Next morning’s arise was substantially less bizarre, but not less busy.

Birds called outside. The room was still dim, the curtains drawn.

It was cool, the sheet was off, pulled over to her side in the night and wrapped around her luxuriously, leaving me bare. Inevitably she would notice and cup a hand around me, sweeping me into her body warmth. But for now she was still.

I got up and padded over to her head, emerging from the blanket like a big sculpture in a state of repose, elevated enough off the mattress that I had to climb the pillow to reach her.

Long draughts of warm air buffeted me as I walked along the pillow to her forehead. My hand was extended, prepared to reach out and make contact with her brow, when a rumbling moan escaped her throat, the timber so deep that it resonated in my bones. The mountain range of blanket created by her length seemed to hunker in against the mattress. For an instant I thought she must have awoken and was contemplating the thought of arising with extreme distaste. But her eyelids remained shut, except for slits of eyeball just visible beneath the black fans of lashes, and the eyes were flickering blindly in a dream state.

A shelf of the mountain range rustled, sweeping gently around; her arm, buried under the blanket, made a searching motion against her body and my body went tense as I realized. She was touching herself in her sleep.

I stood, frozen, as another sultry groan rang through my skull. Her breath built up, caught, and then gushed out in off-beat rhythm. I wondered if she was thinking about me. Or maybe having a weird dream like I’d had the other day.

Then her arm stilled, and I seized this opportunity to begin grazing my fingers through her eyebrow until she went still all over, before the eyelids peeled back, but still fuzzy, half-asleep. Then the pupils found and focused on me.

“Can you get me to the vet’s clinic in about twenty minutes?” I said. “Uh…Please?”

The eyes held on me. I continued to knead the fur of the brow. 

Her voice crackled out groggily:

“REASON?”

“The vet wants me for a…standard medical thing.”

The eyes held. The brow sharpened.

“THE VET IS YOUR FRIEND NOW?”

My shoulders rolled.

“Sure.”

The eyes veiled behind the lashes for a moment.

“I COULD TAKE YOU…OR I COULD MAIL YOU THERE AND SLEEP IN…”

The blanket humped up as one long, slender arm emerged, flying up at me to bop me in the forehead with a straightened forefinger. I shut my eyes before the pad made contact with my brow, the same hand she had been pleasuring herself with only moments before; her touch was scented and oiled with her natural lubricant, although she didn't know that.

Then her head lifted, she sucked in a lungful of air and let out a yawn right into my face, dowsing me in a cloud of hot, moist air. Realizing, she stopped and giggled.

“SORRY, BABE. I WASN’T TRYING TO EAT YOU.” Her head reared back and her eyes dropped to the tattoo on my chest, and then her lips were drawing in close to press softly against my left pec in an apologetic kiss, giving the hunk of chest muscle a quick probe with her tongue before her lips pulled away again.

She lifted and propped her head up on one arm on the pillow, and her eyes came to a rest on my groin. Her hand slid over the mattress with inescapable power and speed, straight at me. It stopped at my feet, one finger lifting to brush against my dick, which was inconveniently erect.

“DO WE HAVE TIME FOR A QUICKIE IN THE SHOWER?”

“Maybe not this morning,” I said, shifting my feet as her fingertip played with my member, pushing and wiggling it back and forth like a toy, “I really have to—ugh—” the flat pads rolled the head of my cock around with dreamy softness and my sleep-suppressed heartrate now began to accelerate to a vigorous jog. The corner of her lips curled.

It was somehow erotic seeing the sharp razor nails pass so close to my agonizingly sensitive, bulging tip without actually making contact. The nails could be devastating yet her touch was soft and controlled; my dick was putty being shaped by her warm fingertips, inadvertently painting a faint sheen of her own fluid up and down my shaft.

I took a deep breath.

“I have to go now…”

She observed me with the disinterest of someone still recovering from deep sleep.

“YOU REALLY DON’T LOOK READY YET,” she inclined her head, pondering. “I THINK WE SHOULD GIVE IT A COUPLE MORE MINUTES.”

She was right; after several more minutes of heart-thumping agony, I was in desperate need of a shower.

*

“WELL, SOMEONE BOUNCED BACK AFTER THEIR LITTLE RUN-IN WITH MY SURGICAL SHEARS!”

A soft folded towel pressed against my back as I lay face up on the veterinary table. The air was cool and every so often I tried to repress a shiver, while my naked skin had broken out in little bumps. Jen stood beside the table; the gleam of her nails were visible in peripheral vision, fingers curled around the table edge. I looked across and met her eyes, and my head was then shaded by a huge hand as she delicately ran a finger over my hair.

The female vet’s humungous face hovered directly above, blocking out the ceiling light. Her hair was tied back out of the way and her gaze analysed me with clinical interest. Her pink, moist lips smacked on a wad of gum, and my eyes became warily transfixed, dreading that at any moment the gum would fall out. Due to the position of her downturned face, if the gum dropped, my face would be the accidental target.

I couldn’t shift out of the way, because her hand held me down, gently pressed against the tabletop as her rubber gloved fingers journeyed over my bare torso, palpating my insides along the faint scar on my abdomen.

“LOOK AT THE TONE ON THAT BABY BREADBASKET.” She gave my stomach a gentle, admiring prod. 

The vet then listened to my chest with a stethoscope that felt like a plate of ice, and virtually dwarfed my torso, then flipped me over and listened to my back. She took some tiny hammer-ended tool and began tapping about here and there, as if to test the resonance in the air spaces of my body. Pinching my shoulders together, she propped me up into a sitting position on the table, and a tiny cuff squeezed my arm to get my blood pressure, before she shone a miniature torch in my eyes, ears and throat, as I wondered what animal these miniature tools had last been used on – a rat, mouse, or a frog? The deft manipulation of my supine body and bulky intrusion of the tools in my direct visual field definitely me feel less than human.

Then I was laid on my back again while she poked and pushed with a pointer finger, virtually dwarfing the body parts and organs it was attempting to identify. Two broad fingerpads spread about against my front, rubbing my skin to stretch it taut and capture whatever organ or body part lay underneath. A pointer finger moved around over my skull, pinching my head and gently lifting it up off the table to slide under and examine my scalp. Then it worked methodically from my neck to my armpits, then down to my torso, tummy, legs, and finally my groin. Although she was trying to be gentle, the sheer size of her fingertips compared to me made the groin palpation more vigorous than intended, and I finished the examination rock hard and pointing up at the ceiling.

Without warning her gloved fingers began to curl and extend against my shaft, engaged a game of trying to snatch at and poke it.

“WHAT IS THIS, HUH?” she said with mock surprise, playfully catching my tip between two fingers, letting it go, and then catching it again. “WHAT IS THIS? YOU GET SO EXCITED COMING IN TO SEE ME, DON’T YOU!”

As I kicked and struggled between her hands, she appraised Jennifer calmly:

“I DON’T THINK IT’S NECESSARY TO PRESCRIBE HIM ANYTHING OFF THE SHELF TO RELIEVE THAT TUMESCENT LITTLE TICKLE STICK. LET’S JUST TREAT IT AS AN EXERCISE IN SELF-RESTRAINT.” She crouched against the table to bring her gaze down level with my face, fixing me with a big grin, the gum in her cheek squelching as she chewed.

“IT’S SO BIG AND YOU’RE SO TINY!” she cooed. “HOW’D IT GET SO BIG?” She flipped my member drolly against her fingertip while making some affectionate kissy noises at me. Then, leaving my member panging outrageously and straining up at the ceiling, the vet turned peeled off and disposed of her rubber gloves, and deliberated over her computer for a moment.

“I’VE GOT HIS BLOOD TESTS FROM BEFORE HIS NIGHTY-NIGHT JAB LAST TIME,” she said, cheerfully. “NO NEED TO WORRY: ALL NORMAL. BETTER THAN NORMAL; HIGH VITAMINS, HIGH IRON, STRONG IMMUNE FUNCTION.” Her gleaming eyes fixed on me with excitement. “HE’S A PERFECT CANDIDATE!”

There was a beat. Then –

“CANDIDATE FOR WHAT?” Jen said.

The vet gave her a strange look.

“THE ROBURFORTIS THERAPY – THAT’S WHAT WE’RE DOING HERE, TODAY.”

Jen’s eyes flicked from the vet down to me and back again. I shrank under her keen gaze.

“JERRY, WHAT IS THIS,” she said slowly, “WE CAME IN HERE FOR A CHECK-UP.”

The vet spent a moment explaining the therapy to her, the same as she’d done over the phone to me. Jen’s face remained impassive as she took this in, though her eyes seemed to shade over.

“AND THE SIDE EFFECTS?” she said.

“THE BONE GROWTH PROCESS MAY BE PAINFUL,” the vet listed off, “THERE MIGHT BE SOME SWELLING AND INFLAMMATION AROUND THE JOINTS. IF THE PAIN ESCALATES WE CAN BRING IN SOME PAIN RELIEF, AND PLAY AROUND WITH THE PILL DOSE SO THE POOR LITTLE GUY’S SYSTEM ISN’T RUNNING ON THE BRINK OF EXHAUSTION.”

Jen stepped up to the table, pressing her palms upon the edge and leaning over until I was staring straight up at her face, and couldn’t avoid her penetrating gaze.

"WHY IS THIS THE FIRST TIME I'M HEARING ABOUT THIS?"

Unnoticed by the vet, her voice now became tacitly sterner, and came at me in particular, like a dart.

I shivered under her scrutiny, my insides coiling, and looked to the vet for help, an explanation. The vet smiled innocently, misinterpreting the question.

"HAVE TO SAY, I'M A LITTLE EXCITED TO SEE HOW IT WORKS OUT, I'VE NEVER COME ACROSS IT BEFORE, EITHER."

One of the palms near me lifted, the hand combing through the dual-tone hair, but only succeeding in mussing it.

“JERRY,” she fought for the right words, “EXPLAIN TO ME. BECAUSE I DON’T GET IT. I DON’T.”

“W-what part don’t you get?”

“WHICH PART OF THIS MAKES ANY SENSE?”

The vet looked between us.

“WHAT IF I GIVE YOU GUYS A MINUTE?”

“No!” My eyes fluttered around the ceiling. Jen’s brow distinctly hardened.

“JERRY, THE RISKS. PAIN, EXHAUSTION. YOU’RE THAT DESPERATE?”

I glared against the ceiling light, hating the word ‘desperate’, trying to ignore not only her face but the inflamed tower of my dick pointing up at her, making a very inconvenient presence.

“All medical procedures have risks. I’ve got to at least try it, or I’m going to be kicking myself.”

“WHO ARE YOU TRYING TO IMPRESS? THE FILM PEOPLE?”

“It’s nothing to do with them. It’s me. I want it.”

Her face screened up like she hadn’t heard me. She left the tableside, dropping into the aluminium frame seat at the side of the room, in the corner, staring ahead as if trying to make out some tiny invisible writing on the wall. Then her eyes went to the floor and stayed there. I watched her, waiting for a reestablishment of eye contact, but it didn’t come.

Then my head dropped back until all I saw was the ceiling, the harsh buzzing fluorescent strips as the vet typed away at the computer.

I wanted to get up off the table, take her hand, squeeze it, rub her shoulder, something, but was stuck staring up at the ceiling, lying face up on the towel, with the vet’s gargantuan upper body hovering around the edge of my vision, feeling less like a patient and more like a helpless animal that had just been born. If this all worked, I would be able to do all of those things; rub her shoulder, take her hand, hug her. I fixated on that thought.

“I’LL FIX UP A PRESCRIPTION AND GET SOME SENT TO YOU,” the vet said. “JUST NEED TO CONFIRM YOUR POSTAL ADDRESS.”

I gave my Tiferno Apartment address, while, at the same time, Jen listed off the home address.

“St Palma,” I insisted.

"BAYSIDE," said Jen.

"I'LL STICK THE CITY ADDRESS IN HERE, OKAY?" the vet chirped.

Jen exhaled slowly but said nothing.

The vet was now rifling through drawers of medical equipment. My muscles snapped to attention and I pushed myself up off the towel. The towering wall of her back facing me, she announced, cheerily as ever:

“NOW, YOU ASKED ME ABOUT WHETHER THE LITTLE FELLA’S WAND WAS FIRING AS IT SHOULD BE.”

She was talking to Jen.

Jen drew herself up in the seat to return the vet’s inquiring look. The vet went on:

“HE WAS JUST A CHIRPY LITTLE TWINKLE ON THE TABLETOP, WASN’T HE? STILL CHIRPY, BUT NOW HE’S BIG ENOUGH FOR MY DELICATE EQUIPMENT TO HAVE A TEENY FEEL AROUND FOR ANALYSIS, AND MAYBE, IF WE’RE REALLY LUCKY, HE’LL LET ME TAKE A STEALTHY SAMPLE.”

She turned away from the drawers to face the table again, and flexed her hand in a way that suggested it was the ‘delicate equipment’. A buzz raced up my spine.

“What are you doing?!” I cried.

“EASY THERE, CUPCAKE!” she chuckled. “I’M JUST GOING TO PUT YOU THROUGH YOUR PACES.”

“No more tests! I’m healthy – you said so!”

Jen now chose this moment to leave the seat and return to the tableside to lean over me, bringing a couple of fingers flat over my chest like a harness, while her thumb extended up behind the top of my head to stroke my hair in an effort to calm me down.

"DO THIS FOR ME, OKAY?” she said, then, more softly, as her thumb gently brushed against and flicked my ear. “IT'S NECESSARY, BABE."

The vet was snapping on another pair of rubber gloves, before squirting gel on her fingertips and rubbing them together, calmly addressing Jennifer over my head.

“THE USUAL METHOD FOR THIS IS DIGITAL STIMULATION.” She considered me on the table, shifting around under Jen’s steady, firm hand. “I NEED A GOOD, BIG SPURT, BUT I’M PRETTY CONFIDENT IN MY TECHNIQUE TO COAX HIM TO EXHAUST EVERYTHING HE’S GOT. AND YOU DOWN THERE—” she now leaned right over me, looking me in the eye, “—YOU’RE IN GOOD HANDS. OR, I SHOULD SAY, HAND.”

She winked at me, giving my ankle a gentle touch as if in reassurance, but the coldness of the rubber glove made me flinch.

My tongue turned heavy in my mouth as my thoughts raced for arguments.

“There has got to be some kind of–eep—!”

Fingertips wrapped around my shaft and began gliding up and down with confident strokes, asserting total, unhurried control over my reproductive function.

“OOH, OUCH!” the vet sympathized, “AND I’M JUST MAKING IT WORSE AND WORSE, AREN’T I? POOR LITTLE GUY…”

The pressure grew denser, then released and became light, unbearable and irritating, then intensified again, and carrying on like this in cycles. Every square inch of my member was explored with indiscriminate clinical curiosity, and stroked thoroughly, squeezing and stretching, and stroking vigorous circles into the tip until perspiration was dabbing my brow and my eyes were practically rolling up into my head. Sharp gasps and moans were coming out of my mouth and I couldn’t stop them.

“LET'S SEE IF I CAN MAKE YOU WORK A LITTLE HARDER, NOW…THAT’S IT LITTLE GUY,” the vet was murmuring, “YOU CAN DO IT...A LITTLE MORE...WHAT A BIG UNIT YOU HAVE! BUT YOU’D MAKE ME SO HAPPY IF YOU GOT EVEN BIGGER FOR ME…JUST A LITTLE MORE…”

At intervals her big pink lips puckered at me, making wet popping kissing sounds, not in a flirtatious way but as if I was a puppy she was cooing at.

There was intermittent pressure around my balls, not merely from inside but on the outside; as if a fingertip was rolling around them, measuring, trying to gauge by touch how much fluid there was for her to take.

It was torture. My head was thrashing about until the warm weight of her thumbpad planted on my brow to pin my head to the table.

I took deep ragged breaths as the constant pressure became like a powerful sucking feeling right through my shaft. The vet was so confident and clinical in her technique she was powering away without regard to my comfort, skillfully maneuvering me through a monstrous climax.

“NOT GIVING UP EASILY, EH?” The vet smirked at Jen. “HE WANTS ANOTHER COUPLE OF ROUNDS OF TUG-O-WAR,” She murmured, unfazed, total concentration on my expanding, twitching organ: “BUT I’VE GOT HIM RIGHT WHERE I WANT HIM…”

Giddy pulsations of bright euphoria began exploding through my loins. I let out a series of breathless squeaks as my hips began to buck against the examination table.

“HAVE YOU NOW, LITTLE FELLA!” the vet gloated down at me. “GIVE ME A NICE BIG SQUIRT.”

Multiple wads shot out of my dick and were zealously captured in a sample cup by the vet.

“AH HA!” the vet crowed in victory. “WE HAVE SURRENDER!”

Screwing the lid, she held the jar up to her eyes, squinting in at it, rotating the jar to catch the ceiling light, and in that innocent, earnestly clinical way of hers:

“LOOK AT THAT! WHAT A BEAUTIFUL BIG DEPOSIT. WHAT MORE CAN I ASK FOR?”

She pulled out a tissue and dabbed my face of perspiration, while I took deep calming breaths and stared at the ceiling, unable to meet the eyes of either woman.

*

Back in the car, I could tell something was wrong. Jen was an easy conversationalist, and right now, she was driving us home in silence, not looking at me. Of course, she had to keep her eyes on the road, but she wasn’t acknowledging me.

She flipped the radio on, surfed the stations undecidedly, made an audible sigh, then turned it off. She was a great actress except for when she was pissed off, then her performative nature seemed to depart her entirely.

“SO YOU’RE GOING TO START THAT TRIAL?” she said quietly.

I weighed my words.

“I’ve definitely thought about it.”

She considered this.

“WELL, HAVE YOU THOUGHT ABOUT WHAT IT’S GOING TO MEAN FOR YOUR CAREER IF YOU GET THOSE SIDE-EFFECTS? HOW ARE YOU GOING TO PERFORM IF YOU’RE IN PAIN?”

“The vet said she’d give me pain relief if it came to that.”

“YEAH, AND OVER-MEDICATE AND MAKE YOURSELF SICK.”

I shifted uncomfortably between her thighs, which, in response, clenched me firmer.

“You sound upset.”

“I’M NOT UPSET,” she said. “BUT I ALREADY TOLD YOU HOW I FEEL.” She added impatiently: “I THOUGHT WE WERE PAST THIS.”

“Past what?”

“OH, YOU KNOW,” she grunted. “THIS…THIS SIZE THING.” Then blurted out: “THERE’S NOTHING WRONG WITH YOU!”

“But there is something different, and I’m just trying to reconcile that.”

“WE’RE GETTING MARRIED NOW.” She lifted a hand from the steering wheel and flexed it. “THIS RING ON MY FINGER ISN’T A TOY; IT SYMBOLIZES THE PROMISE WE MADE TO HAVE EACH OTHER AS WE ARE. SO, WHAT, YOU’RE GOING TO RUN AWAY FROM THAT AND DO THIS, AND THROW YOUR PROMISE TO ME OUT THE WINDOW?”

“I think you’re being slightly dramatic. People all around the world have a normal wedding where the bride and groom are roughly the same size. Would it be such a disaster if I actually look you in the eye when we stand at the altar?”

“WELL…” she interrupted herself with a huff of exasperation, “…WHAT DID YOU THINK IT WAS GOING TO LOOK LIKE? YOU DON’T WANT TO STAND IN MY HAND? WHERE ELSE WOULD YOU BE? THE FLOOR LIKE EVERYONE ELSE?”  

“No,” I said quickly, “No one should be crouching or kneeling or craning their necks or standing on stilts, that’s all.”  

“THIS IS THE WEDDING WE’RE TALKING ABOUT, RIGHT?” she said tersely, “NOT SOMETHING ELSE?”

“I’m just trying to put myself in the picture where I fit.”

“YOU FIT AND IT’S GOING TO WORK OUT,” she said flippantly. “STOP COMPLAINING.” Her thighs rippled with a breathtaking flex calculated to squeeze me into submissive silence. 

“YOU THROW THIS AT ME,” she said after a moment, “AND IT’S LIKE; SINCE WHEN?”

My mouth opened but nothing came out.

Since when—?

A spurt of anger hit me inside like a tiny grenade, and I barely managed to contain it before I blurted something I’d regret. There was already of a spike of emotion in her tone and if I fed it, the conversation was going to deteriorate into animal snarls.

Some minutes passed. Then I said:

“I’ll think it over.”

"OKAY. GOOD. FINE."

Engine sound filled up the silence.

My thoughts were disturbed by the thunder of trains as we passed a station. Buried between Jen’s thighs, the windows high above, I imagined people streaming off the train, a trample of feet on granite floor, scaling unimaginable distances in heartbeats. I had to stick with Jen at home, stick with Raf in St Palma, there was no way for me to make a spontaneous transit, jump on connecting trains, planes, buses, cabs, see where they took me, with no one waiting at the other end to pick me up, relying only on my feet and my brains.