). And then somehow, with no transition or warning whatsoever, they're younger! And female!

"Have a seat, Mr. Wise. I'm Dr. Pattison." She was probably in her late 30s, which made her about a decade younger than me. She had some nice lines around her narrow brown eyes when she smiled, and I could see a little of her age in her neck. Her lips were thin and lightly glossed, and the strands of brown hair that had escaped the loose bun atop her head floated about her ears.

She was wearing a pale blue blouse and a navy skirt under her doctor's coat, which was at least a size too big judging by how it hung from her shoulders. She was scribbling noisily on a clipboard, and the whole impression was of someone playing at being a doctor.

I sat in the corner of the tiny office and waited, thinking about how in a few short years, I'd be coming in for regular colonoscopies. I was not looking forward to that. Meantime, I'd been less than vigilant over a smattering of suspicious moles on my forearms, calves, and lower back. It was high time I got serious about my health -- starting today.

Dr. Pattison put her clipboard on her desk and pulled a beat-up stool toward me. The space was tight. She sat and put both hands on her skirted thighs, and I couldn't help but notice the hemline had climbed a good two inches up her leg when she sat. She was wearing very sheer tan pantyhose (stockings?), which made my imagination twitch just a bit. This is not what I had expected from this visit, but I wasn't complaining.

She asked about my family history (melanoma on my mother's side), how long I'd been concerned about my moles (not very long, and not too concerned), how much sun I was getting (lots, which brought a disapproving frown), and various other questions. Then she stood.

"Ok Mr. Wise, time to have a look at you. If you can take off your shirt and stand here please." She pushed herself back on her stool and we both stood up together. She turned to make more notes on her clipboard while I unbuttoned my shirt and laid it on the chair behind me. I'd worn shorts for the occasion, knowing I would need to get my calves examined.

She turned back to me. "Great, now if you can extend your right arm for me." I held my arm straight out in front, palm down, as she'd demonstrated.

She clasped her hands behind her back and started her examination by simply peering closely at my arm, starting at the wrist and slowly working her way toward my shoulder. Then she gently took my arm and rotated it to see the other side. Her touch gave me a little jolt. When a strange woman touches your body, medical exam or not, you react. Simple as that.

She examined my arm for a minute, then lowered it and moved around behind me to review my other arm. She pulled a small black magnifying glass from her breast pocket and held it up to my arm in a few places, squinting into it.

I started to become uncomfortably aware of our relative physical positions and the environment. The nearness, the privacy, the touch, the quiet, her expertise, my vulnerability.

"I'm impressed Mr. Wise," she said as she lowered my left arm and looked at me. She was standing close. "You have more moles on one arm than most people have on their entire bodies." She smiled expectantly.

I wasn't sure how to respond. "Thanks, I think?"

She laughed and walked around to stand directly behind me. "I'm just going to check your back now, you can relax your arms at your sides." She made no sound for the next 30 seconds. I stared straight ahead. Then I heard her shift her weight, and then nothing again for another half minute. Then she said, "You're going to feel my hands, ok?"

"Yep," I said. Her fingers grazed my lower back and I shuddered, even after the advance warning. She thumbed one of my moles, then another. Then I felt both her hands on my shoulders, and she traced a light, slow path down my arms over my biceps, ending at my elbows, where she let her fingers drift off. It felt more like the touch of a masseuse, and I wondered about the medical purpose of that contact.

Pattison walked around in front of me and sat down on her stool. She crossed her legs and I heard the always-thrilling sound of pantyhose on pantyhose as her right leg came up over her left and settled down into the cross. The heel of her shoe swung away from her airborne foot and I could see her nylon-covered ankle.

I was standing, she was sitting. I felt like the only appropriate place for me to look was right down at her, especially since I was now awaiting further instructions. She laced her fingers together over her knee and looked up at me.

The eye contact in that moment dropped my stomach into my pelvis and I had to look away. Me standing looking down into her face, her sitting looking up into mine -- I'd forgotten the primal gut-wrench that accompanies this position. It had been at least 10 years since my wife and I had struck similar poses, usually in the bedroom.

"I'm going to move on to your lower body now," said Pattison. "Calves are a common place for melanoma to develop. They get a lot of sun exposure, and they're hard for you to see and monitor."

I continued to look straight ahead. I felt like I was under military inspection. "Ok, sounds good," I said.

"It's easier for me to sit for this part. If you can just turn around..."

I did as I was told. Once I was facing the back wall, I heard her legs uncrossing and the squeak of the stool as she dragged herself closer.

"You'll feel a hand now," she said, as she placed a few fingers on the outside of my right leg, just below the knee. But that wasn't all I felt. Pattison had scooched herself close enough that I could feel her left knee pushing into the back of my left leg. As her fingers continued to drift up and down my calf, her left knee moved ever so slightly back and forth against me.

Then her fingers came off my leg and her knee pulled away, and I heard the stool scraping again as she repositioned herself on my left. Movement on the floor caught my eye and I looked down to see that she was extending her right leg out past my right foot. I could see from the middle of her shin down -- all the way to her toes!

She'd removed her shoe at some point. She pressed her leg against the outside of my calf as her fingers roamed my other leg. I gulped, audibly I was sure, and felt my blood begin to pound. I kept looking at her toes, where I could see the reinforced seam of her pantyhose. I've never had a thing for feet, but in this context the image was jarringly intimate. And I do have a thing for pantyhose.

Her fingers dropped away from my calf and she drew her leg back, slowly it seemed, sliding it across my own. I blinked, dazed. The stool screeched again.

"Ok Mr. Wise, you can turn around now."

I turned toward her, looking at the floor as I made my half circle. I was thinking that if I started by looking down, I could pull my eyes from her feet up along her legs and to her face and that would be somewhat natural.

Turns out she had kicked off both shoes. Her stockinged feet were planted flat on the floor.

"I've finished my examination of your exposed skin. Now, have you noticed any moles on your buttocks or genital areas?" She said this with perfect clinical-ness as she looked up into my face. Of course she did -- she's a doctor. I didn't know if I had any notable moles on my ass. Megan had never said anything about it. There were no moles along the top of my shaft, but what about the underside?

"Well," I said cautiously, "not that I know of..."

"Of course, Mr. Wise. We'll need to be thorough on this. If you want to take off your shorts and pull down your underwear just enough to expose your penis and scrotum, I can have a look at the remaining areas to complete the exam. Go ahead and turn around again, I'll start at the back."

I turned, my heart pounding, and unzipped my shorts. I put them with my shirt. I pushed my boxers down until my dick flopped out and I felt the cool office air prickling my skin. Moments ago I'd sensed my cock stirring in response to the bumping of our legs, but now, exposed like this, I was shrinking back. I stared ahead, my dangling arms suddenly awkward. She slid toward me on the stool and I realized I'd been clenching my jaw.

"Hands are coming on, ok?" said the doctor.

"Ok," I said gutterally and cleared my throat and tried again: "Ok."

Pattison put both hands on my ass cheeks, spreading her fingers out and flattening her palms against my skin so her whole hand was in contact. They felt dry and warm. She slowly spread her hands out toward my hips, and again I had the impression I was getting a massage rather than an exam.

As if she could read my mind, Pattison said, "Right now I'm stretching your skin flat so I can be sure I'm seeing the entire surface area. It also helps to move the hair aside so I can see clearly to the skin." She repeated this motion twice more. My dick was twitching.

She put both her hands on my right leg and lifted my ass cheek up from the top of my thigh and held that position for a few seconds. Then she repeated the move on the left side, presumably studying the skin in the crease where my ass meets my thigh.

"I don't see anything worth noting," she said. "Can you turn for me?"

I put my head down and shuffled around, constrained by the waistband of my boxers. When I completed my turn, my boxers dropped to the floor. There was no reason to do anything about that at this point.

I couldn't look at Pattison. I kept looking at my cock. Which, I should point out, was well shaved -- by total chance! I like to keep the shaft clean and smooth and nicely trimmed around the base, and I'd tended to it just the night before. Mostly that's for my own pleasure, but Megan likes it too -- though she probably hasn't seen my cock for many weeks. That's 15 years of marriage for you.

"Ah," said Pattison, smiling at my dick. Smiling! "This will make it easier for me to examine you." She looked up into my downturned face. "Thanks for the extra preparation!"

I didn't know what to say. I just nodded at her and watched as the drama began to unfold.

To start, she pulled herself toward me on her stool. She twisted so she was sitting on the stool sideways to me, almost at a right angle. There would have been no way for her legs to fit between us at this short distance. She crossed her legs nice and high and rotated back toward me as far as she could, so that her legs pressed up against me. She pinned my left hand between us, and I left it there, feeling her pantyhose-wrapped thigh through the back of my hand.

Then, she gently took my cock in her hands.

My physical response to this was probably not what you would think. My nerves were such that I actually shrank at her touch. My feeble member was lying across her left palm. With her right hand, she was inspecting my shaft through her magnifier.

After a minute of this she pinched my dick lightly under the head and lifted it toward my belly and leaned down to look at the underside. She laid the magnifier on her lap and with her right forefinger prodded me lightly at the base.

"Mr. Wise, I do see a small constellation of moles here that I'd like to get a better look at." She was talking straight into my dick as she said this, her head tilted at a 45-degree angle to the floor.

"Uh, ok."

"Remember how I said I sometimes need to stretch the skin to see more clearly?" She had released my cock and was looking up at me. "Well I'm sure you're aware the skin of the penis is particularly compressed when it's not at its maximum length during erection." The muscles under my face were twitching like mad as I tried to control my reaction. "There's just one more step for me to take, and I'll have you cleaned up and ready to go home right away."

She was so damn close that her left shoulder rubbed against my chest when she stood. The back of her left hand grazed my limp dick as she turned toward her desk, and that brought some blood to the scene. My cock was coming to life (again).

Pattison stepped over to her desk. Her lab coat covered her to the back of her knees, but I could still see a pair of shapely calves in pantyhose, her shoes abandoned under her desk.

Wait a minute, I thought. Did she just say, 'cleaned up'?

I had only a split second to ponder this when Pattison turned back to me. She was rubbing her hands together, coating them in lotion that had come from a massive white pump bottle on her desk. She resumed her seat, once again pressing her expertly crossed legs into my left side.

"Shouldn't be too cold," she said as she gently placed both hands on my cock. She was right about that. Her hands were warm and slick and feathery. I gaped down at her fingers as she began working my shaft.

Un. Be. Lievable.

Her head was tilted sideways as she looked at my dick, stroking me, stroking, stroke, stroke, stroke...

She transitioned to a one-handed motion with her left hand. Her right hand grasped my right thigh for leverage. Her hand slurped up and down my length as I stiffened more and more. Stroke. Stroke. Stroke...

I could see in the angled profile of her face that she'd lost some of her flat clinical aspect. It had been replaced by a heavy-lidded, focused intent.

I was hard as hell now, stomach muscles tensed, legs slightly bent. I stared at her profile. She did not look up. Were her lips parted? Difficult to see. She maintained full concentration.

She pressed my dick up against my belly and removed her right hand from my leg to prod the underside of my shaft like she'd done the first time, wiping away the lotion for a better view.

"Not quite there," she whispered, a husky edge to her voice.

She resumed her handiwork, but now, instead of the standard up-and-down motion, she was swirling the fingertips of her left hand around the head of my cock and fingering the glans, tugging me gently with her nails. Swirling, tugging. Swirling, tugging. With her right hand, she gripped me around the base and used her palm to apply steady pressure to my balls.

"Urgh," I croaked.

I'd never felt anything like it. It was like every drop of blood in my entire body was desperate to squeeze into my dick. I was painfully hard. I felt the twinge of something in my balls, and I knew the load I was chambering was a big one.

Pattison quickly pressed my dick up against my belly again and returned to prodding with her right forefinger. She leaned in close to look. Closer than a tongue's length. The twinge in my balls started to become a pulse. In fact -

- and then it was over! She released me suddenly and my lotion-smeared dick squelched down from my belly. I was wide-eyed in shock.

Pattison stood, again brushing her body against me, essentially hip-checking my outthrust cock, which leapt at the contact and left a spot of lotion on her skirt. And then she was back at her desk, wiping her hands on a paper towel.

My erection began to subside. At this age I more or less needed constant contact to stay at maximum strength. My balls pulsed a few more times. I felt like I was shooting my load backwards into my belly. Goddamn! Ruined!

"And that's everything!" said Pattison cheerily over her shoulder. She was preparing a hot cloth in the small sink beside her desk. "The moles on your penis are nothing to worry about right now." She came back and offered me the cloth. I took it from her like a robot. I was still gobsmacked.

She cocked her hip and crossed her arms over her chest. I wiped my withering dick with the cloth. When I raised my head, I saw that she was staring down at me with a little of that heavy-lidded look back on her face. She started suddenly and darted her eyes away from my dick.

"I'll give you some privacy to get dressed," she muttered. But she didn't move.

"Ok, thank you." I was surprised at how 'normal' I sounded.

She hesitated, looking away, then turned to me again. "I will need to see you for another examination in three months' time," she said. "Normally I like to see my patients twice a year, but in your case," she fumbled, "I'm thinking a little more, um, frequency would be appropriate." Her eyes flashed. "Just to be on the safe side." She went to her desk and started scribbling on her clipboard.

"I understand," I said. I pulled up my boxers and zipped my shorts. I could smell the lotion perfuming my dick.

"Well, thank you. Nice to meet you," I said after I'd buttoned my shirt. She finally turned back to me and extended her hand for a shake.

"Nice to meet you too Mr. Wise. See you in three months?" She smiled brightly.

"Yep. I'll make that appointment on my way out." I reached for the door, paused, and turned back. "But, if, um, I notice anything has changed with my moles, or if I see a new one or something... is there, uh, anything I should do?"

"Yes! Certainly." She nodded vigorously, excited by the suggestion. "Please! Do feel free to book me any time and I can have another look. Always better to be safe than sorry." Her smile faltered and she blushed again.

"Ok, great. Sounds good. Thanks again."

"Goodbye Mr. Wise, enjoy your day!"

"You too, doctor."

The door clicked shut behind me and I approached the appointment desk.

"Hi," I said to the receptionist. "Dr. Pattison asked me to book a follow-up exam in..." I glanced back at her office door. "Well, I think she said I'd better come in early next week..."