Chapter 1: The Assessment: A Doctor’s Dangerous Diagnosis
The fluorescent lights hum overhead as I step into the clinic, the sterile scent of antiseptic and something faintly metallic hitting me like a wall. My palms are damp against the hem of my t-shirt, fingers twitching with the kind of nervous energy I haven’t felt since my first job interview. Get a grip, Stu. I’m here for muscle gains, not to unravel over some doctor with a nice set of arms.
The receptionist—a woman with sharp eyes and a tighter smile—glances up from her screen. “Stuart Carter? Dr. Smith will see you now.” She jerks her chin toward a hallway lined with framed certificates and anatomical posters. My pulse kicks up as I follow the direction, the soles of my sneakers squeaking against the polished floor.
The door to Exam Room 3 is ajar, and I push it open with more force than necessary. The hinge whines in protest. Inside, the space is smaller than I expected, the air thick with the scent of leather and something musky, like sweat and cologne mixed together. Dr. Ben Smith stands by the counter, his back to me as he scribbles on a clipboard. Even through his scrubs, I can see the way his shoulders stretch the fabric, the defined V of his lat muscles tapering down to a waist that’s definitely seen its fair share of squat racks.
He turns, and fuck—his eyes are darker than in the photos online, deep brown like aged whiskey, framed by thick lashes that have no business being on a guy this rugged. His stubble is just shy of a full beard, the kind that would burn if he dragged his mouth down— No. Stop.
“Stuart,” he says, voice low and rough, like gravel under boot heels. He sets the clipboard down and extends a hand. His grip is firm, calloused, the kind that doesn’t let go until he’s ready. “Call me Ben.”
I swallow. “Uh. Stu’s fine.”
His lips quirk, not quite a smile. “Stu.” He steps back, arms crossing over his chest, and the way his biceps bulge makes my throat go dry. “You filled out the intake form?”
“Yeah.” I shift my weight, suddenly hyper-aware of how not muscular I am in this room. My t-shirt clings to my ribs, the fabric loose where his would strain. “Been hitting the gym for months, but…” I gesture vaguely at my body. “Not much to show for it.”
Ben’s gaze rakes over me, slow and assessing, like he’s peeling back layers I didn’t even know I had. “Strip down to your boxers. I need to see what we’re working with.”
My stomach drops. “What?”
“You want results?” He arches a brow. “This isn’t a spa, Stu. I need baseline measurements. Body fat percentage, muscle symmetry, structural integrity.” His eyes flick down, then back up, lingering just a second too long on the fly of my jeans. “Unless you’d rather keep guessing why your lifts are stalling.”
I hesitate, fingers hooking into the hem of my shirt. The clinic’s AC hums, raising goosebumps along my arms. This is professional. Totally normal. I yank the shirt over my head and toss it onto the exam table, then kick off my shoes and socks. My jeans follow, the denim pooling around my ankles before I step out of them. The air hits my skin, cool and electric, and I resist the urge to cross my arms over my chest.
Ben doesn’t react at first. He just looks, his gaze tracing the dip of my collarbones, the shallow definition of my abs, the way my hips jut just slightly wider than my shoulders. Then his eyes snag on the bulge in my boxers—unavoidable, really, given what I’m packing—and his breath hitches. Just a little. But I catch it.
“Jesus,” he mutters, low and rough, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
My face heats. “Uh. Yeah. It’s—”
“Big,” he finishes, stepping closer. The heat of him radiates, all warm skin and testosterone, and I have to fight the urge to step back. Or forward. Fuck, I don’t know. His fingers twitch at his sides, like he’s resisting the urge to reach out. “This could be a problem.”
“A—what?” I blink. “How?”
Ben exhales through his nose, then turns and yanks open a drawer. The metal slides with a sharp clink. When he faces me again, he’s holding a sleek black sleeve, the material shiny and stretchy, with a thick ring at the base. My cock twitches, traitorously interested.
“Testosterone regulation,” he says, holding it up. “You’re burning energy in the wrong places. Every time you orgasm, you’re flooding your system with dopamine, cortisol—shit that’s counterproductive to muscle synthesis.” He takes another step forward, close enough that I can see the dark stubble along his jaw, the way his pulse throbs at the base of his throat. “This’ll help redirect that. Keep you focused.”
I stare at the sleeve, then at him. “You want me to—wear that?”
“When you’re not training, yes.” His voice drops, rougher now. “And when you do train, you’ll come here. I’ll monitor your progress. Adjust as needed.”
My mouth goes dry. “Monitor… how, exactly?”
Ben’s lips curl, just slightly. “Hands on the table, Stu. Let’s get you fitted.”
I should argue. Should tell him this is insane, that I’m not some lab rat, that I’ve never even considered letting another guy touch my dick, let alone control it. But the way he’s looking at me—like I’m a problem to solve, a body to shape—does something weird to my chest. My cock thickens, pressing against the thin cotton of my boxers, and Ben’s gaze flicks down again.
“Problem’s getting worse by the second,” he murmurs.
I don’t move. Can’t. My pulse is a drumline in my ears, my skin too tight, too hot. Ben sets the sleeve on the table beside me, then—without warning—hooks his fingers into the waistband of my boxers and yanks. The fabric gives way with a sharp tug, and my cock springs free, heavy and half-hard, slapping against my stomach with a wet sound.
“Fuck,” I gasp, hands flying to cover myself, but Ben bats them away.
“Don’t.” His voice is steel. “Let me see.”
I’m exposed. Vulnerable. And harder than I’ve ever been in a clinical setting, my dick throbbing as Ben’s gaze traces every vein, every twitch. He reaches out, and I flinch, but all he does is brush his knuckles along the underside, just once. The contact burns.
“Eight inches, easy,” he says, almost to himself. “Thick, too. No wonder you’re stalled.” His fingers curl around the base, measuring, and my hips jerk involuntarily. Ben’s eyes snap up to mine, dark and knowing. “Sensitive?”
“I—” My voice cracks. I clear my throat. “Yeah.”
“Good.” He releases me, then picks up the sleeve. The black material gleams under the fluorescent lights. “This’ll keep you from wasting energy on unnecessary releases. You’ll train harder. Recover faster.” He holds it open, the ring stretched wide. “Bend it through.”
I hesitate, but the way he’s looking at me—like he dares me to refuse—has my hand wrapping around my shaft before I can overthink it. I guide myself into the sleeve, the material cool and snug, then tight as Ben rolls the ring down to the base with a firm twist. The pressure is immediate, a constant, relentless squeeze that makes my balls ache.
“Too tight?” Ben’s thumb presses against the ring, testing.
I shake my head, breath coming faster. It’s not too tight. It’s perfect. The kind of pressure that makes my toes curl, my thighs tremble. Ben’s lips quirk again, like he can read every dirty thought racing through my head.
“Good.” He steps back, crossing his arms. “Wear it for twenty-four hours. No touching, no orgasms. You’ll report back tomorrow, same time.”
I swallow, my cock throbbing inside the sleeve. “And if I—”
“You won’t,” he cuts in, voice leaving no room for argument. “Because if you do, Stu, we’re done. And you’ll stay exactly as you are—soft, untrained, wasting potential.” He leans in, just slightly, his breath warm against my ear. “You don’t want that, do you?”
I shake my head, my pulse roaring.
Ben pulls back, satisfaction flickering in his eyes. “Didn’t think so.” He grabs the clipboard, scribbles something down. “Tomorrow, then. And Stu?” I look up. His gaze is dark, heavy. “Don’t be late.”
I nod, my cock aching, my mind racing. As I pull my clothes back on—slowly, carefully, the sleeve a constant, maddening presence against my skin—I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve just stepped into something I don’t fully understand. Something that’s as terrifying as it is thrilling.
And when I glance back before leaving, Ben’s watching me, and I swear I can see the thick outline of his own cock, hard and pressing against the fabric.
My stomach flips.
Oh fuck.