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My friend and I, both medical residents, are in our small laboratory, a sterile corner of the clinic lit by harsh fluorescent lights, filled with test tubes and gleaming instruments arranged in neat rows. We’re dressed in pristine white lab coats that rustle with every movement, slightly snug around the hips, and white rubber clogs that squeak faintly on the polished floor. Over our coats, we wear antiviral masks covering our nose and mouth, the fabric crinkling with each breath, and on our hands, white latex gloves, taut and smooth, glinting under the light with a soft snap as we adjust them. My hair is pulled back into a high, tidy ponytail that sways as I move, while her dark curls spill rebelliously around the edges of her mask. Today, we’re collecting sperm samples for a fertility study—a scientific task, sure, but with this subject, it’s bound to turn into a bit of amusement.<\/span><\/span><\/div>
“Get him on the table,” I say, my voice muffled by the mask, nodding toward the examination table with a brisk tilt of my head. She nods back, a spark of mischief in her eyes above the mask, and ushers him in. He’s our “volunteer” —or rather, the servant we’ve picked for this. He’s not thin; he’s got a round belly jutting out in front, broad but slouched shoulders, and an awkward air that makes him almost comical under the stark lights. “Up and strip,” I order, my tone sharp but laced with a hint of mockery that slips out. He climbs onto the table, the metal creaking under his weight, and peels off his clothes slowly, letting them drop into a messy pile. He lies back, his pale, bulky body filling the space.<\/span><\/span><\/div>
“Legs apart,” my friend commands, and he spreads them with a visible hesitation, his belly quivering slightly. We step closer, our white latex gloves catching the light as we lean in to inspect. His member is there, average, uncircumcised, half-hidden among folds of skin. “Not exactly impressive,” I say, my ponytail swinging as I tilt my head for a better look, the latex squeaking faintly as I flex my fingers. She chuckles, the sound softened by her mask. “With that gut, it’s a wonder we can see it at all,” she adds, crossing her arms under her coat.<\/span><\/span><\/div>
“Let’s check it,” I say, and with my gloved hands, I grasp it gently, lifting it for a closer look. The skin is soft, lax, and the white latex glides smoothly as I handle it with precise, clinical motions. “Nothing remarkable,” I note, letting it flop back against his belly with a faint thud. She leans against the table’s edge, tapping her fingers on the metal. “Let’s hope it produces something worth analyzing,” she says, grabbing a sterile dish and handing it to me with an exaggerated flourish. “Come on, little pet,” I urge, the nickname slipping out naturally as I see him sprawled there, submissive and helpless.<\/span><\/span><\/div>
With my gloved index and middle fingers, I start working on it, a quick, deliberate motion. “Don’t make us wait,” I say, as he tenses, his face flushing under the lights. My friend shifts to the side, watching with a smirk that shines in her eyes above the mask. “Looks like a sideshow act,” she jokes, and I pick up the pace, the white latex making a faint sound with each stroke. His belly jiggles in rhythm, adding to the absurdity of it all.<\/span><\/span><\/div>