The Lost Generation Chapter 5
5
The room was small and fluorescent-lit. Containing a desk, examination table and various apparatus, it looked no different to any other doctor's Sam had visited, and nor did the man sat writing. Sam did not notice the large, square mirror on the wall. When the man spoke it was curt and firm, not at all reassuring as you might hope from a doctor. "Please, sit down," sounded more like an instruction than an invitation and he did not look up as he spoke.
"This will be a short, routine medical, required by law in support of your induction, do you understand?"
"Er, yes," said Sam.
"Yes Sir" the man corrected, sharply.
"Yes Sir," Sam repeated, a little confused by calling a Doctor `Sir'.
"Good. You are Sam Pearson, yes?"
"Yes Sir."
"Good. You are twenty today, correct?"
"Yes Sir," said Sam again, already tiring of these stupid questions. There were no more, though, and the medical began in earnest. His height and weight were recorded, blood samples and mouth swabs were taken and his eyes, ears and teeth were thoroughly examined. As the doctor took his seat, Sam thought it signaled the conclusion of the medical but as he wrote, the Doctor spoke again.
"For the next stage, please undress and stand with your arms out to the side and your feet shoulder-width apart."
Sam was startled. What!? He began looking around for a screen behind which to undress, but there was nothing. "Now, Mr. Pearson, please," the doctor commanded, sternly, looking up and peering at him over his glasses. "You do not possess anything I have not seen before and I have other people to see so do not dawdle."
Slowly Sam rose and began to unbutton his shirt, taken aback as much by the man's tone and directness as the instruction itself. By the time he slid down his boxers and added them to the pile of clothes on the chair, he was trembling slightly and desperate to cover his modesty with his hands. As he shuffled to the centre of the room, though, the man looked over his glasses again and Sam thought better of it, despite being unable to think of any consequence this man could possibly deliver. He stood in the position as directed and the Doctor set about him with a tape measuring what felt like every piece of him. The circumference of his head and neck, the span of his arms, the size of his feet, length of his fingers, his waist, his hips, his chest, his shoulders, his thigh, his in-seam and lastly, delicately, the length of his flaccid penis, sat snug beneath his coarse, dark pubis, disliking both the attention and the cold of the room. He flushed a little when the Doctor read out "4 centimetres" and wrote it down.
Embarrassment soon gave way to explicit humiliation, however, as he was guided to one of the apparatus and stood with his chest flush against a leather-padded board and his nipples resting atop it. From one side the Doctor produced a solid rubber bar attached to a wire and placed it in Sam's mouth. The Doctor typed away from behind then suddenly the machine whirred into life. The thing that had pressed into his upper chest began to move slowly downwards. A firm hand pressed between his shoulder blades. Gradually the machine clamped down on his nipples and he groaned. It did not relent and the pain grew and grew as it tightened and he struggled and cried out in agony.
Then it was gone. The machine freed him, the hand left his back and he stepped backwards, weak with pain, letting the bar fall from his mouth. "Lie on the bed please, Mr. Pearson," the doctor said, quite unfazed. Too sore and confused to argue, Sam did so, as leather cuffs on chains were produced from the beneath the bed and buckled around his wrists and ankles. A thick strap was also drawn across his stomach and fastened firmly. His mind raced as he struggled to think of a reason why this was necessary and he squirmed in protest. The chains were taught and the buckles sturdy, though, and he made no difference to his bindings.
"What the fuck... What's this for?" he said, exasperated.
"Safety, Mr. Pearson. Safety," the doctor replied, "now please stay still," he added, as he pulled on rubber gloves and gently drew back Sam's foreskin. It tingled as he swabbed beneath the soft, mushroomed head and stung much worse when he slid the opposite end of the swab down the hole. Sam tensed in the chains and grimaced.
"All done, Mr. Pearson. Just a routine STD test," the doctor said. "You're almost finished."
Sam wondered what could possibly still be to come -- he was already naked, embarrassed, humiliated, patronised. Still confused as to what it was all for. He felt a sudden pang of fear.
"You have refrained from masturbation for 24 hours as instructed, yes?" the doctor said, looking over at the naked boy. Sam nodded. "Yes Sir."
"Good."
"Why?"
The doctor did not answer, instead rolling across the room on his chair and again taking Sam's penis in his hand. The hand was slick this time, though, and it squeezed and rolled and tugged and grasped at his four centimetre softness until it, too, was slick, and shiny and, soon, standing rigid from his body, throbbing, thick and flushed. Sam, though moaning at the sensation, was mortified. He started to apologise but as the doctor pulled a tape measure from his pocket, it dawned on him that it was all intentional. Satisfied with his measurement, the doctor reached under the bed again and produced a clear plastic tube, open and padded at one end and attached to wires and tubes at the other. He slid it over Sam's erection and flicked a switch somewhere under the bed. Immediately the lining of the tube gripped the hard cock and the tube began to rise and fall to a steady rhythm of clicks and gasps from a machine somewhere. Sam could only lie helpless as the contraption worked on his crotch, speeding and slowing, edging him closer and closer to further humiliation. He pushed his head back; arched his back against the strap holding him; gasped and panted, as the merciless tube rocked violently on his cock. Sweat glistened on his brow and chest. Sensations like he'd never known flooded through him as the milking machine drew him to the threshold of climax and held him there; in torment; in ecstasy; in mindblowing, excruciating agony. And then it came. He tipped over the cliff-edge and bucked wildly, thrashing the chains, as he shot time after time into the rubber sheath. As it slowed to a halt he slumped in his shackles, breathless and spent, glistening and burning with shame. The doctor, though, was unfazed and removed the tube, unbuckled the cuffs and passed Sam a tissue to clean himself with. He did so, trembling, and stood to reach for his clothes.
"No, Mr. Pearson, you are not to dress," the doctor said, curtly, "this will be all you require for now," he added, tossing a garment at him. Sam unfolded it and sighed. It was a backless hospital gown, made of a soft, cold plastic rather than cloth. He reluctantly shrugged it on and fumbled to tie it behind his waist. `Now what?' he thought.