SMALL TOWN UROLOGIST By Red Cullions Dr. Murphy is new in town, and he's late. Half an hour after I'm ushered into one of those icy examination cubicles he comes puffing in. Hard to be put out, though, he's so ingratiatingly handsome in a touseled, blue-eyed, sandy-haired sort of way. Tiny drops of perspiration crust his wide brush moustache, and it's plain from the bare neck and wrists that he's wearing no shirt under his white lab coat. The latter is a bit snug in the chest and arms, so that the cotton ripples when he flexes a muscle or two. The coat covers his hips, but below it gray sweat pants cling to well-muscled legs. Bare ankles. Adidas. As my glance takes in his whole outfit, Murphy smiles. "I work out in the gym next door every morning. I'm running late today, didn't have time to change." Then it's "patient history" time, filling out forms. I'm 28, single, sexually frustrated, having trouble urinating occasionally, want to know why. Must be routine for a urologist in this bible-belt town. While he scribbles on a clipboard, he leans back in his swivel chair and I watch his thighs spread wide, displaying a huge basket in the crotch of his sweats. When I look up, he smiles broadly. "Let's have a look at you." Spreading his knees, he motions me toward him. As I stand close he whips open my jeans and lets them drop; I'm wearing boxers, and he drops them too. "Spread your legs," he says, and my thighs brush against his knees as I comply as well as I can with my jeans around my ankles. He palpates my testicles, pulls back my foreskin, squeezes the tip of my prick so the piss slit opens. Then he takes a cotton swab and shoves it a couple of inches into my urethra, twirls it, and puts it into a test tube. "Looks clean," he says, "But we'd better have that checked in the lab." "You don't look diseased," he comments, "so we'll look for other causes. I need to check your prostate. Better step out of those jeans, turn around and spread your cheeks." While I do this I sneak another look at the doctor's crotch; can't be sure, but there may be a spot of moisture along the bulge, which seems to be growing. By the time I'm spread open for his probe I've got a hard-on, and I make sure he sees it. "Does this bother you?" he asks as he slips a long, bony, gloved finger up my anus. "No, it doesn't," I reply honestly. "It turns me on." "Hmmm." Most docs get a finger into you and out again in seconds. It's a full minute before I realize this one is finger-fucking me, and then it's because he has TWO fingers in there now. I moan a little, appreciatively. "Rings are nicely stretched," he says. "You ever take it up the ass?" "When I can get it," I answer. "But that's not often in this hick town." "You're in luck, friend." He turns his back to me and says, "The zipper, pull it down." When I do this the jacket splits open and a torso right out of *Strength and Health* appears. Then the gray sweats slide easily over his hips to reveal the most incredibly sexy crotch I've ever seen, or even imagined in all my j-o fantasies. The foot-long red-brown cock is richly veined, and dripping now with seminal fluid. "Get me wet," he orders, and I slide as much of his cock as I can take down my throat. When I come up for air, I run my slobbering tongue along the length of it, down to the hairy base, and slip one big furry ball into my mouth, then the other. "Good man. Now lie back on the table, and lift your legs." I do that. He grabs my legs and pulls my butt down over the bottom edge of the table, then spreads me wide as he shoves his cock against my hole. "Drill me slow and easy," I beg. "I've never had anybody as big as you." "Right." The penetration is cosmic; he does it slow, but I think he'll never stop coming in. I get fuller and fuller, gasp for breath, almost think I can taste him in my throat before he says "You got it, buddy, all there is." He grinds his balls against my butt. "I can take it Doc. Fuck me." Doc knows his business; the fuck is long and sweet and almost silent. The penile massage of my prostate is the most pleasurable sensation of my life, and my orgasm builds and builds until I explode in geysers, onto the wall behind me, all over Doc's face and chest, puddling finally in my belly button. Doc's climax begins just as mine subsides, and I experience a second rush as waves of hot gism fill my gut, and dribble out my ass onto the floor. When he is spent, Doc gathers me in his incredible arms and kisses my lips and tongue, then licks my belly down to my crotch. "Thanks, buddy," he whispers. Assuming a professional tone, he continues: "Sexual frustration may cause swelling of the prostate, which in turn interrupts the easy flow of urine through the penis. When this happens, prostate massage is indicated. If you experience difficulty urinating in the future, come to me for treatment." He smiles, a huge, conspiratorial, shit-eating grin. "I always follow doctor's orders," I grin back. We wipe off and dress quickly. I help him zip his lab coat while he scribbles on my forms, and hands me a copy. The bottom line says "no charge." "Hey Doc," I call as he's leaving, "I've got insurance. I can pay." "I want more out of you than Blue Cross will allow," he answers, scribbling a phone number on the back of a card. He hands it to me, murmuring "call me soon," and then he's out the door.