The Doctor’s Private Lesson
It started with a routine sports physical. As a freshman joining the university basketball team, I needed a medical certificate. I found a small clinic attached to a pharmacy just a few blocks from my house. The doctor was a handsome man, about twenty years my senior, with a professional demeanor that masked a hidden intensity.
The exam began normally—height, weight, and reflexes—but the atmosphere shifted when he asked me to drop my trousers. I felt a flush of heat creep up my neck as I stood there in my underwear. When he requested I lower them further for a full examination, I hesitated, but his calm, authoritative voice assured me it was necessary. As his fingers brushed against my skin, checking for abnormalities, a spark of unexpected electricity shot through me. I told him I felt no pain, my voice trembling slightly, unaware that he had noticed my sudden arousal.
Over the next few weeks, I found excuses to return to the clinic. The clinical setting became a playground for a growing tension between us. During one visit, I nervously asked if my size was normal. He smiled, a knowing glint in his eyes, and told me I was perfect. He began talking about the natural curiosities men share, mentioning the thrill of mutual masturbation. He confessed a private addiction to adult films and offered to teach me a specific technique of synchronization. He invited me back on a Saturday night, after the pharmacy had closed.
The Saturday appointment was surreal. The office was dim, lit only by the blue glow of a screen playing an erotic film. When the doctor entered, the air was thick with anticipation. We sat side by side, the sounds of the movie filling the silence until he finally asked the question I had been longing to hear: “Do you want to do it?”
We stripped quickly, our bodies humming with desire. We began to stroke ourselves in unison, our eyes locked, breaths hitching in time with the images on the screen. The friction was intense, the buildup agonizingly perfect, until we both reached a crashing climax, leaving us breathless and spent. It became our weekly ritual—a secret sanctuary of pleasure.
Our encounters evolved. One evening, he reached over and took control, his hand replacing mine. He rubbed our lengths together, the pre-seminal fluid creating a slick, sliding heat that drove me wild. When I finally erupted, I came across his skin, and he used the warmth of my release to fuel his own pleasure, coating himself in a thick, intoxicating mixture of our shared desire.
Three months ago, he promised me a surprise. When I arrived, the routine was the same, but the energy was different. As I sat there, hard and aching, he didn’t just stand beside me. He sank to his knees. The first touch of his tongue on my testicles made me gasp, and as he worked his way up to the tip, I gripped his hair, pulling him closer. The sensation was overwhelming, a blur of heat and friction that ended in a mutual, explosive finish.
As we cleaned ourselves up, he leaned in and whispered a promise about the next time—a plan to involve one of his other patients. Now, I spend every waking hour staring at my phone, waiting for the call that will take our secret to a whole new level.