The Doctor of Green Heat
In a quiet side street near the stadium, where the smell of grass never quite fades, Dr. Paul Cook ran his small sports clinic. It was nothing fancy — just three rooms, old wooden floors, two tables for examination, a wall of jars filled with herbs and oils that caught the afternoon light like colored glass, and a shower and changing area. Athletes came here not just for treatment, but for a kind of calm that modern hospitals didn’t offer. Paul had learned long ago that pain was more than a broken tendon or a swollen muscle — it was often a memory that refused to fade.
That morning the doctor planned to spend just two hours in the clinic to make time for a personal affair he couldn’t delay. So, as soon as he washed himself and prepared, he called in the first patient, Cyril, a rugby player with a shoulder that had taken too many hits. He was twenty-six, full of nervous strength and impatience. Paul warmed a clay pot of comfrey and pine resin, mixing it with steam until the scent filled the room — green, sharp, and forest-deep.
“You always use plants, not injections?” Cyril asked, watching the doctor work.
“I use what reminds the body what it can do,” Paul said simply. He wrapped the shoulder in linen, layer upon layer, until the young man’s breathing slowed. The heat pulled at the tension, and the resin seeped into the skin. Cyril fell silent. When he left, he moved more easily, almost suspicious of how light he felt.
Next came Andy Shawl, a marathoner in his early thirties, with a face gray with exhaustion. His heart wasn’t what it used to be — viral myocarditis had left him half the man he remembered being.
“I can’t run now, but I dream that I do,” Andy murmured as he sat down.
Paul mixed hawthorn, motherwort, and mint, steeping them before laying the soaked cloths over the man’s chest. The herbal vapor rose like fog. Paul didn’t speak; he listened to the rhythm of Andy’s breath, the small coughs that interrupted it. By the time the wraps cooled, Andy’s eyes had cleared a little. “You’ll run again,” Paul said. “Not fast, but far.”
The third visitor was Rory, a boxer who’d broken his hand three times and couldn’t bring himself to hit the bag anymore. He had the stance of someone who’d lived with pain too long. Paul applied a poultice of arnica, chamomile, and crushed juniper, bound with linen and beeswax.
Rory looked down at his hand. “Feels strange. Warm. Like it’s waking up.”
“That’s the blood remembering its route,” Paul replied. He taught him a few gentle exercises with a wooden ball. Rory left with his hand unwrapped but his shoulders straighter, as if he’d been given permission to start over.
At the end of his short shift the last patient arrived — Ollie, a mountaineer recovering from pneumonia after a Himalayan climb. His lungs wheezed; the cold had bitten deep. Paul used thyme, eucalyptus, and a drop of fir oil, wrapping his chest tightly before laying hot stones across the bandages. The scent was almost medicinal, but behind it was the sweetness of sap.
“You must miss the mountains,” Paul said.
“I miss silence,” Ollie replied.
Paul smiled faintly. “Then breathe it in here.”
They sat quietly while the herbs worked. Outside, the noise from the street gradually grew louder. The doctor had to hurry, but he waited patiently until Ollie’s breathing steadied. When leaving, Ollie paused by the jars on the shelf, running a hand over the labels — gentian, yarrow, sage.
“You heal with things that grow from the ground,” he said.
“It’s where we come from,” Paul answered. “And what we return to when medicine forgets how to help us.”
When the door finally closed after Ollie, the clinic was finally quiet. Paul glanced at the watch, then poured himself tea brewed from the remnants — a little comfrey, some mint. He thought of the four men and the different ways pain lived in them — blunt, silent, stubborn, or just tired. None of them would be cured by herbs alone, but each left with a trace of warmth, and that was sometimes enough.
The shelves glowed faintly in the early sunlight. Outside, the morning smelled of pine and rain. Paul took a slow breath, feeling the ache in his own hands from years of work. He smiled to himself — every healer carried a small wound. The trick was to keep it open just enough to understand the pain of others.
Now he had to hurry. He glanced at the watch. This amount of waiting will do, he thought. It was time to make one more person happy.
***
He hurried home through the gathering midday heat, his cock stirring to life with every step. The familiar ache of anticipation swelled in his groin. The tight jeans constricted him mercilessly, his dick hardening down the pant leg forming a thick tent. Each stride was a delicious torment as his tight foreskin retreated and returned back onto his glans with every step. He felt like moaning—right there, on the street—or jerking off his cockhead through the denim—right fucking there!—but the prize waiting for him made him just hit his bulge with a fist, like saying “Wait, you!”
At the door to his condominium in a quiet side street, he fumbled with the keys with trembling fingers: now his horny impatience coursed through him like fire. He barely got inside before stripping in the hallway, shirt tossed aside, jeans kicked off in a heap, his clothes scattering in chaotic disarray across the worn floorboards.
His dick sprang free, short and thick, hardening now straight forward from his thin frame, surrounded by a wild tuft of dark hair. The cockhead hid shyly under a thin foreskin, three prominent veins throbbed along the shaft, pulsing with the raw need that had built all morning.
Pushing into the bedroom, he froze at the sight. There was his prize: his boyfriend lay prone on the duvet, encased in shiny cling wrap from mouth to heels, the transparent film gleaming under the lamp like a second skin. A neat opening framed his flaccid dick—a small, dark worm nestled in ample foreskin, with the large balls under a clean-shaven pubis squished under the glossy layer of cling wrap.
He crashed onto the bed beside him, the mattress dipping under his weight, and ran a possessive hand down the smooth, shining side, fingers tracing the plastic's taut curve. Cupping the balls through a single layer of wrap, he felt their soft weight shift, and a teasing barrier made the touch all the more electric.
Gently, he pulled on the sac, stretching the film, tugging with just enough firmness to elicit a muffled hum from beneath the gag of film, then leaned in to kiss the neck from behind. His teeth caught and bit off small pieces of cling wrap, peeling them away to bare the pulse point, where he latched on with hot, sucking kisses.
His lover's dick responded slowly, the small worm lengthening and thickening into a long, slim log, dark skin stretching into a pink shaft over a large, plum-colored glans that emerged shining like a ripening fruit, seemingly only reluctantly hard but unmistakably eager.
With careful tugs, he peeled back the wrap at the neck, exposing a strip of skin to his eager tongue, lapping hungrily at the throbbing pulse point that made his boyfriend jump as if he felt a live wire. At the same time, the doctor’s free hand squeezed his boyfriend’s hardening cock feeling it twitch and firm further with each beat of his pulse.
Shifting lower, he bit through the cling film over one nipple, and freed the flat disc to his mouth, sucking it deep with teeth grazing the hardening bud into a tight peak. His fingers then ventured to the slit in the film where he could feel his lover’s asshole, exploring the warm, yielding edge, tracing circles that made his boyfriend’s wrapped body quiver.
Paul drizzled more lube from the nightstand over his fingers, the cool slickness gleaming in the sunlight, and slid one finger into the tight heat of the rear opening, curling it slowly to brush the prostate with feather-light precision. As he did that, his mouth trailed wet kisses down the wrapped abdomen, lips pressing against the shiny film, tasting faint sweat through the barrier.
Adding a second finger, he scissored gently, stretching the velvet walls with patient twists that drew muffled whimpers from his lover's gagged lips. His other hand finally wrapped around his boyfriend’s pale length to stroke it with reverent, upward pumps, thumb circling the plum head.
He positioned himself behind, knees bracketing the wrapped thighs, aligning his thick, veined cock at his boyfriend’s rear entrance slick with lube. He pushed in inch by inch, and two loud groans—one of pain, the other of pleasure—echoed off the walls in a kind of primal harmony.
Buried in his boyfriend all the way to the hairy base of his cock, the doctor began rocking in a steady rhythm, hips rolling like waves against the plastic-clad ass. One hand reached around to jerk the slim cock in perfect sync with his thrusts, the other tore more wrap to expose sweat-slick shoulders for hungry kisses.
Soon Paul quickened the pace, hips snapping harder against the yielding curves, the thick veins of his shaft dragging delicious friction along inner walls of his lover’s ass with every plunge. Bites marked the newly bared back—sharp nips that bloomed red—and his lover's body arched into the pleasant pain, muffled cries vibrating through the film.
The climax hit like a crashing wave, his lover spilling first in hot, erratic spurts over his fist and the rumpled duvet, inner muscles clenching rhythmically around Paul’s invading thickness like a velvet fist. The spasms were relentless: every throb itched and tickled in every exact spot, until the doctor shattered too, groaning and spraying his hot seed deep inside.
After a few minutes when the pleasure wave subsided, panting in the humid air, Paul eased out slowly, a trickle of cum seeping from the slit like pearly evidence of their union. Grabbing scissors from the nightstand, he snipped the wrap from mouth to heels in long, freeing strips, the plastic peeling away with soft, satisfying rips.
“It can now move,” he rasped.
His lover gasped in fresh air, lungs expanding as he turned, pulling him down into a fierce embrace, their sweat-slick skins sliding together in a lazy, boneless tangle of limbs and lingering heat. Laughter bubbled up, raw and relieved, breaking the tension like sunlight through clouds.
“Morning, Mikey,” Paul said in a soft voice, covering his boyfriend’s face in kisses. “Man am I happy to see you! You are my angel.”
“Morning, Paulie,” the boyfriend replied in an unexpectedly low voice. “I’ll get you some pancakes after we clean up.”
They lay entwined on the rumpled duvet, Paul’s thick cock softening against Mikey’s slim dickie, now spent and nestled in the crook of his thigh. Paul’s hands traced idle patterns over the red welts from the wrap's edges—faint ridges and pink love bites—each touch a quiet affirmation of their love in the gathering midday heat.
Soft kisses dotted foreheads and cheeks, light as breaths. The afterglow wrapped them as snugly as the discarded film.
Mikey slipped from the bed to fetch warm cloths from the bathroom, and the steam-scented fabric soothed their bodies as he wiped them both tenderly, lingering on sensitive spots—the flushed cocks, his still tender rear—and each touch led to contented sighs and lazy, half-lidded smiles. No rush, just care in the quiet ritual.
Soon the smell of pancakes filled the room. Mikey was a great cook, and he had 20 more hours now until it lost its name (and its voice) again to the shimmering cling wrap. Or ropes. Or scotch tape on the wall. Or a sack in the basement. Or—with Paul you never knew.
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