Commando

You enter Prep Room Three: a small, sterile space with a bench and a wall-mounted locker. The air smells like antiseptic and something faintly citrus. You take off your shirt, fold it neatly, and place it on the chair. Then you hesitate, your hands on your belt.

You're not wearing anything underneath. You figure they'll give you a gown or paper shorts. They always have a gown. You unbutton your jeans, step out of them, and place them on top of your shirt. As you look around for the gown, you hear a knock. Before you can ask her to wait, the door starts to swing open. Your hands immediately cup your groin.

Your heart slams as your palms press tightly against your skin. You feel the traitorous warmth pooling at the base of your shaft, a sudden pulse of heat, just as Gabi steps into the room looking down at her clipboard

"Hi, John, Gabi here—I'm just going to complete your intake forms and collect you—"

She stops in the doorway as she finally looks up. Her cheerful smile vanishes into a silent "o" as her eyes dart down to your cupped hands and bare legs. A faint flush creeps up her neck before she clears her throat and forces her gaze back to your eyes. You watch her succeed at that for maybe half a second before her eyes drift down again, catch themselves, and snap back up. She's aiming for your face like her eyes have an alignment problem.

"Sorry—I thought you'd still have underwear on," she says, her voice half an octave higher than before.

"I didn't wear any," you croak. You're trying to ignore the fact that her eyes keep losing their battle with your groin. And you're definitely ignoring how much attention your cock is paying to that losing battle. It's not cooperative. It's not listening to you. It's filling against your knuckles like a traitor.

Silence falls over the tiny room. Gabi doesn't reply—because Gabi isn't looking at your face anymore. Her gaze is locked squarely on the straining cage of your fingers, where the thickening curve of your shaft is already pushing through the gaps between your knuckles. Her lips part slightly, her breathing gone shallow as she openly tracks the slow, traitorous swell against your palms.

"Uh. Gabi?" you say, your ears burning.

She blinks hard, visibly jolting out of her trance. "Sorry! God, sorry," she blurts, her cheeks flushing a deeper rose as she hugs the intake clipboard a little tighter to her chest. She clears her throat, trying and failing to sound clinical. "I just—why on earth did you come to a doctor's appointment commando?"

"I just got back from a month in Europe yesterday," you mutter, shifting your weight and inadvertently giving her a better angle at the heavy, unmistakable outline pressing against your wrists. "Everything I own is in the laundry basket. I was running late, I grabbed clean jeans, and I figured you guys would have a paper gown or something."

"Well," she says, the cheeriness creeping back into her voice, "that is a problem. We only started taking male patients a week ago and the supply order for exam shorts hasn't come in yet. You know what, let me reschedule you."

Reschedule. The word hits your stomach before it hits your brain. Reschedule means calling them back, changing the appointment, pushing it days—after the start date, probably, and then what, you just show up on day one without the physical? You see the whole domino chain collapse in your skull.

Gabi glances down at the schedule sheet clipped to the back of her board, her eyes flicking back up to the growing problem in your hands before meeting your gaze. "The earliest I can pencil you back in is two weeks from Tuesday. Physical and drug screen, was it?"

"Two weeks?" you say, your voice tight. "I need it by Monday. If I don't have this done by Monday, I don't have a job."

Her eyes lift, and something shifts in her expression—the cheerfulness doesn't leave, but it sharpens, focuses. She tilts her head slightly, studying you with a new attentiveness. "Monday," she repeats softly. "That's... two days from now." A small, knowing smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you're not going to find another appointment anywhere on that kind of notice. Not in this city, probably not in this state. Which means if we’re doing this today, John, you’re going to have to go through the clinic exactly as you are."

"Can't you make some kind of exception?" you ask, hearing the desperation creep into your voice. "A women's gown?"

She seems to consider it for a moment before responding. "No," she says, looking you dead in the eye. "I'm not breaking protocol just because you're feeling shy. Even though, honestly, you don't exactly have anything to be shy ab—"

Her gaze drops back to the thick, traitorous curve pressing through your knuckles. The words slow, losing their clinical clip, then stop entirely as her lips part and she tracks the rising shape of you in the warm air.

"Gabi!" you snap, your face on fire.

This time she doesn't even pretend to be flustered when she looks up—a faint, unapologetic smirk lingers on her lips before she brightens back into her cheery nurse persona. "Honestly, you'll be fine. Exam Room B is just down the hall, third door on your left. If you hurry, no one will spot you. Quick in-and-out, twenty minutes, and you'll be dressed and on your way."

She rests her pen against the clipboard, tilting her head with quiet finality. "So, what will it be—rescheduling and risking the job, or a little wardrobe-free consultation?"

You do the frantic mental math, weighing a starting salary on Monday against twenty minutes of mortification in front of a medical professional. The room feels a little too warm, and your hands are full of something that has no business getting harder while a nurse watches you over a clipboard.

"Okay. Fine. It's a medical setting, right?" you say.

"Great," she chirps, stepping fully into the tiny room and letting the door click shut behind her. She holds out both the clipboard and the pen, her eyes dropping unapologetically to the widening gap between your fingers. "You can fill the rest of this form later, but I just need you to sign the bottom before I send you to the doc."

She offers them in both hands, leaving you no choice. For one breath you weigh it—she's a nurse, she's seen a thousand of these, this is just what happens in a clinic on a Tuesday. Then you peel your right hand away, then your left, and the warm air hits you fully from the waist down, your stiffening cock and balls completely bare between you. She makes an exaggerated show of looking directly into your eyes, keeping up her bright chatter: "Just a quick signature on the bottom line, and then we'll—"

Your cock gives a heavy, involuntary twitch against your lower stomach.

Her eyes betray her instantly, snapping straight down. Her voice dies in her throat for two full, silent seconds as she stares at the thick, uncovered length of you bobbing in the warm air. She swallows once—slowly, visibly—the tip of her tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip before she drags her gaze back up to your burning face, not even bothering to hide the dark amusement in her eyes. "—then we'll get you right in for your physical."

You sign and pass the clipboard back. She quickly checks you signed in all the right places and tucks it under her arm.

"Exam Room B. Down the hall, third door on your left—can't miss it." She squeezes past you in the narrow space toward the chair holding your clothes. Her eyes do one last slow pass, from your bare feet up your chest to your face, and she gives you a small, warm, entirely unhelpful smile. "For what it's worth? You picked a good day to skip laundry."

She steps behind you, gathering up your folded shirt and jeans. You turn toward the closed door and take the two steps to reach it, acutely aware of her gaze dropping to your bare ass as you move. The air feels different against your skin when someone's watching.

"Oh—John?"

Your hand freezes on the door handle and you glance back over your shoulder. The wall locker has just swallowed your jeans and shirt, the metal door clicking shut. Gabi jiggles the handle once to show you it's locked. "You can collect your clothes upon discharge, John, and not before." She clips the little key right next to her heart-sticker name tag, pats the clipboard tucked under her arm, and motions toward the door with her chin. "So don't do anything out there that gets you scheduled for extra tests. I have to get this room ready for the next person - go ahead."

You face the door again, your fingers tightening around the cold metal handle. One inhale. The hallway is waiting.