The Chaperone’s Duty (continued)

Lucas entered next, his footsteps heavier than Angela’s, the paper gown the school provided for the short walk from the antechamber already discarded outside. At eighteen he was broad-shouldered from rugby, with close-cropped dark hair and a face that usually carried an easy confidence. That morning the confidence had thinned. He stood in plain white briefs, arms folded tightly across his chest, the elastic waistband sitting low on his hips. A faint flush already coloured the tops of his ears.

“Good morning, Lucas,” Dr. Thorne said, the same brisk tone. “Miss Ashton is your chaperone. Please sit on the edge of the table.”

He perched, knees together, hands gripping the paper covering. Emma remained in her chair by the window, clipboard resting on her lap, expression carefully neutral.

“Age?”

“Eighteen.”

“Any illnesses or injuries over the summer?”

“No, Doctor.”

“Sexual activity—intercourse, oral, manual, anything with a partner?”

Lucas’s eyes flicked once toward Emma, then fixed on the far wall. “No.”

“Masturbation frequency?”

A longer pause. The flush spread down his neck. “A few times a week. Sometimes more.”

Dr. Thorne noted it without comment. “Any pain, discharge, difficulty urinating?”

“No.”

“Stand and remove your briefs, please.”

He hesitated only a second before hooking his thumbs into the waistband and pushing them down. The cotton pooled at his ankles; he stepped free and straightened, hands automatically moving to cover himself before he forced them to his sides. His penis hung soft against a dark thatch of pubic hair, the skin of his scrotum slightly contracted in the cool air. Emma’s gaze remained steady, clinical, though she registered every detail as her duty required—the way his thighs tensed, the quick rise and fall of his chest.

“Lie back. Feet in the stirrups, knees apart.”

The position left him fully exposed. Dr. Thorne snapped on fresh gloves and adjusted the light.

“External examination first.” She lifted the shaft gently with two fingers, examining the glans, the coronal ridge, the underside of the foreskin which she retracted fully. Lucas’s breath caught; the cool air and impersonal touch made him twitch involuntarily. “No lesions, no inflammation. Retracts cleanly.” She cupped the scrotum, rolling each testicle between thumb and fingers with firm pressure. “Both descended, normal size and consistency. No lumps.”

Next came the hernia check. Dr. Thorne instructed him to stand once more at the edge of the table. “Turn your head and cough when I say.” She placed the tip of her gloved index finger firmly against the external inguinal ring on the right side, pressing upward into the canal, then repeated the process on the left while her other hand steadied his scrotum. “Cough.” Lucas obeyed; the sudden pressure and the intimate placement of her finger made his face burn hotter. No impulse was felt. She repeated the manoeuvre a second time on each side to be certain. “No hernias. Good.”

She took hold of the shaft again. “I need to check for any discharge or irregularities. This may cause an erection—perfectly normal response.” She began a slow, methodical stroking motion from base to tip, the latex smooth and slightly cool. Lucas’s face burned. Within half a minute his penis thickened and rose, the head darkening as blood filled it. He stared at the ceiling, jaw tight, ears scarlet. Emma watched from the corner, noting the involuntary response without expression, the way his hips gave the smallest involuntary lift before he forced himself still.

Dr. Thorne continued until the organ stood fully rigid, then examined the urethral opening more closely and pressed along the shaft. “No discharge. Healthy response.” She released him; the erection remained, bobbing slightly with his pulse.

“Prostate examination. Turn onto your left side, knees drawn up.”

Lucas rolled, the paper crackling, his still-hard penis pressed against his thigh. Dr. Thorne applied lubricant and pressed a single gloved finger against his anus. “Relax and push out gently.” The finger slid in to the second knuckle. She felt the prostate with firm, circular pressure. Lucas’s breath hitched; a low sound escaped before he bit it back. The stimulation made his erection jump again. After half a minute she withdrew.

“Prostate smooth, normal size. No tenderness.”

She stepped back, peeling off the gloves. “You may dress. Everything is in excellent order. Any questions?”

Lucas sat up quickly, reaching for his briefs. The erection had only half-subsided; he had to adjust himself carefully as he pulled the cotton up. He avoided Emma’s eyes entirely while he dressed, mumbled a “Thank you,” and left with the same stiff posture he had entered with.

Emma exchanged another brief nod with Dr. Thorne. The next name on the list was Philip.

Philip was quieter than Lucas, slender, fair-haired, with wire-rimmed glasses he carefully folded and set on the side table before he entered. He arrived in grey briefs that looked a size too large, the fabric tenting slightly already from nerves. He kept his arms crossed low, as if trying to make himself smaller.

The questions followed the same pattern. Age eighteen. No sexual partners. Masturbation “maybe three or four times a week.” His voice stayed soft, almost apologetic, and the flush that rose on his cheeks reached the tips of his ears and stayed there.

When instructed to remove his briefs he did so with deliberate care, folding them neatly before setting them aside. Fully nude he was pale, with sparse light-brown pubic hair and a slender penis that already showed partial arousal from the exposure and the knowledge of being watched. He kept his hands at his sides only with visible effort.

On the table, stirrups spread, the examination was thorough. Dr. Thorne inspected every fold of skin, retracted the foreskin completely, palpated the testes with slow, rolling pressure that made Philip’s thighs tremble.

She had him stand for the hernia check. “Head turned, cough on command.” Her gloved finger pressed firmly into each inguinal canal in turn while her free hand supported the scrotum. Philip coughed as instructed; the intimate pressure and the knowledge that Miss Ashton could see every detail made his partial erection stiffen further against his will. No impulse was detected on either side. Dr. Thorne repeated the test once more to confirm. “Clear. No hernias.”

When she began the systematic stroking to check response and urethral health, his erection rose quickly and fully—thinner than Lucas’s but rigid, the head glistening faintly. He turned his face toward the wall, breathing shallowly through his mouth. Emma remained still in her chair, the silent witness required by protocol, observing the involuntary reactions, the way his stomach tightened, the quiet humiliation that coloured every line of his body.

The rectal examination followed. On his side, knees drawn high, Philip made a small involuntary sound when the lubricated finger entered and pressed against the prostate. His erection, still present, twitched hard against his thigh. Dr. Thorne completed the check methodically and withdrew.

“All normal. You may dress.”

Philip sat up, reached for his briefs with slightly shaking hands, and dressed as quickly as dignity allowed. He retrieved his glasses, offered a quiet “Thank you, Doctor… Miss Ashton,” and left without looking directly at either woman.

Emma closed her clipboard. Two final exams that day, but the pattern was set: the same questions, the same full exposure, the same clinical thoroughness—including the hernia checks that required each boy to stand and cough under the doctor’s probing finger—and the same quiet, unavoidable embarrassment under the fluorescent lights and the chaperone’s steady gaze. Outside, the autumn sun continued its slow climb over the academy’s stone roofs, indifferent to the vulnerabilities being catalogued within.