The doctors agreed that this was something psychological, but perhaps also physiological and most certainly the worst case of blue balls they had ever seen. They wanted to keep me under constant observation until they were able to determine what exactly was going wrong.The regimen that was prescribed by the clinic doctors was one where I had maximum privacy and practically unlimited access to pornographic material. Books, video on demand and, of course, the internet. I was not allowed to fraternize with any of the staff, lest they become interested in my condition, and wanted to lend me a hand. The doctors all agreed that I had to find a way through this myself. That is, all the doctors except one.Every evening around 9pm I would have a visit from one of the clinic doctors, Dr. Elizabeth Redford. She would take my pulse and blood pressure, and examine my eyes and ears. She would check my penis to ensure that I had not created any lesions from my mastuirbating (basically. Radiating like lightning from a summer sky, fiery nerves flashed from beneath her hand to my hips, to places I never felt when around her before. The wetness. Oh my, the wetness. I excused myself again. I was extremely aroused and I wondered if she even knew why I had been going to the restroom so much. She never said a word the entire time. Still, I had become addicted to her touch, so I returned to the couch. This time I found out whether or not she was being friendly or something more. She began to untie the drawstring on my sweatpants. I quickly put my hand on top of hers. Without a word, there was an understanding. I was afraid. This was unexpected and new, though obviously not unwelcome. My hand still atop hers, she slowly moved her hand downward. I let my hand slide off of her hand. She rested her hand on my pubic bone on top of my pants. Then she moved it, as if to smooth the fabric on that one mound. I raised my hips. She moved her hand faster. I trembled, but was in.
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