Chapter 1: The Inspection
The fluorescent lights hummed a sterile, flat note, casting a shadowless glare over everything. Tom Harding stood on the cold linoleum, the paper gown rustling with every shallow breath. It felt absurd, this flimsy shield against the room’s clinical judgment. He focused on a small scuff mark on the wall, a faint grey smudge against the white, willing himself to be anywhere else. The desert. The range. Even the damned motor pool. Anywhere but here.
The door opened with a soft click. Dr. Montgomery entered, a file tucked under his arm, his movements efficient and quiet. “Sergeant Harding,” he said, his voice a calm, even baritone. “Tom. Please, have a seat on the table.”
Tom nodded, a sharp, military motion, and hoisted himself up. The metal was unforgivingly cold through the paper. He kept his back straight, eyes forward, a soldier at attention.
“Just the annual review,” Montgomery said, setting the file on a small counter and pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves with a familiar snap. “I’ll be thorough, but I’ll talk you through it. You’ve had this before.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Let’s start with the basics.” The doctor’s hands were competent, his touch firm but not rough as he checked Tom’s neck, his lymph nodes, listened to his heart and lungs with the stethoscope’s cold disc. Tom stared at the wall, compartmentalizing. This was procedure. Maintenance. A check on the machinery.
“Those scars on your abdomen,” Montgomery noted, his gloved fingers tracing the rough, pale lines. “Shrapnel?”
“Iraq. 2017.”
“Healed well. Any persistent pain? Digestive issues?”
“No, sir.”
The exam moved on. Reflexes tested with a rubber hammer. Range of motion assessed. Tom answered in monotones, his body responding automatically while his mind drifted. It was all standard, until it wasn’t.
“Alright, Tom,” Montgomery said, his tone shifting into a deliberate, gentle cadence. “I need to move to the genitourinary exam. I understand this can feel invasive. I’ll be as quick and clinical as possible. I need you to lie back and place your heels in the stirrups.”
A cold knot tightened in Tom’s gut. He’d known it was coming. Knowing didn’t help. He lay back, the paper crinkling loudly in the quiet room. The metal stirrups were like ice against his bare heels. He felt exposed, the harsh light leaving nothing to the imagination. He focused on the acoustic tile ceiling, counting the tiny perforations.
Montgomery stood at the foot of the table. “I’m going to examine your testicles now. Check for any abnormalities, lumps.” His hands were there, professional, methodical, rolling and palpating. Tom breathed through his nose, his jaw clenched. It was impersonal. It was fine.
“Everything feels normal there,” Montgomery said. “Now, for the prostate exam. I need you to draw your knees up towards your chest and let them fall open to the sides. This will give me the necessary access.”
Tom obeyed, the position one of supreme vulnerability. The cool air of the room touched him everywhere. He heard the squelch of lubricant from a packet. His every muscle was a live wire.
“You’ll feel my finger at your anus now. Try to relax your muscles. Breathe out.”
Tom tried. He really did. But as the slick, gloved fingertip pressed against him, his body locked up, a visceral recoil from the intrusion. He’d faced down insurgents, but this surrender of control was its own kind of terror.
“Breathe, Tom,” Montgomery murmured, his voice low and steady. “Just breathe. It’s easier if you relax.”
A shuddering exhale. The pressure increased, insistent, and then the tip of the doctor’s finger breached the tight ring of muscle. Tom gasped, a sharp intake of air that wasn’t quite a sound. It burned for a second, a strange, full feeling of being entered. Montgomery’s finger worked in slowly, up to the second knuckle, then fully seated.
“Alright. I’m going to palpate the prostate now. It’s just ahead. You may feel a momentary urge to urinate. That’s normal.”
Tom squeezed his eyes shut. He felt the finger inside him, a foreign, undeniable presence. It moved, probing, pressing forward. And then it found the spot.
A jolt, electric and unwelcome, shot through him. It wasn’t pain. It was a deep, internal pressure that resonated in a way that made his cock twitch against his thigh. Shame, hot and immediate, flooded him. No. Fuck no.
Montgomery was calm, clinical. “The gland feels slightly enlarged, but symmetrical. No nodules.” He applied more pressure, a firm massage.
A low groan escaped Tom’s throat before he could choke it back. His hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk. The sensation was overwhelming—a direct, invasive stimulation that short-circuited his defiance. Each deliberate press from the inside sent a pulse of confused pleasure radiating outwards. He was half-hard now, a fact that filled him with a self-loathing so sharp it was dizzying.
“Almost done,” Montgomery said, his voice still that infuriating, professional murmur. He rotated his finger slightly, a slow, corkscrewing motion that dragged against Tom’s inner walls.
Tom’s breath came in ragged hitches. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper, trying to anchor himself in that pain. It was no use. The doctor’s finger was relentless, a skilled, exploring pressure that found nerves Tom didn’t know he had. His cock, fully erect now, lay thick and aching against his stomach, a blatant traitor. Pre-cum beaded at the tip.
Montgomery said nothing about it. He merely continued the exam, his other hand resting lightly on Tom’s hip. The contrast was maddening—the sterile room, the doctor’s detached demeanor, and the raw, filthy reality of his own body’s response. The finger pushed deeper, massaging more firmly, and Tom’s control shattered.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his hips bucking off the table once, twice. He wasn’t thrusting against anything, just into the empty air, driven by an instinct he couldn’t suppress. The pressure built, a coil winding impossibly tight low in his belly. It wasn’t about pleasure; it was a systemic overload.
“Doctor, I… I’m gonna…” The warning was a gravelly gasp.
“It’s a physiological response, Tom. It’s okay.” The finger inside him pressed harder, more specific.
That was all it took. With a broken shout, Tom came. Stripes of hot release shot across his own abdomen and chest, pulsing out in a shameful, violent rush. His body convulsed around the invading finger, his channel clamping down in rhythmic spasms. He saw white behind his eyelids, his ears roaring. For a few seconds, there was nothing but the brutal, undeniable force of the orgasm.
Then, silence, broken only by Tom’s harsh panting and the hum of the lights.
Slowly, carefully, Montgomery withdrew his finger. The sensation of emptiness was almost as profound as the intrusion had been. Tom lay there, wrecked, spent, staring at the ceiling. The smell of sex and disinfectant hung in the air, a nauseating combination.
He heard the snap of a glove being removed, the sound of it hitting a biohazard bin. A moment later, a wad of clean, dry gauze was placed in his hand.
“Clean yourself up when you’re ready,” Montgomery said, his voice unchanged. He moved to the sink, the water running. “The exam is complete. Your prostate is healthy. The enlargement is minor, consistent with your age. I’ll note it.”
Tom didn’t move. He couldn’t.