The elevator whispers to the penthouse floor, Paris glittering below through floor-to-ceiling glass. My private clinic, velvet drapes, leather exam table cool against skin. Mathéo arrives, 21, fresh student, boxes still unpacked in his nearby studio. Nervous eyes, shy smile. I call him in, my short black hair framing a strict yet soft face. He sits, stammers about his cock—tight skin on erection, tiny nodules under the shaft. I nod, concerned. Fill the ultrasound script. But first, the exam.
He hesitates. ‘Drop your pants, lie back.’ Leather crunches under him as he complies, cock soft, exposed. I palpate firmly. Nodules, pea-sized, painless. He relaxes. Fatal mistake. His shaft twitches, swells rigid—thick, veined, majestic. I turn, catch it tenting free. ‘Oh.’ Eyes widen. He blushes crimson. ‘Natural reaction,’ I soothe, amused. Internet fears? Peyronie’s? No. Plaques there, not nodules.
The Privilege
I grip thumb-index, glide along the length. Soft now, tracing ridges. Straight, rigid. Tap the side—sways like a pendulum, steel-hard. Circles on the frenulum, testing foreskin glide. Thumb swirls the purple head, palm rubs slick. He bites lips, breath hitches. Gland flushed, irrigated perfectly. Luxury air thickens with his musk, city lights pulsing outside.
‘Ejaculation issues?’ Crude, direct. He mumbles no. ‘We’ll see.’ Gel slicks my palms, cold then warm. Fist his shaft—slow, full strokes. Wrist flicks faster on the crown, fingers feather-light. He arches, eyes ceiling-ward. ‘Let go. Close now.’ Pump tight, urgent. He nods, groans. Then—stop. Hand freezes mid-air. Ruin. A pearl of cum beads, dribbles. No release. He writhes, hips bucking air, pathetic moans. Frustrated bliss, teetering.
The Excess
Grip base again. Milk another drop—tiny jet, mini-spasm. Head lolls, temples pounding. Continuous edge, no peak. I’d fuck him raw if I shed this blouse, but no. Release fully. ‘Perfect cock. Functional. Sensitive, no premature.’ He dresses, legs shaky. Hand him script. ’23 euros. Return with results—we’ll review intimately.’ Door clicks shut. Penthouse hums discreet.
Back to leather chaise, champagne flute chills nearby—untouched. Secret sealed in glass walls. He’ll masturbate furiously tonight, craving more. Elite games: control, denial, promise.
