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From: theGreatxIam <max_wojtylak@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Take Two and Call Me in the Morning (MF) Silver Surfer #7
Date: Fri,  4 Oct 2002 22:10:03 -0400
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NOTE: I hereby grant permission for all archiving and other uses
of this work, public or private, free or paid, in any format
whether existing now or to be invented in the future, so long as
a copy of this note and credit to "theGreatxIam" is given and no
alteration is made to the body of the work. Copyright 2002,
theGreatxIam

Silver Surfer #7: Take Two and Call Me in the Morning By
theGreatxIam

NOTE: They used to talk about Stagedoor Johnnies, the men who
hung around theaters with flowers and candy for the showgirls.
Then women and girls got liberated and got horny, and they called
the starstruck ones groupies.

But there are some of us who call ourselves by another name. We
are drawn to a special class of classy ladies, to those mature
beauties who appreciate a man who appreciates a vintage affair.
We call ourselves the silver surfers. And this is one of our
stories.

Alan D., Minneapolis

I was just about to enter the restaurant for lunch with some
friends when my pager went off. The display was flashing five
asterisks. I made my apologies and got back in the car, dialing
my cell as I pulled out.

The local paper calls me "the doctor to the stars" in their
gossip column, but all that really means is that I treat a lot of
sore throats and other minor ailments for entertainers coming
through the theaters and concert venues here. It's not like I'm
the personal physician to Prince, or even those guys from
"Mystery Science Theater 3000."

There aren't very big fees involved and I have to agree to be on
call virtually 24/7. But it makes for a nice change from my
regular practice, and I get a kick out of meeting celebrities.

When I punched in the phone number that night, I didn't expect
much. I hadn't checked the paper's listings that morning so I
wasn't sure who was in town.

The call was from the Metrodome, which confused me. I thought the
Twins were in town; they've got their own team doctor. Besides, I
don't do sports injuries.

"And I don't do singing injuries," Dr. Maxwell told me when I got
through to him. "Seriously, Alan, I'm sorry to bug you with this,
but my malpractice coverage is specific about limiting me to the
players and coaches here except in cases of emergency. I don't
think a chest cold would qualify."

"Chest cold? Can't they just give whoever it is some Dayquil and
a shot of steam? How serious can a chest cold be?"

"I don't know, Alan. I don't even know if it is a chest cold;
they won't let me near her. But this is some chest. You'd better
get down here and see for yourself. The game tonight's on
national TV, and they want the anthem to be sung, not croaked."

At the dome, I flashed my credentials and was quickly directed to
VIP parking and ushered into a small, well-equipped examining
room. Dr. Maxwell showed me the layout and then excused himself;
one of the relief pitchers had a suspicious tenderness in his
shoulder. I took off my sport coat, checked my supply of likely
medications, and perched on a stool. One thing about celebrity
patients: Somehow, they make their doctors do the waiting.

This patient walked in already talking a mile a minute in a drawl
so sweet and thick you could spread it on toast.

"My gosh, Doctor, I don't know why they had to haul you all the
way down here just for little old me. I told 'em a little honey
and maybe a sip of some smooth Kentucky bourbon and I'll be
singing my cotton-pickin' heart out like always."

I had to admit her voice seemed in good shape, with perhaps just
a hint of a rasp. But I had come all the way down, so I asked her
to sing a bit for me. She launched into an up-tempo number
sounding like a bullfrog on helium. It was painful just to
listen.

I stopped her and had her get on the examining table. I started
running through some basic stuff.

The truth is I quickly confirmed what I'd guessed when she
started singing. She didn't have anything serious. Didn't even
have a cold. Just a little spasm of the vocal cords that a little
massage or a hot compress could fix.

I told her as much, and she got on her back so I could rub her
neck. It only took a minute or two. Most of the time people close
their eyes when you do that, but she looked right into mine. It
was the most disarming, bewitching stare I'd ever run into. I had
several more thoughts inappropriate to the doctor-patient
relationship.

But I finished the massage -- looking at a poster about kidney
stones on the far wall as distraction -- and the croak
disappeared. I warned her to rest her singing voice for an hour
or two, but assured her she'd be fine by game time.

"Well, shucks, Doc, that's just great. You're a regular miracle
worker. Hey, I don't want to take advantage of you or anything,
but could I ask a favor? I've been on tour so long I haven't seen
my doctor at home in ages. 'Bout time I had a real check-up. Any
chance you could check me out?"

Actually, I had been checking her out since she walked in the
door. But I am a professional. I pointed out that a full physical
includes blood work and other things I wasn't prepared for. She
said she still would like me to do what I could.

So I found myself saying "All right, Miss Parton. Will you take
off your clothes, please?"

And you wonder if all those years in medical school are worthit?

Dolly batted her half-inch eyelashes. "You sure are a thorough
fella, aren't ya?"

Abashed, I started to tell her I could do most of the exam
without having her disrobe. She stopped me with a laugh.

"I ain't complaining, Doc, just commenting. I like a guy who
don't mess around. Much."

She peeled off her clothes without a flutter of embarrassment,
and with a bit of flair. She saved her top for last, turning away
from me as she unbuttoned it. She stayed that way as she tossed
it onto a chair and started to reach around to unsnap her bra.
Then she paused.

"Darn it," she said, hands stopped halfway around her back.
"Could you give me a hand with this contraption, Doc?"

Ever the gentleman, I did.

She turned toward me and it was like coming to the crest of a
hill and seeing the glory of Rome before you. I'm no stranger to
beauty or dazzling bodies, and Dolly wasn't your standard package
of pulchritude. Her body looks bit off balance -- but, then, it
would have to be, with that stunning superstructure.

Super it was indeed. I wouldn't hazard a guess as to her bra
size; I would think you'd need a calculator to do that. You've
heard of peach-sized breasts, or grapefruit, or cantaloupe? These
were a whole fruit basket.

At that size, of course, they couldn't be called perky. They did
sag a bit under their own weight.

But these were not those udder-like bags some women get. Dolly's
tits might need a little support, but they were still magnificent
mammaries.

"Hey, Doc!"

Her voice called me back from my reverie.

"You can put your eyes back in their sockets. They're real, all
right."

My cheeks burned red. I started to apologize but she cut me off
with a smile.

"I was just kidding you, Doc. I'm used to it. Heck, it's like a
skunk complaining if people stare at his stripe. If he didn't
have it he'd just be a stinky old squirrel."

She put a hand under each mound and lifted. The nipples, thick
buttons centered in brown haloes bigger than my palms, pointed
straight at me.

"But they are real, see? Go on, touch 'em. You're the doctor!"

I started to reach up, but I caught myself halfway. My hands were
cupped. Not professional. I flattened them and returned them to
my side.

"I will have to -- er, examine them -- your breasts (my cheeks
felt like hot coals) -- but, first, let's get a few readings.
Could you hop up on the table?"

Oh, what a hop. "Jiggle" doesn't begin to describe what her
breasts did. And "erect" doesn't begin to describe the condition
of my cock. I turned away from her, fumbling with some equipment
on the wall. "We'll start with your blood pressure," I said.

As I turned back to her she was grinning like a Cheshire cat.
"Golly, Doc, did I have to get naked for that?"

She had me there. I swept the room with my eyes. "Of course not.
I'm sorry. I'm sure there must be some gowns around here ...
somewhere."

I opened a drawer at random and pulled out a flat bag. "This
looks promising." I flipped it over and shook.

A cascade of small, square foil packets tumbled onto the
countertop and spilled onto the floor. Through the spread fingers
of the hand that flew up to cover my face I read the word
"Trojans" boldly printed on the shiny packets.

There was a high-pitched, musical giggle behind me. "Hot date
tonight, Doc? Don't let little ol' me keep you."

I raised my eyes to the ceiling, but there was no chance of
divine intervention to save me from my embarrassment. At that
point I would even have welcomed a lightning bolt of retribution
for my past sins. All I saw was a wispy cobweb in one corner.

"Sorry, Miss ..." I began, still looking away.

"Gosh darn it, Doc, call me Dolly. And don't bother 'bout a gown.
I guess you've seen everything there is to see by now."

"All right ... Dolly," I said, and began the examination. I went
over some of the same things I'd started with, just because
there's a routine to a physical and it's better to go through it
the same way each time so you don't forget anything.

But this examination was like none I'd ever done, anyway. Oh,
I've seen more than my share of beautiful naked women. But there
was so much of Dolly.

She kept her big, blonde wig on the whole time, for example. Not
unheard of when you're dealing with a star. But it meant that
when I held the stethoscope to her smooth back to hear her cough,
I had to wend my way through a luxuriant tangle. And whatever I
did -- tap a knee, check blood pressure, inspect her ears -- also
included a changing view of those awesome monuments. It was a bit
like wandering through a city and constantly finding as you turn
corners that you're confronted with another perspective of its
sole skyscraper, visible for miles and all the more noticeable
for the way it rises from such a flat plain.

When, at last, it came time to touch her breasts, I had to fight
off the odd vision of my hands disappearing into them, sinking
into their pillowy depths as though they were made of dough.

Quite the contrary. As I palpated them, I noted that they had
retained a surprising amount of youthful firmness. And they were
definitely not fake. Not a bit.

In my years of practice, I have encountered all manner of
mammaries. Round ones, pointy ones, saggy ones, flat ones.
Artificially enhanced ones of all dimensions. But never a pair
like Dolly Parton's. They deserve to be the subject of their own
version of those old vaudeville posters -- the ones that were all
fancy type describing the acts in hyperbolic terms:

STUPENDOUS,

the sign would say,

COLOSSAL EXAMPLES OF MOTHER NATURE'S GIFTS,

it would go on,

MAMMOTH MAMMARIES NEVER BEFORE SEEN!

Dolly was all that.

And more. As I examined her, she kept up a running conversation.
For once, with a star, it really was a conversation. We talked
about the city and my work, not the life and times of Dolly
Parton Superstar. And she talked like a normal person, or as
normal as someone from rural Tennessee can sound to a Northern
city kid like me. When I took her pulse and found it a beat or
two faster than normal, it was "Land o' Goshen, Doc, with a
handsome man like you in the room it's a wonder my heart don't
just jump up and do somersaults." When I stood behind her and
massaged her neck to check again for anything inflamed, she said
"Shucks, that's nice. It feels better than warm puddin' on a cold
day." And when I examined her breasts for lumps, she giggled and
said, "Sakes alive, with a touch like that you could steal the
feathers from a chicken and leave her feeling glad she got
plucked." When my fingers brushed against a nipple she shivered.
"You trying to pluck me, Doc?"

I know, I know. But at the time I couldn't believe it was
happening because I usually had to be the one with the moves.

Plus, I am a doctor. While my conduct may not always be what
Hippocrates had in mind, I usually don't actually interrupt my
work.

So I blithely continued the examination. Dolly kept up a string
of down-home double entendres.

Then it came time to perform the pelvic. This is not, as you
might have imagined, a very arousing situation, at least not for
me. With the patient splayed out like a Thanksgiving turkey
waiting for the dressing, it's not the most attractive sight. And
I am not into bondage. Stuck in the stirrups, a woman is somewhat
too -- vulnerable, I guess is the word.

At least that's the way it usually is. But Dolly, as I should
have realized by then, is not your usual woman.

When I positioned myself between her outstretched legs and leaned
forward slightly, I heard a giggle.

"As long as you're down there, you might as well make yourself
useful," she said with a laugh. I was still puzzling out what she
meant when her legs lifted out of the stirrups and wrapped around
me. Meanwhile she had sat up on the examination table and reached
for my head. In a split second my face was almost buried in her
pink opening, her curly blonde pubic hair tickling my forehead.

"Now, don't be getting shy on me, Doc," Dolly said. "Your mama
can't see you. Just go on in."

For a brief moment I felt, it's true, like a schoolboy caught
sneaking Playboys into his room who squirms through a lecture on
sex. But instinct triumphed. I licked.

I believe Dolly shared some earthy rural expressions in the
minutes that followed, but I was buried in her muff, her thighs
around my head, and couldn't hear a thing.

I'd been taken off-guard by her boldness, I admit. But I
recovered. If Dolly was as eager as I was, no need to playgames.

While my tongue explored her genitalia in clinical detail, I
ripped off my clothes. By the time she was shrieking her way
through an orgasm -- with, I was pleased to note, no sign of her
earlier problems -- I was stark naked and geared for action. "Oh,
my," Dolly trilled. "Bring that cock on over here, Doc, like the
horny heifer said to the bull with a rooster on his back."

She put her feet back in the stirrups, opening her target wide
and wet. I lowered the examining table until my dick was pointing
straight into her and rammed it home. I went in fast and smooth,
and we both moaned at the feeling.

Dolly was no virgin, but a glove doesn't have to be tight to keep
you warm in the night. Sorry; being around Dolly begins to get to
you after awhile.

And it was a long while. So long that my legs gave out as we
rutted away. I got Dolly to scoot back, which was a little
difficult because I'd forgotten to lay out the paper cover on the
table and she'd become stuck to the cushions -- stucker, Dolly
said, than a fly-paper sandwich. But we worked it out.

When we did, Dolly moved back and I crawled on top of her. I was
ready to assume the position when she grabbed my arms and yanked
me forward.

"These aren't just for show," she said, rubbing her tits with
both hands. "Come on, Doc, you know you want to try!"

I  did, in fact. So I placed my cock between her globes. Dolly
squeezed them together and my dick disappeared from sight.

Once or twice, as a kid, I experimented with what sex was like by
sliding my cock between two pillows. OK, more than twice;
practically every night until my mother noticed the crackly,
dried cum on the pillowcases.

That's what titfucking Dolly Parton was like. There was an
unrealness to being between those things.

I gather she's not unfamiliar with the disappointment I felt. At
least she didn't object and didn't ask why when I disengaged
after a little while and put my cock back where it belonged.

She was as talkative a sex partner as I ever had, but at first
she was satisfied with "Oh, that's good" and "Oooooh, yeah!" I
managed to forget I was fucking the flower of Southern womanhood
until she announced, "Let 'er rip, Doc! Time to churn the
butter."

I paused.

"Don't stop," she drawled. "Time's a-wastin'. Gimme that bunny
love!"

"Huh?"

She sighed. "Faster, sugar. Faster."

I gave her what she asked for. Jack-hammering away, pounding in
and out of her cunt so hard that her sweat-slick body started to
slide off one end of the examining table. She grabbed hold of the
rail on one side, but then my knees started slipping out from
under me.

We clung to each other, Dolly's long nails etching trails of red
across my back. The woman certainly knew her own body; the fast
fucking sent her into a three-octave orgasm.

But I hadn't cum yet. When she settled down and realized that
"the bull ain't ready for the barn yet," she led me to a chair
and sat me down.

While I let my heart return to a more normal rate, Dolly fed me
her tits. Seeing those national monuments heading for your face
is like diving into a swimming pool filled with whipped cream --
presuming your cholesterol level is under control, of course. It
took a day or two just to lick my way around them. 
That gave me time to catch my breath, so I was ready when Dolly
placed her slit just above my rigid pole and slid down like a
fireman.

 From the second I entered her, I knew that would be it for me.
She felt too damn good for me to last as she slithered down to
bury me completely inside her. And when she started bouncing and
her breasts heaved and rocked, I almost came right then.

But I gritted my teeth and hung in. I knew that opportunities
that good didn't come along very often. I was determined to make
it last.

Yet I couldn't conquer biology. My cock swelled. Dolly hooted.
And I came like I'd never come before. Great gushers, hot jets
pumping out over and over.

When it was over, I sat there dazed. Dolly eased off of me and
chirpily cleaned herself off with a wad of HandiWipes. "That was
quite an exam," she told me. "I ain't had so much fun since the
Buckey twins gave me my sweet 16 present. Shucks, if I'd known
you Northern doctors were so good, I'd a-gotten sick up here a
lot more often."

I'd have laughed, if only to be polite, but the last two words
came out as a croak. Dolly didn't even realize it until she saw
the look on my face.

"Oh, my gosh," she said, in a voice like a slow drive down a
gravel road. "What time is it?"

I showed her my watch.

"I go on in less than an hour! What happened? You said I'd be all
right."

"I said, if you rested your singing voice. But you were hitting
some pretty high notes there."

"I seem to recollect you were in the room with me, Doc."

"Yes. OK. Look, this isn't a crisis. Your throat muscles are
fine. It's probably just a little rawness left over. A salt-water
gargle should fix you up. There's surely something around here."

I tried to get up to look, but Dolly pushed me back down. "Sit
right back, sugar. My daddy always said, if a snake bites you,
bite 'em right back."

I stared at her.

"Or, like my mama said, the water tastes sweetest when you drink
it straight from the pump."

"Huh?"

She had gotten to her knees. "I mean, I got a good ol' salt water
gargle right here." Her soft, slim fingers wrapped around my
cock.

I tried to protest that I couldn't perform so soon afterward, but
my argument didn't wash when Dolly opened her bright red lips
wide and sucked my dick in, because my rod began to stiffen
immediately.

She held all of me inside as long as she could. When I outgrew
her, she kept the cock head inside, sucking vigorously, while her
fingers played the shaft like a flute.

My eyes rolled back in my head as she went to town going down on
me. Every so often she'd pop off of me and lick up and down the
shaft, once she went all the way down and gently mouthed my
balls.

The most amazing feeling was when she swallowed my cock as far as
she could, held it  there and hummed "Islands in the Stream."
With two encores.

She finally brought me off with some rapid bobbing of her head. I
drove my hands through her wig to press her further onto me and
fucked her mouth for all I was worth.

I was close, close, aching for release. Dolly's head was flying,
her lips sealed to my shaft.

At last it arrived, another mind-bending orgasm. Dolly took my
whole load and pumped me dry, sucking me like a straw until I
shriveled and fell out.

She dutifully gargled my cum before swallowing it all. When she
was done, she looked down at my cock and laughed.

I followed her gaze. My dick was bright red from top to bottom,
even my scrotum -- the exact same shade as the lipstick now
smeared across Dolly's face.

I smiled ruefully.

"Sorry, Doc," she whispered. "I couldn't help it."

"Why are you whispering?"

"I didn't want to strain my voice. Shouldn't I be resting it?"

"If it doesn't work now, you're not singing tonight anyway," I
said, mustering whatever professional gravitas I could while
naked. "Might as well let it rip."

"Really? Hey!" Her voice was normal again.

"Really. Try a song, if you want."

"A song?" She smiled. "I've got just the one. Learned it from a
good 'ol country boy. Well, here goes nothin'"

Luckily, that relief pitcher's arm turned out to be completely
shot. Not so lucky for him. Or for the team. But lucky for me,
because it kept my colleague occupied all night, so he never
returned to his office. It would have been awkward enough if he'd
caught me in flagrante. But I don't think I'd ever have lived it
down if he'd walked in at the end to find me nude, genitals
bright red, with Dolly Parton standing in front of me.

Belting out "Great Balls of Fire."

For the rest of the Silver Surfer series and more stories, see
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/theGreatxIam/www


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