Chapter 4

Monday

Dr. Zoe Monroe sat behind her desk, pretending to review patient files, but her eyes kept drifting to the clock. She was a grown woman—professional, educated, accomplished—yet in that moment, she felt like a teenage girl waiting for her crush to walk into class. The anticipation sat high in her chest, light and fluttering, and no matter how many times she blinked or straightened a folder or refreshed her calendar, she couldn’t shake the restless energy pooling low in her belly. Her last appointment of the day was inching closer, and with each tick of the second hand, her body betrayed her a little more. She had been distracted all day. No matter how many charts she skimmed or vitals she checked, her mind refused to stay where it should. It drifted again and again to the weekend. To what had happened. To what she’d felt.

She thought of Nate on the football field, all brute force and beauty, tearing through his opponents with something wild in his stride. She thought of Barry’s birthday, of her husband watching her through a lens as she posed in lingerie, all curves and heat and teasing smirks. She thought of Nate again—of the way those new briefs had barely been able to contain him, the obscene bulge shifting with every movement, the heavy swing of his cock when he dropped his pants. She thought of Barry holding the base of that big black dildo, sliding it in and out of her, thinking he was the one making her moan like that. But he wasn’t. Not really. Not in her mind. When she came—harder than she’d ever come in her life—it hadn’t been Barry she was picturing. It was Nate. Nate’s cock, thick and dark, slapping against her cheek like a challenge. Nate’s balls, swollen and full, begging to be drained. Nate’s size, his weight, the ache she imagined she’d feel being stretched open around him. The memory of it—of that orgasm, of the way her pussy had clenched and convulsed around the toy—sent a shiver down her spine even now. It had been violent. Overwhelming. Real. The kind of orgasm that left you changed.

For a moment afterward, she’d felt guilt. A raw, intimate sort of betrayal that curled through her ribs like smoke. She’d looked over at her husband, expecting some kind of suspicion, some flicker of understanding. But all she saw was that dumb grin on his face. That glow of pride. That clueless, beaming satisfaction. “That was so sexy,” he’d whispered, holding up his glistening arm. “I can’t believe how hard you came. I made you squirt, baby—look!” He’d said it like he’d won something. Like he’d conquered her. And Zoe, breathless and still half-shaking, had just smiled back and murmured, “You’re the best, honey. Happy birthday,” while the truth settled like heat in her bones. He hadn’t made her squirt. Not really. Nate had. Nate’s cock. Nate’s presence. Nate’s existence. And Barry—bless him—hadn’t even noticed her slip. Hadn’t flinched when she screamed for a big black cock. If anything, he’d gotten off on it.

The next day, he was already asking when they could use the toy again. His eyes were alight with anticipation, already planning the next little fantasy. But Zoe had deflected with a soft, teasing laugh and a gentle, “Maybe on another special occasion.” She hadn’t meant to lie. She just hadn’t known how to tell him the truth—that she wanted to use it again. Needed to. That her body still ached for it. That even now, sitting in her office, fully dressed, surrounded by charts and stethoscopes and the sterile hum of fluorescent lights ... her pussy pulsed at the thought of it. That orgasm had torn something open inside her. A door. A hunger. And now, that hunger was growing.

She crossed her legs beneath the desk, pressing her thighs together in a futile attempt to calm the throb building between them. Her gaze drifted back to the clock. 4:13. Her last patient was due any minute now. And not just any patient. Him. Nate Jones. The boy next door. Her neighbours son. Eighteen. Built like a statue, hung like a myth, and completely unaware of the storm he had awakened in the woman next door. She swallowed, her breath catching as she imagined what she might see again today. What she might feel. She told herself to be professional. Composed. Clinical. But her body was already betraying her. Her thoughts weren’t safe. Her fantasies weren’t gentle.

“Nate Jones is here for his appointment,” the receptionist’s voice crackled softly through the intercom, and Zoe’s breath caught before she managed to respond with a calm, “Send him in.” As soon as she released the button, her hands were already moving, smoothing down her blouse, brushing her thick chestnut hair with her fingers, casting a quick, vain glance at her reflection in the darkened monitor of her computer. She adjusted her posture in the chair, straightening her back, pushing her breasts out almost reflexively, the swell of her full chest accentuated by the tailored fit of her blouse. She felt ridiculous for doing it, but she couldn’t help herself. Her pulse was already quickening. Her thighs, already warm beneath her skirt, pressed just a little tighter together.

The door opened a moment later, and there he was—casual, confident, devastating. “Hey Doc,” Nate said smoothly, his voice low and easy, strolling into the room like he owned the space. He wore a plain white T-shirt that clung to his upper body like a second skin, stretching over thick shoulders and sculpted arms. His jeans were worse—tighter still, hugging his thighs, sitting high on his hips, the thick bulge of his crotch outlined just enough to tease her. Zoe’s gaze dropped immediately, betraying her intentions. She couldn’t help it. Her eyes fell straight to his groin, hungry to catch another glimpse of what had haunted her fantasies all weekend—that bulge, that obscene package, that heavy, veined shaft and those swollen black testicles that had taken up residence in her mind like an obsession she couldn’t shake.

Every time she’d examined another male patient since their last meeting, her mind had betrayed her. She couldn’t help but compare them to Nate. The other cocks she’d seen—even the well-endowed ones—looked juvenile in her memory, like scaled-down replicas of the real thing. Once, while grocery shopping, she’d passed the bananas and caught herself holding one in her hand, silently wrapping her fingers around it to see if they met. They did. Unlike when she’d gripped Nate’s cock, that impossibly thick slab of dark meat that filled her palm and spilled beyond it. She’d clutched that dildo in her hand later that night, but it hadn’t been the toy she was moaning for. It was him. When her eyes had closed and the orgasm had torn through her body, it hadn’t been Barry’s face she’d seen. It was Nate’s—strong, dark, dominant. She’d seen herself beneath him, impaled, pinned, overwhelmed.

But just as her eyes flicked hungrily back to the bulge now barely hidden beneath those jeans, Nate sat down, crossing his legs casually and stealing the view from her. The sudden absence left her irrationally annoyed. Her brow furrowed for a moment, her lips pressing together in a subtle frown, frustration curling in her stomach.

“Thanks,” Nate said, his voice calm and smooth. “I’m glad you made it to the game. How was your husband’s birthday? Did you guys have a special time?”

The words hung in the air with a strange weight, and Zoe blinked at him, her breath catching just faintly. There was something about the way he said it. The tilt of his voice. The curve of his smile. Like he knew. Like somehow he’d been watching from behind the walls. Like he could see into her. Like he knew exactly what the doctor had gotten up to after the game. That she’d bought herself a black dildo the next day. That she’d lied to her husband about it being a mistake. That she’d bought it because of Nate. Because of the image seared into her mind when he stood half-naked in her office, his cock swinging, thick and bold and unforgettable. That she’d taken that toy inside her and moaned for a cock that wasn’t her husband’s. That she’d cum thinking of him.

“We had an amazing time, thanks,” she managed, her smile sweet, her voice a shade too high. “Barry loved the game too. You were incredible.” She paused, her eyes dipping down again before she could stop herself. “How did the underwear hold out?”

There was a beat of silence. Charged. Intimate. And she swore—just for a second—that smile of his grew a little deeper. Like he was remembering the last time she’d touched him. Like he knew she was remembering it too.

“The underwear is great,” Nate said with a grin, that easy, boyish confidence making it feel almost like he was bragging—not just about the comfort, but about the thing inside them. “I’m going to head back to that shop after this appointment and grab a few more pairs.”

Zoe’s smile twitched wider, her heart fluttering at the image now flooding her mind: Nate, standing half-naked in that change room again, the thick bulge of his cock swelling against the fabric as he tested fit after fit, stuffing that huge, dark shaft into pouches marked Mega Hung. “Awww, that’s really good, Nate. You’re welcome,” she said with a warm, proud smile. “I’m glad to have been of help.”

But beneath the glow of satisfaction stirred something softer, more selfish. A flicker of disappointment. She hadn’t realized until now how attached she’d become to the problem—his problem. It had been her excuse to help him. To observe. To touch. To indulge curiosities she hadn’t let herself name. And now that problem was ... solved. It was no longer hers to tend to. No longer hers to explore. Her body ached at the loss more than she cared to admit.

“Well, there is of course ... the other problem,” Nate said, his voice quieter now, more pointed.

Zoe blinked, her mind still caught in images of him half-dressed, the thick stretch of his cock shifting under elastic. “Other problem?” she echoed, distracted, trying and failing to steer her thoughts back into something resembling professional.

“You know,” he said, giving her a look that felt heavier than it should, “the aching pain I get in my testicles?”

“Oh—right!” she blurted, suddenly snapping back into the moment, though the flush in her cheeks betrayed her distraction. “Your need to always empty those huge balls.”

The words spilled out before she could stop them, crude and blunt. She winced immediately. “I mean ... your need to ejaculate. To relieve the ache in your testicles,” she corrected quickly, clearing her throat, fighting the urge to cover her face.

Nate chuckled under his breath, watching her with quiet amusement, the corners of his lips curling into a smile that made her heart stutter. There was something disarming about the way he took her slips in stride—like he knew the effect he had on her, and enjoyed watching her squirm around it.

“Right,” he said with a smirk, his voice rich with something unsaid. “I’ve been thinking ... is there any way to have my testicles reduced?”

The question hit her like a jolt. Zoe’s brows furrowed, her medical mind scrambling to process what she was hearing. “Your testicles reduced?” she repeated, almost in disbelief. “No, Nate. There’s no such procedure, I’m afraid. I’m sorry.”

She frowned, the weight of his desperation settling heavily across her chest. It wasn’t just curiosity anymore. It was need. Discomfort. Suffering. This young man—this gorgeous, well-endowed, physically gifted young man—was asking about mutilating himself, just to dull the ache in his massive, overloaded balls. Her sympathy deepened ... but so did something darker. Fascination.

“What about a vasectomy?” he asked after a pause. “Would that help?”

Zoe inhaled slowly, searching for the right words, the clinical tone, even as the more visceral part of her brain buzzed with the implications. “Maybe,” she said gently, “but we don’t even know what’s causing the problem yet, Nate. A vasectomy doesn’t actually stop ejaculation. You’ll still... cum—” She winced again. “You’ll still ejaculate, I mean. Sperm makes up only a small percentage of semen. The volume doesn’t really change. So right now, without further investigation, I don’t think it would help. In fact, my professional guess is that it wouldn’t help you at all.”

Nate let out a long, frustrated sigh and lowered his head into his hands. Zoe watched him silently for a moment, feeling an ache rise in her chest that wasn’t entirely professional. Then, without thinking too hard, she rose from her chair and walked around to the front of her desk. She perched on the edge, just a few feet in front of him, close enough to see the tension in his posture, the way his broad shoulders lifted and fell with every breath.

Her hand found his shoulder—an innocent, supportive gesture on the surface. But when her fingers made contact, something stirred in her belly. His muscle was hard, warm, impossibly dense beneath her palm. She squeezed gently, letting her hand stroke once, slow and deliberate, then rest again.

“Look,” she said softly, her tone dipping into something more intimate, more personal. “We are going to find a way to help you. I promise you that.”

He lifted his gaze, and for a moment their eyes met—longer than they should have, heavier than it needed to be. Her breath caught as she held that stare. God, he was handsome. Strong jaw, full lips, those dark, intelligent eyes that always seemed to look right through her.

“And besides,” she added, her voice softening, trying to nudge him toward something lighter, “surely a young, healthy man like yourself would want to have kids one day. A family of your own. You’d be breaking a lot of hearts if you made a decision like that too soon.”

She let her smile tug at the corners of her mouth, thinking briefly—dangerously—about the women who would kill for a chance to be bred by a man like Nate. Then her thoughts betrayed her again, turned inward, secret and shameful: You’d break mine, too.

“Not all women want to have kids, Doc,” Nate said quietly, his voice softer now, eyes locked on hers with a steadiness that made Zoe’s breath hitch. “Take yourself, for example. Some people are just happy without them.”

The words, spoken without malice, carried a naive kind of honesty—the sort of innocent assumption that cut deeper because of how unaware it was. Zoe’s expression shifted, her lips parting slightly before she drew in a breath.

“Well actually,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, “if you must know ... I do want to have kids.” Her gaze lowered to her desk, her hands folding over her lap. “More than anything in the world.”

The confession hung in the air like the sudden hush after a storm. Nate blinked, surprised. “You and Barry are just waiting for the right time?” he asked, still innocently, not yet seeing the shadow in her eyes.

“We’ve been trying for years,” she said quietly, and this time, her voice cracked. “Barry has a low sperm count.”

That was all she needed to say. The rest—years of trying, of disappointment, of quiet conversations laced with growing resignation—was written in the silence that followed. Her throat tightened. The tears that had threatened for so long finally breached the dam, and a single one slipped down her cheek in silence.

“So you see,” she added, her voice trembling, “you might actually be blessed, Nate ... not cursed.”

Her composure broke completely then, her shoulders tightening with the effort of trying to stay strong, to remain clinical and composed even as the deepest truth of her life spilled out in a single, vulnerable moment. A soft sob escaped her lips, and she looked away quickly, embarrassed, reaching instinctively to turn away—back toward her desk, her shield.

But she didn’t make it.

Before she could retreat, Nate was there.

He stood in one swift, quiet movement, closing the space between them. One strong hand slid around the small of her back, the other resting at the base of her skull, fingers threading gently into her hair. He pulled her against him with a care that stunned her—his body solid, warm, protective. Her cheek met his chest, and for a moment she froze, caught off guard by the strength of the embrace ... and the overwhelming sense of safety it offered.

She let go.

Not just physically—but emotionally. Her arms lifted, wrapping around his waist, and she clung to him as the sobs came freely. Her body shook against his, her tears soaking through his shirt, and he didn’t flinch. He held her tighter. His hand stroked her hair, slow and patient, grounding her with each pass.

For years, she had locked this grief away. Pushed it down beneath professional success, beneath the routines of marriage, beneath the image of calm and control she presented to the world. She had told herself she didn’t need to have children to be fulfilled. That adoption would be enough. That Barry’s love was enough. That this was enough.

But it wasn’t.

Not really.

And here, in the arms of a boy she was never supposed to look at this way, that truth finally surfaced—raw and painful and blindingly clear.

“It’s okay,” Nate murmured, his voice low, close to her ear, steady and sure. “It’s okay, Zoe.”

His words weren’t eloquent. They didn’t need to be. They were real. And she felt them. Felt him. Solid against her. Strong. Grounded. A man—not a boy—offering her the comfort she hadn’t realised she’d been craving for so long.

“Thank you, Nate,” she whispered, her voice hoarse as she finally pulled back from the embrace, her hands still resting lightly on his arms. “I don’t know where that came from ... but I clearly really needed that.”

He smiled, sitting back down in his chair with a kind of casual grace that belied how intense the moment had just been. “No problem, Zoe. You spend all your time looking after other people—your patients, your husband. But you’ve got to take care of yourself too. You should do what makes you happy. What’s healthy. What’s right.”

Zoe stared at him for a moment, blinking through the last remnants of her tears, her heart full of something warm and conflicted. She felt seen. Not just comforted—but understood. Not pitied. Not judged.

“If you ever need someone to talk to,” Nate added after a moment, his tone a little quieter, a little more tentative, “I’m just over the yard. I know you probably still think of me as the little boy next door, but—”

“No,” Zoe interrupted, her voice firm but gentle as she returned to her seat behind the desk. “No, I definitely don’t just think of you as the little boy next door, Nate.”

She let the words hang, heavy with layered meaning.

“You’re a brilliant, kind, and incredibly caring young man,” she added, her eyes softening as she met his again. “Thank you for holding me. And for saying what you did.”

Her smile was warmer now—less guarded. The professional mask had slipped. Not completely. But enough.

Great. He’s caring and sensitive, to go along with the good looks, huge cock, and the body of a god, Zoe thought bitterly, a half-laugh catching in her chest as she blinked away the last traces of her vulnerability. Her mind was already shifting gears, retreating to the professional script she clung to like a lifeline. “I’ll be okay,” she said aloud, sitting up straighter, her voice firming as she redirected the conversation. “Let’s get back to your issue. I believe the next step is to collect a sperm sample. That’ll help us better understand what might be going on with you internally.”

Nate leaned back in the chair slightly, brow lifted. “Alright ... and how exactly do we go about that?”

“Well,” she replied, pulling open a drawer and retrieving a small, sterile sample container, “you get some private time in one of the side rooms, and you... deposit the sample in this.”

He blinked at the plastic cup now sitting on the table between them. “You want me to cum in a cup?”

Zoe gave a soft, restrained smile, keeping her tone light. “No. I’d like you to deposit your ejaculate into this medical container,” she said, voice slipping into her clinical rhythm. “So we can send it off for testing and hopefully gain more insight into what’s causing the symptoms you’re experiencing.” There was the briefest flicker of amusement behind her words, and Nate caught it, his mouth curling into a smile that matched hers.

“Alright,” he nodded. “When do you want me to come back and do this?”

Zoe hesitated—just for a moment. The right answer was clear. The protocol said she should refer him to another physician, especially with the clinic’s two-week refurbishment starting tomorrow. But the thought of sending Nate, with his painfully personal, utterly unique condition, to a stranger made her stomach tighten. It didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel fair. She remembered her promise to his mother. She remembered her own words: I’ll do everything I can to help him.

And then, more honestly, more quietly: I want to be the one to help him.

“Actually,” she said, making the decision in real-time, “it might need to be now. The clinic’s undergoing renovations starting tomorrow, and I won’t be here for at least two weeks.”

She said it calmly, like it was a logistical note—but her heart was pounding. She knew exactly what she was doing. She knew what she was about to do. She told herself it was for his comfort. For continuity. But the truth was, the thought of another woman handling this with him—watching him, guiding him, seeing what she had seen—made her skin prickle with something dangerously close to jealousy.

“When was the last time you ejaculated?” she asked, tone perfectly neutral.

“Lunchtime,” he replied casually. “And then this morning. When I woke up.”

“Oh,” Zoe said, her brow tightening. That wasn’t ideal. “Is that a problem?” he asked, reading her reaction.

“Usually we ask for patients to avoid ejaculating for at least twenty-four hours before a sample is taken,” she explained, mostly to herself as she mentally recalculated what they could get out of the situation. It wouldn’t be ideal data, but it might still be something.

“To be honest with you,” Nate said, shifting in his seat, “I’m ready to go now. The ache is there. I need to empty these balls.”

He reached down and casually cupped his crotch, adjusting himself, and Zoe’s mouth went dry.

“There’s no way I could go twenty-four hours without cumming,” he added, and the bluntness of it—spoken with that effortless, unapologetic confidence—hit her like a jolt between the legs.

“Well ... I suppose we can try and see what kind of sample we get,” she said quickly, forcing herself back into motion. “I’ll just make a note here about the last time you ejaculated, and we can interpret the results accordingly.”

She stood, smoothing her skirt over her hips, the sample container in her hand. “I’ll make sure you’re not interrupted,” she said, offering him the cup. “There’s lubricant on the table, if you need it. I know you’ve already cum today, but just ... do your best to fill it.”

Her words hung awkwardly in the space between them, far more charged than she intended. Nate took the container from her, smiling a little nervously, but his eyes never left hers.

“That won’t be a problem,” he said.

Zoe’s heart was pounding now, loud in her ears. As she moved toward the door to give him privacy, her steps faltered. Her hand hovered near the knob, but her body refused to move. She stood there, suspended in a moment that felt thick with something unspeakable.

She knew what was about to happen in this room.

She could see it—vividly. Nate, standing over the table, jeans shoved down, that huge, magnificent cock thickening in his hand. The same cock that had hung heavy between his thighs during the exam. That had slapped against her cheek. That she had lifted, measured, cradled in her palm. The same cock she had fantasised about as she came harder than she ever had in her life.

She wanted to stay. God, she wanted to watch. To see what he looked like hard. To see if her memory of its size matched the reality. To watch him stroke himself—slow at first, then faster—until he filled that little cup with a load she could only dream of.

She wanted to lift her skirt. Pull her panties to the side. Perch herself right back on that desk, legs spread, and touch herself while he moaned. While he came. While she watched it spill out of him—thick, hot, obscene—and pretended she wasn’t imagining it inside her.

“Doctor?” Nate called out as Zoe’s hand lingered on the door, poised to leave. Her heart fluttered at the sound of his voice—low, smooth, and filled with something unspoken that wrapped itself around her like silk. She turned back slowly, her smile already forming, lips curling knowingly as she looked over her shoulder at the young black man in her office.

“Shouldn’t I at least take the cup out for dinner first?” he teased, his grin wide and playful, disarming her effortlessly.

Zoe laughed, warm and dry, trying to keep her cool even as a throb bloomed low in her belly. “Some dates,” she replied with a smirk, “are easier than others.”

Then she stepped out, closing the door behind her, but with a growing sense of reluctance. The distance between them now felt physical and unbearable. She walked toward the break room on autopilot, filled a paper cup with lukewarm coffee she didn’t want, and sat at one of the little tables, trying—and failing—to push thoughts of Nate from her mind.

He was in there right now.

Her office.

Jerking off.

That great, beautiful, enormous slab of meat resting in his hand, thick fingers working over the same shaft she’d once held in her gloved palm. Was he lying back on the exam bed, arm slung across his forehead, hips rolling upward in slow, hungry rhythm? Or was he sitting casually in the visitor’s chair, legs spread wide, that huge cock rising from his lap like some monument to masculinity? Maybe he’d propped one foot on her desk, leaned back in her chair, and was stroking himself lazily in the exact spot where she so often sat, legs crossed, speaking in her cool, professional tone. Maybe he’d taken his time. Maybe he’d used a lot of that lubricant. With a cock that big, how could he not?

Zoe crossed her legs tightly, cheeks flushed, ashamed at the heat gathering between her thighs. She tried to sip her coffee, but it tasted like ash compared to the image playing out in her head. Her mind wouldn’t let it go—his body, lean and muscular, glistening with a faint sheen of sweat as his abs tightened with every stroke, veins rising along his forearms as he worked that monster cock of his. She imagined it twitching, pulsing, growing even heavier in his palm as he neared release. God, she almost wanted a camera set up in there—hidden in the corner of the room, letting her watch every moment later in secret. Or maybe I should have a camera in all the rooms, she mused wickedly. Just to find out which patients have the biggest cocks...

The thought made her laugh under her breath, half in amusement, half in mortified shame. What the hell was she becoming?

She glanced at the clock. Thirty minutes.

Still no sign of Nate.

She’d asked him to let the receptionist know when he was done so she could return to the room, but no one had come to get her. Was he embarrassed? Had he ... failed? She worried briefly that he might’ve shot a blank, his earlier sessions that morning having left him dry. Maybe he couldn’t bring himself to tell her. Or maybe he’d fallen asleep after cumming. She stood slowly, her pulse beginning to race again, not entirely out of concern. It was curiosity now. Hunger.

She made her way back down the corridor and knocked softly. “Nate?” she called.

No reply.

Her hand lingered on the knob again. “Nate? I’m going to come in now, okay?” she said, her voice light, careful.

Still no answer.

She opened the door slowly, fingers spread to shield her eyes with one hand, a cautious smile on her lips. “Is everything okay, Nate?” she asked, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. “It’s just been so long...”

“I just finished,” he said, his voice calm but faintly breathless. “I’m sorry, Doc. It takes me a while to cum.”

Zoe dropped her hand and uncovered her eyes—and what she saw froze her in place.

“Oh... shit.”

Nate was standing by her desk, completely naked.

Not just stripped down, not just caught mid-dressing—but fully, gloriously, unapologetically nude.

His massive cock hung low and proud between his thighs, no longer fully erect, but still thick, flushed, and glistening with lube. It looked alive somehow, even at rest. Heavy enough that it swung with the subtlest shift of his weight, almost brushing the tops of his strong, muscular legs. Her eyes locked onto it—couldn’t not lock onto it. It was still semi-swollen, still thick with post-orgasm fullness, and the sheen of lubrication made the dark, veined surface shine in the soft light of her office. It looked beautiful, she thought—helpless, reverent.