Page 21 of Plentywood
“What’s next?” he asked, breathing deep before slowly inhaling.
“Do you perform self-exams?” I asked.
“Like on my junk?”
“Your testicles, yes,” I corrected. “Do you examine them in the shower periodically to check for any abnormal growths that feel like they’re in your scrotum and shouldn’t be there?”
“I do not.”
I reached forward and held his scrotum, seeking his testicles individually and rolling them around in my hand while I looked past him, over his shoulder, and at the wall. Because I wasn’t looking at his privates, somethingnotneeded as I used my hands to make a determination, I was caught off guard when his thick erection flopped against my forearm.
“Sorry, doc,” he whispered. “That felt… uhm… felt… unexpectedly good.”
I glanced down at his engorged cock. The purple head of it had expanded to plum size and his testicles had shrunk up after he became hard. “Normal,” I stated. “It happens,” I added, doing my best to stay focused, even though his cock had me excited. “Please stand and then turn around and lean over the table.”
Charlie slid off the exam table, his cock bouncing up and down, the tip going higher than his naval. I gulped, hopefully silently. He bent over the exam table and spread his stance apart. I wasn’t a top, but holy fuck, he had a stunning ass. His ass was smooth and white, rock solid, with tan lines in the perfect place to accentuate incredibly muscled ass cheeks.
“Be gentle, doc,” he said, turning back over his shoulder and grinning. “I know. I know,” he corrected. “Just asking as a patient. Not a creep.”
He flinched when I snapped the latex fingers of my glove. Reaching to my left for theKY Jellyon the countertop, I untwisted the tube and squeezed an ample amount on my index finger.
“Please, just relax,” I said, laying a hand on his lower back to support him. “You will feel my finger going in as I examine your prostate, but I will be careful.”
Locating his anus, I gently pushed past his resistance and gave him a moment to breathe before I continued my examination. Based on my professional experience, he was not an experienced bottom. He was as resistant as I had expected. I probed delicately in search of his prostate, moving in a circle and proceeding further into him.
Charlie’s stance shifted, and he gently moved his hips while I continued to locate his prostate. I wasn’t sure if I was nervous, but I was having trouble finding his gland. What was probably only a few seconds felt like minutes before I found what I was looking for.
The moment I pressed on the gland, he involuntarily convulsed. “Oh, fuck!” he cried out, gripping the edges of the exam table and tremoring. “Shit! I just came!” he exclaimed, backing away from the table and standing upright.
I glanced down at his dripping cock, his thighs, and the floor splattered with his semen. “Do you orgasm this easily as a norm?” I inquired, desperate to keep things professional. “Please don’t be embarrassed, Charlie. You wouldn’t be the first to react this way.”
He grinned and locked eyes with me. “Trust me, I am not embarrassed. That was fucking incredible.”
I tossed the lubed glove into the small trash receptacle and grabbed his file. “Get dressed,” I said. “Nurse Agnes will draw your blood.”
“Would this be an awkward time to ask you for a date?”
I walked out the door, leaning against the wall of the main office area. Agnes watched as I exhaled and closed my eyes for a moment, trying my hardest to shake off what had just happened.
“I warned you, doc.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Hunter
The Sheriff’s station was the only building on the block that wasn’t attached to the business beside it. Built new about ten years before, it’d been relocated nearer the entrance to town and had a more modern flare, something that pissed off the old timers to no end.
The town’s only gas station was a standalone building too, but it was technically not on the main drag of town. Harry’s Chevron station was on a side street named after a former mayor, just where Main begins.
Main Street is two blocks long, with businesses on either side of the street. Half of the storefronts have been closed for decades. Every once and a while, some local fancies themselves a business owner, and unlike history has proved time and again, they’re convinced their business idea will be a big success.
Millie Hunt had a real nice quilting store right next to the busiest business in town, the drugstore, and she had failed within a year. Then, one of the younger married couples had traveled over to Seattle for a week’s vacation and an Alaskan cruise, only to discover bubble tea while in Seattle. They’d found it the best thing since the chocolate chip cookie, so they had the idea that Plentywood would just love it too. We hadn’t. Rumor had it most folks didn’t like the small black pearls of something squishy that sat on the bottom of the drink.
The Sheriff’s station had plenty of parking in front, and a place for Sheriff’s department vehicles to be parked around back, a secure fence protecting county property. We had three Chevy Tahoe’s. One for me and one for each of my deputies. We weren’t sure where the county got the money for three brand-new vehicles, all decked out with expensive law enforcement equipment, but we didn’t ask questions when the governor came to brag about getting the funds.
Jerry Hill was the oldest member of my team. He’d been around for decades and all he spoke about was surviving three more years so he could get his fat pension and do nothing for the rest of his life. His wife Hazel had big dreams of cruising the seven seas. I’d heard her telling folks at the diner that she’d go alone if Jerry didn’t get off the couch.
Cassandra Johnson was a few years older than me. We call her Cass. She’s as wide as she is tall, and no one fucks with her. She used to wrestle cattle at the rodeo when she was younger and a hundred pounds or so lighter, and she was still as strong as an ox.
I figured she was a lesbian due to how much tobacco she chewed, and the stompy way she carried herself, but I’d been wrong. She married the mousiest guy I’d ever seen in my life. Butch, her husband, couldn’t register a hundred pounds on a scale, even if he had a ten-pound bag of sugar in his hand.
