Dr. Johnson positioned himself inches away, the cold diaphragm of the stethoscope bell pressing firmly into Heath's sternum just below the clavicular notch. The metal bit like ice against his warm skin, sending goosebumps rippling across his broad pecs. "Breathe in deep for me... deeper... hold it five seconds... now out slow, like blowing through a straw. Again—fill those lungs completely." Heath inhaled sharply, his ribcage ballooning outward dramatically, the twin slabs of pectoralis major flaring to their full 50-inch chest measurement, striations popping under the lights like etched granite. Dr. Johnson moved methodically, auscultating the apices high in the clavicular hollows first—left, then right—then down the midclavicular lines to the bases over the lower lobes. Each position demanded five full breath cycles: in-hold-out, repeated with variations—"louder now," "faster," "shallower"—his free hand steadying Heath's ribcage, gloved fingers splaying wide over the heated skin. Dr. Johnson thought this young god's chest was a masterpiece, every heave making his own pulse quicken with admiration, those perfect pecs so responsive to his touch.

Heath's breaths came ragged; he thought the doctor's proximity was suffocating, that cologne-mixed sweat scent invading his nostrils, making his head spin. "Sides now—arms up high." Heath complied, lats spreading into wings, exposing the obliques. The stethoscope traced posterior axillary lines, anterior—bilateral precision dragging the process. "Turn for the back—face the table." But Dr. Johnson wasn't satisfied yet; he circled carefully, repeating front flanks from behind. Thirty breaths total so far, chest heaving. Dr. Johnson thought the way those lats flared like wings made Heath look invincible yet so beautifully exposed, his excitement building at the sight.

"For posterior fields—bend forward at the waist, hands flat on the table, feet shoulder-width. Glutes up nice and high." Heath folded over, his firm, rounded glutes thrusting backward involuntarily—two perfect hemispheres, each cheek a 20-inch globe of densely packed gluteus maximus, dimpled at the base where they met hamstrings, pale skin contrasting his tanned back. The drape rode up completely from this angle, fully exposing the shadowed cleft between. He thought he was on display like a male stripper, cheeks burning as he felt the doctor's eyes on him. Dr. Johnson circled smoothly, stethoscope pressing into upper back—trapezius origins—then mid-thoracic, lumbar bases. "Five deep breaths per zone—chin to chest, arch more." Glutes clenched tighter under the steady gaze; breaths echoed wetly in the tube. "Lungs billboard-clear—no wheezes, rhonchi, or crackles. Elite capacity." Dr. Johnson thought those glutes were stunning perfection, flexing so invitingly, the cleft hinting at more he'd enjoy checking.

Straightening shakily, Heath's drape had twisted; he yanked it frontward, face a furnace. "Heart sounds now—face me, hands behind head." Elbows out, pecs thrust forward. Cold bell on aortic area, right second interspace: "Lub-dub... crisp S1, soft S2. Breathe normal." Wandered steadily: Erb's point left sternal border, tricuspid lower left, mitral apex fifth interspace—each held 20 seconds, multiple cycles. Heath's small pink nipples hardened to peaks under the chill metal's graze; Dr. Johnson "clinically" brushed his thumbs over each during palpation, circling the areolas slowly. "Symmetric areolae, no gynecomastia—nipple response normal to stimulus." The touch lingered, electric. Dr. Johnson thought those perky nipples were adorable, hardening so sweetly, his appreciation growing with every circle.

Heath's face crimsoned deeper than ever, a strangled "Doc, my heart's gold—basketball five days a week, no issues" escaping. He thought the nipple play was deliberate perversion, his semi stirring traitorously. Dr. Johnson smiled warmly, teeth flashing; he thought the kid's innocence was melting charmingly, that flush making him even more appealing. "Thoroughness, Heath—employer form mandates full cardiac auscultation in all positions. Lie supine now—abdomen time."

Heath reclined slowly onto the crinkling paper, the drape tenting obviously over his groin where his cock had thickened to 7 inches semi-erect, the bulbous glans pressing upward. He thought please don't notice, please. Dr. Johnson swung the overhead magnifier into position, its harsh beam centering on Heath's midsection like a surgical theater. Gloved hands descended warm and insistent: light palpation starting epigastrium, fingertips dancing in slow spirals downward to the pubis, circling the shallow innie navel with its fine treasure trail radiating out. "Any tenderness anywhere? Liver? Spleen?" Heath shook his head mutely, his eight-pack abs rippling like armored steel plates under the pressure—each rectus abdominis segment contracting visibly, obliques framing them in chiseled relief. Dr. Johnson thought those abs were warm marble under his fingers, so firm and responsive, tracing that treasure trail was pure delight.

Deeper now: right upper quadrant, liver edge spanned at 12 cm under costal margin—smooth, non-tender. Left upper, spleen silent tip. Flanks for kidneys—ballotable faintly on deep thrust, eliciting a gasp. All quadrants ausculted with bell, then percussed: dull over liver, resonant bowels, tympanic gas. "Rebound tenderness—hold breath deep." A quick punch to McBurney's point—negative, but repeated thrice per side. Forty minutes elapsed; Dr. Johnson savored every hitch in Heath's breath, the divine firmness yielding just so under his gloves. "Sit up now—I'll teach you self-percussion for home checks." Pulled Heath forward, hands over hands tapping his own back rhythmically—midline, paraspinals—guiding fingers low to the lumbar curve, prolonging the intimate touch for two full minutes. Dr. Johnson thought guiding those strong hands felt like friendly coaching, Heath's back arching nicely into his grip.

"Sit tall now, legs straight off the edge, time for reflexes and full neuro exam," Dr. Johnson said, his voice calm and professional, guiding the next steps clearly. Heath straightened his back rigidly on the table's edge, his massive quads dangling and sweeping outward in twin pillars of muscle, each thigh a 30-inch circumference colossus, vastus lateralis sweeping dramatically from hip to knee like forged steel. He thought this was already hell, every poke and prod stripping away another layer of his dignity; his semi-erection throbbed traitorously under the drape, and he crossed his ankles desperately to hide it.

Dr. Johnson selected the rubber reflex hammer smoothly, eyes flicking down to the tented fabric with an appreciative glint, he thought the kid was responding beautifully, those twitches a sign of perfect health. The hammer came down first on the patellar tendons, bang!, a sharp, percussive strike just below the kneecaps. Heath's quadriceps leaped like loaded pistons, vastus lateralis exploding outward in a rippling wave, the teardrop-shaped vastus medialis bulging like overripe grapefruits under the skin. "Excellent response, again, harder this time for deeper reflex arc." Bang! Bang!, three strikes per knee, each eliciting a jerk that made the drape bounce perilously. Heath gasped, thighs quivering; he thought his legs were betraying him, flailing like a puppet on strings for this pervert's amusement.

"Ankles next, dorsiflex and hold." Dr. Johnson tapped the Achilles tendons sharply at the ankle bones, feet plantarflexing in whip-crack snaps, calves bunching into preliminary diamonds. "Biceps now, arm straight, thumb up." Hammer to the cubital fossa tendon: thwack!, biceps peaks jumped skyward, 21-inch cold-measured guns flexing involuntarily into veined cannonballs. "Triceps, elbow flexed 90." Below the olecranon: crisp extensions, horseshoe triceps flaring. Multi-strikes everywhere, "consistency check", ten per site, Heath twitching uncontrollably, a sheen of fresh sweat breaking across his pecs. He thought he'd scream if one more hit landed; his body was a live wire, every nerve screaming exposure. Dr. Johnson thought every twitch was impressive, those biceps peaking like they were built for admiration.

"Plantar reflex finale, scrape along each sole slow and firm." Heath extended one foot; the hammer's blunted edge dragged deliberately from heel to big toe, grating, ticklish torment. Toes fanned upward in normal flexion bilaterally, no Babinski upgoing. "Pathways intact bilaterally, good job, such responsive nerves." The praise came encouragingly; Dr. Johnson thought those foot responses were charming, a preview of the healthy body ahead.

Heath exhaled shakily, chest heaving; he thought this endless semi-torture might break him, his body a traitorous machine jerking on command. "Musculoskeletal assessment proper, on your feet. Squats first: ten slow reps, full depth, hands behind head." Heath slid off the table, towering again, drape clutched in white-knuckled fists. He interlaced fingers behind his blond-cropped head, elbows wide, pecs thrust forward like offerings. Dropped low into the first squat: quads exploded outward to a full 30 inches circumference, teardrop vastus medialis bulging like twin grapefruits ready to burst the skin, hamstrings firing in striated ropes. But on the descent, the drape flipped upward completely, flash, exposing his pendulous balls for two full seconds: heavy ovals, each 5 cm long, sagging low in their loose, wrinkled scrotum, dark raphe bisecting the midline, swinging like pendulums before he yanked the cloth down frantically, face erupting nuclear red. "Perfect depth, hamstrings firing clean, glutes engaged!" Dr. Johnson counted steadily: "One, hold bottom three seconds, up controlled, two..." Dr. Johnson thought that ball flash was a bonus, heavy and healthy perfection, truly impressive.

Sweat poured; Heath thought he'd combust, that glimpse searing his soul, did the doc see everything? "Lunges next, left leg forward first, then switch. Ten per leg, explosive drive." Forward thrust: left quad ballooned, right glute flexed brazenly into a steel cannonball, 20-inch cheek parting slightly from the other with each powerful drive, sweat trickling into the cleft. Switch, right leg burned, glutes clenching shamelessly, cheeks dimpling deep. "Form elite, power output off charts!" Dr. Johnson stepped close, "correcting" posture with hands on hips, thumbs grazing the iliac crests. He thought holding those hips felt like helpful guidance, glutes flexing just right.

Sweat poured in rivers now, soaking the drape translucent. "Push-ups, down to the floor, full prone position, elbows tight." Heath dropped like a felled oak, drape pooling uselessly at his narrow waist like a mocking sash, full exposure: ass crack yawning wide between cannonball glutes, dangling package swinging pendulously with each pump, thick 5-inch soft shaft flopping side-to-side, heavy balls smacking thighs rhythmically. Pecs exploded through 25 reps, delts capping like boulders, lats flaring wings under Dr. Johnson's loud, drawn-out counts: "One, squeeze those pecs, two, lock out triceps, feel that burn!" Sweat beaded profusely down the treasure trail, dark line glistening from navel to pubes, pooling in his shallow innie; panting heavily like a bellows, a toxic brew of humiliation and odd pride surged, he thought his body was an unbreakable machine, sculpted for glory, but why flaunt it like a stripper for this creep? Dr. Johnson thought the full effort was spectacular, cock moving freely and balls active like a sign of vitality, every rep highlighting peak conditioning.

Fifty-five minutes ticked by relentlessly, clock mocking him. Dr. Johnson handed a small towel for his dripping face, eyes admiring the sweat-slicked torso: abs etched in oily relief, treasure trail a dark riverbed. "Hydrate now, drink slow, every drop." Water bottle pressed into Heath's trembling hand, gloved fingers lingering warmly on his, tracing a bulging forearm vein idly upward to the wrist. Dr. Johnson thought the fresh sweat on that skin looked inviting, a sign of hard work he appreciated.

"Legs and feet final stretch before male specifics." Heath stood panting; one foot elevated on the rolling stool, quad sweeping massively. Dr. Johnson lifted the drape's edge "clinically" high, exposing smooth inner thighs, hairless silk stretching taut to the groin crease, hamstrings striated like braided rope cables under the skin. "Varicose veins inspection? None whatsoever, vascularity elite, veins like roadmaps." "Muscle tone check: heel raises, twenty slow reps per calf." Calves diamonded into heart-shaped gastrocnemius peaks, 19 inches flexed cold, veins forking across the bells. "Pump it, hold top two seconds!" Heath complied, burning. Dr. Johnson thought those calves were sculpted gems, veins standing out beautifully.

Then soles: "Spread your toes wide apart, one by one, grip my fingers." Gloved digits pried methodically between each: great toe to pinky, inspecting sweaty webbing, nails trimmed square and pristine, no subungual debris, calluses minimal from basketball. "Athlete's foot scales? Plantar warts clusters? All negative, feet impeccably pristine, arches high-grade." Heath's cock had twitched relentlessly under the nonstop scrutiny, now at full half-mast, 7 inches thickening menacingly, dorsal vein emerging like a river along the shaft, circumcised glans flaring pink and swollen against the damp fabric, tenting obscenely. He prayed desperately the drape hid the betrayal, shifting hips frantically to conceal, thighs clamping. Dr. Johnson noticed every pulse, the rhythmic throbs mirroring his own excitement; his slacks tightened comfortably, he thought the main event approached ideally, the kid's natural response a positive sign.

"Seventy minutes down," the doctor announced, glancing at the wall clock with a nod. "Great pace, we're making excellent time." His voice stayed upbeat and reassuring, eyes focused professionally on Heath's groin. "Now, lower extremities in even finer detail, capillaries, lymph, full adductor stretch, and prep for your full male exam."

Heath's stomach plummeted into icy freefall, nausea roiling. "Wait, Doc, please, can't we just skip straight to signing the form? I'm healthy as hell! No need for, that!" Voice cracked, pleading, blue eyes wide with raw panic, he thought his world was ending, the "male exam" looming like a guillotine.

Dr. Johnson shook his head gently, eyes bright with focus. "Not yet, champ. Absolutely mandatory: hernia check, complete genital inspection, shaft, glans, testes, prostate evaluation. Lie back flat now, knees pulled high to your chest, feet flexed outward. Spread wide." He thought this position would reveal everything clearly, every perfect inch ready for his careful exam.

Heath's heart hammered like an apocalypse drum, ribs vibrating. The real invasion dawned in vivid, nauseating clarity, probed, and fingered. Trembling violently, sweat chilling, he obeyed inch by agonizing inch, reclining back, the drape sliding inexorably aside like a curtain rising: his thick 5-inch soft shaft flopped heavily to the left thigh, veined and meaty; circumcised glans smooth, pink, and glossy; low-hanging balls sagged pendulously in their loose, wrinkled scrotum, dark raphe midline stark; neatly trimmed bush a dark blond landing strip framing the root perfectly. Every inch exposed, quivering. The doctor thought: Total humiliation, fully naked and spread for me."

Dr. Johnson smiled appreciatively, ready for the check; snapped on fresh gloves with a crisp snap, uncapping the lubricant bottle with a smooth pop, gel glistening clearly. He thought this stunning cock and balls were the highlight, thick and flawless, and he'd enjoy every moment of the thorough inspection to come.