A/N: Welcome to my masterpiece. If you do so dare to continue the read below, I warn you, those with eyes nary a teenager, who fear MSM, and whose throats inflame upon consumption of peanuts may not last long. However, if your brain lusts for the feeling of a fresh, steaming pile of FRussia crack, then go forward; for your comprehension gaskets will have an orgasm of the freshest and most satisfying variety.

This is a four part series.

"Hello, Mr . . . Bonnefoy? Is it?" Doctor Edge glanced down at the clipboard he was carrying. "Ah! Yes, I am correct."

The Frenchman fidgeted in his seat; he hoped the doctor would not hand down the diagnosis he feared so terribly, "Bonjour, Doctor Edge." France bit his lip. "Is it . . . bad?"

Doctor Edge feared this question like he feared his wife's potato-green bean casserole (I mean what the hell, Sharon? Really?). Instead of a reply, the doctor allowed his hand to float over to a red, foreboding button on the wall to his right. He pressed it and the room darkened; alas, this was not the most bizarre happening as a projector, projection screen, and a disco ball inched down from the ceiling.

"Doctor, I do not wish to question your methods, but how will a disco-" France was cut off by his lover's gentle hand.

"Please don't fret, my love." Russia's purple eyes pierced France's soul and planted love in its core.

France moaned rather excitedly, shocking Doctor Edge. "I can't wait to get home so we can make love, L'Amour!"

Doctor Edge shook his head, "I'm sorry, but you two can't make love."

The color drained from France's face. "No, don't say it!"

"I apologize," Doctor Edge said, bishounen sparkles forming around him, "but you have dicknipples."

"No!" Russia roared, knocking France over in a fit of rage, "What will my penis do now?"

Doctor Edge looked very angry at the spousal abuse he was witnessing, "I'm sorry Mr, Braginsky, but you're going to have to leave. "

Russia nodded and itched his balls. And then he left, "I'm going to go masturbate. In your office's bathroom."

"Have nice time," the doctor smiled, "you beautiful sexual deviant."

France reached for his switchblade, but decided against it. This was his doctor; he need an examination first.

"Now," Doctor Edge said, returning to his rather vulnerable patient, "remove your trousers and get on that table."

France hesitated. What if the doctor molested him?

"Get. On. The. Table." The doctor's voice was impatient, but full of professionalism.

"Yes, doctor." France unbuckled his belt and slid out of his brand name jeans. Hey, this was France after all, so they had to be name brand.

The doctor squinted at France's penis. "Nice specimen."

What a brash comment. France thought, I'm surely to be molested. Terribly.

France hopped onto the examination table; Doctor Edge pulled out the foot rests and gestured at them.

The metal was cool and soothing to France's feet, kind of like Russia's sex pipe. It kind of turned him on.

He felt an erection coming on.

As France's penis grew, the doctor gasped, "OH NO! THIS IS PRECISELY THE THING I WAS HOPING WOULDN'T HAPPEN!"

France squealed, "What do you mean, monsieur?"

"Your penis, it's . . . it's . . . deforming itself!" The doctor quickly grabbed a syringe of sedative.

France's penis hissed.

"Augh!" France was panicking, "Doctor, help!"

The Frenchman's member started to jerk and convulse. "It's possessed!" France began to shed tears of pure fear."

"You are mine now!" France's penis screeched.

"It's talking!" France kicked at his own manhood. "What do I do?"

The doctor ran over to the examination table and stuck the hypodermic into France's vital regions.

The hissing, jerking, and talking stopped.

"Phew," Doctor Edge let out an exasperated sigh, "I'm glad that's over."

France nodded his head (the one on his shoulders) and wiped his tears.

The doctor suddenly grabbed the sedated penis and began to look it over. "Don't worry, your penis has been sedated, it can't become erect - or attack - for at least another hour or two."

This sentence scared France more than anything the doctor had said so far. No sex for one, maybe two, hours?

After ten minutes of poking and prodding, Doctor Edge was confident that France, did in fact, have dicknipples.

"Sir, you have contracted a rare sexually transmitted disease most commonly know as 'dicknipples.' Us in the scientific field refer to the disease as 'dickus nippelius.'" The doctor's voice grew sensitive. "Unfortunately, there is no cure for this, and you will most likely die from it."

"What?" France began to cry once more.

"Yes, I understand it is a cruel fate," the doctor bit his lip, "my wife died that way."

France nodded and patted Doctor Edge's head. "I've lost many lovers."

"Any to dicknipples?" The doctor looked hopeful.

"No." Then France pulled out his switchblade knife.

"What's this?" The older man stumbled backwards and let out a quiet shout.

France stabbed the doctor in the chest. "That's for hitting on my boyfriend!" France pulled the knife out and licked the blade.

"Augh!" Doctor Edge knew he was dying, so he made a final diagnosis. "By the way . . . you're three months pregnant."

France stopped in his tracks (as did his heart), "I'm . . . what?"