Chapter 2: The Prescription
The second the clinic door clicks shut behind me, the sleeve around my cock tightens like a vise. Not physically—no, it’s still snug but not crushing—but the second I’m alone, my brain remembers it’s there. Every step toward the parking lot sends a fresh pulse of heat straight to my groin, my dick swelling against the restrictive fabric, the seam pressing just wrong enough to make me hiss through my teeth. I adjust myself before I even realize I’m doing it, fingers twitching at the waistband of my jeans like I can somehow alleviate the pressure building there.
I don’t make it to my car before my phone’s alarm blares—gym time. Normally, I’d groan, but today, the thought of moving, of distracting myself, is the only thing keeping me from turning around and begging Ben to rip the fucking sleeve off. But no. No, I can’t do that. Because if I do, he’ll know. He’ll know I couldn’t handle it, and something about that thought burns worse than the ache between my legs.
The gym is nearly empty at this hour, just a few die-hards grunting under iron. I set up on a bench, the vinyl cold against my bare arms, and start my warm-up reps. The barbell feels heavier than usual, my grip slick. Every time I lower it to my chest, my abs tense, and the sleeve shifts, the fabric dragging against the underside of my cock. I bite back a groan, my face flushing. Fuck. I’m hard. Not just semi, not just interested—full-on, painfully erect, my dick straining against the confinement, the head pressing into the stretchy material like it’s trying to burst through.
I drop the bar onto the rack with a clang, my breath coming too fast. This is ridiculous. I’m not some horny teenager. I’m a grown man, and I never get this worked up over nothing. But it’s not nothing, is it? It’s the way Ben’s fingers lingered when he fitted the sleeve. The way his voice dropped to that rough, almost hungry tone when he said big. The way his scrub pants did nothing to hide the outline of his own cock when he turned to grab the sleeve from the drawer.
I adjust myself again, pressing the heel of my hand against the bulge in my boxers like that’ll do anything to help. It doesn’t. If anything, the pressure makes it worse, my hips jerking involuntarily, a whimper crawling up my throat. I glance around, but no one’s looking. They’re all too busy lifting, too busy not being pathetic pieces of shit who can’t even jerk off without permission.
Permission.
The word slams into me like a freight train. That’s what this is, isn’t it? Some twisted mindfuck where Ben’s in charge of when I get to cum. And the worst part? The worst fucking part is that the thought of him deciding, of him touching me again, makes my cock throb so hard I see stars.
I abandon the bench and hit the treadmill, cranking the speed up until my legs burn. Maybe if I exhaust myself, I can outrun this. But every stride jostles my dick against the sleeve, the friction maddening. My boxers are damp with precome by the time I stumble off, my thighs shaking. I check the clock—twelve hours since Ben put the sleeve on. Twelve hours since I last came. Twelve hours of my brain short-circuiting every time I think about his hands on me.
I don’t sleep that night. I toss and turn, my cock a steel rod trapped in the sleeve, my balls aching. Every time I reach for myself, I hear Ben’s voice: You won’t touch it. So I don’t. I don’t. But fuck, I want to. I want to so bad my fingers tremble.
The clinic smells like antiseptic and sweat when I walk in the next morning, my skin too tight, my nerves frayed. Ben’s already in Exam Room 3, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, his scrub top pulling tight over his biceps. His gaze flicks to me, and something dark and knowing flashes in his eyes.
“Rough night?” His voice is smooth, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s fighting a smirk.
I don’t answer. I can’t. My face is on fire, my cock already stirring just from the sound of his voice.
Ben pushes off the counter and steps toward me, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something woodsy and clean, undercut with the musk of sweat. “Strip to your boxers. Let’s see how you’re adjusting.”
My hands shake as I pull my shirt over my head, my jeans next. The clinic air is cool against my overheated skin, my nipples pebbling. Ben’s eyes rake over me, lingering on the tent in my boxers. The sleeve is obscene now, the outline of my cock clear, the head dark against the black fabric, a wet spot spreading at the tip.
Ben exhales sharply through his nose. “Jesus, Stu. You’re leaking.”
I whimper, my hips jerking forward before I can stop myself. “Ben, please—”
“Please what?” He steps closer, his thigh brushing mine. “You want me to take it off?”
“Yes—no—I don’t know.” My voice cracks. I’m begging. I’m begging, and I don’t even care.
Ben’s lips curl. “Good. That’s how it’s supposed to feel.” He turns toward the weight bench in the corner of the room. “Lie down. We’re doing incline presses.”
I obey, my body moving on autopilot. The second my back hits the bench, my cock throbs, the sleeve pressing against the underside. Ben loads the bar, his biceps flexing, then spots me as I lift. Every rep sends a fresh wave of pressure through my groin, my abs clenching, my cock pulsing.
Ben’s hands are on my wrists, guiding my grip. His thighs bracket the bench, his scrub pants riding up just enough to show the dark hair dusting his calves. I can’t stop staring. Can’t stop imagining what’s under those pants. What he’d feel like if he—
“Focus, Stu.” Ben’s voice is a growl, his breath hot against my ear. His hip grazes my thigh as he leans in to adjust my form, and I jolt, my cock twitching violently. “You’re sloppy. Tighten your core.”
I do, and the movement drags the sleeve against my shaft. A broken sound escapes me, my back arching off the bench.
Ben’s hand slams down on my sternum, pinning me. “Easy.” His fingers flex, his thumb brushing the waistband of my boxers. “You’re doing good. Almost there.”
I whine, my hips bucking up into nothing. “Ben, I can’t—I’m gonna—”
“You’re not.” His voice is steel. “Not yet.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. My vision whites out for a second, my cock throbbing, trapped and desperate. Ben finishes the set, then helps me sit up. His hand lingers on my shoulder, his thumb tracing the curve of my neck.
“You earned a reward,” he murmurs.
My heart stops. “What?”
Ben’s eyes are dark, his pupils blown. “Orgasm conditioning. You come after you work out. Reinforces the neural pathway.” His fingers hook into the waistband of my boxers. “Lie back.”
I do, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps as Ben kneels beside the bench. His fingers tug my boxers down just enough to expose the sleeve, my cock straining against it, the tip glistening. I reach for myself instinctively, but Ben catches my wrist.
“Uh-uh.” His grip is iron. “I’ll take care of you.”
My stomach flips. “Ben—”
“Shh.” He peels the sleeve down slowly, inch by agonizing inch. The second my cock is free, it slaps against my abs, thick and flushed, precome beading at the slit. Ben’s breath hitches, his thumb brushing the head, spreading the wetness.
“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself. Then his fingers wrap around my shaft, his grip firm but slow, maddeningly slow. “You’re gonna come hard for me, Stu. Gonna make it worth the wait.”
I moan, my hips jerking up into his stroke. “Ben, please—”
“Not yet.” His stroke speeds up just enough to make my toes curl, then slows again. “You can do better than that. Work for it.”
I whine, my cock aching, my balls drawn up tight. “I can’t—I need to—”
“You’ll cum when I tell you.” His voice is a dark promise, his thumb swiping over my slit. “And not a second before.”
I’m trembling, my body strung tight as a bow. Every time I get close, he eases off, his strokes teasing, denying. My thighs shake, my abs slick with sweat and precum, my cock throbbing in his grip.
“Ben, fuck, I’m gonna—”
“Now.” His voice is a command, his hand flying over my cock, his grip tight and perfect. “Cum for me, Stu. Now.”
The orgasm rips through me, my back arching off the bench as my cock explodes, ropes of cum shooting up my chest, my abs, splattering my chin. The third pulse hits Ben square in the face, thick and white, dripping down his stubbled cheek. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t stop. His strokes milk me through it, my cock twitching, emptying, my vision swimming.
I collapse back against the bench, my chest heaving, my skin covered in cum. Ben wipes his face with the back of his hand, his eyes locked on mine. Then he leans in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“Good progress,” he murmurs. “Next time, you’ll last longer.”