The medical checkup my brother-in-law couldn’t refuse

Since that afternoon in the office, my relationship with my brother-in-law had entered a silent cold war. Over the last few months we’d crossed paths at a couple of family meals, keeping up appearances in front of Mateo and Noa with a fake naturalness that I found deliciously perverse. Hugo was still the upgraded version of my husband, but I no longer looked at him with the innocence I once had.

Now, whenever my gaze traveled over his body, it always stopped at his hands. They were the thing I liked most about him out of everything you could see with clothes on. Long, firm fingers that betrayed his nervousness every time I held his stare a second longer than necessary. He liked to imagine himself in control, and that was precisely what I enjoyed tearing apart.

He came to see us on a Wednesday midmorning, taking advantage of Noa’s work trip. He was on leave: he’d had a vasectomy three days earlier. I opened the door and helped him with his suitcase. Mateo had the day off and was stretched out in the living room.

When Hugo looked up at me, his eyes went wide for a split second, betraying the panic of someone reliving what had happened that afternoon all over again. He was noticeably limping.

“Sis-in-law, how are you?” he managed to greet me, scrambling to compose himself enough to give me two stiff kisses.

I kept my perfect-hostess mask intact.

“I’m very well. You, on the other hand, walk like the Hunchback of Notre Dame,” I teased with precisely measured calm. “The first few days are rough, right?”

“Pretty rough. I can’t lift anything, and the rubbing when I walk is driving me insane,” he admitted with a grimace.

Mateo got up from the sofa to hug him, giving him that pat on the back from someone who’d already been through the same ordeal.

“Well, well, the eunuch! Welcome to the club,” my husband said with a grin.

“You’re such an asshole. Honestly, I’m a bit worried about the healing. I’d never been anywhere near an operating room before, and it looks a weird color, strange shapes… Like the stitches aren’t healing right.”

“Then Vera can have a look at it,” Mateo cut in as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “She did my aftercare when I had my surgery. She’s got a master’s degree in split scrotums.”

“Vera is going to look at it?!” Hugo blurted, staring at me in genuine horror.

“What do you want me to say? I’m not going to check it myself, I feel faint just looking at the wound,” my husband declared with a shrug.

“Look, you two weaklings,” I said, taking the reins with a smile only I understood. “I’m not a nurse, but I’ve been through this before and I know what it should look like. When you shower, I’ll take a look and we’ll all be reassured.”

“Well. If you don’t mind… I’m terribly embarrassed,” he finally gave in, visibly flushed.

There was the first surrender. The rest would come on their own.

***

After lunch, Hugo retired to the guest room—the same one as the office—to take a shower in the adjoining bathroom. Mateo and I stayed in the living room. When the water stopped running, my husband stood up.

“Let’s inspect this complainer before the damn thing gangrenes,” he said, heading down the hall.

I followed him, my heart flipping over. The idea of seeing my brother-in-law’s imposing cock again turned me on, and having my husband there, far from tying my hands, made it even hotter. Subduing Hugo in front of his own blood, with him unable to object, was a temptation I had no intention of passing up. I could feel my panties getting wet just imagining the scene. I was going to have him naked, with his dick in my hands, obeying me in front of Mateo, and he wasn’t going to be able to say a single word.

We went in. Hugo was sitting on the edge of the bed, freshly dried off, with a towel wrapped around his waist like a kilt.

“What do you need?” he asked when he saw me walk in with a little case in my hands, tensing as he watched his brother sit comfortably in the desk chair.

“Sterile gauze, some chlorhexidine, and a pair of nitrile gloves we had left over from the pandemic,” I listed, coming closer while I slipped on the blue protection.

The elastic snap echoed in the room and gave the whole scene a clinical, almost ridiculous air. He caught his breath at that sound. I’d heard it a thousand times in a consultation room, but never directed at him like that.

“Lie back a little farther, lean against the headboard properly, and let me have good light,” I ordered.

I set the first-aid kit on the mattress. He spread his legs so I could stand between them, leaning over his lap. Mateo watched the scene from a couple of meters away, arms crossed, completely oblivious to what was really happening there.

“Come on, unwrap it. We’ve already seen anything there is to see,” my husband encouraged him, missing the double meaning in his own words.

“I will. Sorry. It’s just…,” Hugo stammered, undoing the towel with trembling hands.

He was exposed: his cock completely shaved, thick even at rest, his testicles somewhat swollen, bruised, with a couple of dark stitches peeking through the skin. That size I had already studied carefully months before, now flaccid and vulnerable, was still just as imposing. The glans thick, the vein running along the top, the foreskin pulled back. I fixed my eyes on it for far longer than strictly medical, just so he’d notice, so his blood would boil knowing I was studying his dick with my mouth slightly open.

“It’s all very strange,” he murmured, looking away toward the ceiling, his cheeks burning.

“I think it looks pretty normal. Very normal, in fact,” I commented, taking hold of the base of his shaft with my gloved hand to pull it up against his abdomen and clear the incision.

He jerked at the cold touch of the nitrile, which contrasted with the heat radiating from his skin. Under the glove I felt his cock twitch reflexively, a little lash of blood. I squeezed a little harder than necessary, closing my fingers around his cock as if checking its firmness. He didn’t complain. On the contrary, he swallowed and his thighs tightened.

“The wound is clean, the area is healthy,” I went on, exploring the folds of his scrotum with perfectly faked professionalism, palpating with the pad of my thumb near where the skin still held the bruise. “The stitches are absorbable, they’ll disappear inward. The color is from the iodine.”

“See? I told you. My wife is an expert,” Mateo boasted.

“The external surgery looks perfect,” I ruled, straightening up without letting go of his cock completely. “But, darling, do you remember what the urologist said about pressure in the ducts and internal clearing?”

“Oh, right. The dreaded granulomas,” my husband confirmed with a grave nod.

“Exactly.” I turned to Hugo with my best authoritative tone. “You’re still producing sperm, and it’s getting stuck in the cut. The only way to know whether the internal stitching is holding under pressure, or whether there’s any fluid buildup, is to provoke a full erection and empty it. Basically, we need to make you run.”

“Now?” he said, alarmed, eyes wide.

“Now. Under supervision. I wouldn’t recommend doing it alone for the first few days; you could reopen something if you came without control.” I held his gaze. “Start yourself. Slowly. Grab your dick and get it hard for me.”

I watched him swallow. He looked to his brother, one last mute plea.

“Don’t look at me,” Mateo laughed. “If the nurse says so, there must be a reason. I’m only here to make sure you don’t faint.”

And so, with no safety net, Hugo put his hand to his sex. He circled his cock shyly, barely brushed it, with an adolescent sort of modesty, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye with every movement. His thumb barely traveled up and down the underside of the glans.

“Harder,” I corrected. “You’re not going to break anything by touching yourself. I want to see how the area responds, not have you caress it like it’s made of glass. Close your fist and work that dick like you do when you’re alone.”

He obeyed. He closed his long fingers, the ones I liked so much, and really started moving them, up and down the whole length. The shaved skin made every gesture visible, with nowhere to hide: every vein swelling, every throb, the glans darkening as blood filled it. In a few seconds his cock was fully hard between his fingers, thick, long, curved slightly upward, pointing at my face.

I kept my gloved hand resting on his inner thigh, supposedly to “stabilize the area,” but really so he’d feel that everything he did was with my permission. I slid my thumb until it brushed the crease of his groin, right where the nerve made him twitch a little.

“Like that. Do you feel pain in the incision when you’re hard?” I asked in a neutral voice while he pumped himself with his own fingers.

“No… it doesn’t hurt,” he gasped. “It pulls a little, that’s all.”

“Good. Keep going. Don’t stop until I tell you to. Faster.”

That sentence undid him. He loved the idea of being in charge, and finding himself obeying me, naked, hard, beating his cock in my presence and watched by his own brother, turned him on just as much as it humiliated him. I could read it in his ragged breathing, in the way he avoided looking me in the face and yet couldn’t stop seeking my approval. In the way the tip started leaking a clear drop that shone on the glans.

“Mateo, hand me a gauze pad,” I said without taking my eyes off my brother-in-law.

My husband stood, rummaged through the kit, and handed it to me, completely oblivious, convinced he was helping with a medical dressing. That innocence of his was the ingredient that made everything irresistible. I had the two brothers exactly where I wanted them: one working for me without knowing it, the other with his cock in his fist and about to come at my command.

I collected the drop of precum with the tip of the glove, spreading it over the glans as if checking the lubrication of the skin. Hugo closed his eyes and let out a short moan that he disguised as a cough.

“You’re doing well,” I whispered, low enough that only he would hear it for what it was. “But you’re doing it for me. That cock gets hard because I told you to. Don’t forget that.”

He clenched his teeth. The motion of his hand became faster, clumsier, more desperate. The wet sound of his fist sliding over the skin filled the room, mixed with his increasingly heavy breathing. His forehead was beaded with sweat, his chest rising and falling like he’d been running for an hour, and his balls, still bruised, kept pulling tighter up against his body. I barely touched him; I didn’t need to. The power wasn’t in my hands, it was in the fact that every order I gave weighed more than his shame.

I brought my free hand to his mouth without saying a word. He, on reflex, parted his lips and licked the gloved fingertip with an eager tongue, almost begging. It was a second. Mateo didn’t see it: he was looking at the wound.

“I’m going to…,” Hugo started, voice cracking.

“Not yet,” I cut in. “Hold it. I’ll tell you when you come.”

I watched him shake from head to toe, stopping himself at the edge for the simple reason that I had told him to. His cock throbbed with visible pulses in his fist, the thick vein swelled, the glans was already an angry red. He bit his lip so he wouldn’t disobey, his fist tight at the base of his dick, cutting off the flow himself. His brother was saying something about how good the wound looked; neither of them paid the slightest attention. I let an eternal few seconds pass, savoring the agony.

“Keep pumping,” I ordered him. “Don’t stop. But don’t let go until I say so.”

He resumed the motion with a stifled groan, forced to keep masturbating on the edge of orgasm without permission to empty himself. I brought my face close enough for him to feel my breath on his cock while I pretended to inspect the stitches up close.

“Look at me,” I demanded softly.

He opened his eyes and lowered his gaze. I was holding the gauze a hand’s breadth from the tip of his cock, in the exact line of fire. He, even while still working himself, couldn’t stop staring at my mouth.

“Now,” I finally granted, bringing the gauze closer. “Let it go. Come.”

He emptied himself with a muffled groan he tried to disguise as a throat-clearing, every muscle in his body tense, his fingers clamped hard around the base. The first spurt shot out thick and splattered the gauze and my glove. Another followed, and another, in jolts that ran all the way through his spine. I caught it in my open palm, watching the hot load gather, observing it the way someone might assess the result of a lab test. He was still trembling, with his cock still throbbing, squeezing out the last drops through the slit.

I examined the semen with the calm of a white coat, moving it slowly with my thumb over the nitrile, and nodded slowly.

“Clean. No blood. The ducts are holding perfectly,” I announced, peeling off my gloves with two dry snaps and crumpling them into the gauze. “Case closed.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it? Now you can relax,” Mateo said, patting him on the shoulder while Hugo, collapsed on the bed with his still-half-hard cock resting against his stomach, was still catching his breath. “You have to admit my wife takes care of you.”

“Yes,” he murmured, looking me in the eyes at last with a mixture of surrender and something that looked very much like gratitude. “I don’t have words to thank you enough.”

“You don’t need words,” I replied, putting the kit away, my voice once again that of an impeccable hostess. “That’s what family is for. Anything you need these next few days, you tell me. Anything at all.”

I left the room with the little case under my arm, my panties soaked and a smile I didn’t show either of them. Hugo had arrived believing the cold war was still even. He would leave knowing, without daring to say it out loud, who had won the battle and what price he intended to charge me for the next ones.