The Andrologist's Secret Therapy - Chapter 1: Chapter 1
You are reading The Andrologist's Secret Therapy, Chapter 1: Chapter 1. Read more chapters of The Andrologist's Secret Therapy.
Ethan Winston refuses to touch my hands.
He says they're dirty.
It's true—I've handled more male anatomy than most people see in a lifetime. But what he doesn't know is that in the shadows, away from the sterile lights of the hospital, these hands have done far more than just examine.
They've teased. They've coaxed. They've made men beg.
I'm Dr. Sophia Laurent, an andrology specialist at one of the city's top hospitals. My days are spent performing circumcisions on teenage boys—a job that's left me unfazed by the male form in every possible variation. The nurses joke that after a day in my clinic, my boyfriend must get nothing but clinical detachment in bed.
They couldn't be more wrong.
At work, I'm the picture of professionalism—poised, polished, untouchable. But behind closed doors? I'm insatiable.
Unless I'm on call, I indulge. Every. Single. Night.
I wasn't always this way.
Ethan and I were together for seven years. On paper, we were perfect—same social circle, compatible ambitions, a future neatly mapped out. But in bed? A disaster.
He was gorgeous—tall, commanding, the kind of man who turned heads. But he also came faster than a teenager on prom night. Three minutes, max. And after years of frustration, no amount of love could compensate for that kind of disappointment.
As a specialist, I begged him to get help. His ego wouldn't allow it. When his mother found out, she screamed in my face, calling me a "desperate slut" in front of him.
I walked out that same day.
The breakup was ugly, public, humiliating. Afterward, I buried myself in work. At night, I took matters into my own hands—literally. It kept me sane.
But eventually, even that wasn't enough.
Then he messaged me.
A former patient. Erectile dysfunction. Tried every treatment—pills, therapy, injections. Nothing worked.
Until, he admitted, he thought of me.
Ten minutes. Hard. Just from the memory of my voice.
Normally, I'd have reported him. But then he made it worse.
"Ten thousand dollars a session," he said. "No sex. Just your hands."
When I recoiled, he rushed to explain—he loved his fiancée. They were about to marry. If he couldn't perform, she'd leave him.
It was my story with Ethan all over again. I understood his pain. But this?
I refused. I was a doctor, not an escort.
Then my brother's gambling debts buried us. Loans. Collections. Threats.
That night, I called him back.
We met in a no-name motel that didn't ask questions.
He was corporate elite—powerful, polished, the kind of man who'd never need to pay for attention.
I didn't ask why he chose me. He didn't ask why I said yes.
But stepping into that room, I still felt like I was crossing a line.
"Relax, Doctor," he said, holding up his hands. "This is strictly clinical. We can sign an NDA. I'll show you my ID. Whatever you need."
I needed the money. So I stayed.
The first time was awkward.
He showered, emerged in a towel—average build, soft around the edges, nothing remarkable.
When I didn't move, he cleared his throat.
"Should we begin?"
My fingers trembled. Med school hadn't covered this.
"Lie down," I said, forcing my voice steady. "And lose the towel."
He says they're dirty.
It's true—I've handled more male anatomy than most people see in a lifetime. But what he doesn't know is that in the shadows, away from the sterile lights of the hospital, these hands have done far more than just examine.
They've teased. They've coaxed. They've made men beg.
I'm Dr. Sophia Laurent, an andrology specialist at one of the city's top hospitals. My days are spent performing circumcisions on teenage boys—a job that's left me unfazed by the male form in every possible variation. The nurses joke that after a day in my clinic, my boyfriend must get nothing but clinical detachment in bed.
They couldn't be more wrong.
At work, I'm the picture of professionalism—poised, polished, untouchable. But behind closed doors? I'm insatiable.
Unless I'm on call, I indulge. Every. Single. Night.
I wasn't always this way.
Ethan and I were together for seven years. On paper, we were perfect—same social circle, compatible ambitions, a future neatly mapped out. But in bed? A disaster.
He was gorgeous—tall, commanding, the kind of man who turned heads. But he also came faster than a teenager on prom night. Three minutes, max. And after years of frustration, no amount of love could compensate for that kind of disappointment.
As a specialist, I begged him to get help. His ego wouldn't allow it. When his mother found out, she screamed in my face, calling me a "desperate slut" in front of him.
I walked out that same day.
The breakup was ugly, public, humiliating. Afterward, I buried myself in work. At night, I took matters into my own hands—literally. It kept me sane.
But eventually, even that wasn't enough.
Then he messaged me.
A former patient. Erectile dysfunction. Tried every treatment—pills, therapy, injections. Nothing worked.
Until, he admitted, he thought of me.
Ten minutes. Hard. Just from the memory of my voice.
Normally, I'd have reported him. But then he made it worse.
"Ten thousand dollars a session," he said. "No sex. Just your hands."
When I recoiled, he rushed to explain—he loved his fiancée. They were about to marry. If he couldn't perform, she'd leave him.
It was my story with Ethan all over again. I understood his pain. But this?
I refused. I was a doctor, not an escort.
Then my brother's gambling debts buried us. Loans. Collections. Threats.
That night, I called him back.
We met in a no-name motel that didn't ask questions.
He was corporate elite—powerful, polished, the kind of man who'd never need to pay for attention.
I didn't ask why he chose me. He didn't ask why I said yes.
But stepping into that room, I still felt like I was crossing a line.
"Relax, Doctor," he said, holding up his hands. "This is strictly clinical. We can sign an NDA. I'll show you my ID. Whatever you need."
I needed the money. So I stayed.
The first time was awkward.
He showered, emerged in a towel—average build, soft around the edges, nothing remarkable.
When I didn't move, he cleared his throat.
"Should we begin?"
My fingers trembled. Med school hadn't covered this.
"Lie down," I said, forcing my voice steady. "And lose the towel."
End of The Andrologist's Secret Therapy Chapter 1. Continue reading Chapter 2 or return to The Andrologist's Secret Therapy book page.