The internet has rendered commuting superfluous for
many types of jobs. I realized this years ago, but
many employers, control freaks that they are, are
still resisting the idea. I’m among those
fortunate’s whose “commute” is from my bedroom to
my den, though once a month I must make the two-
hour drive for “co-ordination meetings.”
There are advantages to living out where there are
trees and grass, clean air, and where no one thinks
I’m a terrorist if I carry a rifle on my shoulder.
But there are a few small inconveniences, too. Like
that there is no medical doctor within 100 miles or
so.
But my small village is serviced by a very
competent nurse practitioner, Nurse Donna Rossi.
She does very well on her own, and is just a phone
call or instant message away from the doctors at
County General. She once kept old man Finnegan
alive when he had a heart attack until the helo
arrived to Medivac him to CG. By the way, he’s
still alive and kicking today.
So, given her efficiency, I was not surprised to
receive the notice in the mail, on village
letterhead with “Village Health Dept.” rubber
stamped underneath, suggesting I come in for my
annual physical, proposing Monday at 4:30 PM, “if
that is convenient.” I dropped an affirmative
response in the mail slot at the Village Hall on
the next day.
So on Monday at 4:00 I disconnected from “Big
Mama,” my employer’s computer, took a quick shower
and headed for Village Hall.
As I climbed the back steps to the door marked
“Health Dept.” a beaming Mrs. VanCleef was exiting,
and we exchanged good afternoons. The Village
doesn’t have a newspaper, it has Mrs. VanCleef
instead. She looked like she was about to give me
the whole Front Page, but I gestured to the door
and explained “Appointment…” and kept going.
Breathing a sigh of relief as the door closed
between us, I entered the small waiting room and
took a seat.
In a few seconds the inner door opened and a
stranger stepped out. Tall, blonde and striking. I
assumed that Nurse Rossi had gotten a helper; she
often complained of “drowning in paperwork.”
The blonde asked, “Mr. Bauer?” and when I nodded,
she gestured and smiled, “this way, please,” to the
inner room. She had really cute dimples when she
smiled.
The infirmary, I suppose you’d call it, was a
cluttered place, serving as examining room,
treatment room, office, and everything else, but
managed to be cheerful in spite of it. To my
surprise, Nurse Rossi was nowhere to be seen. The
blonde ushered me inside and closed the door.
“Where’s Nurse Rossi?” I asked.
“She’s in New York on a family matter of some sort.
The County sent me down to cover for her. I’m Nurse
Arnesson. Have a seat, please.”
She took the seat behind the desk and opened the
file folder already on the blotter. Mine, since I
could see the name, “Bauer, Fred” in block letters
on the cover. I sat in the chair opposite and
studied her as she studied my file.
As I said, she was tall, blonde and good-looking,
with soft “Ingrid Bergman” sort-of features, with a
slender but curvy body that shouted “female”
despite the severe, professional plain white dress.
Her lashes were long but couldn’t hide the deep,
inscrutable blue of her eyes. I finally noticed
what was written on a small nameplate pinned over
the mound of her left breast; “Berit Arnesson,
APRN.” I wondered how “Berit” was pronounced and
decided to look it up later.
“Your last exam was a year ago,” she said after a
while. “Any illnesses since?”
“No.”
“Complaints? Allergy reactions?”
“None.”
She made notes in the folder.
“Do you ever experience pain during urination?”
“No”
“Are your bowel movements regular?”
“Yes.”
“No constipation or diarrhea?”
“None.”
“The file says ‘single.’ Have you married this
year?”
“No.”
“Have you been sexually active?”
“Yes.” I didn’t add that my girlfriend and I had
broken up and that it had been a while.
Still writing, she asked, “Do you masturbate?”
Reddening slightly, I answered, “Yes.”
“How often?”
“Three or four times a week.”
“Ever have pain or discomfort in orgasm, or
difficulty ejaculating?”
“No.”
She grabbed the rolling sphygmomanometer and began
to check my BP. At both arms, I noticed. As she
reached over to attach the cuff on my left arm, I
got a sneak-peek down the front of her dress. Nice.
She depressed my tongue, “Say ‘Ahh'”, otoscoped my
ears, then checked my eyes with an ophthalmoscope
and stethoscope my heart and lungs. Then she
examined my fingernails. At each exam, she wrote
notes on a form on a clipboard.
“We need some blood samples for the lab,” she said,
bringing out a small kit. In just seconds she had
my arm in a tourniquet and had a needle in the
crook of my elbow. I hardly felt it. Seconds later,
with three small vials filled with red, she
withdrew the needle and had a band-aid on me.
“Alright,” she smiled, “now please undress
completely and put on this gown.” She handed me a
hospital gown, paper slippers and a plastic tray.
“Hang your things here,” she touched an antique
coat tree as she walked out of the room, closing
the door.
I sat a moment, surprised. Nurse Rossi never had me
undress *completely*. “Different stokes,” I
figured, applied to professional methods as well as
personal idiosyncrasies. Besides, Nurse Arnesson
was really “eye candy.” “Oh, well,” I shrugged and
stripped. The hospital gown was the kind that
opened in back, and I had a little trouble getting
it tied shut, but at last, putting my watch and
silver chain in the tray, I was ready.
“OK, nurse”, I called.
In a moment Nurse Arnesson returned, smiling.
“Let’s check your height and weight.” She gestured
for me to accompany her to the scale.
I forced myself to keep thinking of her as “Nurse
Arnesson” not “Berit” as I watched her round
backside undulate across the room.
“Exactly the same as last year,” she muttered,
writing after adjusting the scale’s weights.
“Hasn’t changed since college,” I answered.
“Good. Now please sit on the examining table and
let me see your feet.”
I walked the three steps to the table, dreadfully
conscious of the breeze blowing into the opening at
the back of the hospital gown. She snapped on a
pair of latex gloves as I hoisted myself onto the
paper covered table and presented my feet. She
pulled over a stool, sat and examined my toenails
and the soles of my feet. She wrote more notes. She
examined my calves and knees. More notes. She took
me by the left hand and turned my arm this way and
that, then the right. More notes. What was she
seeing, I wondered, that warranted all those notes?
“Excellent,” she finally said. “Now, scoot forward,
please.”
I scooted until just my ass-cheeks were on the
table, my toes just barely touching the floor. The
nurse raised the front of my gown and began to
touch my *testicles*! I was completely taken aback!
“Spread your legs, please.”
She began to work her fingers all over my scrotum,
rubbing and pinching here and there as she went.
First one side then the other, from the base of my
penis down to the perineum. Then the other side.
“Hold this and relax,” she said, holding up the
front of the gown.
I took the proffered cloth in both hands, tried to
think of my work, the things I had to do tomorrow,
dead animals… anything to take my mind off what
this stunning blonde was doing. How could I relax?
A gorgeous young woman was fondling my private
parts! And as she bent forward, she gave me a
rather clear view of her bra-less chest. Despite my
efforts, my penis was rising.
She took my scrotum in her left hand and made a
ring of thumb and forefinger, capturing the
testicles, then gently palpated them, squeezing and
feeling them all over.
“Testicular cancer,” she said, “is a nasty disease
that can creep up on you if you don’t check. You
should do this yourself, you know – look for little
hard nodules.”
She released her grip, only to push my engorging
penis aside and take a different grip, full handed,
on my scrotum behind the balls. Drawing them down,
she renewed her gentle squeezing, rolling them
inside the sac, and pushing them apart and back
together. By now my penis was full hard and
throbbing, despite my embarrassment. I didn’t think
I could get more disturbed, but then she let go of
my scrotum and grabbed my dick, lifting it out of
the way with her left hand while with her right
felt the cords and vesicles connecting my balls to
my body.
Did it feel like she was moving her left hand? Her
thumb, under the glans, was it moving, gently
rubbing? Or was that my imagination? This certainly
didn’t feel like a clinical examination, and for
sure nothing like any annual physical I’d ever had.
At last she let go of me, sat back and wrote more
notes. “Nothing to worry about,” she smiled, “but
do examine yourself frequently. It can strike men
as early as in their mid thirty’s.”
I dropped the gown. It hung up on my erection, so I
pulled it over. That only seemed to make matters
worse, for now it formed an obvious tent in front
of me. I started to climb off the table when she
said, “Please get up on the table, on your knees,
facing the wall.”
Too embarrassed to object or ask why, I complied.
Once again very conscious of the opening at the
back of the gown, I knelt at the edge of the table.
“Bend over, knees apart, head and shoulders on the
table, please.”
“Oh God, what now?” I thought, but did as I was
told, with my ass way up high, the front of the
short gown hanging almost to my knees. I worried
how exposed my rear was. I was sure the gown was
open back there.
I felt fingers on my back, then realized she was
untying the straps holding the gown closed! I
watched as the front of the gown fell all the way
to the table. My ass, my balls and my wildly
engorged penis were all on display, and I was
placed in a most humiliating posture. I felt hands
on my ass cheeks, spreading them and cool air on my
anus.
“Good. No sign of hemorrhoids, no rash, no fissures
or prolapsing.”
The hands left. I felt something pressing against
my perineum. It made my already hard cock even
harder.
“Prostate problems don’t usually arise in males as
young as you, but it pays to check. Early detection
is the best defense,” the nurse was saying. I
hardly heard her for the embarrassment and, yes,
admit it, sexual arousal. My heartbeat was pounding
in my ears.
Then there was a hard pressure between my balls and
my asshole, pressure and movement. Every movement
translated to my penis in some weird way, and I
felt pre-ejaculatory fluid begin to run through and
drip from my penis. The pressure relented and I
heard her pen scratching as she wrote.
I could see nothing but the cloth of the gown
hanging from my armpits.
I heard a snap like a bottle cap, then something
cool was against my anus.
Something cool and slippery was sliding around my
anus, rimming it.
“Just relax. This won’t hurt a bit.” she said.
The cool and slippery thing began to intrude,
pressing at first subtly, then more insistently. My
instinctive reaction was to clench up, but I tried
to relax and loosen up. Then it was in. And, to my
surprise, immediately withdrew. More of the cool
stuff on my anus, and it (I assumed it was her
finger) was in again. And it wormed around a bit
before it withdrew again.
“What’s she up to?” I wondered, but said nothing.
It actually felt good, and my pre-cum was flowing
again. More cool stuff and a bigger insertion. Two
fingers? Worming around. And then they curled and
pressed on my prostate. It was like an electric
shock. My whole body jerked and my asshole
clenched.
“Relax. Take it easy.”
“Easy for you to say,” I managed to murmur.
A giggle. Almost girlish, it was the first
departure from her cool, matter-of-fact
professional voice.
The probing finger or fingers touched my prostate
again through the anal wall. Again the electric
shock came, but I managed not to flinch or clench,
but my penis jerked and danced. And I felt my balls
sway in response.
Now the fingers began to rub, gently massaging,
pressing and releasing. The fingers scissored
inside me. Now I knew there were two-at least two-
fingers. They embraced the prostate, pressing on
both sides, stretching my rectum. Then slowly they
came together, rubbing over the gland as they did.
Then they found some magical place and I began to
tremble slightly. I may have grunted, but I know I
heard that girlish giggle again.
Those questing fingers knew where to go now, and
they did. Over and over again, they massaged,
pressed and released, passing over and retreating
from the magical place. Over and over I experienced
a jolt like an electric shock, though pleasant,
course through me, with an indescribable pleasure
in my throbbing, dangling penis. Although nothing
had touched them, or my penis either, the jerking
of my lonely member made my balls swing and sway
like the bells of Saint Mary’s on Sunday. I began
to ache for something to touch my swollen dick.
The fingers kept on stroking. The tension built up.
I reached the point of coming, but I didn’t. I know
I groaned. And still the tension built. I know it’s
not possible, but my penis felt as big and hard as
a baseball bat, but still the tension built.
Still they stroked. At each passage my straining
penis throbbed and jerked, and I felt another
string of pre-fluid course through and out. At one
point I actually heard it drop on the exam table’s
paper cover.
The fingers never relented – never rushed, never
slowed. Again and again they stirred that super-
sensitive spot, passing over it, though they never
left my prostate altogether.
At last I came.
Did anything touch my dick? I don’t think so, but I
can’t be sure. Maybe the lightest touch on the
underside of the glans – I don’t know.
But I exploded. I spurted, and after each spurt
those clever fingers stirred The Spot, and I
spurted again. I don’t know how often; many times.
I must have vocalized, I don’t remember. All I can
remember is the pounding of the blood in my ears
and that girlish giggle again and again, in time
with my jetting. It seemed to go on forever.
When at last it was over, I lay down – collapsed,
actually – on the table.
I dropped into my own mess, but I didn’t care; I
was too spent to care. For a few seconds, those
clever fingers stayed in me, but then slowly and
gently withdrew. I heard the snap of the latex
gloves coming off, then various sounds as Nurse
Arnesson finished writing her report and refiled my
dossier.
And for a while all I heard was my own ragged
breathing.
“Tissues are in that box,” she said when at last I
began to stir. “Just toss them on the table. Put
the gown in the laundry bin over there.”
She made no move to leave, nor did I bother to ask
for privacy. Why should I? She already knew me more
intimately than most girlfriends had! She just sat
behind the desk and watched me. Sitting up, I
shucked the cum-covered gown and tossed it in the
bin. Naked, I wiped myself off.
I stood, though a little shakily, to wipe the
excess lube jelly from between my cheeks.
“Just toss the used tissues in the table,” she
directed.
I didn’t know what to say. “Thank you”? or “That
was awesome”? I said nothing because the smirk on
her face as she watched me spoke volumes.
As I dressed, she said, “Call next week for the lab
results. I don’t expect anything. You are in
excellent health, just remember what I said about
examining yourself.”
A week later, I called. Nurse Rossi’s voice
answered. She found my file and said, “Oh yes, the
report is in. Everything is fine. The temp nurse
gave you high marks on all points. Hm, under
‘other’ she wrote ‘prodigious producer.’ What does
that mean, I wonder?”
I didn’t offer an explanation.