Chapter 4: Hands-On Assistance
The second visit was worse.
Not because the room had changed—it was the same sterile white box, the same too-bright lights, the same chair that felt like a confession booth—but because now I *knew*. Knew the shape of Stu’s shadow behind the frosted glass. Knew the exact, measured tone of his voice through the speaker. Knew how my body reacted to both.
I sat there, hands limp in my lap, staring at the untouched stack of magazines. My phone was in my pocket. I hadn’t pulled it out.
The speaker crackled.
“Problem, DB-782?”
Stu’s voice was casual, like he was asking about the weather. Like he didn’t already know.
“No,” I lied. “Just… need a minute.”
A pause. Then, softer: “You’re tense. It’s inhibiting the process.”
I exhaled through my nose, flexing my fingers. “Yeah. Well.”
Another pause. The lock on the door buzzed.
Stu stepped inside, gloved hands clasped behind his back. He was wearing a white coat today, crisp and fitted, the kind that made his shoulders look broader. His expression was perfectly neutral—professional concern, nothing more.
“Performance anxiety is common,” he said, moving toward me. “Especially after the first time. The pressure to replicate results can be overwhelming.”
I barked a laugh. “You’re telling me.”
He didn’t smile. Just tilted his head, studying me. “We have protocols for this.”
Before I could ask, he snapped off his gloves and tossed them in the biohazard bin. His bare hands were smooth, nails trimmed short. No rings.
“You’re going to need to relax,” he said, stepping closer. “Or we’re going to be here all afternoon.”
I opened my mouth—to protest, to make a joke, *something*—but then his palm was on my thigh, warm through the denim. The contact was so sudden, so shockingly human in this sterile place, that I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
His other hand cupped me through my jeans.
“Jesus—”
“You’re flaccid.” Clinical. Matter-of-fact. “That’s not going to work.”
I should’ve pushed him off. Should’ve stood up, walked out, *something*. But his fingers were already working my zipper, his touch impersonal and efficient, like he was adjusting equipment.
“Standard procedure,” he murmured, as if sensing the question before it formed. “Manual stimulation is an approved intervention when donor compliance is compromised.”
Then his hand was inside my boxers, wrapping around me.
I jerked, my hips lifting off the seat on instinct. His grip tightened, just enough to keep me in place.
“Easy.” His thumb stroked the base, slow and deliberate. “I need you to focus.”
I swallowed hard. My pulse was everywhere—throat, wrists, *there*, throbbing under his palm.
Stu’s other hand slid beneath me, fingers curling around my balls, weighing them in his palm. He exhaled, almost amused.
“Christ,” he muttered. “No wonder they called you that.”
The nickname—*Big Balls Ben*—hit me like a live wire. A stupid, juvenile thing, but hearing it in *his* voice, low and rough in this too-bright room, sent a jolt of heat straight to my gut.
His fingers squeezed, just shy of painful. “You’re holding back.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” He leaned in, close enough that I could smell his cologne—something expensive, sharp. “I can feel it. You’re resisting.”
I wasn’t. *Couldn’t.* My body was betraying me, responding to his touch like it was starved for it.
Stu’s grip shifted, his thumb rubbing circles under the head. “Better.”
I bit my lip hard enough to taste copper.
He clicked his tongue. “None of that. I need the sample undamaged.”
Then his free hand was in my hair, fisting tight, *yanking* my head back. The pain was bright, electric. My hips bucked.
“There you go,” he murmured, watching my face. “That’s what I needed.”
His thumbs pressed into the sensitive skin behind my balls, and *fuck*, I was gone. White flashed behind my eyelids as I spilled over his fingers, shuddering, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
Stu didn’t let go. He held me through it, working me until I twitched from oversensitivity. Then, finally, he released me, reaching for a sterile cup without breaking eye contact.
“Good,” he said, scraping his fingers along my length to collect the last of it. “Very good.”
He sealed the cup, labeled it, and placed it in the pass-through. Then he wiped his hands with a disinfectant wipe, the kind you’d use on a countertop.
I sat there, still half-hard, my jeans bunched around my thighs. My face burned. My lips stung where I’d bitten them.
Stu straightened his coat, smooth and unruffled. “Same time Thursday?”
Like nothing had happened. Like this was just another transaction.
I nodded, numb.
He smiled—small, satisfied—and left.
The door locked behind him.
I didn’t move for a long time.