What Happened at That Appointment, I Never Confessed

For weeks I had been noticing a strange lump below my navel. Marcela kept insisting every day that I make an appointment, and I, as always, kept putting it off. Until one morning, while I was showering, the pressure beneath my skin became uncomfortable enough for me to pick up the phone and book the first available appointment.

The clinic was in an unremarkable building on a quiet street three blocks from my office. Dr. Adrián Solís saw patients on Tuesday afternoons. The receptionist told me he was new at the center and had only been practicing there for six months. I nodded without really listening and sat down to wait my turn with an envelope of X-rays on my lap.

When they called me in, I entered a small, tidy examination room with a faint smell of disinfectant and freshly brewed coffee. Adrián was behind the desk, his white coat hanging from his shoulders as if he had just put it on. I guessed he was around forty. Black, thick hair, a broad build, shoulders that were noticeable even beneath his shirt. He wasn't tall. He had the kind of face belonging to a man who is always smiling a little, even when he isn't quite smiling.

“Come in, come in. Sit down,” he said, pointing to the chair in front of the desk.

He asked me the routine questions: allergies, medication, family history. I noticed he was attentive, but there was something else, too. His eyes lingered a moment longer than necessary each time I raised my face to answer him. It didn't bother me. If anything, it sparked a strange curiosity. It was the kind of look you recognize, even if you've never received it before.

“Let's examine that lump. Go to the back, please, and lie on your back on the examination table. Take off your shirt.”

I went behind the screen and obeyed. The table was cold. I folded my shirt carefully and left it on the chair. Adrián arrived a minute later, a blood-pressure cuff in one hand and a pair of unused latex gloves in the other.

“You're nervous,” he commented as he tightened the cuff around my arm. “Your blood pressure's a little high.”

“I suppose it's because I've been avoiding this since March.”

He smiled. This time, the smile lasted longer than it should have.

He began with my neck, feeling the lymph nodes with two firm fingers. He moved down over my sternum, tracing the space between my ribs with his fingertip. When he reached my abdomen, his hands became slower. Warm palms, patient fingers. He found the lump immediately, just to the left of my navel, and stayed there for a long while, pressing gently and glancing at me to see whether it hurt.

“It doesn't hurt,” I told him.

“Good. But I want to rule out an inguinal hernia. I'll need you to lower the waistband of your pants a little.”

I loosened my belt and pulled my pants down to my thighs. I kept my underwear on. Adrián touched me again, this time below the navel, right at the edge of the elastic. His fingers brushed the cotton. I closed my eyes for a second.

When I opened them, he was looking at me.

“Is that uncomfortable?”

“No.”

“Good. To examine your inguinal canal, I'll have to lower your underwear as well. If you'd rather, I can give you a sheet.”

“No need.”

I don't know why I said that. I had been married to Marcela my whole life. I had two children sleeping in their bunk beds. The only hands I had felt on my body in the last fifteen years were my wife's and the neighborhood barber's. And yet I said “no need” with an ease that surprised even me.

Adrián lowered the waistband of my underwear to mid-thigh. I was naked from the waist down, my soft cock resting against my left thigh and my balls drawn up by the cold of the examination table. He began palpating the area near my groin, first on one side and then on the other. He had the hand of someone who knew what he was looking for. But he also had the hand of someone who knew he was doing more than looking.

His fingers crept closer and closer to the base of my cock. At first they avoided it with an almost feigned care, as though it were in the way. Then they didn't. The back of his hand brushed me fully, and he didn't pull away. He stayed there, resting against me, like someone checking a temperature.

And then I felt the blood moving downward to where it shouldn't. I tried to think of something else. The electric bill. Sunday's game. Marcela telling me to change the dishwasher filter. It didn't work. My cock began swelling against his wrist, first one pulse, then another, until I had it hard and throbbing in front of him, pointing at the ceiling like a shame too large to hide.

“I see you're quite… reactive,” Adrián said without removing his hand.

“Sorry. It's involuntary.”

“You don't have to apologize. Does this always happen when you're examined?”

“No. Honestly, it doesn't.”

There was a silence. Adrián held my gaze. His hand was still resting against my groin, now with all his fingers, no longer pretending to search for any inguinal canal. His fingers moved up a centimeter and encircled the base of my cock, not quite squeezing, testing its thickness like someone weighing fruit at the market.

“Do you mind if I continue?” he asked, his voice dropping half a tone.

I didn't answer. I only nodded.

His hand closed around me. Slowly, unhurriedly. He began jerking me off, his fist squeezing just enough, the skin of my cock sliding beneath his dry palm. I swallowed and stared at the ceiling, where a fluorescent tube was flickering very faintly, as if it, too, were hesitating. The tip filled with a large drop of clear fluid, which he spread with his thumb, circling my glans until a moan escaped me and I had to bite it back between my teeth.

“You're very sensitive here,” he murmured, while his other hand caressed my balls, weighing them one by one, squeezing them with the calm firmness of a doctor taking liberties he had no right to take.

I said nothing. I couldn't. My mouth was dry and my heart was pounding in my temples.

***

What happened next was strange and vivid, both at once. Adrián pulled my underwear a little farther down, to my knees, and opened my legs, pushing them apart with his elbow. He caressed my cock with a professional slowness that bordered on cynicism, moving his fist up and down in a studied rhythm, squeezing harder at the base and easing off at the tip. He muttered something about its size that I didn't fully understand, or didn't want to understand, though I saw his eyes brighten when he looked at it closely. And then, as if it were the natural continuation of the examination, he lowered his head and kissed the tip.

This isn't happening.

But it was happening. I felt his hot tongue passing flat beneath the glans, his firm lips closing around the crown, the contrast with the cold air of the table raising the hairs on my thighs. It was a man's mouth, without a doubt. There was no feminine softness in it. There was the rasp of emerging beard against my lower abdomen, a broad, decisive tongue that knew exactly where to enter and where to press. Everything was deliberate, everything firm, everything directed. And, against everything I thought I knew about myself, there wasn't a single cell in my body that wanted him to pull away.

He took it all the way in, to the base, in one single clean movement. I felt the back of his throat against the tip and had to grip the edge of the table with my left hand so I wouldn't cry out. I clenched my fists. I didn't make a sound, because on the other side of the screen, in the waiting room, there were people with six-thirty appointments. Adrián kept his head lowered, focused as if he were reading an electrocardiogram, moving his mouth up and down my entire cock, sucking with his cheeks hollowed, letting saliva spill from the corner of his mouth so it ran down to my balls and he could massage them with his wet fingers.

Every time he reached the top, he gathered his lips around my glans and circled it with his tongue, making a wet smacking sound that bounced off the walls of the examination room. Every time he went down, he tightened his throat and swallowed me whole as if that were part of some hospital protocol I didn't know. I moved my hips slowly, involuntarily, pushing my cock against his face, and he accepted the thrust without complaint, with a deep purr that vibrated through my bone.

He went on like that for several minutes. I lost all sense of time. I felt the warning rising from my balls and pulled my hips back an inch, ashamed, but he held my thighs with both hands and pushed my cock back to the bottom of his throat, as if silently telling me not to dare leave before finishing what I had started. At some point, when I was almost coming, Adrián suddenly straightened, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and looked at the wall clock. He left me with my cock hard, red, wet with his saliva, throbbing in the air.

“We'll leave it there. I have two patients waiting, and this is outside the protocol, to put it mildly.”

I laughed, still dazed, breathing unevenly, the tip of my cock dripping onto my own navel. He smiled genuinely, for the first time, and wiped it with a paper tissue as if finishing off a dressing.

“Write your number down for me on this paper. If you're interested in talking outside the office, I'll text you.”

I did it without thinking. I pulled up my underwear with trembling hands, fastened my pants over the erection that refused to go down completely, and when I stepped out into reception, I tried to walk normally. The receptionist smiled at me as if nothing had happened, because, in fact, she had no idea anything had happened. I paid for the appointment in cash. I got in my car. I drove home. I had dinner with Marcela and the children. I brushed my teeth twice, as if the taste of it might be detectable from the outside.

That night, in bed, I jerked off thinking about him. His mouth, his broad tongue, the way he had squeezed my balls with his palm. I did it silently, my left hand resting on my wife's hip as she slept deeply, and came into a tissue, biting my lip so I wouldn't moan his name.

***

Adrián texted me three days later. A short, formal, almost medical message: “How is the abdominal area?” I replied that it was better. He answered immediately: “I'd like to see you outside the office. I have a pickup with tinted windows. We can talk in peace.”

“Talk” was an euphemism neither of us apologized for.

On Friday at seven-thirty, I told Marcela I had a business dinner. A simple lie, without embellishment, which she accepted without looking up from the casserole. I left, walked three blocks, and climbed into Adrián's pickup at a poorly lit corner behind a closed pharmacy.

As soon as I shut the door, he started the engine. He drove for about ten minutes to an industrial area I knew by heart, because my brother-in-law had a shop there. He parked between two containers, on a street with no traffic and no working streetlights. He turned off the engine and turned toward me.

“I have a partner,” he said before I could say anything. “A guy named Iván. We've been together six years. He knows what I do; he doesn't mind. And I know you have a family. This is only what it is. Are we clear?”

“We're clear.”

Adrián unbuckled his seat belt and leaned toward me. He kissed my mouth for the first time, and the kiss was slower than I expected. He tasted of coffee and something metallic, perhaps the air inside the car. He brought my hand to his neck and gently tightened his grip on the hair at the nape of my neck. I let him. I opened his mouth with my tongue and he bit it on the inside, sucking it back toward his throat with a hunger he hadn't shown in the examination room.

He pulled my shirt over my head and left it crumpled on the back seat. He began kissing my chest, my collarbones, my nipples, biting them until they stood hard, sucking them one by one with his mouth open and his tongue hot. He ran a hand over my crotch through my pants and confirmed that I was already hard as a rock, showing clearly through the fabric.

“Take it out,” I told him, surprised to hear myself speak that way.

When I brushed his crotch through his pants, he was already hard too. I lowered his zipper. I pulled it out.

It was thick, thicker than I remembered imagining beneath his coat. Thick and long, the skin stretched tight around the tip, the glans purple and a large vein running up the left side. His balls hung heavily beneath it, covered in thick black hair. I stared at it for a moment, my hand closed around the base, feeling ridiculous and aroused in equal measure. I weighed it, moved it back and forth, felt it grow even harder between my fingers, felt the vein stand out more and more.

Then I leaned over and put it in my mouth, slowly, trying not to gag. I noticed the smell first, a hot, clean smell of a freshly showered man, and then the taste, salty and dense, with a slightly bitter touch at the tip from his own pre-cum. I had never done that before. It turned out improvising wasn't as difficult as I had feared. I licked around his glans first, tracing the edge with my tongue, then opened my mouth and let his entire cock in, as deep as I could, until my eyes filled with tears and I had to pull back to breathe.

“That's it, that's it, easy,” he murmured, taking my hair in his hand and guiding my rhythm. “Suck it nice and slowly, don't hurry. With your tongue, on the tip, like that.”

I obeyed. I sucked the tip with my lips closed, licked the vein from bottom to top, went down to his balls and kissed them one by one, taking them carefully into my mouth while continuing to jerk him off with my hand. He breathed heavily through his nose, let his head fall against the headrest, and called me “bastard” under his breath whenever I squeezed especially well with my throat.

Someone walked past the pickup. We heard the hard footsteps on the paving stones. We both froze, me bent over with his cock still buried to the back of my mouth, him with his head thrown back and one hand gripping the nape of my neck to keep me from moving. The footsteps faded away. Adrián let out a low laugh.

“Relax,” he said. “You can't see anything from outside.”

We went back to it. This time we took turns. He sucked me, I sucked him, we kissed in between, our lips smeared with each other's saliva and the other man's cock on our tongues. He had large, slightly rough hands, surprising in someone who made his living feeling other people's livers. He licked the base of my cock, lightly bit the inside of my thigh, and squeezed my testicles with a skill that clearly wasn't improvised.

He made me lie on my side across the seat and opened my legs. He sucked my balls one by one, licked me with the tip of his tongue right behind them, on that patch of skin no one had ever touched in my life, and I felt my ass clench involuntarily. He rose to my cock again and swallowed it whole, tightening his throat, moving his head quickly, sloshing with saliva as he slipped two fingers between my balls and squeezed me right underneath.

I closed my eyes when I came in his mouth, without warning. I felt the jets spilling out in pulses, one after another, thick and hot, and he didn't pull away. He swallowed them, sucking hard at the end to draw out every last drop, his tongue curled around the glans and his lips tight. He wiped the rest away with a damp little cloth he kept in the glove compartment, like someone who planned ahead.

Then it was his turn. He pulled me astride the seat, held the back of my neck with both hands, and pushed my head down until I took him to the back of my throat. He fucked my mouth slowly at first, then faster, his cock striking my palate and then my throat, sliding through saliva I was no longer able to contain. I gripped his thighs with both hands, felt the hard flesh beneath the fabric of his lowered pants, and let him use me.

“I'm going to come,” he warned, his voice broken. “I'm going to come in your mouth. Don't pull away.”

He came inside my mouth with a low growl, a thick, hot taste that was difficult to swallow all at once. Four or five heavy jets filled my palate, with a salty, slightly bitter aftertaste, and although I coughed a little at first, I swallowed it all, licking the tip afterward to clean the last drop trembling there. He smiled at me and ran a hand over my cheek as if congratulating me on passing a difficult exam.

We stayed silent for ten minutes. The windows had fogged up, with large drops sliding down the inside of the glass. My cock was half-hard again, my mouth swollen, a thread of his semen drying on my chin, which he wiped away with his thumb and put into his mouth. He started the engine again and lowered the window a finger's width to let in some air.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes,” I said, and I wasn't entirely lying. “It's strange. But I'm all right.”

He dropped me off two blocks from my house. Before I got out, he touched my knee.

“If you want to see me again, I'll tell you about a better place. I know a discreet motel on the outskirts. But think it over carefully. One thing is this, and another thing is the rest.”

“I'll think about it.”

I got out of the car. I walked to my building with my legs a little unsteady, thinking once again how strange it was to be saying “I'll think about it” when I already knew the answer perfectly well.

The motel happened, of course. But that's another confession I still don't dare tell in full.