Date: Thu, 19 Apr 2012 03:39:03 -0400
From: Jacob Schwann <cobschwann@gmail.com>
Subject: Long & Thin

`Long & Thin'{Jacob Schwann}(MB con)[1!1]

This is a work of soft and slow erotic fiction (Gay Male, Adult-Youth),
adapted without attribution from personal, family, public, published, and
other sources. All of the characters in this story are portrayed by adults
18 years of age or older. If reading erotic fiction is illegal where you
live, or if you are under age for reading this type of material, or this is
not what you wish to read, please leave this page now.

cobschwann@gmail.com


**********

Long & Thin

Summary: A young doctor examines an extraordinary boy.

***

September, 1948, Mount Forest Clinic

"Surprising enough, his urine and VD tests are fine, dear."

Old Edith whispered to me as she left for the day, "He looks so scrawny, a
juvenile delinquent just out of the reformatory and Kingston industrial
school. Why, he may have told lies and stole -- or committed the gravest
sexual outrages; you never know. In any event, the paper mill's not likely
to hire him. He's got no place to stay, poor thing. Maybe in the
garage...?"

Edith never turned down a patient-in-need, so she had added on one more
physical examination to the medical office schedule at the very end of the
afternoon. I was in the final year of my medical training, coming up from
Hamilton General Hospital for two days every week to fill in for Uncle
Doctor Foster while he recovered from a stroke. His wife of 60 years ran
the clinic, such as it was, and all I had to do was show up.

The elderly woman looked up at me with those eyes of hers, letting me know
I was responsible for getting the delinquent a job, and maybe a bed for the
night. I rented a room with a small bath above the Foster's garage. Down
below there was a cot in the second bay where Edith let drifters stay now
and then. What did she see in him? He looked like a real sad sack, a loser,
slumped in his dowdy ill-fitting work clothes in the waiting room. Yet the
clothes were reasonably clean, and she said he had sponged down in the
office washroom.

When he was not scowling he was kind of cute, even.

"So," I said to the sullen young man, draping my white jacket on a coat
hook and rolling up my sleeves, it being late in the day and quite
warm. "You're just out of jail and in our office to get work papers
signed."

I was trying to make conversation, but it came out like an accusation. In
silence the boy lurked in the shadows there, watchful and alert, unlacing
his boots. He looked at me with his dark eyes, sideways like a caged
animal, ready to dodge any blow or touch. If not approached slowly and with
a low voice he might show his teeth and snap.

"You may get undressed for the examination."

Our small exam room was somewhat dark, with a bit of late afternoon sun
still filtering in through the window. I left the ceiling fixture off, and
turned the gooseneck lamp into the corner so its soft light shone
theatrically up the wall. I liked this subdued and friendly ambient
light. It was less coldly clinical and more, well, inviting and intimate,
at least with certain patients. I asked most folks to disrobe down to their
underwear and then get under a draw-sheet for their physical, but with
select boys and young men I liked to stand there while they stripped in
front of me to sit all naked on the exam table. I considered it a secret
perquisite of my profession -- to visually enjoy what I must never
physically experience.

Standing at the end of the exam room, I observed the boy's compact form.
He seemed agile and edgy. He fumbled with the buttons of his baggy shirt,
it being way too large for him. Eventually he turned away to just pull it
off over his head, tousling his sun-faded hair. He looked narrow from the
back, with slender sunburned shoulders and wiry arms, his hands and long
fingers calloused from his labors on the work-farm. His skin was free of
hair and smooth, except for the crude homemade tattoos on his forearms, and
some blemishes, old healed scrapes and gouges. He had been knocked
about. His high cheekbones set off a crumpled nose and scarred lip --
likely from a hockey puck or fist. He was a study in angles with his square
jaw and sharp shoulders; he tapered in straight lines down his armpits to
his waist then to his knees. His legs looked stringy-strong; from running,
I wondered, running from what? His slim feet were not big, but had
beautiful fine toes. I found myself in awe of his toes. I wondered if he
were really as old as 19, which he had written in on our office form. More
likely 16 or even 15 if that, I thought.

He glanced at me as he gripped the band of his undershorts, not so much shy
as on his guard. I made as if to ignore him. His chest was nicely formed,
and his flat belly furrowed when he turned away. He lifted his legs to drop
his shorts from snug hips, revealing tight buttocks, two rounded sentinels
standing guard over his inner fastness.

"Turn my way with your hands stretched out so I can check for any shakes,"
I asked impassive, waiting.

Initially wary and not trusting, he began to turn all exposed toward
me. Finally he lifted his arms from his front, revealing a sculpted V
shaped groin with a curly thatch of light coiled pubes. I must have gasped.
It was startling to see. The center of his being was his penis, his
remarkable penis. It was thin and very, very long.  His penis hung directly
down, like a plumb line. It swung as he moved. It was narrow and straight,
many inches in length, down to the perfect formed glans poking from the
foreskin. I could not stop staring at it. The pride and defiance in the
boy's face made plain his practiced defense against ridicule or barbs,
knowing that any one who saw it wanted to ask, how long must it get when
it's hard?

I just looked. I decided to go slow with this examination. I wanted to take
that amazing image home with me at night. Pretending to be unmoved by what
I saw, I stepped closer, averted my eyes, and took his hands in mine to
turn his palms up and check for tremor. He was shaking all right, and as I
slowly examined along the length of his workingman's fingers, mine shook as
well, which I hoped he did not notice. Then I had him drop his arms to his
sides and twist and bend one way and the other. He performed the slow
calisthenics as he was told; sleek skin sliding tight over young muscle and
cartilage, until he stood stiffly before me, his jaw set.

I forgot my routine. Now I could only stand and stare. I had never seen
such a long, thin penis. I sensed that he was content to wait for the usual
admiring comment, or covetous envy, or very likely the inevitable
proposition -- or in prison, demand -- for possession. I guessed that he
was adept in submitting to the dominant males. But he would not offer, I
surmised. It might be taken, yet he would always hold back something of
himself. He likely kept for himself the choice of enjoying it or not, and
then calling it his quiet coup.

Unable to speak, I did not invite him to sit on the exam table, but instead
had him stand there all uncovered as I drew near to him with my
stethoscope. I usually clasped it between my fingers to hold against a
patient's chest. However, it was my practice with a youth such as this to
palm the stethoscope head in my hand and press it to his chest, placing my
other hand on his back. That way I heard the lub-dub of his heart, and
enjoyed touching the pliant skin over his pectorals in front and handling
his trim muscled ribs in back. I examined his heart for a long time, noting
the very minor whoosh.

"You must get a bit blue in the cold," I told him.

He seemed astonished that I would know such a thing. I went back to
listening, studying his hairless chest and gazing down his hard front; he
was thin and wiry enough that all his tummy muscles popped out. There below
was his very long pendulum-like phallus, swaying from side to side, not so
very far from the buttoned fly of my own trousers. I gulped. Then in an
attempt to hide my intense blush from him I stepped to the side and held my
stethoscope to his back. My other hand was on his chest with a hard nipple
caught between my fingers, furtively feeling of him. I enjoyed the crisp
lines of muscle under his skin, and the chest rising and falling evenly. I
bent down so close to his upper back that the fine downy hairs on his skin
waved with my breath. There was that heady whiff of sweetly sour boy-sweat
mixed with the Fels-naphtha soap he had used washing up. I listened to his
lungs. He had the slightest expiratory wheeze.

"Bringing in hay must make it a bit hard to breathe," I offered. "Those
cigarettes you roll don't help," having noted the stains on his fingers.

He scowled at me.

"And manhandling those big rolls of paper in all the steam at the
paper-mill will be tough as well. Any hernia problems?"

As I spoke I had moved away, gazing out of the window at the sun
approaching the horizon. The genital exam was next and I wanted to appear
casual, as if it all were not a big deal. But what this lad had was `A --
BIG -- DEAL'!  He slowly turned toward me. His torso and face were in
shadow, as the light coming in struck only his midparts. The penis really
was that long, and as thin as a rope, dangling there in the light.

"Well," I exhaled, "I asked you if there were any problems with hernia."

His voice was soft and reluctant, "I don't know. I didn't think there was a
problem with my heart or lungs, either."

I wanted to reassure him, and I was also relieved to have something else to
focus on, rather than gawk at his cock. I looked into his eyes and put my
head forward a bit, the better to connect with him, rather than his
anatomy.

I glanced at his chart, "Andrew...," for that was his name. "Andrew you are
an exceptional specimen, I mean you appear to be exceptionally healthy. And
I bet you will not have health problems by a long shot."

Why was I fumbling with words?

"Your heart and lung sounds simply help explain why you have some of those
symptoms, like getting hard in the cold when you breathe, that is, finding
it hard to breathe in the cold or when haying."

I was getting all tied in knots. Could he tie that thing of his in a knot?

"If you would quit rolling yourself, that is rolling your own tobacco and
buy a brand like Lucky Strike, their ads claim there is `Not a Cough in a
Carload'. That's what I smoke myself," I said, tapping the pack sharply
outlined in my breast pocket.

He suddenly seemed to see me. He looked me up and down while I babbled
aimlessly. He was standing there starkers, but I was the one feeling all
exposed as I straightened up under his gaze. I was a fair amount taller
than him, with my red hair in its usual wild disarray. I had just turned
28, perhaps a dozen years older than he was. He studied my white dress
shirt and cotton tan trousers, which clung to me since I liked them close
fitting.  I had been lean and sturdy since my teenage days cutting slate on
the farm and building stone walls at Cainan Lake camp. He moved forward,
stepping into the last of the sunshine streaming through the
window. Earlier, in his drab regulation work clothes, he had slouched and
skulked in the shadows, but now free of them he stood confident and naked
like the finest exemplar of a naturalist youth league. All bare in the
orangey light, he was a breathtaking teen boy. In that instant, in the
afternoon in the exam room of Uncle Doctor's clinic, the desire to wrap my
arms around the singular nude boy came over me like a lightning strike.

I felt myself break out in a fine sweat. I had to get on with it. He moved
toward me, setting his penis swinging again, like an elongated clapper that
extended way beyond the two small bells, his balls. I left the rubber
gloves on the exam table since I wanted to palpate this thing
hand-to-hand. I leaned forward, reaching my left arm toward his right
gonad, which hung slightly higher. I had to push the penis aside in order
to get at the scrotal sack to examine the testacles. I slid my fingers in
behind on that side to gently palpate the testis, which made him flinch. It
gave to the touch and the surface was very smooth. The spongy tubes of the
epididymis and the wiry vas deferens in the spermatic cord were normal.

"Your testis is fine, modest and perfectly nice sized," I rambled. "Not
grossly over large like an old man's I mean; and not like a little boy's
tiny shooter marble, it's a young man's big cat's eye."

The problem was that his dick was so long it swung into my wrist again and
again, and then lay along it. I noted a drop of clear moisture. I moved to
his other testis, which motion drew the penis along my forearm. Was liquid
dripping there? That testis was fine. I then pushed my finger into his
scrotum on his right, up into the inguinal canal and had him cough, and
repeated it on his left. Everything normal. Usually I simply examined a
guy, but with Handy-Andy here I felt I had better give a running commentary
to show that I was not some pervert but a physician.

"We first inspect the hair distribution at the base of the penis to check
maturity," I explained.

This allowed me to feel about his profuse springy curls, and to pull the
resilient fibers between my fingertips a bit.

"And it is perfect. As for the penis itself," I felt my throat tighten, "it
most often points to the left, although yours seems to go straight
down. There is nothing wrong with that, though, that is fine, astonishingly
impressive, in fact."

I tried to calm myself.

"I will palpate down the penile shaft, front and back, to check for any
nodules or plaques along the three corporal bodies, the spongy chambers of
the penis. And they feel good and plenty, just fine, here at the base, and
along the middle, and further along the middle, and a bit farther along the
middle, and here at the end."

Whew! I was sweating profusely now and I could not stop talking.

"I am retracting the foreskin back and there is minimal soapy smegma today;
`knob cheese' some call it. Now, holding your soft, healthy glans between
my two fingers -- it looks like a large pink gumdrop doesn't it? -- I check
the urethral meatus which is right in the center, and there is no abnormal
discharge, just this `joy-juice', I mean this lubricating mucus which is
entirely normal if a bit copious, if I do say."

There had been drops from his urethra; there were now filament-strings of
the sticky clear fluid suspended there.

"I can't help it," he murmured.

"What?"

"My baby oil."

"Your what?"

"My dog water. It usually happens when I'm thinking about..., about to
have..., to have sex. But when I'm standing here in front of you, it just
leaks out."

"Oh that! Oh, no, no!" I blurted. "That's healthy. There's a bit much,
maybe. Perhaps I should be flattered. But, no! That's Cowper's fluid, from
the gland. Yes, it is the clear liquid that comes out a man's penis before
an emission; to lubricate, yes; to grease the skids, so to speak. You're
right. You're alright. It's pre-ejaculate. If you taste it, it might be a
bit sweet from the fructose."

Why was I saying this?

"The liquid on your glans is necessary to lubricate the penis to
facilitate..., to help penetrate into a vagina, ...or wherever. This is
very normal, for males and females to wet their genitals. Oozing of liquid
is not abnormal. So you're normal and don't worry."

I seemed unable to move. The soft meaty heft of his incredible penile shaft
leading up to, lying upon, and extending beyond my open palm gave every
impression of having firmed up and even lengthened a bit during the
examination. I felt no pulsations, and it was not lifting, but it was
definitely fuller. I dropped my hand away so as to get ready for the rectal
exam, for which he seemed amenable. His penis slumped perpendicular like a
pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey game, streaming pre-cum.

"It's perfect just the way it is," I prattled. "Some people get aroused
during physical exams, you may I mean, the patient may, not me. I
won't. Whatever happens is fine."

"Whatever," he said, and for the first time there was a hint of a chuckle
in his voice.

He may have mumbled something more under his breath, but I lost it as I
stepped around him quite close to his bare backside. I appreciated the
small ears sticking out from his head, the long neck and appealing
triceps. I scanned how his back hollowed to meet his sculpted
buttocks. There beneath his butt cheeks, in between his legs, I could see
his ball sack; and below his balls, I saw his penis dangling, some inches
of that penis I had just had my hands on. Remarkable! I felt down his back,
a bit roughly, checking on his muscles and ribs, pleased by his fit form. I
must have murmured approvingly.

"Hockey," he said.

"Huh?"

"I've always played ice hockey," he was explaining his strength. "From
before I was 5 my grampa pushed me out on the ice with a tree branch and a
pebble while he was ice fishing."

The tremors I had felt in his hands were now generally through his body,
like the fine shudders of a colt. Mine were no different. My mitts were now
on his ass cheeks, which was a bit pimply with scant hair and wonderfully
pliant to the touch. He was facing the exam table now.

"Bend over," I asked.

He could see my rubber gloves and lubricating jelly lying there waiting for
me to use. How could I explain that sometimes, with boys, for my own
enjoyment, I ignored them? I pulled the fleshy mounds apart. His puckered
anus was pink and clean and twitchy. There was only the faintest sweet shit
smell, as from a small child. I took my time paddling his behind as I spoke
hazily of fall allergies and breathing problems. Chattering on about
whether or not hand-rolled tobacco caused more coughing than commercial
cigarettes, I put my left index finger into my own mouth, drenching it
fully with my saliva. He had his palms on the exam table, and instead of
pulling his body in away from me, as every other male did at this point, he
arched his back and lifted his rump toward me, opening up his crease for me
as a rutting animal might. I was surprised, but I smeared my saliva over
his anus, watching it wink playfully at me. I wet my finger in my mouth
again, aware that I had just touched a patient's butt hole with it.

I let the breath out through my teeth, "This might be a bit uncomfortable;
you'll feel intense pressure, but not pain."

I habitually chewed my nails, thank goodness in this instance, so my finger
would be smooth. I felt along his anal crease, centering the tip of my
digit at the core, and pushed, feeling the living tissue give and resist as
the silky, moist flesh flowed around my finger.  I tinkled a bit in my
pants, and gently probed into the sphincter, fully aware of his little
spasms and jumps.  I had been about to ask him to relax, but there was no
need. The boy shifted his feet, widened his stance and again lifted his
butt to assist me.

"I'm just checking in through the first lower muscle gate, and now the
upper one," I intoned in my tour guide voice. "This feels beautifully
smooth in here and healthy, very, very healthy. Maybe the tone is a bit
loose. Andrew, granted this is an odd request, but try to hold on to my
finger with your rectum."

Immediately my finger was crushed by a spasm of his sphincter.

"Well," I said, "not loose. But relaxed."

I probed a bit higher.

"At this point I will take my other arm and wrap it around your waist,
which enables me to draw the patient towards me to better push in with the
examining digit."

I stretched my right palm and exposed forearm over his boyish lower belly,
enjoying the youthful tightening there. I yanked him back at me, which had
the effect of driving my finger into him. It was not my intention to go so
far, but I did want to palpate his prostate. With the tip of my finger I
felt the rounded rise of the gland. It was smooth and symmetrical as I
rolled over it, beginning a massaging motion.

"I'm on your prostate now; it's all even, the size of a walnut. I can
wiggle it. The consistency is rubbery, firm but not solid. It feels like
the tip of your nose."

I felt it harden up as he was getting aroused in some way. I noticed him
shifting his arm, presumably to touch his nose. His butt wiggled from side
to side once or twice as his tissues clenched about my finger and he
lowered his head nervously and then raised it and arched his back.

"U-h-h-h..., ...mmh," he sighed very softly. "Ngh-ah! Hmm...? Ah-h-h!"

I felt the shiver in his prostate as his body clenched and the first splat
hit smack on the crisp exam-table paper underneath him, and then in a heavy
barrage, another and another. The pleasing contractions about my finger, a
spasm and a wave of momentary clutching, brought on my own involuntary
emission in my pants. Taking one more feel within him, I gently withdrew my
finger from the boy's ass. Stepping to the side, I now saw below him, like
a willowy wooden wand, his elongated erection protruding hard and straight
out from his groin, so long and very thin, the milky residues of his
ejaculate dripping sequentially from the tip of his glans. This time I most
assuredly did gasp.

"Well," I said, red faced and perspiring. "That was a big surprise. All
normal I mean, everything is in exemplary working order. I apologize for
any discomfort."

"Huh?" he said, as though coming-to. "Hey, doc," he said matter of factly
indicating the pools of semen on the table paper, "I'm sorry for the
mess. I couldn't help it, the cum and all. I'll clean it up."

"Don't worry about it," I tried to be nonchalant. "Happens all the time
with healthy men," I lied. "Shows everything's functioning."

"Yeah well, the problem is," he said turning toward me, not shy or ashamed,
"it won't go away now." He revealed his unbelievable erection extending for
what was impossible but seemed to be nearly a foot away from him. "It'll
stay this way; it won't go down. Not until I do it a couple of more
times. I'll have to do it now."

I stared gaping. I had seen pictures in medical texts and postcards in
Europe but nothing like this in real life, right in front of me. The length
was unbelievable, but it was not gigantic or grotesque. If anything it was
refined, tapering narrowly along from the base all the way to the tip like
a slender dinner candle. I thought incongruously of Pinnochio's nose, and
then of the tall bottles of rice liquor in the Asian aphrodisiac market in
Toronto, each preserving a long deer's penis. I swayed as though I had
imbibed a couple of shots.

The boy stood stripped and aroused before me. He was no longer sullen, or
even particularly embarrassed. He seemed more matter of fact, more relaxed
actually, evidently believing my fibs that this sort of thing happened all
the time in my office surgery. It was as if he were saying, well, this is
who I am. As for me, how could I explain the darkening stain sopping about
my button fly? Flustered and confused I turned to the small sink and began
scrubbing my hands.

"Do you mind?" he asked conversationally, as if there were nothing going on
for both of us `down there'.

"Do what you need to do."

His fist was around the tip of his striking cock, rubbing the Cowper's
fluid and semen under the foreskin back and forth over the glans. It looked
like 3 fists would be about right to handle the whole thing.

"Do you have anything I could look at? It helps if I can see something."

I was puzzled; then I got it.

"Oh!" I wiped my hands on my trousers and fumbled about the book shelf,
"Try this." I opened an anatomy book to the pictures of male and female
genitalia and secondary sexual characteristics.  "Or this!"

I pulled out a recent well-thumbed medical journal with explicit drawings
and pleasing black and white photographs of the stages of physical
development in children, adolescents and young adults. In fact, the pages
were stained and stuck together a bit as a result of my own study of
them. I left them opened on the exam table near the sink.

"Ah yes," he sighed, as he pointed to the journal pictures with his right
hand and stroked himself with his left.

"Me too," I said.

The boy looked over at me curiously.

"What I mean is, I'm left handed too."

He stood right next to me at the sink; I fully clothed washing up again, he
naked as the day he was born and jacking off. I fought off that inordinate
desire to put my arms around him.

"I don't feel too bad about this," he confided easily. "In grade school it
was the older kids who wanted to see it. In the shower I'd amuse them by
sitting down under the streaming water and give myself a blow job. Yeah, it
came pretty easy. I didn't feel too bad about entertaining them or
anything, it's not like they were making fun of me. They clapped for me. It
was a talent that seemed no different than one of the kids playing the
bugle or something."

He sighed pleasurably as a shot of white semen left his cock and then more
appeared around his fist, dribbling into the sink, giving off the faintest
apple-cider vinegary smell.

"My first time with a girl was with the high school cheerleaders, four of
them in turn. They'd seen lots fatter, but nothing so long, and I was only
12. And then I have this other thing, that it won't go down unless I do it
a couple of times. So that surprised them; they had been used to sex ending
when the guy cums and limps into down time.  But I could cum any number of
times, each one feeling ever so great, without getting soft or having to
wait. They kept climbing on top of me, one after the other. I really could
do that from day one, from when I first beat off as a little kid. I thought
that was normal. I didn't know other guys could only do it once, maybe, and
then have to wait a while or even half a day. Who would have thought?"

He closed his eyes and rolled his head back, sighing, as another emission
series, with less volume, oozed from the tip.

"Hmm, yeah! I don't control the ejaculations at all, I just stay hard and
they keep on coming."

"Well," I sighed, "it is understandably contrary to human nature to
knowingly and deliberately stop one's own sexual pleasure."

"I like it when I can look at pictures or watch a pretty girl, or even some
guy with a nice body," he flicked his gaze my way. "Then I can focus,
concentrate. Then I can cum more, every 3 or 4 minutes or so, for 5 or 6
times or even more. When I was a little kid it could go on all day, just
would get sore that's all. I usually stop when I get bored or its too hot
or something. Otherwise...."

His left hand was a blur around the head of his penis. He was staring into
my face when his shoulders hunched forward a bit while a guttural moan came
from his slack mouth, and again small loads of cum trickled off the head of
his penis.

"Short and Thick May Do the Trick...," he recited grandly a few moments
later when yet another crop of semen spurted from him. "But Long and Thin
Will Go Way In!"

"Not everyone is such an extrovert," I observed. "You're named Andrew,
which means `brave and manly' in Greek, and you're all of that. My name is
Jacob, from `he who grasps' in the Bible, and with you I have grabbed more
than I can handle!"

The deep dimples and laugh lines creased around his full mouth and his eyes
sparkled as he again set his grip about his penis and pulled up and
down. He broke into giggles, completely transforming his entire demeanor
from that dour and doleful drifter into the charged and randy teen boy he
truly was. He was very attractive.

"Ah! Ngh-ah, ha!" he groaned, steadying himself somewhat against me while
emitting a final ejaculation into the sink, the scant creamy semen
sprinkling off the end of his incredible rod. I could attest to the fact
that I eventually witnessed him having six natural, fully ejaculatory
orgasms in about 30 minutes, on the same erection. Amazing. I told Andrew I
would like to report this phenomenon in the urology section of the province
medical publication. He tapped the photo of a budding boy in the journal,
to demonstrate that his own picture could be in there.

"Oh my...." He was eyeing me closely, "You're a good looking man yourself,
Doctor Jacob. I mean you're no Charles Atlas, doc, too thin! But your face
is strong and handsome, and it looks like under there you've got a
well-built body. That shirt fits you like a front-line military man, so
tight that I can see your biceps and chest, and the ridges of your abdomen
muscles. You like folks to see that, don't you? That's no different than me
in the shower!" He glanced at the damp and rising bulge behind my button
fly.  "How about a picture of you and me together, the two of us, in your
medical journal for comparison?"

He dissolved in laughter again, as his penis detumesced to drop drawn-out
in front of him once more.

I had to ask, "Umh, ah, and your refractory period is...? How much time
before you can...?"

His impish grin silenced me. It was dark when the two of us left the office
on the way to old Mrs. Foster's rooming house. As he tugged my arm tighter
about his shoulder, I explained that a warm meal and a cot waited for him.

"Got a camera?" was all the boy said.

**********

<to be continued>


I welcome comments.
cobschwann@gmail.com

..........