Author: Paco Andante
    Title: Exam
    Keywords: FM, anal, nurse 
    
    Copyright by the author. Permission granted to archive, repost, 
or publish in no-cost archives. Permission granted to publish in 
periodicals and anthologies of this type of material if attributed 
to the author.
    Disclaimer: Do not read this story if you believe stories of sexual 
fantasy should not depict situations undesirable in real life. Be warned 
that you may not be comfortable with the sexual situations. Do not read 
this story if you are less than 18 years of age.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
 
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 fortunates 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 opthalmoscope and stethoscoped 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.

submitted to assm 9/29/2012