The WIMP Test: Diagnosis

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Disclaimer: SPH-focused content. Also, I’m not a medical professional and know nothing about medicine or hospitals, so take this all as a joke. None of it is true insofar as actual medical diagnoses or practices as far as I know… but it is embarrassingly sexy, and that’s the point!


It was just one week after Dr. Hunglovin and her sexy nurse Jana prescribed medical tweezers for research in the Wrist Impairment in Male Patients (WIMP) test. I’d been complaining of pains in my wrist, and it turned out they were not caused by carpal tunnel, but rather due to my frequent masturbation and undersized male parts. These tests would determine more precisely the extent of the damage and my specific diagnosis.

I admit, I was embarrassed to masturbate with them at first, but I had to stick with my schedule for the sake of their research (and, presumably, for my health), and that meant getting comfortable with them really fast. Those first couple times were a little awkward, but the gel pads at the end of the medical tweezers felt really damn good and produced their own lube, and soon enough I was back into my old schedule, “tweezing off” seven times a day. Oh, there were close calls and a night or two when I almost didn’t make it to seven without some… let’s call them misadventures, being almost caught and… well, but those are all stories for another time.

I came back to the hospital with my “special research equipment” (tweezers for jacking off, if you aren’t paying attention) in a beat-up, old briefcase at my side. The waiting room was crowded with calm patients male and female, young and old, none too infirm but waiting probably to be called in for a check-up, and reading National Geographic or quietly checking their phones to stave off boredom. Nurses flitted about in the background, going from one place to the next with clipboards tucked under their arms or breasts, sashaying their hips in tight, white uniforms and high heels that, my mind immediately reminded me, were easily taller than my dick. The urgent clack, clack of heels resounded from around corners above the softly piped in hits from the ’80s and ’90s. Currently playing was “Sweet Dreams,” you know the one.

The receptionist was not the same as last time. This time a blond, what they’d call a “full figured woman” or “BBW” sat behind the counter and glass screen. Her breasts were at least, I’d hazard, a G-cup, and strained against her uniform. Her cleavage was magnificent, like I could’ve lost my forearm in it. She had a beautiful face, as all the nurses did, with full, glossy lips, slightly blushed cheeks, and playful eyeshadow. She had the slight pout of boredom one might expect anyone to have in just another day at work. Trying to not stare at her impressive cleavage (and failing), I took a clipboard from her, took a seat, and filled it out as usual.

When I handed it back it, though she squinted at it. There was a problem. “Are you Peter Leitel?” she asked.

“Oh, yeah, uh, no one calls me that,” I told her. I whispered, “Peter is another name for… y’know. Uh, I go by T****.”

“You forgot to fill in your middle name.”

“Is this necessary?”

“We try to leave no incomplete fields on a form. It wouldn’t be professional.”

I sighed and filled in “Pat.” “But don’t call me that,” I added, whispering, “Peter Pat means…”

“I know,” she said flatly. “I’m sorry. I’ll cross them out for other staff if it’s a problem.”

Salvation! “Would you please? That would help a lot.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Leitel.” She did so– I saw her make two big, definitive strokes of the pen– and handed the form off to another nurse behind her, who clomped off to somewhere with it. I sat down to wait for a bit, alternatively staring at the fish in the waiting room aquarium that I didn’t mention earlier and then back at the receptionist’s cleavage from time-to-time. If she noticed, she showed no signs of it.

A few minutes later another nurse opened the door. It was Jana. Her hair the color of fresh snow, thick-rimmed glasses and skin like hot cocoa. Speaking of hot, holy sh*t. Even though she had a fit body, she was stacked– I’d guess a DD in her push-up bra– and had such a booty– each cheek in a tight heart shape, straining against her uniform skirt like a watermelon, that kind of ass so wide you can see it from the front. Either of those features seemed ready to escape at any step she took. Somehow she was still shy. She had a clipboard tucked in one arm.

“Little, P.P.?” she called out. Some of the ladies in the waiting room were looking around, snickering. I didn’t stand just then. She must not have seen me, and I remembered just then that she must have only known me as T****. I thought maybe she would call out that name, instead, if there might be some way to avoid my embarrassment. “Ahem, Little, P.P.? Is someone here a Little, P.P.?”

I stood and she motioned for me to follow. “Right this way, Mr. Little.”

I could feel the whole waiting room looking at me. Some of the girls continued Ataşehir Ukraynalı Escort to giggle into their hands, some consciously trying to look away and (like my attempts not to stare at ginormous mammaries) failing.

“Um,” I stuttered. “It’s pronounced Leitel. Like… lie tell…” No-one heard.

I followed behind her to the examination room, watching and enjoying how her heels made the swinging of her hips just that much more pronounced. Suddenly, for just a brief second, her skirt rode up around her big butt– I couldn’t help but look, my eyes already being stuck close by, and I saw that she must’ve had a thong on underneath. But she tugged her skirt back down as soon as it happened, so I didn’t get any more than a peek, but that peek and the thoughts I had just going down the corridor behind her were enough to arouse me to hardness.

We stepped into the examination room and Jana took my height and weight measurements again– 5’1″ and 110 lbs. Then she asked me to remove my shirt while she checked my vitals. She seemed surprised I had normal blood pressure.

“Well, that rules out one cause of your symptoms,” she said. We went through a few more preliminary interview questions about my wrist pain and how it had gotten better since I started masturbating with medical tweezers.

“And have you been keeping to your… schedule?” As if I needed the hinting, she made an up-and-down pinching motion with two fingers.

I nodded. “Almost exactly.”

“Almost?” she asked. “Has there been any deviation from your… twenty-eight to thirty-five times this week, was it?”


Clinical as ever, she kept on. “And how many times did you manage this week?”

“I think… thirty-five.”

“You think?” She launched a skeptical glare my way from over her glasses. “Did you not keep a record for the research?”

I sighed. “I… yes, thirty-five.”

“Okay, okay,” Jana kept a cheerful note in her voice. “That is consistent with your earlier WIMP test report. And how many of those were with the new tool?”


“Good.” She made another jot, I couldn’t see what. “Now please hold out your hands for the manual stress test.”

I did so. Slowly, Jana began palpating from my wrist out to my fingertips. Whenever she reached a finger, she massaged it back and forth, for a little bit, as if feeling for something in the fingerbones or the joints, but it felt for everything I was worth like she was jacking off my fingers. I tried successfully for once to keep my eyes from wandering down her blouse, but failed to control the flow of blood to my everheating loins.

“Probably feels pretty good, huh?” Jana purred.

I nodded.

She gave me a wicked curl of her lip. “Is this how it feels when you use your tweezers?”

I tried to protest, but Jana gave me an “I’m not buying it” look. Then she got to my pinky and starting rubbing it extra vigorously. “Or maybe like this?”

“N-no… I don’t think so.”

Her lips didn’t part, but she laughed. Or scoffed. Or both, looking away from me for just a second. Then all of a sudden this hot nurse commanded, “Remove your pants, please.”

Of course, I unzipped and did as requested. Who protests in a hospital? Seriously? My small boner was obvious. It even twitched a little.

Jana put her hand at her mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry. Do you want to wait until it goes away?”

“Um,” was all I could say.

“I’ll turn around if you want to wait,” she suggested, and turned herself around leaned casually on the medical counter. Her skirt rode up slightly and I could see her thong in her thick, beautiful ass again. There was no way my erection was going down!

“Uh, it’s okay,” I managed.

“AND your boxers?” Jana asked, making a dismissive hand motion, but not yet turning around. She sounded embarrassed, herself, and began thumbing through a glass jar of tongue depressors. I couldn’t help but notice that the tongue depressors all seemed to be bigger than I usually imagined them, a little taller, a little wider. They all were all marked at one end with the letters “AVG.” Maybe a brand of medical equipment? “We just need to make a preliminary check on this little guy.”

Blushing, I slid down my underwear. My erection popped out with an audible *fwop* and slapped against my stomach. Well… beneath my belly button, not high enough to reach my actual stomach, I guess.

Jana tried not to giggle, bent down (she was at least a foot taller than me, and in her heels she had an Amazonian, towering stature, 6’9″ being my best guess), and tested my size next to the little popsicle stick marked with the letter S at one end. “We don’t get to give tests for Wrist Impairment in Male Patients a lot,” my nurse said. “But I think these might become some of my favorite tests. It’s just so much fun testing what kind of WIMP you are– I mean, diagnosing your… unique wrist impairment.”

She pressed the popsicle stick flat against my length, the side with the letter facing away… Ataşehir Üniversiteli Escort it was about the same size, I thought. Then she started pressing it around, as if feeling for something. I squirmed, trying my hardest not to cum. I felt a familiar tightness in my stomach and clenched my teeth against it.

Then Jana put the stick away with a “hmm” and an “mm hm” at her clipboard. then snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and produced a pair of calipers with a digital readout.

“While you’re still… in this state… we’d better get a good measurement for your WIMP test. This little ruler is digital, so it’s as accurate as we can get.” She demonstrated how the little arms of the calipers spread open and closed. “It’s what we use in WIMP cases like yours. Goes all the way up to 14 cm or 5.51 inches exactly, so there’s room for error. They do come larger, but they won’t be needed for this test. Not for you.”

And she was on her knees in front of my dick studying it faster than you could say, “Whoa.” I sat my butt down on the padded examination table. My feet dangled just a little above the floor. I threw my head back, wanting to avoid both the potential embarrassment of being caught looking at my nurse’s hot cleavage again and the embarrassment of the number she was about to produce which would be fi–

“What did you claim your BPEL was, again?”

B-P-E-L meant bone-pressed-erect-length, for those not in the know. Pressing the ruler against your pubic bone eliminates any error you might get from the pad of fat around your stomach.

“Five inches,” I muttered. I still couldn’t stand to look down just yet.

“And you’re as big as you can get right now?” Jana’s voice was expectant, as if I might possibly say no even when her incredible breasts brushed against my stiffened member, making me shudder.

“Y-yes,” I stuttered. “W-w-what is it?”

There was a little, stunned silence, an anxious wait.

“Four point three inches!” She raised the digital read-out up so I could read it plain as day: 4.3″. I couldn’t respond and on sensing that, my nurse filled in with: “Aww, you really need that decimal, don’t you little guy?”

“N-no, no!” I protested. “It’s five, at least, I measured!”

“When is the last time you measured?” She was already ready to make a note of it.

“I, uhhhhh, in college…”

Jana returned to her full height, looking down at me. “It’s probably shrunk since then. My guess is you have CUM–“


“– Chronic Underdevelopment from Masturbation. You should be happy. You’d actually be big for a guy with CUM! Most of them become micropenises.”


“Meaning like two, two and a half inches hard.” She made a squinty face, showed a tiny size with her thumb and forefinger. A sign I’d seen women at clubs make sometimes, talking to their friends after I danced with them. “Do you know how many you are in centimeters?”


Jana adjusted her fingers a little, into a capital C with her thumb and index finger. “This size?” she asked.

She looked to the ruler. Then back at me. “No.”


“WAY SMALLER than 14.”

“Th-that’s impossible!”

Jana set her arms akimbo. “Hon, do you know how long a popsicle stick is?”


“Four and a half inches… that’s about eleven and a half centimeters. And you don’t even reach the half after four, honey. You’re smaller than a popsicle stick…” Jana laughed into her hand. “If it makes you feel bigger, you’re eleven in centimeters, like, on the dot.”

“What’s average in centimeters?”

“Ohh… probably about fifteen is average. On the small side, but average.”

I tried to mutter something. Instead, my lip quivered.

My nurse turned around again to note the results on her clipboard. “At least you’re THICKER than a popsicle stick, you’ve got that.” She said it sarcastically, like she was trying not to laugh. She couldn’t believe I wasn’t even up to the “S” mark at the end of the popsicle stick: not even up to SMALL.

I sat there with my little boner poking up. My face burned, my privates twitched. Maybe if some of the blood would come out of my cheeks and go south, it might have gotten bigger, but my blush wasn’t going away for a while.

“One more test,” said the sexy nurse. She turned around and grabbed my dick, wrapping her hand around it. Unlike with my hands where the head peeked out over my fist, her hand totally enveloped my whole length in a sudden, tight kung fu grip in her rubber gloves. She looked me in the eye, and said, “It’s okay, I knew my hand was bigger. I just need to hold it for–“

It was all too much for me! Despite my clenched teeth and tightened stomach muscles, a spurt of jism bubbled up from my nuts… I felt it traveling up, tried to push it back, but it shot up pathetically, splattering back down onto my nurse’s gloved hand and splattering into my groin.

“Oo!” Jana shrieked, a happy, little sound. “Sorry. I forgot you’re under consideration Ataşehir Vip Escort for SPEED. Oops!” Still, she held on until I finished squirting, then removed her hand slowly, peeled off the glove and dropped it in the biohazard bin. I didn’t forget that SPEED meant Small Penis Early Ejaculation Disorder, but my mind was ablank just then. I said nothing.

“Well, we can get your applied hand-to-penis ratio later.” The hot, curvy nurse made a final note of something, said the doctor would be with me, “Um, shortly.” She sashayed out of the examination room, adding “See ya shortly!”

I just sat there feeling pathetic as my stiffness disappeared and I shrank down to flaccid wondering… “Did she just call me Shortly…?”

Far from afterglow, I was like zombified and squirming, fought the feeling by starting to climb back into my clothes. Like a robot, I slipped my boxers back up, started buttoning my shirt again. I was tucking my shirt in, first at the back, then in front and still had my hand down the front of my pants when I heard… click… clack…

Dr. Hunglovin covered her face with a strange, all white clipboard when she saw me, but I could hear her make a disgusted noise behind it. “Always playing with it, aren’t you?”

The doc was a skinny, nerdy-looking redhead in a lab coat with small, pert breasts and thick glasses. She wore high heels like the nurses, too. She was short for a woman, but still taller than me.

I protested. “I– I was just tucking my shirt in.”

She lowered her clipboard, which appeared to be some kind of iPad, and approached me slowly, with a super-skeptical look. “Sure you were. Well, I need you to drop your drawers, anyway. I have to observe your technique.”

I hesitated. My eyes flashed to the only comment field of many that I could see on the clipboard. In it was typed, in a larger than usual font, “LOL!”


“No use being shy. This is for research.” The doc set her clipboard aside, sat on a swiveling stool and crossed her legs in a no-nonsense way. Her big glasses slid down the bridge of her nose and her voice lowered to a whisper. “We all know you have a tiny dick. You *have* been jerking off with tweezers. Like FOUR times a day.”

I couldn’t stop blushing. My brain filled like with static at that instant, wondering who “we” was, marvelling at the impact of a woman knowing such intimate details about me. Was “we” the whole hospital? Everyone? But I thought my information was confidential? I mumbled something in the affirmative as I let my pants and boxers down again. I was totally limp, maybe two inches long at best, and still had my own jism stuck in my pubic hair.

“Ew.” Dr. H made a face and looked away from me, pushed her glasses back up with her finger. “Did you ejaculate in your pants?”

“N-no, w- er, um…” My face was flushed with so much blood it stopped anything from working right. I felt like I might pass out.

She stood from her stool, snapped on a pair of medical gloves, cleaned me with a wordless smirk, and tossed the tissues into the sealed biohazard container. All I could do was sit there on the padded examination table, trembling, with my pants down and tiny, limp dick exposed.

“I read your measurements in the report, T****. Your initial assessment of 12.7 centimeters was revised to 11. But you knew you had a tiny dick, didn’t you?”

“Y-yes, Doctor…”

Doctor H stuck her skinny hip out in a sassy, reproachful way, shaking her head as she consulted her data. “Not even 14 cm… which is SMALL… 15.02 cm was two standard deviations from the true mean in our study, and anything past two SDs under is…” Her eyes widened. “REALLY small. And you’re almost four SDs below. But I’m sure that’s gibberish to you.”

The doc rolled her eyes like “never mind” and sat her cute butt back down on the stool in her sexy way again. She held her digital clipboard in one arm with the short edge against her body, toying with the stylus at her lips. Her heel (my dick and a half in size!) dangled from one foot. Aside from the things she had said, her face, her gaze did nothing to acknowledge my current nudity, remaining totally clinical in expression. “Did you remember your penile forceps?”

I nodded, and the doctor made me retrieve them from my case.

“We’ll need sterile conditions while you demonstrate your technique so we can be assured of the accuracy in your little dick research. Don’t worry, though… we have excess condoms.”

“Exce–” I stuttered. She pulled out a sterile, medical condom labelled with big letters: XS.

She gave me a look, a knowing raise of the eyebrows that said she knew I understood what those letters meant: XTRA SMALL. Turning the wrapper over in her hands and wagging it in the air, she said: “These were made to your specifications from our research, T****. You’re what we call a… statistical outlier. Go ahead, put this on and show me how you tweeze yourself off.”

The condom fit loosely, all baggy on the end, while I was still flaccid. It would barely stay on, but I clamped down with my tweezers to hold it in place at the same time as I rubbed my dick with them. The condom prevented the lubrication from the gel-bead tips of the tweezers from soaking into my cock, and it started getting really slippery– only having just cum already, I wasn’t getting hard.

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