Chapter 6: Interim Solution
The sterile scent of antiseptic coated the back of Chloe’s throat, a stark, unwelcome contrast to the lingering lavender and sex musk of home. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting unforgiving shadows on the beige walls of Dr. Evelyn Reed’s office. Chloe shifted on the cold vinyl of the examination table, the paper sheet crinkling loudly beneath her. She’d pulled on her softest jeans and a flowing blouse, clinging to femininity like armor. Her cock, heavy and thick even in its flaccid state, felt like a foreign weight tucked against her, a constant, pulsing reminder of the reason she was here.
Dr. Reed entered, her expression composed, professional. Her dark hair was pulled back neatly, her glasses perched low on her nose. She scanned Chloe’s chart on her tablet, the screen’s glow reflecting in the lenses. "Chloe," she said, her voice measured. "Follow-up after the accelerated growth noted."
"Yeah," Chloe managed, her voice tight. She avoided eye contact, focusing on a diagram of the endocrine system pinned to the wall. "Alice… she measured again. Almost nine inches now. It's… it’s happening faster, just like you said."
Dr. Reed made a noncommittal sound, tapping the tablet. She set it down on the counter cluttered with instruments and picked up a physical chart, her pen poised. "And how are you coping? Emotionally?"
A brittle laugh escaped Chloe. "Coping? I wake up every morning terrified it’s gotten bigger overnight. Alice…" She hesitated, shame warring with frustration. "Alice is thrilled. Sees it as some kind of… personal achievement. A fucking novelty."
Dr. Reed glanced up, her gaze sharp. She didn’t comment on Alice. "Understandable concerns. This is uncharted territory, Chloe. We’re mapping unknown biology here. I’ve been reviewing literature, case studies… frankly, there’s nothing analogous."
"So what can you do?" Chloe’s voice cracked. She leaned forward, desperation cutting through her fear. "There has to be something. Medication? Surgery? Anything to stop it, reverse it… shrink it back down to… manageable." The word tasted bitter. ‘Manageable’ was relative. It had never been truly manageable for her peace of mind.
Dr. Reed sighed, a faint exhalation that spoke of professional frustration laced with… something else? Chloe couldn’t quite place it. "Radical intervention without understanding the cause carries unacceptable risks, Chloe. Surgical reduction of penile tissue is complex, fraught with potential complications – loss of sensation, erectile dysfunction, scarring, urethral damage. Hormones are our most logical lever, but your levels…" She paused, flipping pages in the chart. "Your estrogen is unusually high, your testosterone suppressed, yet the growth persists. It defies conventional understanding."
Chloe’s shoulders slumped. The cold vinyl seemed to leach the warmth from her bones. "So, nothing? Just… watch it get bigger? Become some sideshow freak?"
"Not nothing," Dr. Reed said firmly, putting the chart down. She pushed her glasses up her nose. "I’m hesitant, but… we could trial a modification to your existing hormone regimen. A combination of a stronger anti-androgen – something like Cyproterone Acetate – and a low-dose GnRH analogue to further suppress any residual gonadal activity. It’s… aggressive. Aimed squarely at halting any androgen-driven growth."
Chloe grasped at the straw. "Would it work? Could it shrink it?"
Dr. Reed held up a hand. "Potentially slow or halt further growth. Shrinking existing tissue? Highly unlikely. And these medications… they come with significant side effects." Her gaze held Chloe’s, intense, clinical. "Fatigue, hot flashes, bone density loss over the long term, mood changes… potentially decreased libido. Significantly decreased."
Chloe flinched. Libido. The one area where Alice’s enthusiasm sometimes temporarily drowned out her own dread. Could she sacrifice that? Could Alice?
"There’s another… consideration," Dr. Reed continued, her voice dropping slightly. She gestured towards the examination table. "I need a current measurement. Accurate, clinical. To establish a precise baseline before initiating any new regimen. And… a thorough physical assessment of the tissue."
Dread coiled tighter in Chloe’s gut. The measuring tape at home was bad enough. Here, under fluorescent lights, with Dr. Reed’s detached professionalism… it felt like a violation. But what choice did she have? She nodded mutely, her fingers trembling as she undid her jeans button. She pushed the denim and her panties down over her hips, exposing herself. Her cock lay thick and heavy against her thigh, the veins prominent, the skin flushed even without arousal. She felt utterly exposed, vulnerable.
Dr. Reed approached, snapping on sterile gloves. The thin latex snapped sharply in the quiet room. Chloe closed her eyes as the cold metal of a ruler pressed against the base of her cock. She felt the cool pressure as Dr. Reed positioned it, felt the slight drag as it stretched along the underside towards the tip. The touch was clinical, precise, utterly devoid of warmth. Yet Chloe couldn’t shake the feeling of being scrutinized, cataloged.
"Nine point one inches," Dr. Reed stated flatly, jotting it down. "Remarkable." The word hung in the air. Was it clinical observation? Or something else? Chloe kept her eyes squeezed shut.
Then came the examination. Dr. Reed’s gloved fingers probed gently but firmly. Palpating the shaft, feeling the texture of the skin, the spongy corpora cavernosa beneath. She lifted it, assessed the weight, the hang. Her thumb pressed near the base, testing firmness. Chloe’s breath hitched. It wasn’t sexual, not remotely, yet the intimacy of the touch, the focus on that part of her, was overwhelming. Dr. Reed’s movements were methodical, but Chloe felt the intensity of her focus. Her fingers traced the ridge of the glans, spread the foreskin slightly to inspect the meatus. Chloe felt a flush of humiliation creep up her neck.
"Tissue appears healthy," Dr. Reed murmured, her voice low, almost to herself. "Dense. Very vascular." Her thumb brushed the sensitive underside near the tip. Chloe couldn’t suppress a small twitch. Dr. Reed paused. "Sensitive?"
"Y-yes," Chloe whispered, her voice thick, trying to think of anything to prevent herself from getting erect in front of the doctor.
Dr. Reed made another note. Her hand lingered for a fraction longer than strictly necessary before withdrawing. "Alright, Chloe. You can get dressed." She turned away, peeling off the gloves with practiced efficiency, tossing them into the biohazard bin.
Chloe scrambled to pull her clothes back on, the paper sheet tearing slightly in her haste. The feeling of violation lingered, cold and sticky. She sat back on the table, hugging herself.
Dr. Reed turned back, holding a printed prescription slip. "Here. Take one of these daily." She handed it over. "Cyproterone Acetate 50mg. And this," she added a second slip, "is the GnRH analogue, Leuprolide. Monthly injection. I can show your partner how to administer it, or you can come in."
Chloe took the slips, the paper flimsy in her hand. A lifeline? Or shackles? "The side effects…"
"Monitor them," Dr. Reed said crisply. "Keep a journal. Mood, energy, libido, any physical changes. Hot flashes, headaches. Report anything significant. We’ll reassess in six weeks. Measure weekly at home, same time, same conditions. Accurate data is crucial." Her gaze flickered over Chloe, lingering for a second on her covered lap before meeting her eyes. There was a flicker in her expression – not sympathy, but something sharper, more… avid? "This should help slow or arrest the growth, Chloe. Focus on that."
As Chloe mumbled her thanks and slid off the table, Dr. Reed added, almost as an afterthought, her tone carefully neutral, "Alice must be finding the… adaptations… challenging?"
Chloe paused at the door. "She loves it," she said flatly, the bitterness sharp. "Thinks it’s the hottest thing ever." She didn’t wait for a response, pushing the door open and escaping into the sterile corridor.
Alone in her office, Dr. Evelyn Reed stood by the counter. She picked up the chart again, her finger tracing the notation: 9.1 inches. Dense, vascular tissue. High sensitivity. The cool, clinical detachment she wore like a shield cracked for just a moment. A slow, deep breath expanded her chest. Her thumb rubbed almost absently over the number she had written. The fluorescent light glinted off her glasses as she stared into the middle distance, a complex mixture of professional intrigue and something far less professional churning beneath the surface. The prescription bottle sat innocently on the counter, a tiny amber plastic promise of suppression. She didn’t touch it, her gaze still fixed on the chart, on the evidence of relentless, impossible growth. A faint flush crept up her neck. She turned abruptly, grabbing her tablet, but the image – the weight, the measurement, the sheer presence of it – seemed burned onto her retinas. She discarded the empty glove wrapper into the bin with a sharp, decisive flick of her wrist.