Chapter 12: Medical Examination
The sterile air of Dr. Singh’s examination room hung heavy, thick with the sharp tang of antiseptic barely masking the lingering scent of nervous sweat emanating from Mike. He perched awkwardly on the crinkly paper covering the cold metal table, the thin blue robe gaping open at the back, exposing the top curve of his muscular, hairy ass cheeks. Beneath the robe, the familiar strap of his jockstrap dug in, a small, defiant shield. Trent leaned against the wall, arms crossed, trying and failing to hide the distinct bulge tenting his grey sweatpants. The memory of last night pulsed hotly between them.
After discussing the doctor’s appointment, they’d enjoyed the light dinner Trent cooked. Mike had been preoccupied, meticulously preparing himself in the bathroom while Trent cooked. Then came the weed, potent and heady, loosening inhibitions already frayed by the last few days of clandestine fucking. Trent had taken him slowly, achingly slowly, on the living room floor, Mike’s choked moans swallowed by the thumping bass of porn Trent had put on the TV – women with the kind of swollen, glistening pussies Mike still loved to watch, their cries a counterpoint to Trent’s guttural grunts and the obscene, wet slap of flesh. The hours blurred into a haze of sensation, Mike dissolving into a state of pure, fucked-out bliss, memories fragmented like shards of glass. Waking tangled in sheets, clean and comfortable, he’d emailed work claiming a sudden, contagious illness. Trent had wanted to ditch college, eager to spend the day buried inside him again, but Mike, with a surprising shred of practicality, refused. He didn’t want Dr. Singh examining a hole still stretched and slick from a day of Trent’s meaty intrusions. He wanted his ass to be as presentable as possible.
The door clicked open, breaking the tense silence. Dr. Bashir Singh stepped in, calling back over his shoulder, "Thank you, Margaret. Yes, you can go, just lock up." His dark eyes, sharp with intelligence behind wire-rimmed glasses, scanned the room. His crisp white coat was immaculate, framing a tailored shirt that subtly strained across broad shoulders and a powerful chest, hinting at disciplined strength beneath the professional veneer. A neatly trimmed beard accentuated his strong jawline, adding a rugged edge. The subtle, comforting scent of cedarwood clung to him, incongruous yet pleasant against the clinical sterility.
"Gentlemen," he greeted, his voice warm but professionally measured. Recognition flickered in his eyes. "Mike. Trent. Unexpected to see you both together." His gaze lingered, taking in Mike’s flushed face and Trent’s tense posture. "What brings you in?"
Mike stammered, heat flooding his neck and ears. "Uh, Doctor Singh... hi. It's... it's a bit... delicate. My... posterior region." He floundered, wiping sweaty palms on the thin robe.
Trent smoothly intervened, his voice calm, almost amused. "Mike’s been experiencing some… changes. Discomfort. Needs a professional opinion." He gave Mike a slight nod, letting him take the lead again.
"Changes?" Dr. Singh prompted Mike, his expression carefully neutral, though a flicker of surprise registered – the stepson accompanying the stepfather for a highly personal exam was unusual.
"Y-yes," Mike managed, eyes fixed on the tiled floor. "Soreness. And... uh... discharge. Unusual discharge."
"Right," Dr. Singh said, his professional mask firmly in place. "Let's have a look, Mike. If you might please kneel on the table, on all fours."
Mike’s flush deepened to crimson as he clumsily slid from the examination and turned his back, revealing his powerful, hairy cheeks clad only in a black jockstrap. The thick straps emphasized the swell of his ass. He moved with stiff embarrassment onto the table, assuming the vulnerable position, his face turned away. Trent shifted slightly, the bulge in his sweats becoming more pronounced as he watched Mike present himself.
Dr. Singh snapped on latex gloves with practiced efficiency. The sound was unnervingly loud in the quiet room. "Just relax, Mike," he said, his tone soothing but detached. He approached, his cedarwood scent momentarily overwhelming the antiseptic. Dr. Singh paused. His professional detachment wavered for a fraction of a second, replaced by genuine surprise. "Hmm," he murmured, leaning closer. His gloved fingers probed gently around Mike's anus. "Significant tissue engorgement. Hyperemia. It's... remarkably pliable." His touch was clinical, yet lingered. "I don't recall noting anything like this before, though admittedly, I don't recall every anal examination I've undertaken." And then a quiet, "Very nice," his voice holding a new note – not concern, but fascination. The clinical detachment was thinning. Trent watched the doctor’s intense focus, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. He saw the subtle shift in Dr. Singh’s posture, the slight tension in his shoulders beneath the white coat, the way his gaze fixated not just on the anatomy, but on the slick sheen visible even under the harsh clinic lights.
"It looks... different," Mike mumbled into the table.
"Indeed," Dr. Singh breathed, his voice lower. He applied a little pressure with a fingertip near the rim. A bead of thick, milky-white fluid welled up and oozed slowly down towards Mike’s perineum. Dr. Singh froze. "This is the discharge?"
"Yeah," Trent said, his voice rough. "That’s the cream. Mike’s cream." He pushed off the wall, stepping closer. The musky, sweet-salty scent of Mike’s arousal was stronger now, cutting through the cedarwood and antiseptic. "He makes a lot of it. Especially after I work on him."
Dr. Singh glanced at Trent, his dark eyes unreadable behind his glasses, but the pulse in his neck was visible. "Work on him?"
Trent didn’t answer with words. He moved to the side of the table, facing Mike’s exposed ass. He met Mike’s panicked look over his shoulder and gave a slow, reassuring nod. Then, without hesitation, Trent leaned down, buried his face between Mike’s hairy cheeks, and licked a broad, wet stripe directly over his hole.
"Jesus Christ!" Mike gasped, jerking involuntarily. "Trent!"
Dr. Singh recoiled a step, a shocked "Oh!" escaping him. His clinical composure shattered completely.
But Trent ignored them both. He pressed in, his tongue firm and relentless, circling the puffy rim, then plunging deep inside the loosened channel. He slurped loudly, pulling back to suckle at the engorged flesh, making it glisten, then diving back in, tongue fucking Mike with obscene expertise. The sounds were wet, greedy, primal. Mike’s initial shock dissolved into a low, shuddering groan, his body trembling, pushing back instinctively against Trent’s mouth. "Fuck... oh god... Trent..."
Dr. Singh stood transfixed, one gloved hand lightly brushing his crotch. He watched, mesmerized, as Trent expertly worked Mike’s hole, making it swell further, glistening and dripping. The scent of Mike’s arousal, intensified by Trent’s ministrations, filled the small room – a potent, animal musk. The doctor’s breath hitched. His cheeks flushed beneath his beard.
Trent finally pulled back, his lips and chin slick. Mike’s hole pulsed, visibly open, glistening, leaking that thick, creamy fluid. "See, Doc?" Trent said, voice thick with lust and exertion, gesturing at the oozing mess. "That’s what I mean. Cream. We just want to make sure everything's ok. So we can continue."
Dr. Singh seemed to move in a trance. He stepped closer again, drawn irresistibly. His gloved hand hovered near the slick opening. "May I...?" he murmured, not taking his eyes off it.
Mike, still panting, face buried in his arms, managed a shaky nod. "Y-yeah. Whatever."
The doctor touched the gloved fingertip to the leaking fluid, gathering a generous dollop. He brought his hand up slowly, staring at the viscous white cream coating the blue latex. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his finger towards his face. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes for a second, a subtle tremor running through him. The scent was overwhelming now – musk, sex, Trent’s saliva. Then, almost involuntarily, his tongue darted out, pink against the blue glove, and he licked the cream off his finger.
His eyes snapped open, wide with shock at his own actions. He jerked his hand back as if burned. "My... my deepest apologies," he stammered, the flush on his face deepening to mortification. He ripped the soiled glove off with trembling fingers, then the other, tossing them violently into the biohazard bin. "That was... highly unprofessional. Forgive me. The... the aroma... it was unexpectedly potent. Intoxicating." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, avoiding their eyes and trying to casually adjust the thick cock outlined against his thigh. He took several deep, steadying breaths, the cedarwood scent doing little to mask the pheromones hanging in the air and sat at his desk.
Trent just watched, that knowing smirk back in place. "Thank you, Mike, you can get dressed now." Mike slowly pushed himself up onto his haunches, looking utterly bewildered and flushed. Trent helped him down.
Dr. Singh cleared his throat, forcing his professional demeanour back with visible effort, though his knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the desk. "Right. Apologies again. Let's... let's refocus." He turned to his computer, busying himself with notes, his shoulders rigid. "The engorgement and secretion... while unusual, appear physiological. A localized response to... significant and repeated stimulation." He didn't look at them. "No signs of infection or pathology. However, given the... extent... of the adaptation, I recommend weekly check-ups for the next few weeks. We need to monitor the tissue integrity."
He turned back, his face composed but still flushed. "And Mike," he added, his voice regaining its normal timbre, "I concur with your assessment of needing rest. Significant adaptation is required, both physically and mentally, and that takes time and the right environment. I’ll sign you off work. Three months should be a good start." He scribbled hastily on a form. "I see here you aren't on any other medication. I think it would be helpful to prescribe some helpful pharmaceuticals, but I need to know about your lifestyle and anything else you might be taking." He looked pointedly at Trent.
"Weed, poppers, Viagra. And supplements." Trent listed those for Dr Singh. "That's all. For now." Trent confirmed. He knew Mike would stumble and mutter the responses, but they needed clear medical support right now.
"OK. I think sildenafil, or Viagra, is a great idea. The vasodilator will help with blood flow, which in turn will help with the adaptation." He drafted and sent the electronic prescription. "That should be ready at your nominated pharmacy by lunchtime tomorrow. I would also like to check your bloods for testosterone levels as well, as that can dip at your age, Mike." He quickly and painlessly took some blood from Mike.
He practically fled the room, saying he would go and write all this up, and to let themselves out, the door clicking shut with a finality that echoed the sudden, heavy silence. Mike slumped back onto the table, breathing hard, the scent of his own cream, Trent’s saliva, and the doctor’s cedarwood cologne mingling in the sterile air. Trent chuckled softly, low and dark, his hand already moving to adjust the hard outline in his sweatpants. "You know what he's really doing right now, don't you Daddy?" Trent asked, a filthy smile creeping onto his face. "Did you see that cock?" Mike flushed, giggled and they stumbled out together. Three months. The possibilities stretched out before them, wide open and slick with promise.
The sterile clinic air vanished, replaced by the familiar leather and vinyl scent of Mike's SUV as Trent slammed the passenger door. Mike gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, then loosened his hold. A shaky laugh escaped him. "Three fucking months." Relief flooded his voice, warm and thick. He glanced at Trent, a tentative smile cracking his usually stern face. "Just... free. Time to really... focus."
Trent stretched, his thick bicep brushing Mike’s shoulder deliberately. "Focus on what, Daddy? Gardening? Working in the garage? Learning to knit?" He grinned, the predatory edge softened by genuine amusement. "Or something else?"
"Shut it," Mike guffawed. He pulled onto the road, the city blurring past. After a few blocks of comfortable silence, punctuated only by the rumble of the engine, Mike cleared his throat. His eyes stayed fixed ahead. "Those glute exercises you do. The ones that... build up." He gestured vaguely towards his own substantial, rugby-honed ass. "How do you get it... bigger? Softer muscle. Like... bouncy."
Trent raised an eyebrow, a slow, pleased smile spreading. "Getting ambitious, Mike? Want a fat ass to match that fat pussy we're growing?" He chuckled at Mike's immediate flush. "Alright, alright. Serious talk. Heavy squats, hip thrusts, deadlifts. But volume, Daddy. Lots of reps. Eat like a fucking bear preparing for winter. Carbs. Protein shakes. More carbs. Gotta get fluffy over the muscle. Makes it soft. Jiggly."
"Jiggly?" Mike murmured, testing the word. A flicker of something hungry crossed his face. "Okay. Yeah. And... pecs? Bigger. Fuller. Like...tits." He almost whispered the last word, his hand unconsciously brushing his own hairy, muscular chest.
"Same principle," Trent confirmed, his voice dropping lower, more intimate. "Bench. Incline. Flyes. Eat. Let it grow. Soft, bouncy titty-pecs." He reached over, giving Mike's solid pec a firm, possessive squeeze through his t-shirt. "I'd never tell you what to do with your body, but I love where your mind is going. We're gonna make you fucking perfect, Daddy. A soft, strong, fuckable pillow."
The squeeze sent a jolt straight to Mike’s groin. He shifted in the driver's seat, his short, sturdy cock thickening against his baggy jeans. The rest of the drive was quiet, charged with the new, tangible goal taking shape in Mike's mind – the image of his own body, transformed, massive and yielding under Trent’s hands.
Home. The heavy front door clicked shut behind them, sealing them into the familiar comforts of home. Mike tossed his keys on the side table and rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding Trent’s gaze, suddenly awkward. "That footage from the other night," he started, his voice rough. "The... the close-ups. When you were... working." He swallowed. "I wanna see. While you... do it again. Tonight."
Trent’s grin was instant, feral. "Yeah? Wanna watch your own hole get wrecked in HD, Daddy? See that cream drip while I make you scream? I'll set up, you roll." He didn't wait for an answer, already moving. He disappeared into the basement, coming back with a white plastic box, a black lid firmly clipped in place. From there he chose two small, high-resolution cameras. He positioned one on the bookshelf, angled down towards the massive sectional where Mike usually sprawled. The other he clipped to the edge of the heavy coffee table, pointing up.
Meanwhile Mike sank onto the sofa cushions, the familiar dip welcoming him. His thick fingers fumbled slightly with the rolling paper, then found their rhythm, packing the pungent green weed tight. The ritual calmed him, the focus on the task steadying his nerves. The crinkle of paper, the earthy scent of the buds, the sticky residue on his fingertips – it was grounding. He finished two thick joints, laying them carefully on the table beside a lighter.
"Open" Trent commanded and he slid a blue pill on to Trent's tongue. "Doctor's order" he grinned. Mike swallowed it dry.
Trent lit one joint, took a deep, slow drag, holding the smoke until his lungs burned, then held it out for Mike. His lips grasped the proffered smoke, the acrid sweetness bloomed in Mike’s mouth, down his throat, filling his head with a familiar, heavy warmth. He coughed once, then took another pull, deeper this time. The tension in his shoulders began to melt, replaced by a buzzing anticipation. He leaned back, eyes already drifting towards the blank TV screen. Trent activated the cameras with his phone; the TV flickered to life, splitting into two crystal-clear feeds: one a high angle of the sofa, the other a low, intimate view of the space where Mike’s hips would soon be.
"Pants off, Daddy," Trent commanded softly, his own sweatpants already pooled around his ankles, revealing the immense, heavy thickness of his cock, already rigid and leaking. "Show me that hole."
Mike obeyed, shoving his jeans down his thick thighs, kicking them off, leaving the black jockstrap on. He unbuttoned his flannel shirt and lay back, spreading his legs wide, lifting them up over his stomache. His hairy hole, still slightly puffy and glistening faintly from the morning's clinic visit and the drive, was centred perfectly in the low-angle camera's frame. On the TV screen, the image was startlingly vivid – the dark curls, the swollen pink furl, the faint sheen. Mike moaned softly, watching himself. "Fuck, look at it."
Trent knelt between Mike’s spread thighs, his own massive cock bobbing against his stomach. He didn’t touch himself. He leaned forward, his breath hot on Mike’s inner thigh. "I bet that's what the doc thought. Did you see him taste your cream? Fuck. So hot. Now, I'm gonna make it even prettier, Daddy. Watch the screen. Watch what my tongue does to you." His head dipped.
The first broad, wet swipe of Trent’s tongue over Mike’s hole was energizing. Mike cried out, his hips jerking upwards, his eyes glued to the TV where the close-up showed the slick trail left on his sensitive skin. "Oh GOD!" Trent zeroed in, his mouth sealing over the puffy rim with obscene suction. He sucked hard, pulling the sensitive tissue into his hot mouth, his tongue rasping insistently against the tight ring of muscle. On screen, Mike’s hole visibly engorged, turning a deeper pink, stretching under the pressure of Trent’s lips and tongue. Trent released it with a wet pop, then immediately speared his tongue deep inside, fucking in with short, sharp jabs.
"Yeah! Fuck! Like that!" Mike panted, one hand scrambling to pinch and twist his own nipple, the other gripping the couch fabric. The camera captured every detail: the flex of Trent’s shoulders, the saliva glistening around Mike’s stretched opening, the way the hole visibly pulsed, the Viagra beginning to take hold, trying to cling to the invading tongue. Trent pulled back, saliva and Mike’s own creamy discharge forming thick strings that snapped and dripped. He gathered the ooze with his tongue, pushing it back inside Mike’s hole with filthy, wet noises, then sucking it out again, creating a lewd cycle. "Suck it!" Mike begged, mesmerized by the close-up of Trent’s mouth working his hole into a sloppy, glistening mess. "Suck my cream out, baby!"
Trent complied, slurping greedily, burying his face deeper, his nose pressing into Mike’s perineum. He tongue-fucked him relentlessly, the sounds amplified in the quiet room – wet squelching, hungry sucking, Mike’s ragged moans. Mike’s cock, thick and short, jerked against his belly, dripping pre-cum onto his hairy stomach. His hand twisted his nipple viciously, the electric pain-pleasure making his back arch. His mind, suddenly, remembering the doctor. What if Dr Singh was doing this to him? What if Trent's cock was available to lick and nuzzle and try to actually suck on properly. The fantasy gripped him. "Gonna cum! Just from your fucking mouth! Oh fuck, oh fuck!"
"Not yet, Daddy," Trent growled, pulling his mouth away with a final, wet suck that pulled Mike’s hole wide open for the camera, gaping and slick. He spat a thick glob of saliva mixed with Mike’s cream directly onto the exposed hole. It dripped obscenely. "Cameras are rolling. Time for the final act." He reached under the sofa cushions and pulled out a bottle of lube. He had quietly placed many bottles around the house, knowing how much they would be needing them. He slicked his dick and Mike's hole. He grabbed the base of his massive cock, the swollen, dark head glistening. He positioned it, the thick crown nudging insistently against Mike’s swollen, saliva-slicked entrance. The low-angle feed showed the stark contrast – the sheer girth of Trent’s cockhead pressing against the stretched, puffy ring.
Mike watched the screen, breath hitching. "Do it. Fuck it open. Wreck it." His voice was a wrecked whisper.
Trent leaned forward, putting his weight behind it. He pushed. The resistance was still immense, the muscle stretched taut around the invading head. Mike cried out, a raw, guttural sound torn from his chest, his body rigid. On the TV, the camera captured the incredible stretch in brutal detail – the pink flesh straining obscenely around the dark, veined crown, yielding millimetre by painful, ecstatic millimetre. "FUCK! IT’S SO BIG! SO PERFECT!" Mike sobbed, as his hips pushed down, forcing himself onto it.
"Take it, Daddy," Trent grunted, his own breathing harsh. He bore down. With a final, wet, sliding schlllllp, the thick head popped past the tight ring and sank inside, buried to the ridge. Mike panted, back arching off the couch, his hole clenching wildly around the intrusion. The camera showed the stretched rim pulsing just behind the cockhead, hungry, glistening with spit and cream, the tunnel visibly distended around the invading thickness. Trent held still, letting Mike feel the initial stretch, letting the cameras capture the obscene penetration. "Look at it," he breathed, mesmerized by the screen. "Look at that fat hole swallowing my dick."
Mike forced his eyes open, blurry with tears and pleasure. On the screen, his own ass was split wide, impaled, Trent’s monstrous cock sunk deep. The sight punched the air from his lungs. "Fucking... wrecked..." he gasped. "Move. Please. Fuck me, baby."
Trent pulled back slowly, the thick shaft dragging against the clenching inner walls, stretching Mike’s hole wider as the flared head threatened to catch. Then he slammed forward, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. Mike’s gasps dissolved into choked gurgles, his body convulsing. The wet, meaty slap of Trent's balls hitting Mike’s ass filled the room, perfectly synced with the visual on screen – the moment of impact, the flesh quivering, the hole stretched impossibly wide around the thick base. Trent set a punishing pace, no finesse, just raw, deep fucking, driving his entire length into Mike’s depths with piston-like force. Each thrust stretched Mike’s puffy rim to its absolute limit before the head popped free, only to slam back in, punching the air from Mike’s lungs.
"YES! GOD! WRECK IT!" Mike bellowed, his voice raw. Trent yanked hard on his nipple, the sharp pain blurring into the overwhelming fullness, the brutal stretch tearing through him. His cock leaked incessantly, untouched. He was transfixed by the dual screens: the wide shot showing Trent’s powerful body pistoning, muscles straining, and the close-up focused solely on the savage penetration – his own hole relentlessly stretched, pounded, dripping, the dark shaft pistoning in and out of his red, swollen flesh. "So deep! Filling me! Oh fuck, I see it! I see you splitting me open!"
Trent fucked like a machine, grunting with each deep plunge, sweat dripping from his brow onto Mike’s heaving stomach. The air reeked of sex, sweat, weed, and the sharp, musky scent of Mike’s stretched hole. "Gonna breed this fat cunt, Daddy," Trent growled, his rhythm becoming erratic, brutal. "Gonna pump it full. Make you drip my load for days. Look at the screen! Look at your fuckhole taking every fucking inch!"
Mike was beyond words, reduced to animalistic grunts and sobs, his body a vessel for the relentless pounding. His eyes rolled back, fixated on the close-up feed – the mesmerizing, brutal rhythm of his own destruction, the puffy rim gaping obscenely each time Trent withdrew, then swallowing the thick shaft whole again. He felt the pressure build, unbearable, concentrated in his ruined hole, his tormented nipple, his untouched cock. Trent’s thrusts became jackhammer-fast, brutal, slamming home with wet, meaty impacts. With a roar that shook the room, Trent buried himself to the balls and erupted. Mike felt the hot, thick pulses deep inside, flooding him, stretching him further. The sight of Trent’s climax on the screen – the final, brutal penetration, the tensing of his body – and the overwhelming sensation of being filled, stretched, and completely claimed, snapped Mike’s control.
He came untouched, violently. Ropes of thick white cum shot from his cock, coating the inside of his jock pouch, even splattering his hairy stomach and chest, his body convulsing around the massive cock still pumping seed deep into his ass. His scream was pure release, agony and ecstasy fused. On the screen, his hole pulsed wildly around Trent’s shaft, milking it, creamy discharge and Trent’s cum oozing around the stretched rim.
Trent collapsed forward, spent, his massive cock still lodged deep inside Mike’s trembling body, his weight heavy and warm. They lay like that, wrecked, the only sounds their ragged breathing and the low hum of the cameras still recording. The TV screens showed the aftermath in high definition: Mike’s sweaty, cum-streaked torso, his gaping, oozing hole stretched wide around Trent’s softening cock, the thick mixture of their releases smeared across his ass and thighs. Trent’s hand finally released his nipple, which stood swollen and red. A profound, bone-deep exhaustion settled over him, but beneath it, radiating outwards from his utterly ravaged core, was something else. A deep, resonant pulse of pure, unadulterated happiness. He watched the screens, watched the undeniable truth of his transformation, his surrender, his bliss. He smiled, a slow, dazed curve of his lips, and closed his eyes. Complete.