The Andrologist's Secret Therapy - Chapter 2: Chapter 2
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The man lay sprawled across the bed, his pasty skin reminding me of a hog waiting for the butcher's knife. The sight sent an involuntary shiver down my spine.
After performing more circumcisions than I could count, my heart had turned colder than the seafood aisle at Walmart.
But this time? My hands froze.
"Dr. Laurent," the man said, noticing my hesitation, "should I, uh... adjust my position?"
"N-no, you're fine," I stammered, my face burning. Get it together, I scolded myself. This is a medical procedure, not some back-alley deal. Act professional.
Gritting my teeth, I reached out and took hold of him.
Honestly? By standard measurements, he wasn't exactly impressive.
I gave an experimental tug. His face twisted into something between discomfort and curiosity.
"Mr. Anderson, does that... feel okay?"
"Keep going," he rasped, his voice strained.
Encouraged, I picked up the pace.
But after thirty minutes of relentless effort—nothing. Not even a twitch. The first session was a bust, leaving us both frustrated.
As we stepped out of the motel, he sighed. "Don't beat yourself up, Doc. I pushed too hard. But next time..." He hesitated. "Could you maybe... dress a little sexier?"
My jaw dropped.
"Not like that!" he backpedaled. "I swear, I'm not hitting on you. I'm just—I need this to work. Five grand. Deal?"
The number punched through my resolve. I folded.
That night, I scrolled through lingerie sites—though I stuck to the "modest" section, making sure nothing too revealing made it into my cart.
The second session came quickly.
This time, I showed up in a sheer nurse's uniform. And damn if it didn't work—within twenty minutes, he was fully responsive. Under my practiced touch, he finished without a hitch.
The look of relief on his face gave me an odd rush of pride.
True to his word, five grand hit my account that night.
Sessions piled up—third, fourth, fifth...
After the seventh, he called me, giddy. His girlfriend was thrilled with his "progress." So thrilled, in fact, she'd said yes to his proposal.
I couldn't help but smile.
Better yet? My brother's gambling debts were finally paid off.
Just as I thought this weird side gig was over, Mr. Anderson rang me again.
Turns out, half his country club buddies had the same problem. After seeing his "miracle recovery," they'd begged for my number.
He had a proposal: open a private clinic—with his funding.
I wavered. My hospital job was stable. This was risky.
Then he offered a compromise: house calls.
After performing more circumcisions than I could count, my heart had turned colder than the seafood aisle at Walmart.
But this time? My hands froze.
"Dr. Laurent," the man said, noticing my hesitation, "should I, uh... adjust my position?"
"N-no, you're fine," I stammered, my face burning. Get it together, I scolded myself. This is a medical procedure, not some back-alley deal. Act professional.
Gritting my teeth, I reached out and took hold of him.
Honestly? By standard measurements, he wasn't exactly impressive.
I gave an experimental tug. His face twisted into something between discomfort and curiosity.
"Mr. Anderson, does that... feel okay?"
"Keep going," he rasped, his voice strained.
Encouraged, I picked up the pace.
But after thirty minutes of relentless effort—nothing. Not even a twitch. The first session was a bust, leaving us both frustrated.
As we stepped out of the motel, he sighed. "Don't beat yourself up, Doc. I pushed too hard. But next time..." He hesitated. "Could you maybe... dress a little sexier?"
My jaw dropped.
"Not like that!" he backpedaled. "I swear, I'm not hitting on you. I'm just—I need this to work. Five grand. Deal?"
The number punched through my resolve. I folded.
That night, I scrolled through lingerie sites—though I stuck to the "modest" section, making sure nothing too revealing made it into my cart.
The second session came quickly.
This time, I showed up in a sheer nurse's uniform. And damn if it didn't work—within twenty minutes, he was fully responsive. Under my practiced touch, he finished without a hitch.
The look of relief on his face gave me an odd rush of pride.
True to his word, five grand hit my account that night.
Sessions piled up—third, fourth, fifth...
After the seventh, he called me, giddy. His girlfriend was thrilled with his "progress." So thrilled, in fact, she'd said yes to his proposal.
I couldn't help but smile.
Better yet? My brother's gambling debts were finally paid off.
Just as I thought this weird side gig was over, Mr. Anderson rang me again.
Turns out, half his country club buddies had the same problem. After seeing his "miracle recovery," they'd begged for my number.
He had a proposal: open a private clinic—with his funding.
I wavered. My hospital job was stable. This was risky.
Then he offered a compromise: house calls.
End of The Andrologist's Secret Therapy Chapter 2. Continue reading Chapter 3 or return to The Andrologist's Secret Therapy book page.