Primary Care, Primary Embarrassment

So here’s the thing. I am terrible at adulting. I will ignore emails, forget appointments, and absolutely avoid calling a doctor unless someone makes me. That someone is my girlfriend.

She handles it. She makes the appointments. I show up like a well-managed pet.

I had a new primary care visit last week. Just routine stuff. Before I left, she handed me a pair of her pretty pink lace panties and said, “Wear these. So you have a little piece of me with you.”

I thought it was cute. Maybe mildly humiliating if I somehow flashed waistband. But I figured I wouldn’t even have to take my pants off.

Then they told me it was a full exam.

I got handed one of those flimsy gowns and told to strip down to my underwear. Which, again, were lace. Pink lace. And underneath that? My cage. Shiny. Obvious. Not subtle in the slightest.

I’m sitting there on that crinkly paper like a fool when the doctor walks in.

And it’s someone we know.

She’s my girlfriend’s friend. We’d been at a party together a month ago. Totally normal social vibe. Now she’s holding a clipboard while I’m in lace and metal.

To her credit, she did not blink. Professional voice. Calm demeanor. Straight into medical mode. Blood pressure. Heart. Lungs. The usual.

Then came the moment.

She said she needed to complete the exam, and that meant I had to turn around and lower my underwear.
I bent forward, the cool air hitting my exposed skin as I peeled the damp pink lace down my thighs. My cage felt impossibly heavy between my legs, the metal catching the harsh light. “Just relax,” she murmured, her latex-covered finger pressing against my entrance. I gasped as she pushed inside me, my body instinctively clenching around her. She worked methodically, her finger curling upward to stroke my prostate with deliberate pressure. Each circular motion sent electric jolts through my trapped cock, making it strain helplessly against its metal confines as clear fluid beaded at the tip.

And yes, she asked questions. Her voice remained clinical while her eyes lingered on the metal cage constraining my swollen flesh. “Any discomfort during arousal?” she asked, her latex finger tracing the edge where metal met sensitive skin. “Chafing at the base ring?” I felt myself pulse against the cage as she adjusted it slightly, ostensibly examining for proper fit. “How often does your partner allow removal for cleaning?”

Each question made my breath catch as her gloved hands moved with professional precision that somehow felt like foreplay. I answered in short, strained sentences, my voice betraying my arousal while pre-cum leaked steadily from the cage’s end slit. My girlfriend’s lace panties were now completely soaked through at the front, clinging to the outline of my cage. When she finally stepped back, I could see a slight flush across her neck despite her composed expression. She handed me a prescription for my allergies and said, “You can get dressed now,” her voice dropping to a whisper that felt intimate in the sterile room.

And then she stayed in the room. Facing the computer. Typing. Pretending not to watch as I wrestled my pink lace back into place and adjusted the cage before pulling up my jeans.

My face was on fire. My ears were burning. I could feel the heat in my cheeks.

It was humiliating.

It was unnecessary.

And it was, somehow, incredibly hot.