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Miguel’s legs almost touch the floor, even when the sheeted doctor’s exam chair is lifted from the ground. The cold, drab gown they’d given him is also just small enough to tightly hug his chest and biceps. His hands and claws dig into the squishy material underneath him, eyebrows pulled together as he’s forced to listen to Lyla blab about the importance of this appointment.
“Lyla—” He cuts her off, waving at her form—even though it fazes through her. “I know why it’s important, but a scan would be much faster.” The technology was developed enough for that, and they both knew it. The look in Lyla’s eyes, paired with the faint dimple in her cheek, told Miguel she was up to no good.
“Miggyyyyyy, I already set up the appointment, and we’d be wasting the doctor’s effort if he got all this ready, just for you to chicken out.” Her arms are crossed as she slumps in the air, pouting.
“‘Chicken out’?” He huffs. “I am not afraid, Lyla.”
“Mmmmmm ‘kay… whatever you say.”
“Lyla—”
The doctor walks in before Miguel can growl out another response.
He’s handsome, Miguel can admit. Soft green eyes, shaped eyebrows, and tinted pink lips. A healthy stature of someone who knows how to take care of themselves. Miguel blinks, clearing his throat to stop staring and to acknowledge the doctor. “Hello.”
“Hi! Miguel O’Hara, correct?” His teeth are just as straight as Miguel has imagined.
“Uh…” Miguel debates using his cover name—Micheal—but he gives in to hear his name in that voice again. “Y- Yes, yes, that’s correct.”
“Would you like Mr. O’Hara, or is Miguel okay?”
“Miguel is fine.”
The doctor gives a soft nod, barely glancing at Lyla as he grabs blue latex gloves from a small box against the wall. “Great. Alright, Miguel, you’re here for a physical today. Usually around your age, all men get one of these, so don’t feel embarrassed about any of it. Of course, if something becomes uncomfortable for you, please let me know.”
Miguel only grunts in response, watching the doctor’s every move. Medical rooms have always been… iffy for Miguel. He can’t stand the idea of being prodded at; his palms prickle and he shifts, clenching his hands.
His eyes are tested, then his hearing and heart rate. The doctor praises him on how well he’s taking care of his body, being able to build such muscle, and Miguel doesn’t know how to respond besides a soft, “ah— thank you….” He hopes he’s not blushing.
A rubber hammer comes out from a drawer, and the doctor weighs it in his hand. “I’m going to test your reflexes now. Just relax.”
Miguel relaxes. Well, he tries to relax, but his gaze is so focused on that hammer, once it taps against his knee, his leg doesn’t move.
The doctor gives an unsatisfied hum.
Lyla decides now is the perfect time to speak. “Did you know there are an infinite amount of reflexes for humans to develop? There’s ones that only infants have that die down with age, but some can be trained and developed through childhood or even adulthood?”
Miguel looks at her floating form, a crinkle in his lip. “You tell me this, even though you are aware I am basically a—” A soft jolt of his leg startles him, and he glances back down to see the doctor smirking.
“Thank you.” The doctor nods to Lyla as he straightens up, and Lyla takes it with pride, sticking her tongue out at Miguel. “Now, lay down for me, please.”
Miguel leans back until his back is flat against the crunchy paper, shifting unconsciously.
The doctor steps over to the side of the table, reaching over and undoing the velcro of the gown above Miguel’s stomach. His cold, gloved hands slip underneath, brushing Miguel’s abdomen, and he starts gently pushing and feeling around. Miguel tries his best to block out the touch, closing his eyes.
After a moment, the doctor hums and takes his hands away. “Looks like you’re good!”
Please forget, please forget…
“Let’s have you flip over, okay? Scoot down so you can stand and the table will support your arms and chest.”
Shock.
With hesitation, Miguel twists and slips his legs over the edge, the tops of his thighs pressing against the semi-squishy material. He doesn't know how to position his hands, so he just lays them by his head, his claws already starting to poke out of his fingers. He presses them into his palm, attempting to calm himself.
The gown covers his back and ass—bare underneath the thin material—for a second before the doctor pushes it up and aside casually. It reminds Miguel that this guy has probably done this hundreds of times, and that should be giving him some comfort. It doesn’t.
The doctor is silent as Miguel hears him shift right behind his ass. Then he clears his throat.
“I’m going to rest my hand on you, right here.” A warm hand presses to his lower back, patting him for a moment. “And this’ll feel strange—and cold—but bear with me, okay?”
Miguel only grunts and nods, his chest tightening. Lyla pops into existence in front of his eyes, giving him a thumbs up.
The huff he readies gets cut off as a cold, slick finger presses and swipes over his tight ring of muscle. Miguel jolts in surprise, and the doctor must’ve known it would happen as the hand on his lower back keeps him still.
The finger slips in agonizingly slow. It doesn’t hurt, though, only strange and invading. Miguel bites his cheek, taking a deep breath.
It starts to move and Miguel wiggles with it. The hand on top of him continues to hold him still, neither pressuring nor sympathizing.
“Are you sexually active?” The doctor’s voice bleeds through the thumping in Miguel’s ears.
“Uh… yes. I- I am not, ah, the receiving one…” Miguel grits out, swallowing thickly. His cheeks finally turn red with the admission. Did he need to clarify that? Lyla’s stifled laugh tells him he didn’t. At least someone is getting enjoyment out of this.
The doctor only hums once more before that finger drives forward, suddenly searching.
A noise scrambles out from Miguel’s throat, surprise and stress and embarrassment mixing all together. The doctor takes no notice.
Miguel shoves down a whimper, thighs tightening and ass clenching. Again, the doctor doesn’t voice any concerns.
Then— lightning. Up and down Miguel’s spine; to his brain, to his stomach. He sucks in a sharp breath, then chokes out a groan as it happens again, goosebumps raising over his skin. His eyes widen.
“There we are.” The doctor’s slow, smooth voice accompanied by another press makes Miguel twitch. “Feels nice and healthy. No swelling.”
Miguel doesn’t know if he’s supposed to respond, so he stays quiet—as quiet as he can when the pleasure starts to build, high-pitched whines leaving his lips. His head drops, lips parted as he presses his forehead to his curling hands. His claws dig into the table beneath.
It’s when his dick rouses that panic truly sets in.
And for some damn reason, it’s the only thing the doctor takes notice of.
“Natural responses.”
Another press and brush. Another twitch from his cock.
Stop, please… god—
The slick finger pulls out then, and Miguel’s legs almost buckle from underneath him. The hand on his lower back gives a single pat before the heat of the doctor moves away from him.
“Everything looks good! I trust your AI companion will take care of anything else, hm?” The doctor chuckles, and shock, it only arouses Miguel more, his cock already half-mast. He needs to get out of here.
Lyla gives a salute, a cheeky grin on her face. “You bet, doc!”
—
It’s only once he has Lyla go into sleep mode back in his lab that Miguel touches himself. He slumps against the floating desk, orange lighting around him illuminating his white-knuckled grip around his leaking dick.
He finally lets out a moan, eyebrows pinching together as his eyes flutter shut.
The memories—of the clinical touch, the unending pressure against that spot inside him, the way his muscles easily yielded and took it—all of them rush back to him.
He quickly comes with a surprised gasp, eyes rolling, white ropes spattering onto the expensive tech in front of him. He heaves for a couple minutes, then runs his other hand through his hair. “Shock…”