The fluorescent lights hum overhead, that familiar hospital drone I've learned to tune out during the countless hours I’ve spent on shift. Room 435 sits empty at the end of the hall—no patient chart on the door, no beeping monitors, just the sterile smell of antiseptic and the faint crease of fresh sheets on the patient bed.
Dr. Sterling closes the door behind us. The click of the latch seems louder than it should.
"Prostate exams," he says, rolling up his sleeves with practiced efficiency. "One of the most common procedures you'll perform, and yet most residents fumble through it like they're searching for loose change in a dark pocket."
I stand near the counter, arms crossed, trying to look more confident than I feel. Three weeks into my rotation, and Dr. Sterling still makes me nervous. Not because he's harsh—he isn't—but because he notices everything. Every hesitation, every uncertain glance, every time my hands tremble during sutures.
"Today we're going to fix that." He reaches for the tie on his scrubs.
"The best way to learn is hands-on." His fingers work the loop, the fabric whispering against his calloused hands. "Can't very well ask a patient to let a student practice repeatedly. That gets uncomfortable for them. I've found that attending physicians make better subjects anyway," he continues, his tone clinical, matter-of-fact. "We can tell you what we're feeling. Guide you in real-time."
My throat tightens. "You want me to—"
"To examine me. Yes." Dr. Sterling meets my eyes, and there's no trace of discomfort in his expression. Just that characteristic steadiness, the same calm he maintains during trauma codes. "Pants down, bent over the table. Standard positioning. You'll glove up, lubricate, and perform the exam exactly as you would with any patient."
I think to ask if this is normal. But I'm a second-year med student, and he's the attending, and questioning his teaching methods feels like a line I shouldn't cross.
His pants drop to his ankles. Dark blue boxer briefs underneath, stretched taut across muscular thighs. He steps out of the slacks, folds them neatly, places them on the counter beside the nitrile gloves.
"There's lubricant in the third drawer. Gloves in the box."
I move on autopilot. Retrieve the supplies. My hands are steady as I pull on the nitrile, but my pulse thuds against my collar.
When I turn back, Dr. Sterling is naked. He's folded the boxer briefs and put them with his scrubs. His ass is pale, firm, dusted with dark hair across the cheeks. It hasn’t gone grey as quickly as the hair on his face and at his temples. He bends over the examination table, palms flat on the sheet, weight shifting forward.
"Start with visual inspection," he says, voice slightly muffled by his position. "Note any abnormalities. Skin lesions. External hemorrhoids. Anything out of the ordinary."
I step closer. The thin mattress crinkles under his shifting weight.
"Everything looks...normal, sir."
"Good. Now position your finger. Use plenty of lubricant—we don't want unnecessary discomfort."
The gel is cold against my gloved fingertip. I coat it thoroughly, add more for good measure. Behind me, the air conditioning clicks on, sending a stream of cool air across the back of my neck that makes me shiver.
"I'm going to insert now," I say.
"Slowly. Apply steady pressure against the sphincter. Let it relax around you."
I press my index finger to his entrance. The muscle resists at first—tight, protective. I maintain pressure, and slowly, incrementally, he opens. The tip of my finger slides inside.
Warm. Tighter than I expected. The walls of his channel grip my digit like they're reluctant to let it pass.
"Good," Dr. Sterling says, and the word comes out slightly breathier than his usual clinical tone. "Add a second finger. You'll need the width for proper palpation."
I withdraw slightly, add the middle finger, press forward again. This time the stretch is more noticeable—his rim widening around the dual intrusion. My knuckles press against his cheeks, and I'm in to the base.
"Curve your fingers," he instructs. "Toward the anterior wall. Approximately three to four centimeters inside. You're looking for a firm, rubbery nodule. About the size of a walnut."
I adjust my angle. Search with my fingertips. The interior of his guts is slick with lubricant, warm and alive in a way no textbook prepared me for.
"There," he says suddenly. "You feel that?"
I do. A firm bulge beneath the pad of my finger. Distinct from the surrounding tissue—denser, more structured.
"That's the prostate," Dr. Sterling says. "Note the consistency. Symmetry. Any nodules or areas of induration could indicate pathology."
I trace the curve of the gland. Map its edges with my fingertips. The texture fascinates me—firm but yielding, somewhere between muscle and gland.
"Good technique," he adds. "Now apply gentle pressure. Assess for tenderness."
Dr. Sterling's breath catches.
I freeze. "Did I hurt you?"
"No." The word comes quickly. Too quickly. "Continue the examination."
I press again, more deliberately this time. My fingers sink slightly into the tissue of the gland, and I feel his internal muscles clench around me in response.
"Describe what you're feeling," he says, but his voice has changed. Lower. Tighter. The clinical edge is fraying.
"Firm, symmetric," I recite, my focus on the anatomy. "Approximately three centimeters in diameter. Smooth surface. No nodules."
I massage the gland experimentally, tracing its outline, pressing into its center. The texture is hypnotic—the way it yields and rebounds, the subtle variations in density.
"Good." His breathing is shallow now. Quick. "That's... sufficient."
But I don't stop. I'm fascinated by the way his walls grip my fingers, how the muscle flutters when I apply pressure to certain spots. The rim of his hole stretched around my knuckles, pink and slick. The way his body seems to draw me deeper.
"Mr. Harris." He addresses me like it’s a warning.
I snap back to attention. The sheets beneath Dr. Sterling's hands are crumpled where his fingers have twisted into it. His shoulders are rigid, his spine a taut line of tension. And his breathing—ragged, controlled, like he's fighting to keep each inhale even.
I've been massaging his prostate for...I don't know how long. Minutes, maybe. My fingers have been working the gland in slow circles without conscious thought.
"Sorry, sir." I start to withdraw.
I pause, fingertips still pressed against the swollen nodule.
Dr. Sterling's voice is barely above a whisper. "You're not done with the examination."
I look down. Between his legs, visible in the gap beneath his bent torso, his cock hangs heavy and hard.
"I didn't realize—" I start.
"You're learning," he interrupts. "This happens. The prostate is...sensitive. Continue the exam."
My fingers are still inside him, still curved against that firm bundle of tissue, and his body is trembling with the effort of holding still.
I press again. Watch his cock twitch in response.
"Fuck," he breathes, the profanity cracking his professional composure.
The power dynamic shifts. He's the attending, my superior, but in this moment—with my fingers buried in his ass and his dick hard between his thighs—he's something else entirely. Vulnerable. Wanting.
I reach between his legs with my free hand.
"Mr. Harris—" he starts, another warning. I’m not a doctor yet, but I find myself wanting him to call me Dr. Harris in that wrecked voice.
I wrap my fingers around his cock. It's hot, velvety, pulsing against my palm. He groans, low and desperate, his forehead dropping forward.
"Tell me to stop," I say.
Silence. His hips rock forward into my grip, then back onto my fingers. The motion is small, involuntary, his body chasing sensation despite itself.
My hand works his shaft in long, steady pulls while my other hand continues massaging his prostate. The dual stimulation makes him shake. His internal muscles clench around my fingers in rhythmic waves.
"Ah—" The sound escapes him, raw and uncontrolled. His cock leaks steadily now, slicking my grip. "You'll make me—"
I press deeper into his prostate, rub firm circles against the gland. He jerks, gasps, his whole body drawing tight.
"Come on," I murmur. "Let go."
He comes with a strangled noise, his hole clenching around my fingers as his cock pulses in my hand. Thick spurts hit the paper sheet, the cabinet, dripping down my knuckles. I work him through it, milking his prostate until the last tremor fades and his legs threaten to give out.
Slowly, I withdraw my fingers. Peel off the soiled glove. Dr. Sterling remains bent over the table, breathing hard, his face hidden.
Then he straightens, turns away as he reaches for his clothes. His face is flushed deep red, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the wall. He doesn't look at me.
"Good examination technique," he says, his voice hoarse but steady. "You found the landmark efficiently. Applied appropriate pressure."
He pulls on his underwear, his scrubs, tying them on with fingers that don't quite cooperate.
"I'll note your proficiency in your evaluation."
He pauses, hand on the frame.
"Will there be more practice sessions?" I ask.
A beat. His shoulders shift.
"We'll see." He steps into the hallway, the door swinging shut behind him.
I stand alone in the empty room, the scent of sex and antiseptic mingling in the sterile air. My hands tremble as I strip off the remaining glove.
