The Andrologist's Secret Therapy - Chapter 4: Chapter 4
You are reading The Andrologist's Secret Therapy, Chapter 4: Chapter 4. Read more chapters of The Andrologist's Secret Therapy.
The sight left me utterly speechless.
For one reckless second, a wild thought flashed through my mind—I want him to take me right here.
"Dr. Roscente… you're… unreal."
Staring at Alexander Roscente's anatomy, the words slipped out before I could stop them.
Then came the crushing realization—Oh God, did I just say that out loud?
"I mean—objectively speaking. Purely clinical observation." My voice faltered.
This wasn't like me. With other patients, professionalism came easy. Most were strangers—one-and-done consultations where embarrassment ended the moment they walked out.
But Alexander? We worked at the same hospital. I'd have to face him in the cafeteria, at staff meetings… Jesus.
I was halfway to inventing an excuse to refer him elsewhere when his voice sliced through the silence.
"Delayed ejaculation." Ice-cold. Detached. Like he was discussing a lab specimen, not his own body.
It took me a beat to process.
Delayed ejaculation—retarded ejaculation in older textbooks. Clinically defined as inability to climax after 60+ minutes of stimulation. Mostly seen in middle-aged men.
Alexander was 32, in peak physical condition. I never would've guessed—
"Problematic?" His sharp tone snapped me back.
Right. Doctor mode. Now. I straightened my posture.
"Describe your symptoms in detail, Dr. Roscente. Duration, frequency, any contributing factors."
Something shifted in his expression—almost relief at the clinical detachment.
"Normal erection. Manual or penetrative stimulation, no release. Excessive duration."
"How long?"
"Two years."
I studied him—the man nurses whispered about in break rooms, the "untouchable" attending who turned down every advance. And yet here he was, the hospital's golden boy with a sexual dysfunction.
No wonder he came to me. His pride would never survive the gossip if he sought treatment in-house.
"Examination table, please."
He moved with athletic precision. Six-foot-three of pure muscle—defined pecs, abs you could grate cheese on, that damn V-line trailing south…
A traitorous heat pooled low in my stomach.
This wasn't me. I'd treated dozens of men without a flicker of arousal. But something about Alexander—
Then again, it'd been eighteen months since Ethan. And even then, my ex never quite… God, focus.
"Dr. Laurent." Alexander's voice dripped with impatience.
Heat flooded my cheeks. "Right. Sorry."
My hands trembled as I adjusted his legs—Christ, were his thighs engineered in a lab?—and snapped on gloves.
The second the cold lubricant touched him, he hissed through clenched teeth.
"Beginning treatment," I warned.
He gave a curt nod, picked up a medical journal from the side table, and started reading. Reading.
I blinked.
"Proceed." He didn't even look up.
Kneeling beside the bed, I leaned in until his scent—clean linen and something darker—wrapped around me. My first stroke drew a sharp inhale from him, but otherwise… nothing.
No matter what technique I tried—slow strokes, focused pressure, rhythmic patterns—his body refused to yield. Forty minutes in, my wrist ached. Most patients struggled to maintain an erection—Alexander's problem was the opposite.
At the fifty-minute mark, he closed the journal with a snap and glanced down at himself, still rock-hard.
"Disappointing, Dr. Laurent." His smirk was razor-sharp. "I expected more from the department's star."
For one reckless second, a wild thought flashed through my mind—I want him to take me right here.
"Dr. Roscente… you're… unreal."
Staring at Alexander Roscente's anatomy, the words slipped out before I could stop them.
Then came the crushing realization—Oh God, did I just say that out loud?
"I mean—objectively speaking. Purely clinical observation." My voice faltered.
This wasn't like me. With other patients, professionalism came easy. Most were strangers—one-and-done consultations where embarrassment ended the moment they walked out.
But Alexander? We worked at the same hospital. I'd have to face him in the cafeteria, at staff meetings… Jesus.
I was halfway to inventing an excuse to refer him elsewhere when his voice sliced through the silence.
"Delayed ejaculation." Ice-cold. Detached. Like he was discussing a lab specimen, not his own body.
It took me a beat to process.
Delayed ejaculation—retarded ejaculation in older textbooks. Clinically defined as inability to climax after 60+ minutes of stimulation. Mostly seen in middle-aged men.
Alexander was 32, in peak physical condition. I never would've guessed—
"Problematic?" His sharp tone snapped me back.
Right. Doctor mode. Now. I straightened my posture.
"Describe your symptoms in detail, Dr. Roscente. Duration, frequency, any contributing factors."
Something shifted in his expression—almost relief at the clinical detachment.
"Normal erection. Manual or penetrative stimulation, no release. Excessive duration."
"How long?"
"Two years."
I studied him—the man nurses whispered about in break rooms, the "untouchable" attending who turned down every advance. And yet here he was, the hospital's golden boy with a sexual dysfunction.
No wonder he came to me. His pride would never survive the gossip if he sought treatment in-house.
"Examination table, please."
He moved with athletic precision. Six-foot-three of pure muscle—defined pecs, abs you could grate cheese on, that damn V-line trailing south…
A traitorous heat pooled low in my stomach.
This wasn't me. I'd treated dozens of men without a flicker of arousal. But something about Alexander—
Then again, it'd been eighteen months since Ethan. And even then, my ex never quite… God, focus.
"Dr. Laurent." Alexander's voice dripped with impatience.
Heat flooded my cheeks. "Right. Sorry."
My hands trembled as I adjusted his legs—Christ, were his thighs engineered in a lab?—and snapped on gloves.
The second the cold lubricant touched him, he hissed through clenched teeth.
"Beginning treatment," I warned.
He gave a curt nod, picked up a medical journal from the side table, and started reading. Reading.
I blinked.
"Proceed." He didn't even look up.
Kneeling beside the bed, I leaned in until his scent—clean linen and something darker—wrapped around me. My first stroke drew a sharp inhale from him, but otherwise… nothing.
No matter what technique I tried—slow strokes, focused pressure, rhythmic patterns—his body refused to yield. Forty minutes in, my wrist ached. Most patients struggled to maintain an erection—Alexander's problem was the opposite.
At the fifty-minute mark, he closed the journal with a snap and glanced down at himself, still rock-hard.
"Disappointing, Dr. Laurent." His smirk was razor-sharp. "I expected more from the department's star."
End of The Andrologist's Secret Therapy Chapter 4. Continue reading Chapter 5 or return to The Andrologist's Secret Therapy book page.