By justoneguy

“I’m sorry, Bobby. This is never news that is easy to give. I’m so sorry I couldn’t have delivered better news.” Doctor Jesse Davis shifted in his chair. He found himself avoiding his patient’s eyes, something that he knew was not very good bedside manner. His poor patient needed his support and the strength of his doctor’s eyes. He blinked and looked straight at his patient, still seated on the exam table, the thin white gown covering his wide frame.

Bobby’s bear butt rested on the exam table, crinkling the cheep paper sheet that covered the cushion. He was a big strong man of twenty-seven—a professional quarterback for a national football team. His body was large and muscled, but fit and toned. His job required strength, but also agility. He wasn’t some lard ass lineman. He was the fucking quarterback. But now, sitting in the small cold exam room of his doctor’s office, he could barely breath. He just stared out blankly at Doctor Davis, a stern looking man in his late forties with salt and pepper hair and a trimmed reserved beard. His doctor’s stony face and sharp eyes didn’t comfort the poor man, however. He felt a stabbing chill run through his body colder than any exam room or doctor’s table. Bobby’s mouth just hung slack-jawed.

Doctor Davis knew that he was in shock. So he just continued to talk, waiting for Bobby’s mind to catch up to reality. “Now, you noted in your chart that you have had roughly 15 sexual partners in the last year. We will need to get an accurate account of their names and addresses. Greggor’s Syndrome does not affect women themselves. They are just carries. But it is a particularly dangerous STD. And all these women will need to be tested. They could be infecting more men even at this moment.”

Bobby just breathed. And starred. His mind locked on the way the Doctor’s beard would move when he talked, how the hairs would shift and wave with the movement of his cheeks. He blinked his eyes. How many women had he been with? It was a lot more than 15 this year. He was a popular guy. He bedded pretty much any woman he dated, most of the time on the first date. Movie stars, photographers, sports media women. He was known for his good looks, his great body, his stamina and competence as a studly lover. His sexual appetite was no more than most other men's, but his opportunities and possibilities far outpaced his peers. Already, he was paying child support for 4 babies, none of which he had seen. But what did that matter? He was fucking rich, a fucking star. The super bowl ring on his finger proved that.

All this ran through his head. He replayed the best sexual encounters of the last year in his mind. The hot tub, the team’s locker room, his own large house, a private jet used to take him around for morning show interviews. TV green rooms. All those fucks; all those women.

The Doc just kept on talking, as if anxious for his patient to say something, anything. Or at least to show some sort of sign that he was not having a stroke. “As you probably know, the course of this STD is VERY rapid. I would say within a week at the outside. There will, of course, be many life changes from this point on. You will have to change the way you go to the bathroom. Your choice of underwear might have to be changed.”

Bobby shook his head. He raised his hand to his face, rubbing his cheek and chin, feeling the rough prickliness of his shaved face. No matter how often he shaved, his face tended to show a slight darkness around his beard line. It was really the only thing about his facial features that seemed more mature than his twenty-seven years. He rubbed his hand through his hair—two inches of black hair sticking this way and that all over his scalp as if he had just rolled out of bed. His eyes suddenly seemed tired and red. “You don’t know what you’re talkin about,” he finally said in a rasping whisper.

“I assure you, Bobby. I do know what I’m talking about.” Doctor Davis was surprised by how firm his response was. Perhaps it was an instinctual response—using sharpness of voice to break his patient’s shock.

“Fuck this,” Bobby said, shifting his muscular body with surprising speed and hopping off the table. The back of the gown fluttered behind him.

“Bobby, please don’t leave. I need to go over with you the treatment options that are available.”

“Fuck that,” the big man flared. “What treatment options? I want a fucking second opinion.”

Doctor Davis looked up at his patient with a calm expression. “I can understand that. Of course, you should get as many opinions as you need. But it does not change the fact that the diagnosis is correct. And you will have to deal with this problem.”

“Deal with what!” Bobby threw back. “I am the Quarterback of the fucking Stallions. And your telling me my fucking dick is gonna fall off?” The big man yanked at his gown and the back tie snapped against his thick neck. The thin fabric fell away around him and he stood nude in the exam room, his face and hairy chest flushed red with anger. His eyes darted around the room, looking for his clothes.

“That is what I am telling you Bobby,” Doctor Davis said. The big man towered over him, a build athletic titan, his wide muscled chest dusted with black hairs leading in a tight thick line to his navel. From there, that black line widened out into an impossibly dense forest of black sex hair. And from that unchecked mane hung the organ of his gender. The Doctor’s eyes were naturally draw to that hanging flesh, since it was what had brought this unfortunate man to his office that day.

Bobby’s organ was a piece of impressive flesh. It was not uniquely long—3.5” hanging straight down toward the ground. But it was uncommonly wide, just like the beefy body from which it hung. Bobby’s floppy was 1.5” wide, even hanging soft between his legs, with a fat plump pink head, which looked as strangely blunt as it was wide. It was neatly and evenly circumcised, with gentle folds of olive skin bunched between the flesh pale of the tube and the soft pink of the head. What an amazing organ, one unique among men in the locker room, no doubt! Although he was an urologist, Doctor Davis had never seen a man’s piece with the same combination of features as Bobby’s. Every bit as unique as a Super Bowl winning quarterback.

The women it had fucked! How many? Forty? Fifty in his brief 27 years? Women loved him. He loved them. They wanted each other like rain seeks the ground. Hard, Bobby’s tool measured a little over six inches in length, but a massive 5.6 inches around—with the head flared to 5.8. It was 2.75” across when hard, and few women’s fingers could touch while gripping it. One of Bobby’s first sexual fetishes when he fumbled with the cheerleaders in high school was seeing those feminine little fingers so wide apart as they gripped his thick log like a baby gripping his father’s finger. At 18 his organ was already its adult size, although his body still had a lot of filling out to do, which made the contrast all the more amazing and earned him the well deserved reputation as a hung bull in college.

That mighty turgid flesh filled a woman so completely, opening her eyes as wide as it opened her pussy. He often made a woman cum on his second thrust, just from the obscene sideways stretch that his wide load gave to her unprepared pussy lips. He made women cum so easily while his peers in high school and college—and even on the professional football team—had to pump and shift and twist to find the right angle or spot to pleasure their women. And this made him all the more ready and willing to fuck any woman who showed the necessary interest. With his handsome face, broad shoulders, muscled chest, and tight ass, not many women failed to show the interest.

But one of those women, one of them who his long, wide, thick manhood had stretched and pleasured until she screamed his name out into the night, one of them had been a carrier of the worst STD to appear in modern times. And right there, a black ulcer less than a quarter inch across on the edge of his otherwise perfectly formed glans, portended the unimaginable future that now stretched out in front of poor Bobby.

Doctor Davis looked up at his patient’s flushed and angry face. He imagined it was a similar expression to the one Bobby’s opponents on the football field saw on the average Monday night. And his mind filled with pity. “Like I said, I am so sorry to have to bear this news to you. But your penis WILL turn black and fall off. There is nothing we can do to save it. The tissue is already infected. That little ulcer is just the outward sign. The ONLY thing we can do is remove your penis completely, including the root of the organ where it connects to your pelvis. Otherwise, the dying tissue of your sex organ will kill you.”

Bobby buried his face into his big hands—the masculine hands that had thrown touchdowns and fondled so many tits.

The Doctor lowered his own eyes, seeing the poor man’s fat bulging sac sticking out on either side of his doomed organ. That sac, so virile, so potent—soon they would become Bobby’s worst nightmare, pumping his body with so much desire. “Normally, I recommend a man with this illness be castrated as well. The frustration you are likely to experience from your natural sexual urges will be very difficult. But, given your line of work, it would be impossible to remove your natural hormones. The damage to your strength and mental focus would end your carrier. Therefore, I recommend a prostate stimulator. You can insert it into your rectum and send a current into your prostate. This will cause you to ejaculate through your new piss hole. You won’t feel very much pleasure, I’m afraid, but it will keep your testicles from cramping in pain and lessen your frustration somewhat.”

Bobby began so sob, his broad shoulders hunched and shaking. Such a built man, so strong, so handsome, so tough. But is soft sausage was about to be cut form his body, his hanging elephant trunk amputated from between his meaty, hairy legs. It had filled so many pussies, fucked so many women, made so many clits explode in pleasure. His fat hard log had sent waves of pleasure to its master’s brain, causing him so lose his mind in a supernova of ecstasy. His generative tool had pumped seed so deeply into those women’s wombs, making four babies—even if he didn’t want them. So masculine, so powerful, so soon to be gone. Forever in his male life—desire without capacity, urges without releases, desire without ability, manliness without manhood. Sitting to piss like a woman from a little hole in his crotch. Hiding his lose from the public, his team, his family. That would be his dickless life.

Doctor Davis rose form his stool and put his hand gently on the studly quarterback’s beefy shoulder. “Bobby, I’m so sorry.”