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"BITTERGRIND!"

Garif was striking his hammer down right as his name burst into his ears. He cringed, missing his mark by an inch and smashing the mallet down right on his thumb.

Cursing and grumbling up a storm, Garif threw the hammer on the ground and stood, glowering at the charr who had interrupted his work. He brought his paw up to his chops and gave it a kiss. His voice was a growl. "You made me whack my thumb."

"I oughta make you whack your head, rustbrain." Legionnaire Axegrind tipped his head up to stare daggers into the soldier's eyes. Spittle flew from his mouth with every word, and Garif crinkled his nose as he watched the little flecks fly onto his chestfur. "What do you have to say about this?"

Garif opened his mouth, but was met with a rolled up piece of paper thwacking him in the nose. "Ow! Hey!" he snarled, snatching the paper before it could fall. He gave his Legionnaire an almost cublike sneer before unrolling the document.

He burst into laughter at once.

"Hrahaha! HRAHAHA! Yer kiddin', me, right?" Garif asked, grinning. He looked up, but the Legionnaire's expression was dour and growing increasingly livid. "Scorch, she really did write it. Y'know, she threatened to write a report an' everything, but I didn't think she'd actually--"

"You scalding buckethead," Axegrind snapped, snatching the paper out of Garif's hands. "What kind of Iron can't even get through a routine physical? Look at this. Four snapped tongue depressors, a whole container of cotton balls ruined, general disobedience, yelling--"

"She started the yelling," Garif muttered, but his Legionnaire pressed on, ignoring him.

"Lying about past medical history, and it says here you kicked her?"

"Hey, that wasn't my fault!" Garif protested. "She did that thing where she, where she, where she tapped my knee, and it made my leg kick automatically, an' so I accidentally kicked her in the face. If anything, you should be praising me for having good reflexes!"

"You grease-addled dolyak. I oughta break your legs, see how good your reflexes are then."

Garif crossed his arms over his chest. One could almost see the dark cloud brooding over his head. "Look, I don't like physicals. They're stupid. If I feel sick, I'll go see the scorchin' medic. But if I don't, then what the hell's the point?"

"The point," the grayfur retorted, red eyes smoldering as he fought to keep his anger in check. "Is that when I get reports about grown-ass-scorchin'-soldiers acting like cubs pullin' a fuss over what was supposed to be a simple-ass-scorchin'-routine examiation, it makes me look real-ass-scorchin' bad. It makes Grind Warband look bad."

Garif rolled his eyes. "I just don't want strangers touching me. All right? It gets me all ansty when they grab me by the danglies and tell me to 'turn my head and cough'."

Axegrind stepped forward. Though Garif was taller, the Legionnaire had a stare that could curdle milk. The lump that grew in Garif's throat demanded to either be coughed out or swallowed down. He chose the latter, and gulped loudly.

"Bittergrind," the Legionnaire whispered. He was much scarier when he was quiet. "One more word out of you, and I'll rip 'em off so you don't have to worry about that."

Garif bit his tongue.

"Now, you're going to go back in there and get your exam finished, like a grown-ass-scorchin'-adult. Tent in the Hero's Canton with a purple stripe. The medic has been informed by me personally that if you step out of line, he is to report it to me. Do you know what I'll do if that happens?"

Garif bit his tongue harder.

"I'll run you until you puke," the grayfur growled. "Then I'll make you run some more. I'll make you run until you're crawling, and then I'll kick you in the side until you get back up. I'll run you until your legs fall off. And that," his voice dropped to being hardly audible. "Is just day one."

Garif resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Have I made myself clear?"

Garif grumbled, lowering his head. "Yeah."

"Yeah what?"

"Yeah, sir."

With that, Axegrind turned and marched off. A small contingent of charr had gathered to watch -- some smirking, some shaking. Axegrind pointed to one of the smaller ones in Iron garb and thumbed over his shoulder. "Take over for him." When the little Iron hesitated, Axegrind shot him a look so piercing that he scampered forward, toward where Garif was waiting, watching him go.

"He... he seemed pretty mad," the little Iron said. "You should probably go."

"Yeah..." The brown-furred charr sighed, then rubbed the side of his head. "Yeah, yeah." With that, he trudged off for the Hero's Canton.

***

The tent was dimly lit, with only a small pocket of light creeping in through a small gap in the ceiling. Garif wriggled his nose as he stepped in, looking around. He brought a hand up to scratch at his mane as he looked around.

It was by all accounts a standard medical tent, though the dirt floor of the tent seemed less than sanitary. Rows of vials, bandages, and tools were lined up neatly atop wooden benches. A padded bed waited nearby, footrest and all. There was a basin pumping fresh water, and Garif could hear the faint trickle as he turned to see the back of a smaller charr in a long labcoat.

He turned, giving Garif a wry look. His fur was lighter than the Iron's, a tan that almost bordered on gold, and much of his hair had left him in what Garif could only guess what older age. Gold-rimmed spectacles rested across the bridge of his muzzle.

"Ah, you've arrived," he said. "Marro Reignmender is my name. You're here for your checkup, right?"

Garif bit back a snarky comment and satisfied himself with a noncommittal grunt. He padded across the dirt floor and sat down on the edge of the bed. He made a point of not looking at the doctor.

Reignmender took no mind. "Garif Bittergrind. Yes?" He looked up for Garif's confirmation, but the soldier didn't so much as budge. With a resigned smile, Reignmender adjusted his glasses, then went on. "Age 34. Male. Iron Legion. Grind Warband. Brown eyes. Home, Black Citadel."

Garif never could keep his mouth shut for long. "As long as we're statin' the obvious, I got four ears too. How many arms you think I got? Hrrrm, I dunno, I guess you'd better write it down 'cuz it's so scorchin' important."

Marro calmly lowered his clipboard. He lowered his head as well, so that his deep blue eyes peered over the rim of the glasses.

"Garif," he said in cool, dulcet tones. The voice of a professional. "I seem to recall being advised by your Legionnaire to make note of any insubordination. Would you prefer we end this examination now?"

Garif grumbled, making an impatient gesture for the medic to continue.

Marro smirked, then lifted his clipboard back up. "That said, I suppose you do have a point. I don't need to list off your weight, your mane color, your boot size."

Garif turned, giving him a weird look. "How th'hell does that thing have my boot size? I don't even know my boot size."

Marro ignored the question. "In fact, there's really only one thing of interest I see here. The previous physician indicated an addiction to caffeine, is that true?"

"It's just coffee," Garif snapped. "And it ain't an addiction, neither. Look, my warband already gives me a hard time about it, you gonna grill me over the coals too?"

"Not at all," Marro replied, his smile warm. "It was just interesting. Most charr don't drink coffee."

"Yeah, well," the bigger brown-furred charr muttered, rolling a shoulder back as he looked away. "I ain't had my cup yet today, so don't tick me off, 'cuz I'm extra grouchy today."

Actually, he had already had two cups and it wasn't even noon, but the medic didn't need to know that.

"I'll bear that in mind. Now." Reignmender set the clipboard aside, then cleared his throat. He made a gesture for the center of the room. "Take off your clothing and we'll get started."

Three seconds passed, marked only by the steady drip, drip, drip of the basin.

"What."

"Take off your clothing," Marro repeated. "Your Legionnaire insisted on a full medical examination. This can't be done if I'm to be pushing aside plates of armor or dodging spikes."

"C'mon," Garif complained. "The last medic didn't ask me t'take my scorchin' clothes off!" He grit his teeth, growling as he put his hands up. "This some sorta prank? I don't gotta be naked for you to shove some pills into my face."

The medic sighed quietly, closing his eyes and shaking his head. "A shame. I didn't want to have to record this." He reached for his clipboard and pencil, and Garif blanched.

"H-hey, hold on," Bittergrind protested, holding his hand out. "Look, you don't... you don't gotta write nothin' down..."

"I won't have to, if you'll simply comply."

Garif swallowed, lowering his head. He chewed on his lower lip, hesitating for a long moment. Marro made no move for his pencil. Eventually, Garif sighed, stood, and began to undo his clothing.

It had been a hot morning at the peak of Phoenix, and the Iron hadn't been wearing more than the essentials to begin with. A metal strip crossed his chest, pressing against a sleeveless white cloth shirt. Both of these came off first.

Next came the boots, heavy metal clonkers that thumped as he dropped them on the dirt. His large brown paws were sharply clawed, and Marro could just make out the color of his pads -- tan -- as Garif lifted them up to slip out of his metal leggings. These he pushed aside, then turned to face the doctor.

He put an extra growl into his voice, masking any embarrassment he may feel at being mostly nude in front of his stranger. He crossed his arms over his bare chest and lifted his chin. "This stays on," he said, gesturing to a loincloth that covered barely more than the essentials. "I ain't budging on that."

Marro's smile was polite, almost gracious. "That's fine," he said calmly, then gestured for Garif to sit down. Once the Iron was seated on the foot of the bed, the medic stepped forward, and began what seemed to be a routine examination.

"Open your mouth and say 'ahhh'."

"Let me inspect your ears."

"Take a deep breath in... and out. Again, in... and out."

Garif didn't say more than he needed to, begrudgingly complying to each of the medic's seemingly mundane commands. Then there was one request that made gave him some pause.

"Now, look into my eyes."

It was a strange request, made only stranger by the fact that the doctor had actually removed his spectacles. Garif scratched the side of his head, looking down. "Doncha want me to look at something else? Like, I dunno... some letters across the room or somethin'?"

"No. Into my eyes, Garif."

The soldier frowned and looked up. He couldn't look away. The medic's eyes held his and wouldn't let go.

Garif felt his jaw slackening, felt his eyes widening. He grunted, his cheeks twitched, but he was compelled to look, to lose himself in the calm, deep, gentle eyes of the doctor.

The medic was saying something, saying a lot of things, but his mind wasn't grasping them. He felt heavy, warm, like rolling magma had just washed over his body, like he was wrapped in a cocoon in a bubbling deep lake, like... like...

The medic turned away and slipped his glasses back on.

Garif blinked. He brought a hand up to the side of his head, still blinking, as though he had just woken up. He was dimly aware that it was odd he should feel this way. Paradoxically, his eyes stung as though they had been open for too long.

He didn't have time to reflect, because he realized the medic was talking. He was looking at him. Garif looked back, but he could see only those warm, patronly blue eyes and those gold-rimmed spectacles.

"You're in good health for your age, Garif," the medic told him. "And I thank you for being compliant. I know that medical examinations can be quite taxing. But so far, I plan on writing your Legionnaire a glowing review of your behavior."

Garif's own reaction startled him. The older charr's praise had resonated with him in a way no compliment from his Legionnaire or Tribune ever had, or he imagined, ever could. He could not see his own expression, but it would have surprised him to know that he was blushing.

He would have also been surprised to see the faint purple-pink glow in his irises.

"Uh... good, that's good. Thanks."

The medic chuckled, stepping forward. He reached for Garif's right biceps with both hands, pressing them between his padded palms. The arm was thick, and the smaller charr's fingertips couldn't touch as they wrapped around it.

Garif looked down at his hands, then looked up. His voice seemed to drip from his mouth like honey. "What, uh... test is this..?"

"I'm testing for bruises," Marro replied. He squeezed ever-so-gently as he ran his practiced paws down Garif's muscular arm toward the elbow. "I'm also looking for blood clots, and for tense muscles. It's a common procedure for Iron charr, since you spend so much of the day performing manual labor."

Garif shivered. His teeth grit. The doctor's touch felt good.

No, better than good. It felt great. It felt better than it should have. Garif could feel every single muscle in his arm flexing, tensing, relaxing. He could feel the doctor's delicate hands stroking over every single coarse fur. He shivered again, his arm tensing in the medic's grasp. He could feel his exposed nipples growing hard beneath the fur, and he tucked his head low, as though to hide them from the medic's vision.

"How's this feel, Bittergrind?" the doctor asked. It was a perfectly casual, clinical question, one spoken as he let Garif's right arm go and moved for his left. He repeated the process, tenderly massaging his bicep between both palms and stroking down toward the wrist.

"Good... I-I mean, it's fine..."

Garif swallowed as his body reacted again, jerking in the medic's grip. His own reaction was humiliating him. He couldn't comprehend the depths of how good the touch felt. It tickled in all the right ways.

And his arm felt so big, so powerful. He was so strong!

He grit his teeth and focused every bit of his essence into not shivering again until the test was done.

The medic smiled, seeming to see something in Garif's expression. "Don't tense up," he said. "If it feels good, that means that you're overworked. I recommend you see somebody for a massage, at least once a week. Otherwise, long-term wear and tear could build up over time and cause damage."

It was a little easier to focus when the doctor wasn't touching him. Garif shook his head and grunted, looking away as he rolled his shoulders back.

He put a little effort into making his voice extra gruff as he waved off the doctor's concern. "Hell... massages, those're fer... you know, that's human stuff. They're for wimps. I ain't never heard of, of, of any real charr gettin' pampered like that... You know, rubbed down like some sorta..."

He trailed off, unable to complete the thought. The doctor adjusted his glasses, though his smile remained, compassionate and calm.

"It's an essential part of a charr's physical health as he grows older," Marro replied. "You could cause long term harm otherwise. While we're on the subject..." The medic lowered his eyes, looking down the Iron's brown-furred body. "Do you spend a lot of time on your feet?"

"Well, I mean... yeah... hell, every Iron does."

"Mmhmm. And do you take proper care of your footpaws?"

Garif swallowed. This was an uncomfortable subject, and one he didn't discuss often. Or ever. Even having just breached the subject felt somehow humiliating, and that wasn't all due to the blurriness in his mind. He rubbed the back of his neck.

"I, uh... I don't... really know what that means. I use soap on them if that's what you--"

The medic had heard all he needed to. Before Garif had even finished his sentence, Reignmender had pulled a stool forward and settled down upon it. He was right between the charr's feet, which were hanging over the side of the bed. He reached out for one of them with both hands. He wrapped them around either side of the brown-furred foot, thumbs squeezing into the bases of his toes.

Garif stiffened, and his leg jerked in Marro's grasp. The big charr stared with his bleary pink-dappled eyes, his leg frozen. He felt more vulnerable than he ever had in his life. "Y-y'don't need... Listen, I ain't, I ain't had a shower t'day, and..."

The doctor ignored him, eyes low, focusing on the large footpaw in his grasp. Like all charr, Garif had four thick, padded toes, with sharp pointed claws curling at the ends. A second pad, larger and more oval in shape, spread across the ball of the foot. It stopped just shy of the arch, which ran along a brown-furred patch toward a single dewclaw jutting from the heel.

The pad squished under Marro's touch as he touched it. The foot was warmed after a long morning in the confinement of its boot, and the pad gave little resistance as the doctor pushed his thumbs in, his fingers gripping the top of Garif's foot to pull him in.

Garif's toes twitched as lightning shot up his leg. It was too much for him to resist. He let out a low grunt, deep in his chest, as his leg involuntary made a kick. "Rrrr... rrrrph..."

The doctor smirked. His thumbs made concentric circles around Garif's central pad, pushing in until the very tips of his thumbclaws met together.

The brown-furred charr's toes had clenched together tightly. Marro pushed his thumbs up toward them, effortlessly sliding them beneath the larger male's toes and forcing them open. He pulled them back gently, placing practiced pressure on precise points.

He knew it was working, because Garif had grunted again, louder this time. The Iron's outward breathing was becoming a growl, a low and steady thrum in his chest that gave away his pleasure.

The muscular charr brought his arm up to his face, embarrassed by the sheer satisfaction that his body couldn't deny. It felt better than anything had ever felt in his life. Exaggeratedly so. His entire mind was focused on that point of sensation. It was like his foot, his body, was delivering itself in sweet surrender to the medic's touch.

Marro's right hand continued to knead Garif's central pad, but his left slipped down the sensitive brown fur of his arch until it hit the dewclaw. There was a small, circular pad just in front of the claw. The little medic wrapped his palm around Garif's heel, lifting him up almost reverantly. His thumb and fingers enclosed around that sensitive tan pad.

"Mrrrrrph...- rrmmmphhhh--" Garif's jaw was slack. The crook of his arm pressed against his eyes as he leaned back against the bed, absolutely lost in the indescribable pleasure. Dimly he was aware that nothing could, or should, feel this good, that something wasn't quite right. But the doctor was gentle, his touch as affectionate as it was professional, and a much stronger part of Garif's brain never, ever wanted the physician to stop.

The bigger charr was drooling by now, and his bare chest rose and fell with the faster beating of his heart. Faint twitches of life stirred beneath his loincloth, a sign of his pleasure that he could not obscure. He fought to keep his leg still, mostly out of a still-present urge to mask any enjoyment he could, but his toes couldn't help twitching, and his leg sometimes still kicked of its own volition.

Garif's toes splayed as his foot arched, pulling his sole taut. Reignmender took advantage, sliding his fingers through each of those furred toes one by one, half-rubbing half-tickling the sprouts of brown fur that jutted between them.

"Ummp--" Garif caught the sound and clamped his mouth shut, but not before the initial groan could get out. That really seemed to get his motor going, as his purring grew louder. His hips shifted as he became increasingly aware of the tightness growing in his loincloth. He looked down, dizzily, hoping against hope that he wasn't showing.

If the doctor was aware of Garif's arousal, he made no comment on it. He slid his fingers forward until they locked with the Iron's toes. His palms pressed against Garif's central pad, holding the foot possessively.

"Tell me how you feel, Bittergrind."

Every instinct in Garif's befuddled mind told him to lie, to shrug it off, to grunt something about how pointless this all was and about how tough charr don't need to be treated like this.

His own honesty surprised him.

"Amazin'." It gushed out of him. "Scorchin'... I don't have the words. It feels so damn good..."

He bit down on his lower lip. The medic noticed the hesitation at once, and gestured with the hand not gripping the soldier's foot.

"Speak honestly."

Garif couldn't stop himself. He wanted to. He wanted to shake the question off with an excuse or a sarcastic comment. Instead, the words sounded absurd coming out of his mouth, his deep baritone was a gravely growl as he confessed, "It makes me feel kinda weak. E-exposed, like I, like I ain't... in control? I-I dunno if I'm supposed t'be enjoying it this much..."

The medic watched him, looking over the rim of his spectacles at him. He couldn't hide his smirk. He squeezed Garif's footpaw in his grasp, eliciting a little squirm out of the reclining charr, before he relaxed his grip some.

He began to brush Garif's sole with the backs of his fingers, watching every tiny twitch of the toes the tickllish motion brought.

"It's all right to give up control sometimes," he said, his warm voice soothing and comforting even through Garif's growing delirium. "In privacy, it's all right to feel vulnerable."

Vulnerable. That was the word Bittergrind was looking for. He grunted, and his leg gave a little kick.

Marro's left hand held the foot still. His voice poured into Garif's ears like warm caramel, rich and delightful. "You know I'm not going to hurt you. You're my patient, Garif. I have a duty to ensure you walk out of here feeling better. Refreshed, invigorated. Do you believe me?"

"I... y-yeah..."

"Then just relax, and trust me."

Reignmender lowered his muzzle to Garif's foot, still held in his grasp. He slipped his nose underneath the larger charr's big toe and pressed his cheek up against his smaller ones, chin squishing against that soft warm central pad.

Garif's pink-purple eyes slipped away as he squeezed them shut, his head lolling back as waves of rapture shot up his body. His heart jackhammered as he grimaced, excitement roiling in his stomach. His toes wriggled against the other charr's face, kneading him gently without scratching with his claws.

It felt rapturous. It felt so good that he wasn't even aware when his penis grew to full length. It twitched, bashed against the thin loincloth covering it, and poked its way out into the light.

Marro pressed the large foot against his face, inhaling deeply of the soldier's rich, masculine scent. It was intense this close, earthen and pungent, with a rugged appeal. Intimately, unquestionably male.

The doc's lips came together as he kissed Garif's pad, suckling upon it, both hands now holding firm to keep the mesmerized charr's leg still. It was starting to kick like a dog who was enjoying a belly rub, not out of malice or an urge to get away, but from a sheer carnal physical pleasure.

Garif's dicktip was dribbling by now, and a tiny pool of wetness had collected on the bed between his thighs. He seemed for all the world unaware of it, more caught up in the facial-foot massage than his own arousal. Marro, however, watched his patient's malehood twitch and throb, peeking between his sharp claws as he kissed at his sole.

Presently, he let go with one hand, reaching for Garif's other foot. Garif had forgotten all it, but the doctor hadn't; his lithe fingers spread across the sole of the charr's foot, and Garif almost yelped in surprise.

He barely covered the tail end of the sound with a loud clearing of the throat, only to give off another loud groan as Mario squeezed his left foot. He was pulling double-duty now, nibbling at Garif's right as his fingers pressed the left.

The addled soldier was visibly overwhelmed. Even against the deep brown fur of his cheeks, his flushed expression was evident. His teeth were clenched so hard they looked like they might snap. His tufted tail twitched every few seconds, usually heralding an upward thrust of his hips.

"Hrrrphh -- burrrrn me, hrrrrrrrph, hrrrrrrrph..."

Marro gave Garif's right foot a parting kiss, then delicately set it back down on the side of the bed. One final loving stroke, and he turned from it. He knelt over Garif's left footpaw and focused his attentions entirely upon it, nuzzling his cheek against the pad as his fingers scritched at his toes and heel.

Garif was completely out of it by now, lost in the overwhelming sensations ripping up his leg. Reignmender himself had dropped much of the façade of this being a typical routine checkup; he had a delighted expression on his face, eagerly kissing and nibbling the submissive soldier's sole. His own dick had grown hard as an iron pipe within his pants, but he made no movements to either relieve himself or to undo his pants.

His focus was entirely on his patient.

Garif was growling like a greased engine by now, and his rumbling filled the room. The tremor was as felt as easily as heard, his body vibrating with each exhale. His toes thrummed against Marro's face, a pleasurable sensation on both ends.

Marro rewarded the charr by popping each of the four toes into his mouth, suckling on them one by one. This, naturally, just caused Garif to growl even harder.

After what felt like a long time, Marro finally pulled back from the paw. He wiped his maw, severing a little strand of drool connecting it to the big toe. He took a moment to compose himself, letting poor Garif catch his breath. The big guy was breathing hard, puffing and sweating like he had just run a marathon.

"You're a perfect patient, Bittergrind," the physician said. "What a good soldier you are. The report I write to your Legionnaire will be glowing."

Like a pet dog, Garif's tail gave flickers at the compliment, and he let out a gentle, needy whine. He creaked his eyes open, purple-pink peeking down at the doctor with adoration and gratitude.

As he looked, he seemed to see the size of his own pulsing erection, slick with his own pre. He blinked, seeming astonished at his own arousal -- or perhaps, at how blatant it was. He started to rise from his supine position as some thin vestige of civility told him that he needed to cover himself.

The mesmer slid forward between Garif's parted thighs, lifting from the stool as he did. He reached out with both hands, pushing them against the Iron's brown-furred pectoral muscles. His nipples were hard as stone as Marro pressed into them, forcing the bigger male back down onto the bed.

Garif succumbed without a fight, and Marro smiled at him. He began to massage the big worker's chest. He could feel every ripple as the hypnotized charr's chest vibrated as he growled as fiercely as ever, sinking back against the bed.

"Before we stop for the day," Marro said in his calm, soothing voice. "You're getting to the age where a prostate exam would be an important step. Do you know what a prostate is, Bittergrind?"

Garif replied in a series of bestial noises, low groans and guttoral growls. His body shifted against Marro's kneading hands.

The physician lowered his right hand. He rubbed the big guy's belly, stroking his dextrous fingers along the Iron's abdominal muscles.

"It's a gland found only inside biological males. It controls your seminal production, and also plays a role in the process of ejaculation."

Garif was absorbing absolutely none of this. It was obvious in his blank expression that the belly-and-chest rubbing was taking up the absolute fullness of his concentration. His pink-glowing eyes were half-lidded in pleasure as a dopey, drunken half-grin-half-grimace tugged at the corners of his maw.

Nevertheless, Marro continued as though the soldier were invested in his every word. He slid his right hand down Garif's body, sliding just around the sheath, his left paw a mere inch away from the supine soldier's towering erection. He slid his fingers into the crook between Garif's ballsack and thigh.

"As a male charr gets older, his prostate may swell, causing a variety of health problems. It could also be a sign of cancer. Very serious."

"Rrrrnnnggggh...." Garif gently pushed his hips up, giving in to the doctor's touch as he spread his legs open. His scrotum sagged between his thighs, and Marro delicately slid his hand beneath it, hefting it up in his palm and wriggling his fingers.

"I see you share my concern," he said, his amusement wry. He massaged the brown-furred ballsack for several long moments, his claws retreacted. He then slid his fingers forward, and his middle finger bumped against the pucker of Garif's tailhole.

Garif stirred, giving off another low animal grunt. His chest lifted as he squirmed in place, involuntarily opening his legs even further. His rump pushed itself closer to the medic's fingers, allowing the very tip to slip inside.

"Very good," the medic purred in his soothing voice. "Your well-being is clearly important to you..."

He slid his palm along the underside of Bittergrind's scrotum as he pushed his index finger inside, joining the middle as he dug for purchase within the larger male. He moved gradually, letting the addled charr accustom himself to the unfamiliar sensation.

Garif's chops raised in a snarl, and he gave off a snort that sounded almost pained. He rolled his shoulders back and squeezed his eyes shut, teeth showing as he wriggled against the fingers.

His discomfort was short lived. The doctor grinned as he felt his fingers slide against the base of what he knew was the charr's prostate. He applied pressure, squeezing tight against it.

"G-guhhnnnpphh! Hrrrgh, scorch, scorchscorchscorch--" Garif suddenly cried out, his hips bucking upward. He could not have known of the mesmer's spell enhancing his pleasure, but Marro was all too aware. The medic watched with a toothy grin as Bittergrind squirmed and groaned, his tailhole tightening around the fingers.

His dick bobbled and bounced with every thrust, and little droplets of translucent pre scattered over his body. It towered over his body, throbbing needfully as it reached for the ceiling of the tent.

It looked fit to burst at any moment, and Reinmender himself could no longer keep his hands off it. His right arm slipped down from the charr's chest, and he wrapped his fingers around that slickened shaft, squeezing it tightly.

Garif tipped his chin to the ceiling, exposing the full run of his neck as his whole body bucked upwards. He plowed into the medic's fist with mindless abandon, giving himself up entirely to his body's demands -- and just as much, the mesmer's demands. Precum gushed from the Iron's tip and oozed down his cockhead, slathering his shaft and the medic's fingers as the older male pumped him, up and down, up and down, grinding him out.

His fingers remained lodged securely inside Garif's tailhole, pressing his buttons to drive him past the point of no return. Garif was so lost to his ecstacy that Reignmender knew he could get away with not having to justify leaning forward to press the bridge of his muzzle against the charr's warm furred ballsack.

He kissed and nuzzled the laying charr's testicles as he continued to milk him. Garif was rocking upward rhyhhmically by now, vigorously smashing his sack against the phsician's face.

The mesmermized charr's grunting had reached a certain cadence, and practiced as he was, Marro knew exactly when Garif had crossed his threshold. He jammed his fingers into Garif as far in as they'd go, and he squeezed extra hard as he pushed down on his shaft, driving down toward his sheath.

It was all he needed. His mouth open, panting, slathering, Garif could barely manage to look down his body with those purple-glowing eyes, just catching the sight of the first burst of white before his eyes squeezed shut with a groan that filled the tent. His hips bucked as he came, squirting ropes of seed that slashed across his chest, neck, and chin.

Marro lifted his head and leaned forward, bringing his face close to the tip of the charr's spurting dick. He tentatively puckered his lips and just gave the smallest kiss to the tip, like taking a drink from a water fountain, enough to taste his hot seed fresh out of the lap. This caused another shiver to run down Garif's spine, and he shot another helpless jet over his body.

There was one final tremor, a last tenuous jerk of the hips, and then Garif collapsed down onto the bed. His white-stained jaw hung open as he gulped down air, his chest heaving. His eyes were barely open, a single crease of purple-pink.

Marro was sure he was being watched as he let Garif's cock go and pulled his left hand out of the soldier's opening. He pressed his right palm down upon the charr's stomach and slid it up his torso, sliding across the field of viscuous white stains and leaving a trail of wetness in his brown fur.

He leaned in close to Bittergrind's puffing muzzle. He planted a single kiss on his wet nose, then brought his cum-drenched palm up to stroke his ears affectionately.

"Sleep."

The Iron sunk into warm darkness.

***

Garif's brown eyes blinked open, squeezed shut, then opened back up. At first, he couldn't figure out where he was. He saw gray cloth reaching toward a central point, with a single long purple strip.

He brought a hand up to rub at the side of his head, and struggled to sit up. A medic's tent. That's right, he was having an examination. Why, then, did it feel like he had just woken up from a long slumber?

Marro Reignmender looked up from his clipboard. He turned to the charr, giving him a smile. "Ah, you're awake," he said. "That last test must have really knocked you out."

Garif brought a hand down to scratch at his chest. His claws tugged against white cloth and bumped across a single metal strap crossing his belly. He growled, slipping his claws underneath the cloth and scratching at the dry fur beneath.

He smacked his lips, looking around the tent. "Uh, yeah," he replied. He looked toward the medic, and, for reasons he couldn't explain to himself, gave the other charr a small but toothy grin. "Scorch, I feel great, though. What did you do?"

"Just my job," the physician replied cooly. He turned, moving his labcoat along with it. Garif could have sworn he caught a glimpse of a bit of wetness collected around the other charr's crotch. Before he could even formulate a thought on it, though, Marro had torn off a piece of paper and handed it to his patient.

Garif hesitated. He had just remembered why he was here -- and what his Legionnaire had threatened to do to him if he messed up. For the life of him, he couldn't recall whether he had given the doctor a hard time. He hesitantly looked down. His eyes confirmed the words the medic told him.

"Don't worry," Marro said, voice warm and professional. "I must say, I was expecting you to be a handful, but you were very compliant. I've made sure to give your Legionnaire a glowing review."

Garif couldn't help it. He grinned, the sort of real, enthusiastic grin that the grouchy charr rarely if ever put on. "Scorch -- thanks, doc! I owe ya one." He tapped part of the paper, then turned it around for the medic to see. "But, uh, what's this right here, about still needin' a weekly checkup?"

Marro lifted his spectacles, making a show of reading the words as though seeing them for the first time. "Ah, yes. Though you are healthy for your age, it can't be denied that the toll of your labor is causing your body to atrophy further than average. So, you're to see me every week for some physical therapy."

Garif opened his mouth to say something, but Reignmender pressed on.

"This new program also demands that you be given the entire day off, in order to prevent any unnecessary physical or... mental strain that the sessions might inflict."

Garif didn't seem to catch anything out of the ordinary in the doctor's reply, as he had basically stopped listening the moment he heard 'entire day off'. "Yer kiddin'!" the soldier laughed, all teeth showing in a big grin. "Scorch, I hardly get one day off a month. A day off every week?"

He reached out and clasped the medic on the shoulder, causing the older charr to cough and nearly drop his clipboard. "I gotta say, I wasn't lookin' forward to this, doc, but this's been the best examination I've ever had. Even if I slept through most of it."

Marro chuckled, adjusting his glasses demurely. "I'm pleased. I hope you'll look forward to our next visit, same time next week."

Garif grunted affirmation, then got up to his feet. His boots smashed on the dirty tent floor. He gave the medic a half-hearted wave, then slipped his way through the tent flap and out into the afternoon sun.

***

As he walked across the Canton, Bittergrind was considering what to do with his sudden evening off. He knew he would start with a fresh pot of coffee, but after that was anybody's guess.

As he stepped up to the great building housing their bunks, though, he happened to glance down, and he noticed something odd.

His boots were only strapped a single time. He was always very good about double-strapping his boots. It was a habit he picked up as a cub, when he lost a shoe during a race and ended up getting teased for it.

He checked the other boot, and also saw a single strip across, just like the first. He scratched the side of his neck, puzzled. He definitely hadn't taken his boots off. He was sure of it. He didn't like going barepawed where others could see it.

Had a strap slipped while he had fallen asleep? He frowned, already dismissing the idea. He might have been able to convince himself of one, even if he laced them up tightly, but two was unbelievable.

He shook his head. "Guess I forgot this mornin'," he grumbles to himself with a shrug. He rid it from his mind and strode into the building.

***

Marro Reignmender adjusted himself. The stain around his crotch was starting to get a little uncomfortable. Worth it a thousand fold, of course, but a little unprofessional.

He smirked to himself, tying up his labcoat to hide most of his crotch. He was still dreaming of the soldier, of the way he surrendered himself, how nice he felt and tasted and smelled.

Most charr were pretty free with their sexuality, and that was nice in its own way. But there was something to be said about this Iron, who had bottled himself up tighter than...

Well, if Marro had been an Iron, he might have been able to come up with a better metaphor. All he knew is that the Iron's eventual forced release had been abundantly satisfying.

"A week is too long to wait," he muttered. "Ought've made it two or three times a week..."

There was a scratching at the tent flap, a muttered "You in there?". Marro turned, seeing the silhouette of another charr.

The big grayfur pulled the tent flap open and stepped in. Clad in spiky blood red armor, the larger male showing his teeth as he spoke. "You're the medic, right?"

Marro smirked. "Have a seat," he said in his calm, inviting tones, making a sweeping gesture for the bed. He picked up his clipboard and got to work.

** The End**