The Medical Checkup My Brother-in-Law Couldn’t Refuse

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

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

He came to visit us on a Wednesday midmorning, taking advantage of a work trip Noa was on. He was off sick: 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 sprawled out in the living room.

When he saw me face-on, Hugo’s eyes went wide for a fraction of a second, betraying the panic of someone suddenly reliving what had happened that afternoon. He was limping noticeably.

“Sister-in-law, how are you?” he managed to greet me, pulling himself together in fits and starts so he could give me two tense 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 exquisitely calibrated calm. “The first few days are rough, right?”

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

Mateo got up from the sofa to hug him, giving him that smack on the back reserved for someone who’s already been through the same ordeal.

“Well, if it isn’t the eunuch! Welcome to the club,” my husband crowed with a sneer.

“You’re such an asshole. Truth is, I’m a bit worried about the healing. I’ve never set foot in an operating room before and it looks kind of bad—odd colors, weird shapes… like the stitches aren’t healing properly.”

“Then Vera can have a look at it,” Mateo cut in with complete naturalness. “She did my aftercare when I had my operation. She’s got a master’s degree in slit-open ballsacks.”

“What, Vera should look at it?!” Hugo exclaimed, staring at me in genuine terror.

“There you go. I’m not the one to examine you, I’d get dizzy just looking at the wound,” my husband declared with a shrug.

“Look, you pair of weaklings,” I interjected, taking the reins with a smile only I understood. “I’m not a nurse, but I’ve been through this 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… It’s just that I’m really embarrassed,” he finally gave in, visibly flushed.

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

***

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

“Come on, let’s inspect this whiner before the thing gangrenes,” he said, heading down the hall.

I followed him, my heart lurching in my chest. The idea of seeing my brother-in-law’s imposing sex again turned me on, and having my husband there, far from tying my hands, only multiplied the thrill. Subjugating Hugo in front of his own blood, with him unable to protest, was a temptation I had no intention of wasting.

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

“What do you need?” he asked, looking up as I came in holding a little box, tensing when he saw his brother sit down casually in the desk chair.

“Sterile gauze, a little chlorhexidine, and some nitrile gloves we had left over from the pandemic,” I listed, approaching as I pulled on the blue protective gloves.

The snap of the elastic echoed through the room and gave the scene a clinical, almost absurd air. He caught his breath at the sound. I’d heard it a thousand times in a consulting room, but never aimed at him like that.

“Lie back a bit more, support your back properly, and let me get good light,” I ordered.

I set the first-aid kit on the mattress. He spread his legs so I could position myself 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.

“Go on, uncover it, there’s nothing we haven’t seen already,” my husband encouraged him, missing the double meaning of his own words entirely.

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

He was exposed: his sex completely shaved, the testicles somewhat swollen, with bruises and a couple of dark threads peeking out from the skin. That size I had already studied months earlier, now flaccid and vulnerable, was still imposing. I stared at it far longer than was strictly medical, just so he would notice.

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

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

He jolted at the cold touch of the nitrile, which contrasted with the heat radiating from his skin. I squeezed a little more than necessary. He didn’t complain.

“The wound is clean, the area is healthy,” I continued, examining the folds with flawless, perfectly feigned professionalism. “The stitches are absorbable; they disappear inward. The color is from the iodine.”

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

“The external surgery is perfect,” I ruled, straightening up. “But, darling, do you remember what the urologist said about pressure in the ducts and internal purging?”

“Shit, that’s right. The dreaded granulomas,” my husband confirmed with a solemn nod.

“Exactly.” I turned to Hugo in my best authoritative tone. “You’re still producing semen that’s getting trapped in the cut. The only way to know whether the internal suturing can handle the pressure, or whether there’s any fluid buildup, is to provoke a full erection and empty it.”

“Now?” he blurted, eyes wide.

“Now. Under supervision. I wouldn’t recommend doing it alone for the first few days; you could reopen something.” I held his gaze. “Start. Slowly.”

I watched him swallow. He looked to his brother for one last silent plea.

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

And so, with no safety net, Hugo brought his hand to his sex. He only barely brushed it, with the modesty of a teenager, watching me sideways with each movement.

“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.”

He obeyed. He closed those long fingers I liked so much and started moving them for real. The shaved skin made every gesture visible, with nowhere to hide. I kept my gloved hand on his thigh, supposedly to “stabilize the area,” but really so he’d feel that everything he did was with my permission.

“Like that. Do you feel pain in the incision when it hardens?” I asked in a neutral voice as he went rigid between his own fingers.

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

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

That sentence undid him. He loved the idea of being in command, and finding himself obeying me, naked, hard, and watched by his brother, turned him on as much as it humiliated him. I could read it in his ragged breathing, in how he avoided looking me in the face and yet couldn’t stop seeking my approval.

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

My husband got up, rummaged through the first-aid kit and handed it to me, completely oblivious, convinced he was witnessing a routine dressing change. 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 giving himself over completely.

“You’re doing well,” I whispered to Hugo, low enough that only he would register it for what it was. “But you’re doing it for me. Don’t forget that.”

He clenched his teeth. The motion of his hand grew faster, clumsier, more desperate. His forehead was beaded with sweat and his chest was rising and falling as if he’d been running for an hour. 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’m going to…” he began, voice breaking.

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

I watched him tremble from head to toe, stopping himself at the limit for the simple reason that I had told him to. His brother was saying something about how good the wound looked; neither of them paid it the slightest attention. I let a few eternal seconds pass, watching him bite his lip so he wouldn’t disobey.

“Now,” I allowed at last, bringing the gauze closer. “Let it go.”

He emptied himself with a dull groan he tried to disguise as a throat-clearing, his whole body taut, fingers clenched hard. I caught it with the gauze, examined the result with the calm of a white coat and nodded slowly.

“Clean. No blood. The ducts are holding perfectly,” I announced, pulling off the gloves with two dry snaps. “Case closed.”

“Well, there you go, nice and easy, right? Now you can relax,” Mateo said, giving him a pat on the shoulder while Hugo, collapsed on the bed, was still getting his breath back. “You’ve got to hand it to you, my wife really looks after you.”

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

“You don’t need words,” I replied, putting away the first-aid kit, 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 box under my arm and a smile I didn’t show either of them. Hugo had arrived believing the cold war was still tied. He would leave knowing, without daring to say it out loud, who had won the battle and what price he intended to make me pay for the next ones.