NOTE: I hereby grant permission for all archiving and other uses of this work, public or private, free or paid, in any format whether existing now or to be invented in the future, so long as a copy of this note and credit to "theGreatxIam" is given and no alteration is made to the body of the work. Copyright 2002, theGreatxIam

Silver Surfer #7:
Take Two and Call Me in the Morning
By theGreatxIam

NOTE: They used to talk about Stagedoor Johnnies, the men who hung around theaters with flowers and candy for the showgirls. Then women and girls got liberated and got horny, and they called the starstruck ones groupies.

But there are some of us who call ourselves by another name. We are drawn to a special class of classy ladies, to those mature beauties who appreciate a man who appreciates a vintage affair. We call ourselves the silver surfers. And this is one of our stories.

Alan D., Minneapolis

I was just about to enter the restaurant for lunch with some friends when my
pager went off. The display was flashing five asterisks. I made my apologies
and got back in the car, dialing my cell as I pulled out.

The local paper calls me "the doctor to the stars" in their gossip column, but
all that really means is that I treat a lot of sore throats and other minor
ailments for entertainers coming through the theaters and concert venues here.
It's not like I'm the personal physician to Prince, or even those guys from
"Mystery Science Theater 3000."

There aren't very big fees involved and I have to agree to be on call virtually
24/7. But it makes for a nice change from my regular practice, and I get a kick
out of meeting celebrities.

When I punched in the phone number that night, I didn't expect much. I hadn't
checked the paper's listings that morning so I wasn't sure who was in town.

The call was from the Metrodome, which confused me. I thought the Twins were in
town; they've got their own team doctor. Besides, I don't do sports injuries.

"And I don't do singing injuries," Dr. Maxwell told me when I got through to
him. "Seriously, Alan, I'm sorry to bug you with this, but my malpractice
coverage is specific about limiting me to the players and coaches here except
in cases of emergency. I don't think a chest cold would qualify."

"Chest cold? Can't they just give whoever it is some Dayquil and a shot of
steam? How serious can a chest cold be?"

"I don't know, Alan. I don't even know if it is a chest cold; they won't let me
near her. But this is some chest. You'd better get down here and see for
yourself. The game tonight's on national TV, and they want the anthem to be
sung, not croaked."

At the dome, I flashed my credentials and was quickly directed to VIP parking
and ushered into a small, well-equipped examining room. Dr. Maxwell showed me
the layout and then excused himself; one of the relief pitchers had a
suspicious tenderness in his shoulder. I took off my sport coat, checked my
supply of likely medications, and perched on a stool. One thing about celebrity
patients: Somehow, they make their doctors do the waiting.

This patient walked in already talking a mile a minute in a drawl so sweet and
thick you could spread it on toast.

"My gosh, Doctor, I don't know why they had to haul you all the way down here
just for little old me. I told 'em a little honey and maybe a sip of some
smooth Kentucky bourbon and I'll be singing my cotton-pickin' heart out like
always."

I had to admit her voice seemed in good shape, with perhaps just a hint of a
rasp. But I had come all the way down, so I asked her to sing a bit for me. She
launched into an up-tempo number sounding like a bullfrog on helium. It was
painful just to listen.

I stopped her and had her get on the examining table. I started running through
some basic stuff. 

The truth is I quickly confirmed what I'd guessed when she started singing. She
didn't have anything serious. Didn't even have a cold. Just a little spasm of
the vocal cords that a little massage or a hot compress could fix.

I told her as much, and she got on her back so I could rub her neck. It only
took a minute or two. Most of the time people close their eyes when you do
that, but she looked right into mine. It was the most disarming, bewitching
stare I'd ever run into. I had several more thoughts inappropriate to the
doctor-patient relationship.

But I finished the massage -- looking at a poster about kidney stones on the
far wall as distraction -- and the croak disappeared. I warned her to rest her
singing voice for an hour or two, but assured her she'd be fine by game time.

"Well, shucks, Doc, that's just great. You're a regular miracle worker. Hey, I
don't want to take advantage of you or anything, but could I ask a favor? I've
been on tour so long I haven't seen my doctor at home in ages. 'Bout time I had
a real check-up. Any chance you could check me out?"

Actually, I had been checking her out since she walked in the door. But I am a
professional. I pointed out that a full physical includes blood work and other
things I wasn't prepared for. She said she still would like me to do what I
could.

So I found myself saying "All right, Miss Parton. Will you take off your
clothes, please?"

And you wonder if all those years in medical school are worth it?

Dolly batted her half-inch eyelashes. "You sure are a thorough fella, aren't
ya?"

Abashed, I started to tell her I could do most of the exam without having her
disrobe. She stopped me with a laugh.

"I ain't complaining, Doc, just commenting. I like a guy who don't mess around.
Much."

She peeled off her clothes without a flutter of embarrassment, and with a bit
of flair. She saved her top for last, turning away from me as she unbuttoned
it. She stayed that way as she tossed it onto a chair and started to reach
around to unsnap her bra. Then she paused. 

"Darn it," she said, hands stopped halfway around her back. "Could you give me
a hand with this contraption, Doc?"

Ever the gentleman, I did.

She turned toward me and it was like coming to the crest of a hill and seeing
the glory of Rome before you. I'm no stranger to beauty or dazzling bodies, and
Dolly wasn't your standard package of pulchritude. Her body looks bit off
balance -- but, then, it would have to be, with that stunning superstructure.

Super it was indeed. I wouldn't hazard a guess as to her bra size; I would
think you'd need a calculator to do that. You've heard of peach-sized breasts,
or grapefruit, or cantaloupe? These were a whole fruit basket. 

At that size, of course, they couldn't be called perky. They did sag a bit
under their own weight. 

But these were not those udder-like bags some women get. Dolly's tits might
need a little support, but they were still magnificent mammaries.

"Hey, Doc!" 

Her voice called me back from my reverie.

"You can put your eyes back in their sockets. They're real, all right."

My cheeks burned red. I started to apologize but she cut me off with a smile.

"I was just kidding you, Doc. I'm used to it. Heck, it's like a skunk
complaining if people stare at his stripe. If he didn't have it he'd just be a
stinky old squirrel."

She put a hand under each mound and lifted. The nipples, thick buttons centered
in brown haloes bigger than my palms, pointed straight at me.

"But they are real, see? Go on, touch 'em. You're the doctor!"

I started to reach up, but I caught myself halfway. My hands were cupped. Not
professional. I flattened them and returned them to my side.

"I will have to -- er, examine them -- your breasts (my cheeks felt like hot
coals) -- but, first, let's get a few readings. Could you hop up on the table?"

Oh, what a hop. "Jiggle" doesn't begin to describe what her breasts did. And
"erect" doesn't begin to describe the condition of my cock. I turned away from
her, fumbling with some equipment on the wall. "We'll start with your blood
pressure," I said.

As I turned back to her she was grinning like a Cheshire cat. "Golly, Doc, did
I have to get naked for that?"

She had me there. I swept the room with my eyes. "Of course not. I'm sorry. I'm
sure there must be some gowns around here ... somewhere."

I opened a drawer at random and pulled out a flat bag. "This looks promising."
I flipped it over and shook.

A cascade of small, square foil packets tumbled onto the countertop and spilled
onto the floor. Through the spread fingers of the hand that flew up to cover my
face I read the word "Trojans" boldly printed on the shiny packets.

There was a high-pitched, musical giggle behind me. "Hot date tonight, Doc?
Don't let little ol' me keep you."

I raised my eyes to the ceiling, but there was no chance of divine intervention
to save me from my embarrassment. At that point I would even have welcomed a
lightning bolt of retribution for my past sins. All I saw was a wispy cobweb in
one corner.

"Sorry, Miss ..." I began, still looking away.

"Gosh darn it, Doc, call me Dolly. And don't bother 'bout a gown. I guess
you've seen everything there is to see by now."

"All right ... Dolly," I said, and began the examination. I went over some of
the same things I'd started with, just because there's a routine to a physical
and it's better to go through it the same way each time so you don't forget
anything.

But this examination was like none I'd ever done, anyway. Oh, I've seen more
than my share of beautiful naked women. But there was so much of Dolly. 

She kept her big, blonde wig on the whole time, for example. Not unheard of
when you're dealing with a star. But it meant that when I held the stethoscope
to her smooth back to hear her cough, I had to wend my way through a luxuriant
tangle. And whatever I did -- tap a knee, check blood pressure, inspect her
ears -- also included a changing view of those awesome monuments. It was a bit
like wandering through a city and constantly finding as you turn corners that
you're confronted with another perspective of its sole skyscraper, visible for
miles and all the more noticeable for the way it rises from such a flat plain.

When, at last, it came time to touch her breasts, I had to fight off the odd
vision of my hands disappearing into them, sinking into their pillowy depths as
though they were made of dough.

Quite the contrary. As I palpated them, I noted that they had retained a
surprising amount of youthful firmness. And they were definitely not fake. Not
a bit.

In my years of practice, I have encountered all manner of mammaries. Round
ones, pointy ones, saggy ones, flat ones. Artificially enhanced ones of all
dimensions. But never a pair like Dolly Parton's. They deserve to be the
subject of their own version of those old vaudeville posters -- the ones that
were all fancy type describing the acts in hyperbolic terms:

STUPENDOUS,

the sign would say,

COLOSSAL EXAMPLES
OF MOTHER NATURE'S GIFTS,

it would go on,

MAMMOTH MAMMARIES
NEVER BEFORE SEEN!

Dolly was all that.

And more. As I examined her, she kept up a running conversation. For once, with
a star, it really was a conversation. We talked about the city and my work, not
the life and times of Dolly Parton Superstar. And she talked like a normal
person, or as normal as someone from rural Tennessee can sound to a Northern
city kid like me. When I took her pulse and found it a beat or two faster than
normal, it was "Land o' Goshen, Doc, with a handsome man like you in the room
it's a wonder my heart don't just jump up and do somersaults." When I stood
behind her and massaged her neck to check again for anything inflamed, she said
"Shucks, that's nice. It feels better than warm puddin' on a cold day." And
when I examined her breasts for lumps, she giggled and said, "Sakes alive, with
a touch like that you could steal the feathers from a chicken and leave her
feeling glad she got plucked." When my fingers brushed against a nipple she
shivered. "You trying to pluck me, Doc?"

I know, I know. But at the time I couldn't believe it was happening because I
usually had to be the one with the moves.

Plus, I am a doctor. While my conduct may not always be what Hippocrates had in
mind, I usually don't actually interrupt my work.

So I blithely continued the examination. Dolly kept up a string of down-home
double entendres.

Then it came time to perform the pelvic. This is not, as you might have
imagined, a very arousing situation, at least not for me. With the patient
splayed out like a Thanksgiving turkey waiting for the dressing, it's not the
most attractive sight. And I am not into bondage. Stuck in the stirrups, a
woman is somewhat too -- vulnerable, I guess is the word.

At least that's the way it usually is. But Dolly, as I should have realized by
then, is not your usual woman.

When I positioned myself between her outstretched legs and leaned forward
slightly, I heard a giggle.

"As long as you're down there, you might as well make yourself useful," she
said with a laugh. I was still puzzling out what she meant when her legs lifted
out of the stirrups and wrapped around me. Meanwhile she had sat up on the
examination table and reached for my head. In a split second my face was almost
buried in her pink opening, her curly blonde pubic hair tickling my forehead.

"Now, don't be getting shy on me, Doc," Dolly said. "Your mama can't see you.
Just go on in."

For a brief moment I felt, it's true, like a schoolboy caught sneaking Playboys
into his room who squirms through a lecture on sex. But instinct triumphed. I
licked.

I believe Dolly shared some earthy rural expressions in the minutes that
followed, but I was buried in her muff, her thighs around my head, and couldn't
hear a thing.

I'd been taken off-guard by her boldness, I admit. But I recovered. If Dolly
was as eager as I was, no need to play games.

While my tongue explored her genitalia in clinical detail, I ripped off my
clothes. By the time she was shrieking her way through an orgasm -- with, I was
pleased to note, no sign of her earlier problems -- I was stark naked and
geared for action.
"Oh, my," Dolly trilled. "Bring that cock on over here, Doc, like the horny
heifer said to the bull with a rooster on his back."

She put her feet back in the stirrups, opening her target wide and wet. I
lowered the examining table until my dick was pointing straight into her and
rammed it home. I went in fast and smooth, and we both moaned at the feeling.

Dolly was no virgin, but a glove doesn't have to be tight to keep you warm in
the night. Sorry; being around Dolly begins to get to you after awhile.

And it was a long while. So long that my legs gave out as we rutted away. I got
Dolly to scoot back, which was a little difficult because I'd forgotten to lay
out the paper cover on the table and she'd become stuck to the cushions --
stucker, Dolly said, than a fly-paper sandwich. But we worked it out.

When we did, Dolly moved back and I crawled on top of her. I was ready to
assume the position when she grabbed my arms and yanked me forward. 

"These aren't just for show," she said, rubbing her tits with both hands. "Come
on, Doc, you know you want to try!"

I  did, in fact. So I placed my cock between her globes. Dolly squeezed them
together and my dick disappeared from sight.

Once or twice, as a kid, I experimented with what sex was like by sliding my
cock between two pillows. OK, more than twice; practically every night until my
mother noticed the crackly, dried cum on the pillowcases. 

That's what titfucking Dolly Parton was like. There was an unrealness to being
between those things. 

I gather she's not unfamiliar with the disappointment I felt. At least she
didn't object and didn't ask why when I disengaged after a little while and put
my cock back where it belonged.

She was as talkative a sex partner as I ever had, but at first she was
satisfied with "Oh, that's good" and "Oooooh, yeah!" I managed to forget I was
fucking the flower of Southern womanhood until she announced, "Let 'er rip,
Doc! Time to churn the butter." 

I paused.

"Don't stop," she drawled. "Time's a-wastin'. Gimme that bunny love!"

"Huh?"

She sighed. "Faster, sugar. Faster."

I gave her what she asked for. Jack-hammering away, pounding in and out of her
cunt so hard that her sweat-slick body started to slide off one end of the
examining table. She grabbed hold of the rail on one side, but then my knees
started slipping out from under me.

We clung to each other, Dolly's long nails etching trails of red across my
back. The woman certainly knew her own body; the fast fucking sent her into a
three-octave orgasm.

But I hadn't cum yet. When she settled down and realized that "the bull ain't
ready for the barn yet," she led me to a chair and sat me down.

While I let my heart return to a more normal rate, Dolly fed me her tits.
Seeing those national monuments heading for your face is like diving into a
swimming pool filled with whipped cream -- presuming your cholesterol level is
under control, of course. It took a day or two just to lick my way around them.
 
That gave me time to catch my breath, so I was ready when Dolly placed her slit
just above my rigid pole and slid down like a fireman.

From the second I entered her, I knew that would be it for me. She felt too
damn good for me to last as she slithered down to bury me completely inside
her. And when she started bouncing and her breasts heaved and rocked, I almost
came right then.

But I gritted my teeth and hung in. I knew that opportunities that good didn't
come along very often. I was determined to make it last.

Yet I couldn't conquer biology. My cock swelled. Dolly hooted. And I came like
I'd never come before. Great gushers, hot jets pumping out over and over.

When it was over, I sat there dazed. Dolly eased off of me and chirpily cleaned
herself off with a wad of HandiWipes. "That was quite an exam," she told me. "I
ain't had so much fun since the Buckey twins gave me my sweet 16 present.
Shucks, if I'd known you Northern doctors were so good, I'd a-gotten sick up
here a lot more often."

I'd have laughed, if only to be polite, but the last two words came out as a
croak. Dolly didn't even realize it until she saw the look on my face.

"Oh, my gosh," she said, in a voice like a slow drive down a gravel road. "What
time is it?"

I showed her my watch.

"I go on in less than an hour! What happened? You said I'd be all right."

"I said, if you rested your singing voice. But you were hitting some pretty
high notes there."

"I seem to recollect you were in the room with me, Doc."

"Yes. OK. Look, this isn't a crisis. Your throat muscles are fine. It's
probably just a little rawness left over. A salt-water gargle should fix you
up. There's surely something around here."

I tried to get up to look, but Dolly pushed me back down. "Sit right back,
sugar. My daddy always said, if a snake bites you, bite 'em right back."

I stared at her.

"Or, like my mama said, the water tastes sweetest when you drink it straight
from the pump."

"Huh?"

She had gotten to her knees. "I mean, I got a good ol' salt water gargle right
here." Her soft, slim fingers wrapped around my cock.

I tried to protest that I couldn't perform so soon afterward, but my argument
didn't wash when Dolly opened her bright red lips wide and sucked my dick in,
because my rod began to stiffen immediately.

She held all of me inside as long as she could. When I outgrew her, she kept
the cock head inside, sucking vigorously, while her fingers played the shaft
like a flute.

My eyes rolled back in my head as she went to town going down on me. Every so
often she'd pop off of me and lick up and down the shaft, once she went all the
way down and gently mouthed my balls.

The most amazing feeling was when she swallowed my cock as far as she could,
held it  there and hummed "Islands in the Stream." With two encores.

She finally brought me off with some rapid bobbing of her head. I drove my
hands through her wig to press her further onto me and fucked her mouth for all
I was worth.

I was close, close, aching for release. Dolly's head was flying, her lips
sealed to my shaft.

At last it arrived, another mind-bending orgasm. Dolly took my whole load and
pumped me dry, sucking me like a straw until I shriveled and fell out.

She dutifully gargled my cum before swallowing it all. When she was done, she
looked down at my cock and laughed.

I followed her gaze. My dick was bright red from top to bottom, even my scrotum
-- the exact same shade as the lipstick now smeared across Dolly's face.

I smiled ruefully.

"Sorry, Doc," she whispered. "I couldn't help it."

"Why are you whispering?"

"I didn't want to strain my voice. Shouldn't I be resting it?"

"If it doesn't work now, you're not singing tonight anyway," I said, mustering
whatever professional gravitas I could while naked. "Might as well let it rip."

"Really? Hey!" Her voice was normal again.

"Really. Try a song, if you want."

"A song?" She smiled. "I've got just the one. Learned it from a good 'ol
country boy. Well, here goes nothin'"

Luckily, that relief pitcher's arm turned out to be completely shot. Not so
lucky for him. Or for the team. But lucky for me, because it kept my colleague
occupied all night, so he never returned to his office. It would have been
awkward enough if he'd caught me in flagrante. But I don't think I'd ever have
lived it down if he'd walked in at the end to find me nude, genitals bright
red, with Dolly Parton standing in front of me.

Belting out "Great Balls of Fire."