Dr. Johnson closed the door behind him with a soft, deliberate click that echoed like a prison gate slamming shut in the stark, sterile exam room, sealing them in blissful isolation. His deep-set eyes locked onto Heath immediately, narrowing with the focused, ravenous hunger of a predator finally alone with its most prized quarry after a lifetime of stalking lesser prey. He thought this was the pinnacle of his existence, his cock already stirring at the sight—this 21-year-old god perched on the edge of the exam table, his colossal 6'4" frame dwarfing the sturdy metal beneath him like a titan on a throne.

The harsh overhead light poured down like an interrogator's spotlight on a stage of flesh, casting dramatic, worship-worthy shadows that accentuated every ridge, valley, and sinful curve of his chiseled torso: broad shoulders capping deltoids ballooned like carved marble boulders from endless overhead presses, pecs firm and defined with exquisite striations fanning out like feathers on a phoenix, rising and falling rapidly with each shallow, anxious breath that made Dr. Johnson's mouth water. That thin treasure trail of dark blond hair arrowed insistently downward from his navel like a roadmap to paradise, vanishing under the flimsy rectangular drape that barely concealed the generous, unmistakable bulge of his thick manhood beneath—he could already imagine peeling it away to reveal veined perfection. Dr. Johnson felt his pulse quicken to a thunderous roar in his ears, blood rushing south; he thought this young Adonis was beyond his wildest, filthiest fantasies—flawless skin sun-kissed to golden perfection without a single blemish or scar, every muscle fiber begging, screaming to be explored, prodded, worshipped inch by torturous inch for the full 90 minutes he had meticulously cleared his schedule to devour alive.

"Alright, Heath," the doctor said, his voice steady on the surface but laced with a barely contained, feral enthusiasm that thickened the air like the scent of impending sex. He snapped on a fresh pair of latex gloves with a sharp, resounding crack that sliced through the tension like the first strike of a dominator's whip, causing Heath to flinch visibly, his piercing blue eyes widening in startled alarm. Heath thought the sound was like a whip cracking, signaling the inescapable start of a prolonged ordeal; his stomach twisted as he realized the doctor was settling in for the long, grueling haul with no mercy in sight. "We're going to take this nice and slow," Dr. Johnson continued, his gloved hands flexing with predatory anticipation, envisioning them buried in that hot flesh. "Full head-to-toe assessment—no rushing a new patient like you, a specimen this divine deserves savoring. Stand up for me first—let's confirm height and weight officially, so I can start cataloging this perfection."

Heath hesitated for a long, agonizing beat, his heart slamming against his ribcage like a trapped beast. Standing meant the drape would shift dangerously, threatening to expose more than a teasing glimpse of his vulnerability—he thought about how his girlfriend Carey would die of horror if she knew he was here, stripped nearly bare, utterly at the mercy of this older man's lingering stares and touches. But he had no choice, his job on the line; he slid off the table slowly, clutching the thin cloth tightly against his groin with one large, trembling hand while steadying himself with the other. At 6'4", he towered over the 5'10" doctor like a colossus of muscle, his long legs flexing into godlike power as he straightened—quads exploding outward to 28 inches around, vast sweeps of teardrop vastus lateralis and medialis etched in vascular glory, hamstrings taut cords like steel cables under that impossibly smooth, tanned skin that glowed with youthful vigor. The drape hung precariously low in front, barely veiling his thick 5-inch soft shaft and low-hanging balls heavy as ripe fruit, but from behind, it left his firm, rounded glutes fully bared: two perfect, dimpled hemispheres of pure muscle, pale and virginal where his shorts rode up, clenching rhythmically with Heath's raw nerves.

Dr. Johnson felt a white-hot jolt of electricity shoot straight to his groin, his cock surging to full hardness in his slacks at the obscene display; he thought those glutes alone were worth every second of the agonizing wait he'd endured booking this slot—plump yet unyieldingly firm, dimples like invitations to spread them wide, the kind of ass that could crush walnuts or milk a man dry, clenching so invitingly he nearly groaned aloud, visions of burying his face there flooding his mind in ecstatic rapture. "Perfect posture already," the doctor murmured appreciatively, his voice dropping to a husky octave laced with lust as he stepped in invasively close with the digital scale, so near that Heath could smell his aftershave—crisp and clinical on top, but masking a deeper, earthier musk of arousal. A gloved hand brushed the small of Heath's back to "guide" him onto the platform, lingering a deliberate second too long on the warm, dimpled lumbar curve, fingertips tracing the erotic dip like a lover's caress. The scale beeped: "6 feet 4 inches. 202 pounds—even distribution, all solid, elite muscle mass, body fat percentage in the single digits. Step off and face the wall now—arms straight out to the sides for a full posture check, let me drink you in."

Heath complied woodenly, his face burning hotter than a Texas summer as he extended his arms, lats flaring into that dramatic, wing-like V-shape from years of pull-ups and deadlifts, a taper so extreme it narrowed to a 30-inch waist below. The drape swayed treacherously, bottom edge riding up to flash the pink underside of his heavy scrotum for a split second before he clamped his thighs—tree-trunk pillars—together in mortification. He thought he was going to die of embarrassment right there—why couldn't this endless humiliation end already? Dr. Johnson circled him agonizingly slowly, three full, predatory laps like an art appraiser at a black-market auction of forbidden treasures, eyes feasting on every microscopic detail: the subtle flare of the erector spinae along the spine like braided pythons ready to strike, the etched, paper-thin separation of his rhomboids flexing like wings of a demon, cascading down to those monstrous quads with teardrop vastus medialis bulging obscenely at the knee, veins pulsing like rivers of life over every sweep and tie-in. He thought this back was a symphony of power and eroticism, every fiber a testament to savage workouts that made his own body ache with envy and desire, his erection throbbing painfully as he imagined tracing every line with his tongue for hours. "Excellent spinal alignment—no scoliosis curve whatsoever," he purred. "Turn sideways—hold. Yes, lordosis minimal, pelvis neutral and fuckable. You're built like a pro athlete, Heath—genetics gifted you the canvas, but that hard work painted a masterpiece I'd kill to own."

The praise landed like salt in a gaping wound for Heath, amplifying the discomfort crawling over his exposed skin like fire ants. He could feel the doctor's gaze burning into him like twin lasers, devouring every naked inch with shameless intensity, and he mumbled through gritted teeth, "Doc, can we... hurry this up a bit? I got plans after." Dr. Johnson chuckled softly, a low, predatory rumble that sent involuntary chills racing down Heath's spine; he thought the kid's anxiety was utterly delicious, a aphrodisiac fueling his own volcanic excitement, balls tightening with the need to prolong every second. "Ninety minutes, remember? We skip nothing—employer form demands comprehensive, and darling, I demand to worship this body fully. Back to the table—sit tall, chest out, present that glory to me."

As Heath resumed his perch on the table's edge, knees clamped together to trap the drape like a lifeline, Dr. Johnson pulled up a rolling stool with a predatory squeak and positioned himself at eye-level with that magnificent chest—pecs like twin slabs of polished granite, each 25 inches wide, nipples small and pink jewels pert against the tanned, striated expanse that heaved with barely contained panic. He thought those pecs were erotic perfection, thick upper shelves blending into deep lower ties, striations like lightning bolts begging for oil and hands to make them dance, nipples so sensitive he could already picture them hardening under his pinch. "Open wide. Say 'ahh'—nice and slow, let me taste your submission." Heath parted his full lips reluctantly, revealing straight white teeth, a pink tongue, and the soft arch of his hard palate. Dr. Johnson's otoscope light flooded in, lingering lasciviously on the quivering uvula, tracing every tonsil edge with exaggerated, teasing care. "No inflammation whatever—throat's pristine, built for moans. Gag reflex next." He pressed the tongue depressor deep, holding for a languid count of ten while Heath gagged softly, abs contracting into sharp, veined eight-pack relief that made Dr. Johnson's mouth go dry with lust. He thought the sound was intoxicating, wet and helpless, absolute proof of his total, throbbing control over this muscle god.

The light shifted seamlessly to Heath's ears, Dr. Johnson's gloved fingers tugging the outer pinna with possessive gentleness, folding the soft cartilage back to expose every curve before probing the canal intimately with the warm speculum, sliding in deep to inspect the eardrum under high magnification like a flawless gem. "Crystal clear bilaterally—no wax, membranes pristine," he murmured, voice laced with satisfaction. "Hearing test now—snap!" He produced sharp, startling clicks inches from each ear, making Heath jump reflexively each time, his massive traps bunching into peaked mountains. "Ears sharp as a tack—elite response. And those traps popping... impressive yoke already."

Then came the eyes—the highlight Dr. Johnson had anticipated. He leaned in closer, inches from Heath's face, breath quickening as he feasted openly on those piercing blue irises, vivid sapphires sparkling with sharp clarity under the light, framed by thick lashes and strong brows, whites pure and vibrant. He thought these eyes were stunningly gorgeous, deep and magnetic pools a man could get lost in, pulling him under with their hypnotic blue depths; his cock twitched, arousal spiking as he savored the prolonged stare.

"Visual acuity check," Dr. Johnson said, voice husky, directing the penlight into those captivating blues one eye at a time, pupils constricting smoothly. "Fingers up—how many? Closer... spot on. Peripheral—track the light fully around." Heath nailed every test effortlessly, but the doctor extended it deliberately, flipping through all 38 Ishihara plates with measured slowness, holding each near those beautiful eyes to admire them longer. "Twenty-twenty potential—perfect. No color blindness. Pupils equal and reactive, no issues... Heath, these eyes are gorgeous, like deep sapphires—some of the finest I've seen."

Heath shifted uncomfortably on the exam table's edge, his powerful thighs slick with a nervous sheen of sweat that caused the flimsy paper drape to ride higher, exposing the deep crease where thigh met groin—a vulnerable V of pale inner skin contrasting the tanned outer quads, teasing the heavy bulge beneath. His cheeks burned hot with embarrassment, heart racing as he thought of Carey finding out, and with trembling fingers he tugged the cloth down frantically, pressing it against his thickening shaft in a desperate grab for cover—but it tented noticeably anyway.

Dr. Johnson watched intently, eyes gleaming with keen interest as he caught every awkward pull and flush, lips curving in delighted amusement while a fresh bead of pre-cum dampened his tiny drape; he thought the kid's shy battle against his arousal was irresistibly hot, that swelling cock begging for attention, and the view made his own throb urgently with raw hunger.

"Nose now—blow gently into this for me," Dr. Johnson instructed, his voice a velvet command, pressing a fresh tissue firmly to each nostril in turn as Heath complied with a humiliated huff, cheeks flushing crimson. Then came the speculum, cold metal prongs prying the nostrils wide open with unyielding precision, stretching the delicate tissues for a deep, invasive peering into the pink caverns within, the doctor's breath hot and steady on Heath's face. "Septum arrow-straight as a ruler—no deviations, perfect airflow. Sinuses tapped—clear resonance, not a hint of congestion." Fifteen minutes had vanished into the ether, the head exam barely conquered, yet the tension coiled tighter in the room like a spring compressed to its breaking point, electric and suffocating.

"Alright, neck and lymph nodes next," Dr. Johnson announced, rising fluidly from his stool with the grace of a panther. His gloved hands—warm through the latex, insistent and utterly owning—descended upon the thick trapezius mountains crowning Heath's shoulders, pressing in deep and kneading the dense slabs like a conqueror claiming new territory, thumbs burrowing into the unyielding cords like meat hooks sinking into prime ribeye. He thought these traps were pure orgasmic bliss, a massive 24-inch yoke of raw powerlifter perfection, striated and peaked like volcanic ridges, ideal for gripping tight during a savage ride, fingers digging in as he plowed that godlike body into oblivion. "Any pain here at all? Turn your head left—hold it... now right... chin to each shoulder, full range of motion." Heath swallowed hard against the dryness in his throat, whispering a shaky "No, sir," as those possessive fingers trailed languidly down his sharp clavicles, then probed every lymph node with meticulous double-palpatation: submandibular clusters under the jawline, anterior chain snaking along the sternocleidomastoid's ropey bulge, posterior nodes at the skull base—lightly at first like a teasing caress, then firmly to elicit responses, drawing out soft, involuntary whimpers from deep in Heath's chest. He thought the touch was far too intimate, too possessive, like the doctor's hands were mapping him for ownership rather than health.

"Shoulders and arms next—let's see this upper body masterpiece up close," Dr. Johnson purred, grasping the deltoid caps like ripe, overfilled melons and squeezing their cannonball fullness with reverent greed, feeling the three-dimensional caps yield just enough under pressure before snapping back rock-hard. He thought these delts were erotic poetry in motion, perfectly rounded 3D boulders begging to be slathered in oil and worshipped under spotlights, anterior heads tying seamlessly into the pecs, lateral sweeps carving shelves, posterior caps flaring for that 3D pop. "Range of motion—lift arms forward slow, like reaching for glory." Heath's arms rose obediently, the drape slipping low enough to flash a thick tuft of dark blond pubic hair at the base before the doctor "accidentally" brushed it back with a gloved knuckle, lingering on the treasure trail. "Now overhead—hold for ten long seconds, feel that pump. Backward circles—rotator cuff pristine, no tears or imbalances." Abduction and adduction tested exhaustively through every plane, joints gliding like butter, then the holy grail: "Flex those biceps for me." They erupted into towering 21-inch peaks, veins forking like raging rivers cascading over the split summits; triceps horseshoed into horseshoe perfection, etched deep; forearms gripped the dynamometer until veins popped like armored cables under the skin, grip strength clocking elite numbers that made the doctor whistle low. Twenty-five minutes deep into the exam; Dr. Johnson inhaled deeply, savoring the heady cocktail of clean soap, subtle cologne, and that fresh, musky nervous sweat wafting up like an aphrodisiac fog—he thought he'd bottle and fuck this scent forever, inhaling it as he railed this specimen into submission.

"Chest and back now—stand tall for me, arms loose at your sides," Dr. Johnson commanded, his voice dropping to a gravelly timbre thick with unrestrained hunger that brooked no argument, eyes already devouring the torso ahead. Heath rose unsteadily from the table's edge, legs like pillars quaking subtly, clutching the flimsy 12-inch-wide drape to his groin like a condemned man gripping his final shred of dignity before the abyss. He thought his heart might explode from the crushing humiliation already—half-naked and splayed for over twenty-five minutes under this older doctor's devouring eyes, appraising him like premium livestock at auction. The drape fluttered precariously against his thickening semi-erection, the shaft now pulsing traitorously to seven inches and climbing, which he prayed with every fiber of his being stayed hidden beneath the whispering paper veil.