Archive of Our Own

“Mr Goodsir, if you’re not going to have the decency to read my book out loud to me, can you at least step out of my light?” Dr Stephen Stanley looked up into the looming face of Harry Goodsir as he stood expectantly in front of him, his hands awkwardly at his sides as if he were a child waiting for the attention of a distant parent.

Goodsir’s face faltered a little, but the sternness in his eyes was something that was unusual to Stephen, so he humoured him by closing the book he was reading with an air of purposeful resignation.

There was a steady silence as Goodsir ordered his thoughts. Stephen was looking up into his face with a calm look of disinterest, his straight nose and tired eyes casting angular shadows across his cheekbones in the lamplight of the empty medical bay.

“Well?” the doctor implored, resting the book on his desk and leaning back with a heavy sigh, crossing his legs at the knee. Goodsir observed him carefully, lost in warring thought. “Have you suddenly lost the use of your tongue?” his pale gaze flickered down minutely to Goodsir’s mouth, a mocking gesture of concern.

“Of course not.” Goodsir spoke up, soft-spoken as ever, straightening out the hem of his frockcoat with distracted care. His eyes, dark and gleaming in the limited light, darted above Stephen’s head, and then to his desk, everywhere but the doctor himself.

If Stephen had been a man of more pizazz, he would have rolled his eyes in disdain, but instead he folded one long arm over the other and made a point of shifting impatiently in his chair.

“If I wanted a man to stand over me and watch my every move, I’d move back in with my father.” Stephen irked, “And he’s been in the ground for longer than you’ve no doubt been alive.”

Goodsir didn’t think that was mathematically accurate, but he fixed Stephen with an astute look anyway, forever astonished by how dramatic this man was capable of being without so much as moving a muscle in his face.

“Dr Stanley…” His voice was quiet, more quiet than usual, and Stephen felt himself grow increasingly irritated. “I don’t know if this is strictly professional…but I…well…” his eyes fled from the doctor’s once more.

Goodsir had been working with Stephen in the medical bay since early this morning and had only taken a brief rest in the afternoon. His expression was heavy, and his clothes were rumpled. The smart frockcoat he often wore was unbuttoned and his waistcoat was crooked, but his necktie was tied smartly- having been the only thing Goodsir had the time to correct all day, no doubt. His mass of dark, curly hair hung in disorganised strands over his face, his thick whiskers sat bushy and untrimmed.

“If this is a question about the professional standards of dress expected of an assistant surgeon, then I’m more than happy to assist.” Stephen gave a cold, thin smile.

Goodsir looked down at himself and flustered, running a deft hand over the front of him as if that would fix a full days-worth of unrest that had settled into his clothes.

“I do apologise, I…uh…”  he began buttoning up his frockcoat, “Actually…that’s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Stephen sat forward in his chair, forcing Goodsir to take a few steps backwards to avoid the doctor coming nose-to-chest with him.

“Are you seriously taking up my time to consult me about your apparent mystery regarding smart dress code?” he scowled up at Goodsir as he pulled the top button of his coat closed under his high collar.

“No, not exactly.” He stood awkwardly for a second, eyeing the chair on the other side of Stephen’s desk with a ferocious need. Stephen took no pity on him. Once Goodsir had realised he wasn’t about to be invited to take a seat, he continued, “I…uh…haven’t been sleeping right, lately.”

Stephen leaned back in his chair again with growing misery.

“Mr Goodsir, while you are on this ship, you do realise that you act as an apothecary, and therefore have access to all the means you could ever want to cure this yourself?” it was a rhetorical question and Goodsir squirmed under it, taking a step forward.

“No, not like that…I mean…I just…” his face was becoming heated, even in the warm lamplight Stephen could see the colour rising up the slice of neck that was viewable between collar and mutton chops. He found himself relishing in the other man’s discomfort, making no move to help him out of his struggling thoughts.

“Goodsir, if you have something to say, I pray that you say it soon.” He glanced at the assistant’s hands, which were wringing together at his front.

Goodsir looked towards the floor, a look of silent despair on his face. He took a deep breath.

“I’ve been…having thoughts, Doctor.”

“A miracle, one might think.”

“No…not like…” a pause, he refused to look Stephen in the eye. “I think you know what I mean by that, Sir.”

Stephen considered the downturned face of Mr Goodsir for a while, his arms uncrossing to lean one on his desk, his fingers gently drumming against the wood as Goodsir sank deeper and deeper into mortification under the doctors knowing look.

“You mean… thoughts of an unchristian nature?”

Goodsir’s hands clenched to his sides when he heard the word ‘unchristian’, shame wracking through him. He looked up, only his eyes moving in his face, to confront Stephen who- in turn- offered him an unreadable and frustratingly professional expression.

“Yes, Sir.” He lifted his face to Stephen before he could speak again, “I know this isn’t your area, but I was wondering if, maybe, you would have somehow covered something in your studies about…curbing these… thoughts…medically?”

Stephen let his eyes rake over Goodsir’s frame with a condescendingly thoughtful murmur, landing on his face and boring into him. The man was stood as tense as could be possible, clearly fighting the urge to look away. His face was flushed at the apples of his cheeks, his neck crimson.

“You do realise that you are not the only man whom, when away at sea, feels unnatural, unchristian urges?” Stephen’s regard was cold, his whole demeanour designed to make Harry feel ridiculous. He leaned back languidly against his chair, considering some lint on his knee with practiced interest.

Mr Goodsir fixed him with a wide-eyed look, his hands returning back to his front to tangle together.

“Of course, Sir, I was just wondering…”

“Are you also aware that many of the men, despite this, are still able to perform their duties and remain smartly dressed… without the need of a medical procedure?” His eyes flicked up to Goodsir’s face again, sharp.

Goodsir stopped talking, his brow furrowed in the smallest expression of frustration. There was another small silence.

Stephen stood out of his chair in a graceful swoop, forcing Goodsir back a few steps as he passed him.

“I’m sorry for bothering you, doctor.” Goodsir clipped, straightening his posture, veering with Stephen as he moved by him, looking him fully in the face where he was now stood in the centre of the medical bay. After a moment, he turned away from the doctor and stiffly made his way back towards his own desk in the corner of the room.

Stephen watched him for a beat.

“Do you act on these thoughts?” the statement shattered the silence like a musket ball. Goodsir froze, swiftly spinning to face the doctor once more with a hasty expression.

“No, no! Of course not!” he spluttered. The doctors face was masked and expressionless.

“Do you ever indulge in the…” he considered, “In the pollution of the palm, so to speak?”

Goodsir hurried across the room, looking around him as if he were afraid of being overheard in an empty sickbay. He looked at Stephen with a stern expression as he reached the doctor’s personal space.

“No!” he hissed, flushing. He looked away. “I mean…well…at least not with these thoughts.” His voice was a thin whisper, as if god himself were listening. “I never indulge them for fear of them…multiplying.” His hot gaze worked its way back up to the cool blue of Stephen’s.

Stephen looked down the bridge of his nose at Goodsir, his brow unmoved and his mouth a hard line. Illegible.

“Well then, you have nothing to worry about.” His head tilted, stepping further into Goodsir’s already close proximity.

Goodsir looked up at him with the mild panic of a trapped rabbit, unmoving, stuttering a soft gasp as Stephen purposefully let his breath ghost over the smaller man’s face in an act of unmistakably passive-aggressive dominance.

“Go and get some rest, Mr Goodsir, I will call on you in the morning.” He dismissed, anything but a kind gesture.

This was an order, and Goodsir was aware of it.

His face hardened, his eyes wide with a growing injustice. He didn’t fight the demand.

“Of course, Sir.” His voice was gentle, defeated.

****

Harry reached his cabin with a heaviness, he felt humiliated for bringing up his situation with Dr Stanley. What made him think that that man would be even slightly sympathetic?

His cabin was small, smaller than Dr Stanley’s, who was allowed more room due to his title as Chief Surgeon. The bed took up the entirety of the back wall, an oil lamp was placed on a fold-down table next to the head of the bed. The other walls were equipped with shelves that held many of his naturalist specimens and personal book collections, under these shelves were two drawers for clothes. As soon as you entered the room you had just enough space to stand in the centre and undress- although most nights a surgeon would stay in uniform due to being on call- before you were pretty much required to climb into bed, with the proximity of it. The bed itself was designed with storage space under the frame, and so it stood about as high as a workbench, which had provided many a stomach lurching morning at first, where Harry had forgotten how high up he was and had expected his feet to hit the floor sooner than they did.

Harry entered the room and stood in the dark for a second, rubbing his hands together with the chill. He fumbled with the oil lamp before igniting it, turning it to a low light. He carefully slid the door closed behind him and sat on the edge of his bed, toeing off his shoes.

The bed was the only generous thing about the room, and Harry wilted back against it, his legs hanging off the edge. His coverings were cold under his neck, having been untouched since the early hours of the morning. It gave him a simplistic nudge of sensory pleasure.

The thoughts he had tried to get help with had been bothering him for a good few weeks now, and he couldn’t understand where they had come from or how to stop them. The more he tried to not think about them, the more they would increase in intensity, and some nights he would lay awake in bed, painful heat in his groin, waiting until the thoughts left him. But of course, they never did.

Harry had never counted himself as a very good Christian, he blasphemed quite often when he was a young man and could never focus on his bible studies, but even he knew that these sorts of thoughts were of a nature that even he couldn’t explain away. Thoughts that would most definitely earn him lashings if he were to be too careless about them. The idea built a tightness into his chest.

He looked up at the ceiling of his cabin, watching the shadows cast by his bookshelves play across the wood as the flame flickered from the lamp. He sighed slowly, troubled, and closed his eyes, bringing an arm down over them, focusing instead on the colours and lights dancing behind his eyelids.

He must have been laid there for a long while before he was aware of footsteps growing closer to his cabin. Possibly one of the men couldn’t sleep. He stayed with his eyes covered and secretly, selfishly hoped that they didn’t disturb him.

As if on cue, the door to his cabin slid open carefully.

Harry swiftly pulled himself into a sitting position, attempting to mask any evidence of distress on his face. He was met with the figure of Dr Stanley in the doorway.

Harry’s mouth went dry.

“Oh…uh…Doctor.” He rapidly looked around him, making sure his cabin wasn’t disorganised, and straightening this frockcoat out in front of him.

He was still a little upset with Stanley, and so it made his gut twist to see him again so soon. Stanley’s face was grave, he stooped into the cabin, pulling the door shut behind him. His great height made him appear almost suffocating in the limited room-space, his head mere millimetres away from colliding with the roof. He held a small, unlabelled bottle in his hand.

“Are you wanting my assistance back in the berth?” Harry’s voice was the blueprint of practiced geniality, placing his hands politely in his lap. His eyes flickered to the bottle and then swiftly back to the doctor’s face.

Stanley scanned the room very quickly, a look of seriousness etched onto his features. The light of the oil lamp placed most of him in shadow, and Harry was finding it very hard to read his expression.

“No, Goodsir.” His voice was soft in volume only. “I’ve been considering what you asked of me.” He said it with the casual manner of a man discussing the weather. Harry felt his stomach drop, not wanting to be reminded of the embarrassing state of affairs that had happened in the sick bay. He looked down at his hands.

“Ah, yes…um…” He took a breath, “You don’t need to worry yourself with-” but was interrupted.

“About what you mentioned about anything in my studies pointing to medical relief for such…thoughts.” Stanley was looking down at him now, making Harry feel incredibly small. One side of the doctor’s face was drowned in a soft orange glow that made the iris of his eye look practically transparent, piercing.

Harry sat in anticipated silence, shifting his weight where he sat on his cot, his brown eyes impossibly big with a mixture of hope and fear. His pulse hammered in his neck, unable to stop himself from considering the thoughts he was struggling with and how they were triggered by the man who was so very close in front of him. Not Dr Stanley, per say, but the mere existence of another man.

“Yes?” he encouraged after a short silence. Stanley took a step further into the room, although there wasn’t much room to cover, so the step just took him closer to Harry’s knees.

“There is something, but it’s drawing on medical documentation gleaned from Paré’s research.” The lines on his face were severe, his expression neutral. Ambroise Paré’s research dated back to the 1500s, the era of the Barber-Surgeon.

“Okay.” Harry tried to shuffle back, away from the doctor, but he was stopped by the anchor of his knees. Cold sweat prickled between his shoulder blades, his palms itching with it.

“You say you don’t indulge in these thoughts, correct?” The doctor’s gaze was direct.

“Yes, that’s correct.” He felt smothered.

“Well, this might be causing a form of build-up, so to speak, that is distracting normal thought patterns.” Dr Stanley appeared to be looming closer, but Harry couldn’t tell if it was trick of the light or not. Couldn’t tell if it was his imagination.

“I see.” Harry said in a small voice. He had heard of these types of things happening, but never in this context. “But to indulge in these thoughts would be…well…sinful.” He could feel heat rising up his neck.

Stanley nodded briefly but kept very quiet, his eyes never once stopped studying Harry’s face with a cold consideration. A medical consideration. He twisted the bottle round in his fingers as if nervous, though Harry knew he wasn’t.

“If I may ask…” Harry began, once more trying to shift further onto his cot without making it obvious. “What kind of build-up?”

Stanley remained quiet, his eyes passing over Harry’s features slowly. Harry felt like he was about to be sentenced to death. His skin burned under each rumination, his eyes strained, stinging in the low light, looking for any sign of emotion from the doctor. Nothing. A blank slate.

“I’m sure I don’t need to explain to you what the prostate gland is, Mr Goodsir?” his voice was level and professional. Harry gave a firm nod, his expression tight.

“Yes, I’m familiar.” Harry had briefly studied the prostate gland during his anatomy classes. “It’s a seminal gland located on the stem of the bladder.” He was taught that the prostate was of no real importance apart from producing semen, and he was encouraged to either disregard it or cut through it if he needed to access the bladder during surgeries.

“I’m not here to praise your anatomy studies, Goodsir.” Stanley bit, his brow creasing. Harry was tempted to scowl back but couldn’t find the strength. “I mentioned it because it was believed that the prostate gland can accumulate more fluid than necessary, and this can cause disruptions.”

Harry wasn’t aware of this point of view, as far as he was taught, the prostate was yet another organ to be aware of and nothing more. He eyed Stanley warily, unsure what school of thought the doctor was drawing on.

“Paré, you said?” he was confused. How did Stanley know so much about this specific organ?

“Mhm.” The man’s eyes were hard, sensing that he was being challenged. “I’ve approached this angle before and have seen significant results.” He pursed his mouth into a severe line, confronting Harry’s doubt.

Harry considered him for a while, now more than ever wanting to move away from the doctor, move into a safe corner of the bed. There was a strong sense of unease in his gut, he wasn’t sure if Stanley was being honest with him. He stayed very still.

“What… what ‘angle’?” he asked after a while, and Stanley looked somewhat pleased.

“It’s in relation to humoral theory.” His eyes had the glint of a spider with a fly in its web, he was perfectly unmoving above Harry. “It’s a simple purging procedure.”

Harry felt his face moving, but he was unable to actualise his thoughts. Stanley was as cold as marble, carved from the light of the oil lamp.

He moved away from Harry (as much as he could) and began unbuttoning his frockcoat with a fierce professionalism, placing the bottle he had been holding gently on the fold-down table. Harry watched him, agape, quickly realising that Stanley meant to perform some form of medical procedure on him this very night.

Stanley removed his coat and placed it on the end of the bed, rolling his sleeves up to reveal strong forearms that could only belong to an experienced surgeon. Solid and paved with hair, haphazardly marked with thin white scars that picked up in the lamplight, the muscle sinewy, flickering effortlessly under the skin.

The reveal of skin felt foreign to Harry, who had only ever seen Stanley with oversleeves on. He couldn’t draw his eyes away, feeling as if he were peeking at something he shouldn’t be.

“In order to release the build-up, pressure must be applied to the gland.” The doctor spoke quickly, as if it was common knowledge. Harry felt his heart battering in his chest, staring up at him once more.

“You mean, through an examination?” examinations of this kind were not at all uncommon, but Harry had only ever performed them on cadavers, never on the living and certainly never on the receiving end.

“Precisely.” Stanley turned the oil lamp up to flood the room with a strong light, and the closeness of the doctor to Harry suddenly looked ridiculous. “If you wouldn’t mind, Mr Goodsir, then we can get this over with as swiftly as possible.” Stanley gestured to Harry’s lower half.

Harry swallowed hard, a creeping feeling of anxiety working its way into his gut. Surgeons were trained not to be squeamish or embarrassed about the body, and this included their own, but Harry barely undressed for himself these days, let alone for medical procedures. Let alone with the thoughts he was struggling with, let alone with another man so close to him.

Stanley shot him a withered look.

“Mr Goodsir, would you rather we perform this procedure within the public viewing of the medical bay?” he remarked, giving him an unsavoury once-over. Harry’s face flooded with heat immediately, his throat clicked with a dry gulp. He would not rather that.

He swallowed his pride and leant hesitantly onto his lower back, undoing his frockcoat and placing it next to Stanley’s. He struggled with the latches of his braces, his hands shaking and his head light. He clipped them free from the hem of his trousers with much relief, and made quick work of the buttons, pushing his trousers and undergarments off his hips without thinking about it too much. The process was quick and done with as much numbness as possible, the blood slowly draining from his face as more of his body found itself on display. The tails of his dress shirt pooled to protect his modesty- at least for now.

He could feel Stanley stood above him, the shadow of him falling over his frame, his breathing steady and intrusive to the ears. Harry risked a glance up and found that Stanley was considering his newly exposed thighs. He looked somewhat displeased.

“This won’t do.” He said, and before Harry could argue, Stanley had manhandled the hem of his clothes and had pulled them completely from his legs. His braces pulled and wrestled out from under his waistcoat and now lay discarded with his trousers where they were still attached at the back. Harry made an undignified noise of complaint, drawing into himself, his shoulders shaking with adrenaline.

“Was that necessary?!” Harry’s voice cracked, he had never been so easily handled by another man before, and he decided just then that he hated it. His lower half was entirely bare now, his waistcoat and shirt still affixed, his collar tied neatly. He felt like a whore naked beneath an expensive fur coat.

Stanley loomed over him and Harry half-sat-half-laid helplessly on his cot, his knees hesitantly drew down from where they were pulled into his chest to place themselves awkwardly on the edge of the mattress, his calves hanging over the edge. The doctor had the bottle he bought with in one hand, and Harry could tell that the contents were oily. Most likely oil of castor, a common lubricant used for examinations such as these.

The reality of Harry’s situation hit him very suddenly, and he couldn’t help but start to panic a little.

“I’ve never done this before.” He hurried, drawing his thighs close together as he leant back on his elbows, looking up at Stanley, searching the doctor’s face for any glimpse of understanding. As if that would matter at all to the taller man.

Stanley cast him a glance, unmoving, and said nothing. His face was hard and devoid of any warmth. Harry felt himself internally floundering, his knees pressed tightly closed, fingernails pushing into his palms. Of course, the first time he would ever experience such a procedure and it would be performed by a man who he was positive hated him.

The doctor uncorked the bottle and poured the oil onto his right hand, focusing mostly on the middle digit. He gave Harry an unreadable look.

“Are you going to simply lay there, or do I need to tell you to do everything?”

Harry’s eyes widened, distraught with embarrassment. He looked down at himself, his thighs were covered in thick, dark hair that carried all the way down to the hem of his socks, which were gartered to his mid-calf. The hair grew intense the higher it got up his inner thigh and disappeared under the excess of his dress shirt.

“Um…right…” his voice sounded thick coming from his mouth, desperately reaching for his surgical professionalism. Whenever he had performed this on bodies they had been on their back, but then again, they also weren’t alive to give notes on whether that was the most comfortable position or not. Harry felt an inappropriate, nervous laugh clawing up his throat and he fought hard to supress it, the muscles in his shoulders hurt from tension, his ribs spasming with shivers. His stomach felt empty and loose, as if he had been flayed open.

“Listen, if you don’t make a decision soon, Mr Goodsir, I will be forced to adjust your position myself.” Stanley was closer than before, Harry could feel the heat coming off of his body against his bare skin. He felt a sweat break out on his forehead, his brow twitching.

Harry figured that if he didn’t have to look at Stanley, then he could get through the procedure a lot quicker, so he silently and dejectedly shuffled himself so that he was on his hands and knees, ankles resting on either side of Stanley’s frame, deliberate in their distance from him- untouching. He felt like one of his cadavers.

Stanley sighed and made a big show of moving Harry’s shirt tails from his arse, as if they were the biggest inconvenience on the planet. Harry’s vision glazed over, defocusing, he felt his jaw creak under the pressure of his gritted teeth. He willed his mind to move away from thoughts of crude intimacy glanced in dark alleys, thoughts of Molly Houses and sodomites.

“How long will this take?” Harry’s voice was soft and wavering, his knuckles gripped white into the sheets below him, feeling utterly exposed.

“As long as necessary.” Stanley’s voice was impatient, he moved in closer to the rear of him, his trousers brushed briefly against the back of Harry’s thigh, sending a jolt of sick giddiness up his spine. He fought it down quickly.

There was a loaded silence where all Harry could hear was his own breathing. His stomach was clenched with anticipation and dread.

Stanley’s hand wasn’t unbearably cold, but it wasn’t warm as he methodically placed it on the other man’s buttock, applying pressure to draw them apart. Harry was shaking with humiliation, his thighs tense and straining. He wanted the universe to blink him out of existence.

The oiled up, probing finger was precise and disciplined as it pushed firmly into Harry. The feeling was a shock to the system, but only for a while, and then it numbed into faint obscurity. Harry was uncomfortable, but he daren’t move. His breathing was uneven, but he forced himself to steady it as he stared into a point on the wall, unseeing.

“Mr Goodsir, if you don’t relax, I fear you’re going to take my finger off.” Came the doctor’s stern voice from behind Harry, sounding only mildly inconvenienced. Stanley didn’t bother asking him if he was in any pain.

Harry took a shaky breath, breathing hard through his nose as he worked on unwinding his stomach muscles. He could feel the breach of Stanley’s finger travelling impossibly further within him, and all his reflexes screamed at him to pull away. The silence in the room was all encompassing, and Harry suffocated under it.

Stanley remained very close behind him, the warmth of him hitting the backs of Harry’s thighs. Harry found himself trying to separate Stanley from the sensation he was feeling, feeling better to pretend as if he wasn’t in the room. Once the doctor’s middle finger was in up to- what must have been- the second knuckle, he relaxed his other hand which had been spreading Harry. Harry breathed out steadily.

Harry almost jumped as he felt the Doctor’s free hand come to rest on the small of his exposed back, bleeding warmth into the lower spine. He pushed down slightly, firmly and without tenderness, encouraging Harry to arch his back down towards the bed. Harry did as instructed, moving carefully as if he was afraid of hurting himself, as if Stanley’s finger were a knife that had stabbed him.

Harry felt an odd sensation in his pelvis as the doctor began to move his finger, first moving it in and out minutely, and then curiously curling it towards the bladder at different increments. Harry’s breathing picked up as he waited in anticipation, unfeeling. Sweat dripped off his chin, spotting dark onto his sheets.

There was a dull sort of pleasure about the friction being created, but nothing to get excited about, and certainly nothing that Harry felt like addressing. Addressing it would no doubt work directly against whatever this procedure was supposed to cure in him. Right at this moment, all he could focus on was how he felt breached and unpleasant, and he wanted the whole thing to be over with.

The ministrations continued for a while, slowly and surely getting more and more inquisitive. After a while, Harry noticed he had closed his eyes. His heart was beating a heavy pace in his ribcage, his sweat had dried where it sat on his lip. He was no longer tense- his arms were folded in front of him and his cheek was leaning on his forearm- but he couldn’t shake the feeling of intrusion, of violation. He lay there, waiting for Stanley to be done as if he were a cow waiting for a bull to stop sexing him. Paradoxically calm and yet distressed.

The hand on his back had grown clammy with sweat, and it itched his skin.

He could tell Stanley was getting frustrated. He almost found some sick laughability in it. That was until the other man crooked his finger in such a way that pressed through the walls of Harry, only very barely connecting with something that caused a tingle to run up his spine and- embarrassingly- to the head of his flaccid cock.

He must have tensed because Stanley suddenly stopped moving.

“Anything?” he sounded exhausted. Harry stayed unmoved, he wasn’t sure if he wanted Stanley to continue this anymore, the sensation had made him feel a way that he wasn’t sure he wanted to explore- especially not with Stanley, especially not with his recent struggles. “Mr Goodsir, now is not the time to get coy.”

“I’m not sure…I don’t…” he swallowed, moving his head so his forehead was resting on his arms, his nose pressed against his sheets, “I’ve not had experience.” His breath came out shaky, blowing back hot into his face.

Stanley pushed his finger down again with a fraction of increased pressure. This time Harry felt as if he needed to pass urine, it wasn’t the same feeling. He shifted uncomfortably.

“Um…I think that’s just my bladder.” He began sweating, wanting nothing more than to draw his legs tightly closed, unable to for the obstruction of Stanley stood between them.

Stanley made a noise of recognition, and pulled his finger down a bit more, pushing down in a strong ‘come hither’ motion, stroking along the lower walls.

A wave of heat ran through Harry’s body, tingling in his lower pelvis. It was an addictive sensation. He tried very hard to keep as still as possible but was unable to control the responsive muscles that Stanley had awakened down below. Stanley applied pressure once more and this time Harry let out a choked gasp, his hips moving down automatically. He felt humiliation bubbling in his chest, burying his head deep into the crook of his elbow, his toes curled with unrelenting shame.

“Is it…supposed to feel…” He stopped, not wanting to say it, muffled by his bedsheets. Stanley was as silent as ever, but he pushed down again with a newfound precision, seeming to linger. Harry puffed another breath, shamelessly letting his knees slide further apart.

“The gland’s sole purpose is to create semen, I don’t need to explain to you how that is connected with sexual pleasure, do I?” As if he didn’t want Harry to answer, he moved his finger down again, drawing a subtle spasm from Harry’s back as he fought to keep his hips still.

Harry’s mouth was clamped shut, his eyes were screwed against his arm. No one in anatomy school ever mentioned this gland as being the creator of such strange pleasure. He doubted anyone knew. He tried hard to compose himself, his chest heaving wet under the hot compress of his waistcoat.

“Well then…surely this is…” He jerked his body as Stanley applied further pressure, his breath stuttering, “Isn’t this just encouraging sinful thoughts?” his legs had begun to shake again, but not for the same reasons as before. He felt the muscles at the base of his cock tense up, but no blood rush happened. He tried hard not to engage this sensation, terrified of becoming erect.

“Nonsense.” Stanley chided, his hand moving down from Harry’s back to press into his hip. “I’m a medical professional, this is all merely the side-effects of your unchristian thoughts.” Stanley sounded as self-righteous as ever. It was insane to Harry that Stanley could be doing this and not feel any connection to what was happening at all. He supposed Stanley was right though, after all, he must have had a build up of these thoughts, and that’s what was driving his body to react in such a way. Right?

Maybe he was applying too much meaning to it. He needed to treat this as a professional procedure- which it was.

He allowed his eyes to open in the cave created by his forearms and torso, and- looking down- was horrified to find that his flaccid cock was leaking a steady stream of ejaculate, thin and transparent onto the sheets below him, like a fishing line.

“So, what happens now?” Harry muttered, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to ignore his body, hoping Stanley was ignoring it as well.

Instead of answering, Stanley pressed his finger down in a different way, using the pad of his digit to apply a constant, massaging pressure as opposed to a one-off push.

Harry’s body spasmed suddenly, his head shot up from where it had been resting on his arms, his neck craning back with a vocal gasp, an escaped sound of surprise rang out from his chest. He strained his hips back, his thighs spreading as Stanley continued mercilessly. He rocked his body as if experiencing pain, twisting his spine, not sure whether he wanted to pull away from the onslaught or sink back into it.

“If I wanted to be bombarded with questions, I would have become a lecturer.” Stanley crowed calmly, his hand keeping Harry in place by his hips, his finger working with a punishing dexterity. Harry could feel Stanley’s body pressing into the back of his thighs now, the material of his trousers was harsh as Harry squirmed.

Waves of heat and tension washed over Harry, concentrating on his lower stomach. His breathing was coming out in ragged blows through his nose, he clawed his fingers into his sheets, folding in on himself with a noise of despair as his stomach cramped up. It was almost painful. Harry wasn’t sure if he could handle it.

He let his forehead fall onto the bed, his hands next to his ears, shaking due to the force they were gripping the sheets with. His legs trembling, fighting to keep them still, his chest heaving, his teeth were gritted tightly closed. His stomach continued to tighten with cramp, making Harry feel sick. He was mortified, unable to control the reaction his body was having as Stanley continued to apply identical, massaging pressure- unrelenting. He bowed his back up until he was almost folded in two, fighting the need to pull his hips away, until he couldn’t control his breathing anymore and was unable to stop a painful sob of overstimulated anguish rip from his throat.

Stanley stopped dead, removing his finger with slick ease.

“Sit up.” His voice was hard.

Harry sniffed, his nose running, fragile and unsure of what Stanley was asking, cradled in on himself, feeling his stomach convulse as it steadily unknotted.

“Face me and sit up.” He repeated.

Harry moved slowly to face Stanley, fumbling slightly with the awkwardness of having to turn round on his bed. He looked up at Stanley with a painfully open expression, still slightly delirious from the invasion on his body. His hair was damp with sweat and it fell in front of his face, the soft fur of his mutton chops sticking flat at the angle he had been resting his head at.

Stanley’s expression was masked, the professional poker face trained into him from years of surgical procedures was unrelenting. The light bounced off his features, his eyes fixing steadily and coolly down at Harry. His right hand hovered at his side, coated shiny with oil, and Harry couldn’t quite comprehend that it had been inside him just a few seconds ago.

“Closer.”

Harry shuffled closer to the edge of the bed, feeling foolish and yet easily led in his brief moment of vulnerability. He flinched as Stanley placed his hands on the tops of each of Harry’s shins. Dread filled him and, for a second, Harry was sure that the doctor was going to spread him open like a harlot in a Penny Magazine illustration, so Harry was surprised when Stanley bought his legs around his sturdy waist, bringing him close to the heat of his core.

“Keep your back straight. Lean back on your elbows.” His voice was close to him. Harry did as he was told, the sincere energy of the doctor taking him off guard to the point where he felt as if he couldn’t defy him, even if he wanted to.

Stanley bought his hand down next to Harry, anchoring himself on the bed, pushing Harry back onto the curve of his pelvis as he moved. His body was warm and stable where it loomed over Harry’s, his breathing was steady and reassuring. His oil-slicked hand came to rest methodically and firmly on Harry’s clothed stomach, pressing with medical precision as the muscles calmed from their spasmodic episode. Harry looked down at the pressure with a feeling of helplessness, breathing disturbed but soft, still not completely lucid.

The unusual height of the bed allowed Harry’s legs to sit conveniently around the doctor’s tall middle, reclined in a way to provide Stanley with room to return his hand back to his entrance. Somehow it felt secure, but that didn’t stop dawning panic prickling in Harry’s eyes as Stanley’s palm moved from his stomach.

Stanley was looking down between their bodies so as to better watch what he was doing, his face was stoic as he lowered his hand down between Harry’s quivering legs, this time his wrist was facing up so that he could still angle his finger towards the bladder.

Slowly and precisely, he entered Harry again.

Harry’s hands wrenched in the sheets as the doctor felt around inside him for the gland. Harry’s modesty was once more saved by his shirt tails, although he wasn’t so sure if that counted for anything anymore. He was surprised that his cock was still flaccid, if not a little engorged from heat alone. He could feel it laying against the top of his thigh, warm and somewhat responsive to the probing, nestled in the dark hair there.

The doctor’s finger found the prostate quicker this time, it being swollen now and easier to feel through his walls. Harry felt his chest tighten, a shiver running up the backs of his thighs, soothed by the warmth radiating through the wool clothes of the doctor. The surgeon's waistcoat felt smooth and hot on the insides of Harry's legs, and his grip slipped a little over the material of it.

This position didn’t feel so direct, and when Stanley resumed his steady, constant massaging, it no longer resembled an endurance test- more like a warm, erotic pressure. Harry fought to keep his expression level, feeling now more than ever that he couldn’t allow his body to react, not when he was face to face with his superior.

Stanley had turned his methodical gaze onto Harry’s face, his mask never faltering, always with the air of utmost professionalism. He moved in closer, swaying on the arm that was fixed next to Harry, causing Harry to fall further back onto his elbows, his thighs parting to accommodate his closeness.

They made eye-contact and Harry felt his breathing picking up from the intimacy of the act alone. Stanley’s eyes were shrouded, it was impossible to know what he was thinking.

Stanley continued his pressure, but changed the pace a little, moving his wrist in such a way that allowed his finger to thrust slowly and shallowly in and out of Harry while still maintaining that constant, maddening pressure on his prostate, tracing long ovals into the upper walls.

Harry lurched forward from his elbows with a poorly supressed, urgent moan, sitting upright with his hands flat on the bed. His stomach tensed and his frame crumpled in on itself, his head almost collided with Stanley’s chin. The Doctor gracefully accommodated his movements, tipping away from the near collision, watching Harry carefully and with an expression that didn’t change.

Harry’s knees shook around the doctor’s middle, his hands unmoved from where they clenched the bedsheet. He curled back away from Stanley with an arched spine and a noise that couldn’t quite break free from his throat as his body built up pleasure in his core. His legs slipped from Stanley’s waist, hooking unconsciously around the doctor’s legs, causing him to stumble slightly until the fronts of his thighs hit the edge of the bed, making his shoulder have to twist at an angle to accommodate his arm where it snaked down between Harry’s thighs. He never broke his rhythm despite this.

“Oh, dear Christ!” Harry’s voice broke from his throat, his head tipping back, the mass of his curls hanging heavy on his neck, trapping in his collar.

He felt immediately ridiculous, like a pearl-clutching housewife, and he couldn’t stop a delirious laugh escaping as Stanley moved his assistant’s legs to meet around his middle again, granting himself easier access once more. The laugh was weak and short-lived, disrupted by a strangled shout as another wave of heat and pleasure coursed up his spine and through his cock.

“Control yourself, Goodsir.” Stanley worded, but he didn’t relent on his movements, in fact they got faster.

Harry’s arms couldn’t hold himself, and he sank back onto his elbows again, half on his back. His hips strained off the bed, brushing against Stanley’s forearm as he moved his inactive hand back to where it had been next to his ribs. The more Harry sank on the bed, the more Stanley leant over him, and Harry, panting heavily, looked up into the shadowed face that was now almost directly above him. He realised, as his eyelids fluttered and his eyes rolled, that he was way past the shame of humiliation now. His body had decided that for him.

He had never experienced pleasure like this before. He was all too familiar with the hot, direct, and quick pleasure of his cock. It was a very frontal pleasure, easy and animalistic. This pleasure, however, was slow and drawn-out, prolonged, and almost unbearable. It coursed through his entire body rather than just focusing on his prick, tightening every muscle, and causing movements and reactions that he would have never stooped to if he were indulging in ordinary carnal activities.

Stanley shrouded him in darkness as he leant over him, his hand planted on the bed firmly in the gap between Harry’s underarm and upper torso. His eyes dragged over Harry’s face, but Harry couldn’t ever shake the feeling that Stanley was examining him in the way he would examine a severed leg or an autopsy. Harry couldn’t hold his eye, his head turning away.

Harry reassured himself that this whole activity was a medical procedure, and despite his uncontrollable reactions, he would be cured of something after this.

Harry was flat on his back now, his legs forcibly spread to accommodate the waist of Dr Stanley. His chest was heaving, and his hips were squirming, pressing down into the pleasure that continued to wrack his body. He pushed his head back into the mattress, exposing his neck and gripping at the bedsheets with straight arms. He felt trapped under Stanley’s gaze, under his looming figure.

His whole body was getting more and more stiff with tension, his back arching off the bed, the veins in his neck standing out. He gasped for breath, trying to speak.

“Dr Stanley…I…” Was all he managed, his voice tight and garbled.

Immediately he was drawn up, back into a sitting position, pulled up by Stanley’s firm hand under his arm. As he was pulled into sitting straighter, his legs fell from the doctor’s slight waist to his thighs instead, hooking each ankle in behind his knees.

The position meant that Stanley’s finger was rested deeper within him, causing Harry’s body to go almost limp, tingling all over with jolts of pleasure. His head lulled on his neck, unable to focus, easily maneuvered.

“Look at me.” Stanley slowed his movements to a near stop. 

Harry lifted his head almost immediately, looking up into Stanley’s face with heavy eyelids, breathing erratically out of his open mouth.

There was a brief second where Harry was sure he saw a slight crack in Stanley’s mask as he looked at him. The doctor’s breath stuttered in the smallest way, but the hardness of his face returned without time to consider it. There was sweat on his brow, worked up from the movements of his arm. Harry looked at it as if in a dream.

Stanley resumed his movements again, the small thrusts and circular massage, this time slower. Harry let his chin fall down slightly, his mouth remained ajar. He kept his gaze trained on the cold blue of Stanley’s, looking up at him through his eyelashes, even as his body jerked and his shoulders pushed back.

Stanley’s brow twitched, a miniscule movement but one that spoke volumes. He looked at Harry as if he were a dying man, devastation in his eyes, unable to look away until something in his gaze steeled over and he turned his face down, absent, looking below himself to observe the procedure.

Harry’s shirt had ridden up to the middle of his stomach, his waistcoat crumpled and twisted, straining at the buttons. His abdomen was heavily furred, black hair curling around his naval and travelling in both directions up and down his stomach. His flaccid cock was blushed red where the foreskin allowed a peek at the head, and pre-ejaculate was flowing freely onto the top of his thigh. Stanley observed it with all the professionalism of looking upon a corpse.

He straightened his posture, twisting his hand in just the right way that caused Harry to jolt forwards, his sweaty forehead crashing to rest hot and uncoordinated on Stanley’s shoulder. Stanley allowed his movements to grow slightly faster and Harry moaned, open-mouthed, into the material of the doctor’s waistcoat, muffling himself.

“Listen to me.” Stanley was saying, he placed a hand on Harry’s knee, pushing it slightly to the side to stop it from closing too tightly over the doctor’s thigh. Harry’s hands remained at his sides, twisting in the sheets, his head pressed panting into black wool.

Face obscured, Harry gave a shaky sigh that he hoped communicated he was listening.

“You’re going to orgasm from this…have to, in fact, or the procedure won’t work.” Stanley’s voice was steady and calm, as if he were reading from a book. Harry’s lower abdomen tightened, causing him to almost double over with a soft shout, pressing his forehead further into the anchor of the taller man’s shoulder. “When you reach your crisis, there will be no ejaculate, do you understand?” Stanley’s voice wavered slightly as Harry angled his head up the smallest amount, puffing hot air onto the doctor’s neck, near senseless in his pleasure.

“Yes.” His voice was quiet against the material of the doctor’s collar. Stanley lifted his head high on his neck, looking at an invisible point in the distance with trained nonchalance.

“This will not be like a standard orgasm; it may feel overwhelming at first.”

Harry felt himself clench down on the doctor’s finger with the statement, his legs tightened, pulling Stanley closer to him, craving warmth.

He felt Stanley’s breath ghost over the top of his hair as he clenched down again around his meticulous thrusting. Then he felt the unmistakable sensation of the man placing his cheek on the top of Harry’s head- a gesture that was so uncharacteristically tender for the doctor that Harry felt his chest almost burst.

“You’re good at following my orders, aren’t you?” his voice was soft and strained, his professional façade all but shattering to the floor.

Harry felt heat flood his whole body, he pushed his face further into the hot neck of the doctor in response. Through all his brain fog, Harry couldn’t help but realise- with growing fondness- that Stanley seemed to be troubled by the very same ‘unchristian urges’ that he had so condemned in Harry. The irony almost made him laugh out loud.

As if snapped out of a dream, Stanley took a sharp breath and lifted his head. As though in punishment, he sped up the thrusting of his finger, paying attention to apply consistent pressure on the prostate.

Harry’s body stiffened, arching back, his chest colliding with Stanley’s body, his neck falling away. Stanley looked down into his face carefully, his expression- once more- well guarded.

Stanley continued his pressure for an impossible amount of time, and Harry writhed under him, falling onto his back with his legs spread shamelessly. His knees still remained at the doctor’s thighs, shaking uncontrollably as his whole body tensed up.

“Good Lord.” His voice was strangled, the tendons standing out in his neck, his hands clutched so hard in the sheets that he could feel his pulse in every finger.

Stanley rested a hand on his inner thigh, a look of full concentration on his face as he studied his other hand’s movements, grimacing from the exertion. Harry was foggily reminded of watching Stanley saw through a bone.

Suddenly, Harry’s eyes squeezed shut. He could feel a growing warmth that started at his curled toes and was steadily working its way up his body. His breathing began to get panicked, unsure if he wanted what was happened, feeling unprepared. The pleasure continued, tingling up his spine, into his cock, making him twist from left to right as his muscles tightened and his breath panted around small noises that fled his throat.

He was hit with a sudden urge to steady himself, and he grabbed Stanley’s arm as the doctor worked in him, squeezing his fingers into the exposed forearm as his head thrashed to the side, feeling the tendons working up from Stanley’s wrist as he moved. The noises coming out of his throat were urgent and repetitive, and almost pained. The sensation was washing over him like a flood of hot water, unstoppable and terrifying.

With a particularly accurate thrust of Stanley’s finger, Harry’s body tensed and folded forward, he clawed at Stanley’s shoulders with both hands. It was the first time he had touched him, perhaps, ever- aside from the legs that he was now tightly wrapping around his waist. He buried his hot face into the surgeon’s neck again, his arms wrapping so tightly around his back that he was sure he was suffocating him. Stanley remained solid and unmoving, hot under his touch. If he disapproved of what was happening, Harry couldn’t tell.

His movements became more direct on Harry’s prostate, never once erratic or disorganised.

"Oh, oh! Good lord!"

Harry’s body lunged backwards with a whine as his muscles spasmed, pulling Stanley almost on top of him. The chief surgeon’s feet remained planted firmly on the floor, his inactive hand bracing himself on his forearm at Harry’s side. Harry’s body continued to tense up, his frame arching, lifting off the bed to press solidly into Stanley’s figure, his flaccid cock was trapped under the layers of his dress shirt, pushing firmly into the unbearably warm centre of Stanley’s clothed body.

"Oh, doctor I- Oh God-!" Harry was practically hysterical, chewing moans out between gritted teeth as his body shook.

He stayed strained up like this for a long time as Stanley continued to work his finger in him- the doctor’s head came to rest in the crook of Harry’s neck, a low and fleeting noise leaving his mouth- until Harry clenched down so tightly that Stanley was physically incapable of moving anymore, winded by the intensity of Harry’s arms seizing around his ribs.

Stanley valiantly pressed his captured finger into Harry, rubbing firmly and methodically into his spasming prostate, refusing to stop moving. Harry's eyes rolled firmly back into his head, a sweet death.

A noise clawed from Harry’s chest, guttural and prolonged, his whole body shaking as he continued to cling onto Stanley- of whom remained motionless except for the press of his finger and his forehead into the sheets above Harry’s shoulder, his breathing accelerated. Then Harry went completely limp, and Dr Stanley finally stilled his finger. All Harry's muscles that had been tensed so strongly now let go all at once, and Harry was sapped of his strength immediately, falling against his bed.

He felt Stanley shift his weight slightly, as if he were adjusting his footing, but otherwise he stayed still, his finger- now stopped of its movements- remained inserted inside Harry. He made no attempt to remove it. His breath was hot and steady against Harry’s collar, his weight an oddly welcome comfort.

Harry’s arms had fallen heavy, still encircled around the doctor’s back, his eyes were closed and his head was tipped back against his mattress, his throat glistened wet with perspiration in the orange light. He was utterly lost in his come down, his pelvic muscles wracked with continued spasms that made him gasp, hardly aware that he was holding Stanley in place on top of him, inside of him. Harry’s whole body seemed to tremble, feeling as if all his organs had been removed- making him weightless.

There was a heavy silence in the room, Stanley’s clothed figure was radiating waves of heat down onto Harry, his broad frame nearly covering the smaller man completely. He heard the Doctor’s throat click as he swallowed, and then his arm moved, sliding his finger out from Harry with slippery ease.

Stanley carefully put himself upright without a word, letting Harry’s limbs fall from his back, wiping the sweat from his brow with his dry hand. He looked down at Harry. He was laid flat, his breath still panting and his chest rising and falling rapidly. Sweat had dampened his hair and beard, his nakedness momentarily forgotten, his thighs shiny with pre-ejaculate, a damp spot turned an area of his dress shirt semi-transparent where his hidden cock rested. His eyes were closed and his brow furrowed.

There was a growing tension as Stanley considered him a second longer, before retrieving his coat from under Harry’s at the end of the bed. He placed it in the crook of his elbow, conscious of his hand that was still oiled up.

Harry let his eyes open, coming around. He looked at Stanley from where he was laid, sobriety sinking into his features. He sat up carefully, his body weak, and arranged his shirt and waistcoat in a bizarre gesture of propriety. He found he didn’t really know what to say, the familiar feeling of guilt was knocking at his consciousness, willing him to try and address the behaviour he had just displayed. Harry ignored it for now.

“You should find now…” Stanley’s voice made Harry jump, but he engaged him with a look and attempted to smooth his hair from his face with a shaking hand, cold professionalism bleeding back into his mannerisms with a hint of remorse. “That those thoughts of yours will no longer trouble you.”

The statement was ridiculous, considering what had just happened: Harry orgasming harder than he had ever before while clutching onto another man. Harry considered him for a while, his dark brow furrowing slowly, not fully understanding anything that transpired. He gave a small nod anyway.

“At the least, I feel as if you can get a good night’s sleep.” Stanley’s voice was once again scathing as he cast his gaze over Harry. Harry met it with a boldness, a knowing look in his eye that seemed to rustle Stanley.

“Of course, doctor.” He gave Stanley a tired but shrewd smile, his voice hoarse, and Stanley returned it with a scowl. He grabbed the small bottle of oil from the table before leaving the cabin, the door sliding shut behind him. Fleeing the scene, Harry thought.

As always, his bedside manner was something to behold, and Harry couldn’t stop a biting sense of annoyance bubbling in his bowels.

One thing was for sure though, thoughts or no thoughts, Harry was definitely getting a good night’s sleep tonight.