Part 4: A Naked Trip to the Doctor
Read Part 2 ‘A Naked First day’ Here
Read Part 3 ‘A Naked Day Out’ Here
*****
Part 4: A Naked Trip to the Doctor…
The following Monday, my nerves were pretty much shot. I had nothing left, and I was emotionally devastated. I became an empty shell, simply going through the motions, conceding defeat, and accepting the fact that the old me, the high-flying playboy, was long gone. In his place was a frail, infantilized, weak shell. I took solace in the belief that it wasn’t going to get any worse, that everything was on the line, and that the worst of it was behind me.
I was wrong.
The morning in question, I sat stiffly in the passenger seat of my mother’s station wagon, hands clenched on my knees as my mother hummed to the radio. I really didn’t want her to drive me, a small part of me secretly clinging to a bit of pride. I argued, bitterly, with my mother that that I was perfectly capable of getting myself to work, “I can take the bus! I can walk! I’m fine! I don’t need to be driven! I’m not a child! I’m fine! Please mother, please! Please, let me go alone!!” but–as always–my protests were brushed aside.
“It’s just easier this way,” my mother said, patting my thigh in that maddeningly patronizing way. “Besides, Jane’s expecting you to be on time.”
My stomach twisted at the mention of her name. I tortured myself endlessly, constantly replaying Saturday’s humiliations in my mind: the laughter of the book club women echoing in my ears. The shame of all those women seeing me naked, before all assisting me in ‘bath-time’. It was wildly humiliating, emasculating, and devastating to my own self-worth. I was embarrassed beyond comprehension, and I convinced myself that Jane wouldn’t mention any of this at work, that she’d keep it all to herself. After all, she was my boss. She had to be professional. Maybe it had all been some bizarre, one-time lapse, never to be spoken of again.
When we eventually pulled up in front of the main gate, Jane was already outside, her expression sharp and businesslike. She greeted my mother warmly, then turned to me with a brisk nod. Seconds later, my mother tore out of the driveway, leaving me alone with Jane. In other words, I was completely at her mercy.
“My sweet little Timmy…. Good morning babydoll… Let’s get started. We’ve got a lot to get through.”
‘Babydoll’… Nothing was more emasculating than being called ‘babydoll’. I shuddered in shame and humiliation as I followed her through the site towards the main office. Of course, her demeanor was professional, business-like, and measured. Not a trace of the sly amusement from the previous Saturday. Along the way, she straightened my shoulders as I followed her inside, daring to hope.
For the first couple of hours, everything seemed normal. She assigned tasks, occasionally reviewed my work, and spoke to me as she would to any other employee. In relief, I began to breathe again, the awful tension in my chest loosening.
But then, just before morning tea, it happened.
Jane appeared at my desk, leaned down close enough that I caught the faint scent of her perfume, and said in a voice just loud enough for the neighboring cubicles to hear: “Timmy, you need to be taking regular bathroom breaks. We don’t want any little accidents, do we?”
Heat flared in my face. “I–I don’t need–” I stammered, but Jane smiled coolly, cutting me off.
“It’s for your own good, honeybean. Go on, up you get.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw heads turn. A muffled giggle came from two desks over. Someone whispered, and then another laughed. My chest burned.
“Jane, please,” I hissed under my breath, morbidly mortified.
But she was already straightening, her voice crisp and unyielding. “Come along, sweetheart. I’ll walk you down. Let’s make tinkles.”
And that was how I found myself trailing after her through the open-plan office, every step feeling like a spotlight on my humiliation. I heard snickers and saw the amused glances exchanged over computer monitors.
Halfway to the bathroom, another figure fell into step beside us–Eliza, my superior, and, cruelly, a girl I had not only gone to high school with, but someone I had asked out… only to be publicly rejected and humiliated. Even though it happened decades ago, I still had this dull pang in my chest every time I saw her. It stung, and my cheeks burned in shame and humiliation. As we passed her, she locked eyes with me, raised an eyebrow, and smirked at me as she looked me up and down.
“Well,” she said, amusement dripping from every syllable, “isn’t this a trip down memory lane?”
Jane pushed open the door to the women’s bathroom and held it wide. “In you go, Timmy.”
I froze in complete shock, utterly gobsmacked. “But–this is the ladies’–”
“Exactly,” Jane replied, her eyes glinting. “That way, I can keep a proper eye on you. Now don’t dawdle.”
Heart hammering, I reluctantly shuffled inside. The tiled room smelled faintly of soap and perfume, and the sight of the pastel-pink stalls only added to my sense of being out of place.
Jane actually guided me toward one of the toilets and folded her arms before looking me over, almost expectantly. “Go on, then.”
I stared up at her, my mouth agape, completely aghast, every nerve screaming at me that this was wrong. With Jane looming a step away, watching, the pressure was unbearable, “Urm…. Can I uhh… have some privacy?” I asked, meekly as I desperately tried to get her to leave.
Jane cocked her head and shot me a sympathetic smile, “Oh, my sweet little Timmy…” she said aloud, almost in amusement, “I’ve seen it before. It’s no big deal, honeybean.” It was clear to me that privacy was simply not in the cards. I stood before her, completely at her mercy, powerless.
Jane sighed. “You’re wasting my time. Hurry up, Timmy. Make your wee-wees…”
Conceding defeat, I slowly turned away from her, positioning myself over the open toilet. With that, I reluctantly unzipped my trousers, fishing out my little dick. I stood there awkwardly, holding my flaccid inchworm, trying hard to concentrate. Despite my best efforts, nothing was happening. I simply didn’t need to go. I just stood there, feeling overwhelmingly insignificant. Behind me, she stood, looking on, tapping her foot almost impatiently.
“I uhh… I’m sorry, Aunty Jane. I can’t… I don’t… urm… I don’t think I need to go,” I said, almost gritting my teeth.
Just then, the worst thing happened: the bathroom door swung open, and voices filled the room. A cluster of office women stepped in, mid-conversation, before spotting me. They stopped short, eyes widening, then breaking into laughter.
“Oh my god,” one of them gasped. “Is he–seriously?”
Jane didn’t shoo them away. Instead, she said calmly, “He’s just having a little trouble starting. Poor little thing is nervous…”
The women gathered closer, peering around Jane as their laughter grew. In that moment, I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. My hands shook, my face blazed.
“Do you need help, honeybunch?” Jane asked, almost maternally.
Before I could react, she leaned over me, practically swatting my hands out of the way as she clasped my member with her thumb and index finger, giving it a little pinch. I yelped in shock as she tugged at my delicate, soft little dick, “here… let me,” she clasped my little dicky firmly, pointing it downward, “go on, babydoll, it’s okay. Just let yourself go, make your little tinkles,” she said softly in my ear.
It was, at the very least, morbidly humiliating. This was my dream woman. Someone I had fantasized about since adolescence, my ultimate fantasy, the one woman in the world I wanted nothing more than to have an intimate encounter with, to impress with my masculinity and prowess…. Instead, I stood awkwardly as she clasped my delicate little dick between her thumb and index finger, pointing toward the toilet bowl. There was nothing sexual about it. Nothing whatsoever. In that moment, my pale little member almost felt vestigial. Utterly useless. The farthest thing from masculinity. My cheeks burned in red-hot shame as my embarrassment consumed me tenfold.
“I urmm…. I can do it myself,” I said in almost a whimper, desperate to regain some type of control.
“It’s okay, babydoll… ” I got you,” she responded, softly and warmly, “just relax.” Make your wee-wees…”
We both stared down at my shrunken, shriveled little dicky, between her fingers. God, it looked pathetic, delicate, sensitive, tender…. I even caught her trying hard to suppress a smirk. She caught my glance and quickly shifted, shooting me a maternal look of sympathy. It stung, overwhelmingly so.
“Let yourself go, honeybunch,” she said softly in my ear, almost in a whisper, “you can do it…”
I closed my eyes, trying hard to block out all the background noise and focus.
And then, it happened.
Just not in the way I’d hoped.
The sudden release I’d been praying for came all at once, spraying unevenly. Jane struggled to clasp my little dinky, as it happened, it actually slipped out of her fingers. I stood there, my hands helplessly flailing by my sides as we both looked down, I in shame, she in wonder. Warmth spread down my legs, soaking onto my trousers and underpants in the process.
The women behind us shrieked and laughed, clapping their hands over their mouths. “Oh, that’s priceless!” one giggled.
Jane’s lips tightened in mock-disapproval. “Well, Timmy, looks like those clothes are soaking wet! Step out of them.”
My whole body trembled. “N-no, please, I–”
“Now,” Jane commanded.
With the women watching, I reluctantly peeled off the sodden fabric. When I stood there in just my shirt, bare and humiliated, they all howled with laughter.
Jane picked up my wet garments off the floor and dropped them into the nearby bathroom sink, “Hopefully they’ll be dry by the end of the day. Until then… back to your desk.”
My legs wobbled as I shuffled through the office, tugging desperately at my shirt in a hopeless attempt to cover myself. Once again, I’d found myself in the same predicament, surrounded by the same people. It didn’t make it any less humiliating. Every giggle, every whisper, every glance stabbed into me. By the time I sat down at my desk, my whole body was shaking with shame.
My little desk felt impossibly exposed, a tiny island in a sea of amused eyes. I shifted uncomfortably; the fluorescent light bulb over my desk acted more like a spotlight than anything else.
Eliza, who had been pretending to sort papers, glanced up and raised an eyebrow, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. “Rough morning, huh?” she murmured, loud enough for nearby coworkers to hear. The ripples of stifled laughter intensified.
Jane appeared at my side, calm and almost maternal, yet every word she spoke felt like a sting. “Sit tight, Timmy. I’ll make sure this doesn’t happen again today. Regular bathroom breaks, no more accidents. Understood?”
“Yes… yes, Aunty Jane,” I mumbled, head down, wishing I could vanish.
Throughout the morning, whispers followed me from cubicle to cubicle. Every glance, every snicker, made my stomach churn. Even the simplest task — typing emails, answering calls — felt impossible. I was hyper-aware of my partial nudity and vulnerability.
I sat behind my comically small desk, willing myself to vanish, to disappear into thin air. I rocked back and forth, ashamed and humiliated, wishing my mother could just come and drive me home. But Jane’s instructions hung in my mind like chains. Another break would come soon, and I knew I’d have to return to the humiliating routine under her watchful eye.
The thought made me shiver, but I also felt an odd, helpless acceptance. There was no arguing; I was trapped in a day designed to remind me, constantly, of my shame. And every time I looked up, I saw the faint smirks of women around me–some curious, some amused, all silently marking my humiliation.
By mid-afternoon, the psychological weight was crushing. Even the smallest sound–the rustle of paper, a giggle, a passing footstep–made me flinch. My body, my dignity, even my status as an adult felt suspended, irrelevant, as Jane orchestrated the day’s relentless, infantilizing oversight.
The clock on the wall ticked over the hour. Before I could even brace myself, Jane appeared at my desk, her tone brisk and businesslike.
“Time for your tinkle break, Timmy,” she announced loudly enough for half the office to hear.
A ripple of laughter rose from the nearby desks. My face burned as I stood, trying in vain to tug my shirt lower. With my trousers and underpants still damp and drying in one of the sinks in the women’s restroom, I was essentially forced to waddle across the carpet naked from the waist down, my shame exposed to every amused eye.
One of the secretaries giggled into her hand. “Guess it’s potty time again,” she whispered, and the cluster around her laughed.
Jane didn’t hush them. She led me purposefully, heels clicking, to the women’s bathroom. Just like last time, I wasn’t allowed the privacy or even the dignity of going alone.
“Up you get,” Jane said, motioning me toward the toilet like a stern matron. “I’m waiting.”
My throat was tight, my bladder aching, but the pressure of her gaze–and the thought of the women beyond the door–froze me. I shifted from foot to foot, face red, wishing for invisibility.
Jane sighed theatrically. “Sit!” she ordered, pointing at the toilet.
The color left my face as I stood there, looking back at her, gobsmacked, “nn..ooo… please. Aunty Jane, I don’t need to urmm… I can do it standing up…” I pleaded desperately.
She simply shook her head at me, “oh sweetness… the last time we let you do that, you got your little tinkles all over yourself…. This is for your own good, babydoll…” Again, she pointed at the toilet seat and said, “Sit,” firmly and in a commanding tone.
A fresh burst of laughter came from the doorway–two women lingering, pretending to wash their hands so that they could watch. My cheeks blazed as I reluctantly lowered myself onto the cold seat, the posture itself infantilizing, my shirt bunched awkwardly around my waist. From that position, my little dick retracted into me. I actually had to shift awkwardly to position my dick downward to avoid urinating all over myself. With my index finger, I pressed my penis down toward the toilet bowl, groaning in angst and embarrassment during this process. It was wildly humiliating to say the very least.
Jane looked on, arms folded, “Just relax honeypea, make your wee-wees.”
My chest tightened with every second of silence. I didn’t need to go, not really, but the sheer weight of her stare pressed down on me until, against my will, a small trickle came. The women by the sinks snickered openly. One whispered, “Unbelievable–he’s like a toddler being potty trained!” They both doubled over in laughter.
In shame, I squeezed my eyes shut. Maybe if I didn’t look at them, I could pretend none of this was happening.
As I tried to focus, Jane leaned in and pulled my shirt up over my head. I looked up at her, quizzically, feeling every little bit vulnerable and exposed. She simply smirked at me, “Just in case,” she began, “we don’t want you wetting this too…” she declared.
Moments later, a steady stream tinkled into the toilet bowl. I shuddered as I released my bladder before an audience, feeling particularly frazzled throughout the whole process.
Jane grinned and leaned in to me, almost maternally, “Alright, honeybean. Good boy… You’re done. Now–wipe.”
My head snapped up, horrified. “Wh-what? Did you say… wipe??”
“You always wipe,” Jane interrupted smoothly, producing a square of toilet paper as though it were part of the lesson. “Here,” she crouched slightly, holding it out, and with a horrifying calm, demonstrated the correct motion in the air, as if teaching a child. “Like this. Front to back. Thoroughly.”
The women by the sink shrieked with laughter, one clutching her stomach. I felt my entire body glow red-hot. Thirty-three years old, and here I was, being instructed on how to wipe myself. How to wipe my privates after a little tinkle. It was morbidly humiliating.
“I can do it!” I blurted, voice cracking. My hands shook as I snatched the paper, trying to mimic her demonstration. But the clumsiness of my movements only deepened my shame. I could hear the whispered commentary–snide, amused, merciless.
“Oh, Timmy-pear,” she said, almost in sympathy. With that, she intervened, crouching down and with a wadded up bunch of toilet paper, proceeded to gently wipe my flaccid little penis, almost as if I had lady bits. I shuddered in humiliation as she took over, casually smiling up at me, almost maternally, laced with sympathy. Needless to say, it was wildly emasculating.
When it was over, I awkwardly rose from the toilet, nervously trying to hide my shame, my hands clasping the void between my legs. “Good effort, babydoll. Next hour, we’ll see if you’ve learnt anything,” she declared.
I could only nod, eyes downcast, as I shuffled back out. My colleagues watched, oddly delighted at my humiliation. Each step across the office carpet felt like a spotlight burning into my skin, the shame of my inadequacy laid bare for all to see.
Almost twenty minutes later, Jane appeared at my desk, brisk, unconcerned, and didn’t even look up at me when she gave the instruction. “Timmy, head down to the warehouse and check on that back order for me. The delivery should have arrived this morning.”
In terror, I froze. “L-like this? I can’t–” I gestured helplessly at myself, my bare thighs cold against the office air.
Jane finally raised her eyes, cool and businesslike. “Yes. Like that. It’s not a big deal. Everyone is an adult. No one will care, honeybean. Now go.”
The sharp tap of her pen against the desk silenced any protest. I swallowed hard, knowing every woman in the office was watching me squirm, and with that, I began the long, humiliating shuffle toward the door.
In that moment, the corridor felt endless. Every passing employee–secretaries, clerks, even the janitor–stared openly at me, the naked man trying in vain to awkwardly shield his shame. I hugged the clipboard Jane had thrust at me against my groin, but it only seemed to highlight what I was trying to hide.
When I eventually reached the warehouse floor, the embarrassment deepened. The space was cavernous, echoing, filled with men and women shifting boxes and logging shipments. Forklifts beeped, radios crackled, and then, like a ripple, the room fell into awkward silence as eyes turned toward me.
“Uh…” my voice cracked as I approached the floor shift supervisor. “I–I need to check on order 512.”
Nearby, a worker smirked, leaning on a pallet jack. “Like that? You’re brave.” A chorus of chuckles followed.
My ears burned. I bent low over the paperwork, desperately trying to look absorbed, but the weight of their stares crushed me. I felt like a specimen on display–vulnerable, inadequate, utterly exposed.
When I finally stumbled back upstairs, red-faced and trembling, Jane barely glanced at me. She simply plucked the form from my shaking hands, cool and dismissive.
“Good. See? You managed. “No big deal,” she made a neat checkmark with her pen, as though my mortification were just another completed task on her list. “Oh, one more thing… the client packages in the mailroom need checking.” Make sure the addresses are correct and nothing is damaged.”
Again, I froze in shock and angst. The mailroom was a high-traffic area.
“I… I really don’t think–”
Jane’s voice cut me off. “No objections. Now. Go.”
With a heavy heart, I waddled down the hall, files clutched tightly to my chest, trying to obscure my shame. A secretary passing by raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Ah… busy day for you, Timmy?”
I kept my head down and kept moving. Every step was a reminder of how exposed I was — how powerless. In the mailroom, a group of interns gathered around, watching me shuffle through envelopes, checking addresses, and labeling packages. Their whispers floated to me like daggers. I couldn’t make out what the hell they were saying, but I knew they all found my predicament utterly hysterical. A grown man, naked, desperately trying to hide his shriveling little pale penis.
By mid-afternoon, my nerves were frayed to the breaking point. Every glance from a coworker felt like a spotlight, every whisper like a public announcement of my shame. Just as I tried to bury my face in paperwork, my mother’s voice startled me. It felt as though it came from nowhere and, for some reason, highlighted the fact that I was no longer a man. Muffled giggles and gasps surrounded me as I stared back up at my mother, my mouth agape.
“Timmy!”
My mother stood there, arms crossed, a calm but firm expression on her face. I sat there, trembling, looking up at her, ashamed, lost, and morbidly embarrassed. Instinctively, I cowered away from her, humiliated to be seen this way by her: nude, completely nude, in public, exposed and ashamed.
Disappointed, she sighed sharply, “oh Timmy….,” my mother began, shaking her head at me in disapproval.
Jane stood close by, her arms crossed, as if supervising a particularly delicate procedure.
“What happened?” my mother deemed to ask as she shot a curious glance over at Jane, who simply cocked her head and grinned. “he’s had a little accident,” she declared loud enough for everyone in the entire bullpen to hear, “his clothes are soaking wet, the poor little thing,” she added.
My mother sighed sharply and just like that, moved past it as if my nudity was nothing, “I’m here to take you to the doctor. I’ve made an appointment for you, I’ll have you back within an hour,” she declared.
Instinctively, I shot a desperate pleading look over at Jane, who simply smirked at me, “You’d better get up, Timmy,” she added, almost amused by my situation.
“But… I–” I stammered, cheeks burning, well aware that I was completely nude.
“No arguments,” my mother said firmly. “Up, now.”
Knowing I was powerless and had absolutely no say whatsoever, I conceded defeat. Slowly, I shifted before rising out of my seat, my hands desperately trying to conceal what little was between my trembling legs. My mother, of course, smiled at me, almost sympathetically, but very clearly disappointed. I’d found myself in this position; it was my own fault, and now I had no other choice but to accept it. I was humiliated. She was too… on some level, but mostly just disappointed in me.
Every eye in the office turned toward me. A collective murmur of amusement rippled through the room. My stomach lurched.
I cleared my throat, desperate to cling to a small portion of dignity, “Mother…. please!… I don’t need to see a doctor…. besides, I–I’ve got work to do….” I pleaded in desperation, my eyes darting toward Jane.
Jane stood tall, folding her arms, “Oh no, Timmy. You heard your mother. She’s already spoken to me about it. It’s okay…..”
My heart thudded. “But–I don’t need a doctor! I’m fine! I’m a grown man!”
Jane raised an eyebrow. “A grown man doesn’t wet himself in the ladies’ room, Timmy.”
My mother tutted softly, looping her arm through mine as though I were a sulky schoolboy. “Don’t be difficult. It’s for your own good. Now let’s go, we don’t want to be late.”
I dug my heels in, voice breaking. “Please, Mother, don’t make me–”
“Honestly, Timmy, enough whining. The weather’s beautiful. We’ll walk — it’s only a few blocks. A little sunshine will do you good,” my mother added, completely dismissing my pleas.
Women in nearby cubicles whispered and stifled laughter as my mother and I waddled toward the door, trying desperately to cover myself with my trembling hands. All the while, my mother gestured impatiently. “Hurry up, Timmy.”
When we made it outside, I felt more exposed and vulnerable than I had ever been in my life. Here I was, a grown man, completely nude, being walked by my mother. Perhaps the most emasculating part…. No one cared about my nudity as we walked on by. No one. It was just accepted. A gust of air swept across my bare legs as we powered on. Inside, my stomach churned and twisted. The street outside bustled with life–pedestrians, office workers, couples strolling. No one cared about my nudity. No one. It was humiliating and embarrassing on a whole new level. My vulnerability and shame heightened.
“Relax your shoulders, dear,” my mother said cheerfully, as though she were guiding a toddler on a morning walk rather than a 33-year-old man completely exposed.
By the time they reached the clinic, my heart pounded, and my legs wobbled. I felt smaller than ever, humiliated not only by my nudity but by the complete lack of control I had over the situation. My mother, entirely unbothered, pushed open the clinic door, and I was ushered inside, aware of every eye in the waiting room flicking toward me.
I realized, with a sinking, nauseating dread, that there was no way to escape this. Every ounce of dignity I thought I had was gone, and the hallway, the clinic, and the waiting room all promised a fresh wave of exposure and humiliation.
Of course, the waiting room was crowded. I hobbled awkwardly behind my mother, both hands desperately clutching my pitiful manhood, desperate to shield myself from the world, to hide my extreme shame and embarrassment. Of course, in this clinical setting, no one really seemed to care. No one really paid me any sort of attention as I stood by the reception desk, behind my mother, shivering in utter humiliation.
“Timothy Johnson for Doctor Peters,” my mother told the receptionist, who in turn told my mother to take a seat and that we would be fetched in good time.
Moments later, we sat side by side. I was sitting there, awkwardly, my naked rear sticking to the vinyl-padded seat. Beside me, my mother sat flipping through a magazine, completely indifferent to the angst building inside of me.
Eventually, doctor Cassandra Peters emerged, clipboard in hand. I hadn’t seen her since I was twelve years old, and even after all these years, she still looked radiant, still as intoxicating as I’d remembered her. Now, she was in her late fifties. Her hair was grey, yet it somehow suited her. “Timmy Johnson,” she called out before locking eyes with me.
My stomach twisted as I shifted uncomfortably, crossing my legs in a pathetic attempt to hide my small pee pee. My mother took charge, rising from her seat. “Come along now, Timmy bear.” I shuddered in shame as I forced myself up, still desperately covering my groin with both hands as I waddled down the hallway, following the good doctor and my controlling mother.
When we entered her office, I was instructed to sit on the edge of an examination table. I sat there awkwardly, shielding my shame as my mother and Dr. Peters continued to talk about mundane topics as if I wasn’t even there.
After what felt like an eternity, she gazed over at me and smiled, almost maternally, “Okay, Timmy…. I haven’t seen you in quite some time. I see you’ve grown since then! How cute! You’re all big now!” she said, tenderly.
My cheeks burned in shame and humiliation as she spoke down to me as if I were a child. It was emasculating to say the very least. Her tender, sing-song tones and her impish, maternal-like smile made me shudder with embarrassment. All I could do was sit there, naked, awkward as she prattled on.
Before I could chime in, she continued, “I understand you’ve had some….difficulties?”
I swallowed hard, my nakedness on the table making every word I would speak feel heavy. “I… I don’t know… I urrr…no, not really urm…,” I murmured, trying to sound calm.
The doctor tilted her head, pen poised. “Tell me, have you experienced… problems with typical male functions?”
My face heated. My heart pounded as I stammered, “I… I think I’m normal. I’ve… had sexual partners and urr…. I’ve been, urm, I–”
She raised a finger, cutting me off with clinical precision. “We need to be honest here, Timmy. This isn’t about embarrassment. It’s about assessing your development.”
I stammered, my cheeks feeling flush, “but, but I urmm… I am being honest, I urr… I’ve… I don’t have any issues. I am a normal man. I’ve had sex…. Many times, honest!” Even though it was true, it sounded as though I were a child pleading to be taken seriously. The good doctor darted a glance at my mother. They shared a look, followed by a knowing smile. They didn’t believe me, that much was clear.
Dr. Peters cocked her head and grinned at me, “Aww, aren’t you just the sweetest little thing!” she announced, almost mockingly. It was clear she was amused, perhaps even humoring me on some level, “bless your tender little heart!”
In that moment, I felt the weight of my inadequacy settle over me. What followed was a series of grueling questions. Each question — about growth, physical development, ability to perform — was a mirror reflecting my perceived failures as a man, making me feel small, weak, and incomplete.
“Have you ever applied supplements or tried treatments on your own?” she asked, glancing over at my mother.
I shook my head in angst. “No… I don’t need–”
“Interesting,” she said, prematurely cutting me off, jotting notes. “It seems your growth is behind what we’d expect. And at your age… this is concerning. Are you aware of how you compare to other boys?”
My stomach sank. My mother’s calm, almost approving presence beside me only highlighted my powerlessness. Every word emphasized my complete failure as a man, as someone who should be fully grown, capable, and independent.
“Timmy, these questions might be uncomfortable and a little embarrassing,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact, “but we need to understand your level of development. We’ll also need to examine more closely, and discuss treatment options,” she smiled at me sympathetically.
I swallowed hard, trembling, aware that the upcoming discussion would only deepen my sense of emasculation and vulnerability. Naked on the examination table, desperately trying to cover myself, every question pressed me further into a downward spiral.
“Timmy, I need you to answer honestly. Do you ever feel that your lack of development has held you back in life? Socially? Professionally?”
I hesitated, cheeks burning, feeling utterly exposed, “I… I don’t know… I urhh… I’ve… I feel … I don’t know… sometimes….” My voice faltered, trailing off.
She scribbled on her clipboard without looking up. “Sometimes? At thirty-three, ‘sometimes’ can translate to decades of limitation. Can you describe how that manifests? Are you aware that your peers are often physically and hormonally ahead?”
My chest tightened. I wanted to disappear. Every word, every question felt like a judgment of my masculinity, a public listing of failures, even though only my mother and the doctor were in the room.
“Have you noticed that you require assistance for tasks others can handle on their own?” she continued. “For example, self-care, health routines, even routine functions. Do you feel capable in these areas?”
“Yes…. I uhh…I… I manage,” I mumbled, avoiding eye contact. The words sounded hollow, even to me.
My mother nodded silently beside me, her calm presence oddly intensifying the power imbalance. She didn’t intervene, didn’t shield me. Her quiet observation made me feel childlike, dependent, and exposed.
The doctor’s next question struck me like a cold gust. “Timmy, how confident are you in your identity as a man?”
I shuddered in shame, not quite knowing how to respond, “Urm…. I uhh… I don’t know.”
“Interesting,” she said, tone neutral but cutting. “You see, what we observe here isn’t just underdevelopment. It’s a pattern of physical and functional dependence. At your age, many boys are fully autonomous. You… are not.”
The doctor flipped to a fresh page on her clipboard, her expression unreadable. “Now, Timmy,” she began, her tone crisp, “we need to discuss your sexual history. Be honest–have you ever had any type of sexual relations? With other people?” She paused for effect before continuing, “Do you understand what I mean by ‘sex’? Do you know what that is?”
I sat up a little straighter, anxiously, fighting the tremor in my chest. I desperately wanted to sound credible. “Nine,” I said quickly, my voice firmer than I felt.
There was a pause. Then the doctor arched an eyebrow, lips curling ever so slightly. “Nine?” she repeated, the word dripping with disbelief. “Nine partners?”
I nodded, my face heating. “Yes.”
The doctor tapped her pen against the clipboard, almost theatrically. “Timmy, let’s not invent stories. This is a medical consultation, not a… fantasy exercise.” Her tone was amused, almost mocking, as if she were humoring a child who’d claimed to have climbed Mount Everest.
“I’m not lying,” I protested, voice cracking. “It’s true. I’ve been with nine women! It’s true! Honest!.”
My mother cut in sharply, her voice edged with scolding disbelief. “Timothy! Don’t you dare lie to the doctor. You and I both know that’s nonsense. Tell the truth.”
“No! I… I am telling the truth!” I cried, my words quivering with desperation. “Nine–” I repeated, almost in desperation, “In my old life.. I was quite the ladies’ man… I urr… I had… I had sex all the time….”
The doctor slowly shook her head, exchanging a glance with my mother that made my stomach sink. “Timmy, listen to me. You’re thirty-three years old, and your presentation here doesn’t align with what you’re claiming. Let’s be realistic.”
Her words pierced me, each syllable like a verdict of inadequacy. I wanted to scream, to insist, to make them believe me–but their smirks and sighs swallowed my protests whole.
“How often do you masturbate?” she asked me with a blank expression, her pen hovering over her notepad, waiting eagerly to jot down my response. To me, it felt like a thunderclap, and I quickly ripened with shame. The truth was, I often masturbated; it was my favorite pastime. In fact, I’m certain it was almost akin to an addiction. I jerked off a lot. All the time. It was a private, delicate thing which I was morbidly ashamed about. I shuddered and tried to play dumb.
“Ur… What urm…. What do you mean?” I asked, foolishly.
Dr. Peters cocked her head and gave me a sympathetic smile, “how often do you play with your penis?” she asked, reiterating, dumbing it down for me, “your little friend between your legs there….” she added, almost condescendingly, “that’s your penis honey…. Do you ever play with it? Maybe a gentle rub? Or a tug? When it gets…. ‘hard’…. Do you play with it?”.
I whimpered, my cheeks burning red in shame. “I ur… I urm….”
“It’s okay,” she said, sensing my angst. She placed a hand on my trembling knee. “I know, it’s a little embarrassing,” she added, in a blatant attempt to comfort me. “Just breathe for me.”
I inhaled sharply. I certainly didn’t want them to know the truth. It was far too embarrassing. So instead of owning it, I blurted out, “I don’t. I never do. I just… I don’t touch myself… that way.” I said, meekly.
After a long, heavy silence, the doctor set her clipboard aside. “Alright….” She said with a bemused smirk as she snapped on a pair of latex gloves, “Let’s take a look, shall we!” before wheeling her stool closer to me.
I shuddered, embarrassed and afraid, not quite knowing what the hell to expect next.
“I’ll just get you to scoot back a tad…. And move those hands out of the way…” she said.
The color left my face. A whimper escaped my lips, “urr… You mean…”
“I need to take a look. Hands away, please,” she added, this time impatiently.
“Timothy Johnson!” my mother called out, fed up at this point, “she’s a doctor! Let her see!”
“It’s okay, Timmy. I’ve seen it all before,” she added, calmly, almost tenderly, “hands away,” she repeated.
Slowly, reluctantly, and hesitantly, I moved my hands away, exposing myself to her completely. She, in turn, leaned in to get a closer look. She adjusted her glasses and gazed down between my open legs. Her demeanor was clinical and professional. Despite this, it left me feeling two feet tall.
She reached forth and clasped my member with her thumb and index finger, before gently pulling back my foreskin. This caused me to yelp and flinch in discomfort, “sorry sweetie,” she said, leaning in even closer, “hmmm….” She mused to herself as she rolled it around in her fingers as though it were some type of oddity.
I grimaced, morbidly ashamed. In that moment, I just wanted the world to swallow me whole.
After what felt like an eternity, she pulled away from me. With that, she proceeded to jot something down on her notepad. Instinctively, I crossed my legs and once again shielded my privates, my embarrassment throbbing in my chest. I desperately wanted this to end, to hide. Another whimper escaped my lips as I sat there awkwardly.
Slowly, she gazed up at me, a sympathetic smile plastered on her face. “Timmy, you have what’s clinically defined as a micropenis. That explains much of what we’ve observed today.”
My breath caught in my throat. The word rang in my ears, echoing in the sterile room. Micropenis. My humiliation crystallized into something sharper, heavier — an undeniable label.
My mother gasped, one hand pressed to her mouth. “Oh my goodness… oh, Timmy.” She turned to the doctor, her voice urgent, almost panicked. “What can we do? There must be something–some treatment, some option? Please, I don’t want my son to suffer like this.”
The doctor, calm and clinical, nodded gravely. “There are avenues we can explore: hormone therapy, topical treatments, and perhaps even counseling to address the psychological burden. But the reality is… the condition will always carry challenges. It requires understanding and consistent management.”
I sat frozen, naked, trembling. My mother’s concern, the doctor’s detached professionalism, the smirk that lingered from earlier–all of it combined into one suffocating truth: I was inadequate.
Doctor Peters leaned back on her stool, legs crossed neatly, as though she had all the time in the world. “First and foremost, Mrs. Johnson,” she said, addressing my mother as though I weren’t even in the room, “you need to understand this isn’t your fault, nor his. Micropenis is a developmental condition. It happens. Unfortunately, it does mean he will always present… limitations.”
“Limitations?” my mother echoed, her eyes wide. “What exactly does that mean for him? For his life?”
The doctor exhaled through her nose, flipping to a chart. “Well. In terms of function, urination is not impaired. Fertility is possible, though often difficult. Sexual performance, however… is significantly restricted.”
I sat there, mortified. My whole body flushed red in shame and humiliation as she continued, her tone brisk, professional, and merciless. “He will never satisfy a partner in the conventional sense. Most women, frankly, will find it underwhelming, if not disappointing. But of course, this requires acceptance of reality, which I’m not sure Timmy is demonstrating today.”
My mother’s face crumpled. “Oh, Timmy…” She reached to touch my arm, but I instinctively pulled back, burning with shame.
The doctor glanced at me briefly, then returned her gaze to my mother. In that moment, I felt like a child on display, my adulthood stripped away word by word.
My mother turned back to Dr. Peters, “Is there… counseling? Support groups? I don’t want him isolated. He struggles socially already, and now this…”
The doctor nodded again, jotting notes. “Yes. Counseling would be highly recommended. In fact, given what we’ve seen today–” her eyes flicked, for just a moment, to my exposed lap– “a psychological intervention may be the most effective first step. Acceptance is key.”
I could hardly breathe. My mother was nodding, taking every word to heart, while I sat naked on the table, reduced to a diagnosis, my denials drowned out by pity and medical authority.
Just then, all too suddenly, the door creaked open without warning. To my absolute horror, the room filled with white uniforms, perfume, and the low hum of laughter barely disguised as polite coughs. A group of young nurses filed in–clipboards in hand, pens tucked behind ears, their eyes sweeping the room until, inevitably, every gaze landed on me.
I shifted on the table awkwardly, more desperate and eager to cling to a small part of dignity. I certainly didn’t want them to see what little I possessed between my legs.
Dr. Peters didn’t look up from her notes while speaking. “Ah, good, you’re here. Ladies, this is the patient I mentioned. His mother had informed me of developmental concerns. A lack of function and, of course, incontinence. After examining the patient, it is clear that he indeed has a micropenis.”
My stomach dropped. My mother’s hand fluttered uselessly at her chest, clearly horrified but saying nothing.
One nurse, blonde and striking, bit her lip to suppress a grin. “Micropenis… meaning…”
“Underdeveloped male genitals,” the doctor cut in smoothly, her tone dry. “As you can see.”
All eyes dipped down between my trembling thighs. I tried desperately to cup my hands over myself, but the doctor snapped sharply, “Hands away, Timmy. Don’t be childish. They’re here to learn.”
Slowly, reluctantly, I lowered them, my face scarlet. The nurses leaned forward slightly, openly studying me as though I were a chart in a textbook. Murmurs passed between them, some shaking their heads, others widening their eyes in mock sympathy.
“He said he’s had nine partners,” Dr. Peters added with pointed sarcasm, not bothering to hide her amusement this time.
That broke them.
The nurses burst into laughter — light, melodic, but merciless. “Nine?” one said, clutching her clipboard. Muffled chatter and laughter ensued as I stood there, my cheeks flushed, my heart beating, my nerves frayed.
Dr. Peters continued as though the room wasn’t vibrating with laughter. “As you can see, size is well below the clinical threshold. A textbook example, actually. Note the retraction, the lack of proportion. It’s a condition that, unfortunately, can’t be disguised or dismissed.” Dr. Peters leaned in with her pen, gently prodding my flaccid little nub to indicate her point further.
One nurse knelt to my level, tilting her head as if appraising a specimen. “Poor thing,” she said softly, though the smirk tugging her lips betrayed her sympathy as hollow. “So little….” her voice trailed off.
In shame, I shut my eyes, wishing I could vanish, but their voices swirled around me, every word hammering my inadequacy deeper into me. In that moment, I felt erased as a man, replaced by a case study, a joke, and an object lesson.
Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, Dr. Peters rose from her stool and motioned me to stand. Reluctantly, with little to no fight left in me, I complied. Slowly, I stood before them, shivering, ashamed, and feeling every little bit emasculated. “All right, Timmy. Legs apart. Hands behind your back. That’s it,” she said.
My skin burned, the air-conditioned chill biting at my exposed body. The nurses gathered closer, forming a half-circle around me, their faces a mix of curiosity and suppressed amusement.
“Now, ladies,” Dr. Peters began, in a brisk tone, “observe the presentation.” She gestured casually toward me, like she might toward a chart. “Go ahead, step closer if you need.”
One by one, the nurses leaned in, peering directly at my groin. I clenched my jaw, humiliated beyond words. Their perfume lingered in my nostrils, their smirks slicing at what remained of my dignity.
But worse–much worse–was the creeping warmth rising inside me. My body betrayed me. The shame, the eyes, the nearness of so many women: it flushed my chest, made my heart pound, made me fight against the telltale stirring I dreaded more than anything. I was utterly powerless. It just… happened.
A nurse stifled a laugh. “Doctor, is he…?”
Dr. Peters eyebrow arched. She stepped forward, her tone cool, clinical, merciless. “Ah. Yes. We’re seeing an involuntary little erection. Fascinating. You see, even with severe inadequacy, the body can still attempt basic arousal.”
The room erupted with soft applause. “Oh, well done, Timmy!” one nurse mocked, clapping her hands lightly. “Look at you, functioning!”
Another bent slightly, eyes shining with mischief. “Bless his heart. Trying so hard.”
My mother, sitting stiffly in her chair, forced a watery smile. “I’m… I’m happy for you, sweetie. Really, I am.”
The words hit harder than the laughter. They weren’t proud; they were pitying. Infantilizing. They made me feel even smaller, even weaker.
In defiance, I snapped my head up, teeth gritted. “I’m normal! I’m a normal man. This is normal! There is nothing wrong with me! I’ve had sex! I’ve had girlfriends! Sexual partners–nine of them! I’m normal!”
The doctor didn’t even look at me, her tone clipped and dismissive, as though she were correcting a child. “Timmy, enough. We’re not here to indulge fantasies. What matters is clinical fact. And clinically, this is a classic micropenis case. Nothing more.”
I burned inside. I wasn’t a man anymore, not here, not in this room.
“Well then,” she said, gesturing for me to stand straighter, though my knees already trembled.
“Since we have an involuntary response, let’s take proper measurements. Hold still, Timmy.”
I wanted to sink through the floor. My face was beet red, my breath shaky, but I reluctantly obeyed. The nurses leaned in, notebooks ready, grinning like schoolgirls waiting for gossip.
A tape measure was produced. The doctor crouched slightly, calm as ever, as though this were the most routine task in the world. “Three point… four,” she announced evenly. “Barely three and a half inches, even in this state. Noteworthy.”
I gasped in shock, my stomach churned. I knew that couldn’t possibly be the case. I’d measured myself many times in the past. I knew I had to defend myself, “No!” I cried, “That’s not true. No! I’m… I’m at least four. I’m over four inches! That’s not true! Take the measurement again! Please!”
My pleas fell on deaf ears.
The chorus of laughter hit me like a slap. One nurse covered her mouth, eyes wide with exaggerated shock. Another shook her head, murmuring, “He thinks half an inch will make any difference!?” Someone else whispered something I couldn’t catch, but the word ‘tiny’ reached me clear as a bell.
My mother let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh before catching herself. She leaned forward, voice quivering. “Oh my goodness, Timmy. Stop embarrassing yourself!”
Then, as though the knife hadn’t gone deep enough, the doctor’s voice took on a patronizing, singsong tone. “Now, Timmy. Do you know what’s happening to your body right now?”
I stared at her, stunned. “I–I’m thirty-three–”
Unfazed, she continued, “This is called an erection. When blood flows into your penis, it gets harder and sometimes a little bigger. It happens when your body reacts to certain thoughts or feelings. Perfectly normal.”
The nurses tittered, some outright clutching each other’s arms to stop from laughing aloud. My mother looked at me pityingly, as if I were six years old being taught how to tie my shoes.
“You see,” the doctor pressed on, undeterred, “some men have very large responses—some… very small ones. Yours, as we’ve observed, falls on the very small side. But that’s okay. It’s just how your body is made. No need to be embarrassed.”
The words themselves were meant to reassure, but in her tone–light, almost playful–they felt like daggers. Every syllable branded me a fraud, a child masquerading as a man.
My chest heaved. My fists clenched. “Stop talking to me like I’m a kid! I know what this is!”
But the doctor only smiled gently, as though humoring a stubborn little boy. “Of course you do, Timmy. Of course you do,” she said sarcastically.
Eventually, the laughter quieted, though smirks lingered on the nurses’ faces. I awkwardly stood trembling, arms crossed uselessly in front of myself, as though there was anything left to hide.
“Based on our examination,” Dr. Peters said, addressing both my mother and the semicircle of nurses as though I weren’t even there, “the diagnosis is conclusive. Timmy presents with a micropenis, compounded by poor sexual development and chronic psychological denial. Functionally, he cannot be considered an adult male in the full sense.”
My heart hammered. “That’s not true–I am a man! I am!!”
The doctor silenced me with a single raised hand, as though I were a boy interrupting class. “Going forward,” she continued smoothly, “Timmy will need to adapt to his condition. The first step is practical: he should no longer attempt to urinate standing up. Accidents and spills are inevitable. From now on, he must sit to pee, like a girl.”
A fresh wave of giggles passed through the nurses.
My mother nodded gravely, as though this were a serious and obvious conclusion. “Yes, doctor. That makes sense. We’ll make sure he adjusts.”
I shook my head violently. “No! I don’t need to sit down, I can–”
“Supervised potty breaks,” Dr. Peters added, cutting me off.
My mother nodded earnestly, her face flushed but serious. “Yes, of course. I’ll make sure he doesn’t stand. If I have to, I’ll sit with him.”
I groaned, beyond ashamed, humiliation burning in my stomach, desperate to defend myself. “Please stop, no!! I am… I can–”
The doctor spoke over me. “The second measure concerns these… untimely little erections. Clearly, they cause him embarrassment. To prevent future incidents, I’m prescribing a course of medication. It will suppress arousal almost entirely.”
The words sank into me like ice. I staggered back, in complete and utter shock. “Wait–you mean… you’re going to make me–make me impotent?”
“Not impotent,” the doctor corrected calmly, scribbling on her pad. “Medically managed. It will spare you the humiliation of… displays like today. Think of it as a kindness.”
The nurses nodded, amused but approving, as though this solution were the most logical thing in the world.
My mother folded her hands tightly in her lap, her voice quiet but resolute. “If that’s what’s best, then that’s what we’ll do.”
My voice cracked. “Mom! Please–you can’t let them–”
But the doctor’s pen scratched the final signature across the prescription. “This will help him accept his limitations. Reverting to a simpler, less complicated state is often the healthiest option. He doesn’t need the burdens of masculinity when he cannot meet them.”
She tore the page free and handed it to my mother, ignoring my panicked protests. My stomach churned, my skin burning with shame. The nurses were still smiling, whispering between themselves, their eyes flicking to me as though I were a failed specimen in a classroom.
“This medication must be taken twice daily, morning and evening, without fail,” Dr. Peters said, addressing my mother as if I wasn’t standing there, naked, whimpering, trembling, and pleading in utter desperation. I looked on, powerless as this unfolded before me, “Side effects include reduced libido, loss of erections, and shrinkage in tissue responsiveness.”
The words landed like blows. I staggered. “Shrinkage? You mean it could get smaller?”
The doctor glanced up with a cool, almost pitying smile. “In some cases, yes. But in your case, that will hardly make a difference.”
The nurses broke into laughter again, some covering their mouths, others not bothering. My face was crimson, my eyes watering with shame.
“And finally,” the doctor said, lowering her tone as though sharing something important, “psychological conditioning is key. He should not be encouraged to think of himself as a man. That only fosters denial. Better to reinforce a simpler identity. Think of it as… resetting expectations.”
My mother’s expression softened with concern, her voice trembling slightly. “So you’re saying… treat him more like a boy than an adult?”
Dr. Peters nodded firmly. “Exactly. Clear routines. Close supervision. Avoid indulging delusions about his masculinity. In time, he’ll be less distressed once he stops measuring himself against standards he cannot reach.”
My knees nearly gave out. “No! You can’t! I’m not–this isn’t–”
“Timothy,” my mother cut me off sharply, the same tone she used when I was a boy refusing vegetables at the table. “Enough. The doctor knows best. If this will help you… Then we’ll do it.”
“Help me?” I screamed in horror, trembling, my eyes darting to the smirking nurses, “Mom, please! You can’t let them do this to me. I– I need my… my dick to work!! Please! I’m a normal man! I have a normal sex life!! Please! Don’t let them take it away from me! Please!!. I can’t–” my words faltered as my eyes stung. The plea wasn’t dignified; it was the whimpering of someone about to lose the last shreds of manhood he still clung to.
But my mother only patted my shoulder gently, like soothing a fretful child. “Sweetheart, you’ve had enough shame for one day. This will save you from more. Trust the doctor. She knows best.”
That was worse than a slap. I wanted to scream that I wasn’t a child, that I wasn’t broken, that this wasn’t fair. But the looks on their faces told me they’d already made up their minds. My words were background noise.
“Please,” I cried, raw. “Please don’t–don’t take that away from me. I can’t lose this. I’m a man. I’m able-bodied. I’ve had sex before! I’ve had girlfriends! I’ve had an active sex life! I’m a normal man!! I’ve–” my breath hitched; the words tumbled into a choked sob. “I’ve had nine partners. I’m not lying. I’m not broken. Please, don’t take my dick away from me! God No!!”
The nurse nearest the door was smiling; another stifled a laugh behind her hand. The cluster of young nurses exchanged looks — the kind that read like gossip — then conferred in low, amused murmurs. Their amusement wasn’t malicious in the theatrical sense; it was the cold little thrill that comes from watching a spectacle resolve itself. To them, my pleading was part of the demonstration.
“Please,” I repeated, more desperately, glaring at my mother as if she could step between me and the prescription. “Mom–don’t–please. You don’t understand. I’m–” I pressed my face into my hands and sobbed. “I’m not a child. I am not. I have a life. I can–please.”
“Sweetheart,” she said softly, the tone of someone who has already weighed options and chosen what she believes will save the image of the son she loves. “This will stop the public scenes. It will stop the embarrassment.”
I shook my head wildly. “No! You don’t understand —you can’t just — just take that away! I’ll never–” my words faltered, my chest heaving. I could barely force it out: “I’ll never be with anyone again.”
The doctor didn’t flinch. “Correct,” she said simply. “This medication ensures you won’t have those complications. Intimacy is not a realistic expectation in the future.”
My mother reached out to squeeze my hand. “Sweetheart, it’s for the best. At least now you won’t have to worry about disappointing anyone.”
Her words, meant to soothe, cut deeper than anything the doctor had said. My chest burned. My hands trembled in hers, not with comfort but with despair.
Despite this devastating news, my erection refused to subside. In fact, it twitched. Desperate to make my point, I clasped my member at its base and wagged it, “Look! Look at me! I get boners! I jerk off! I like women! I… you can’t take this away!!! You can’t take away my manhood!! Please don’t do this to me…”
My mother rubbed my shoulder, her tone hushed but firm. “Timothy, enough. Don’t embarrass yourself more. You don’t need to pretend.”
Desperate to plead my case and save my manhood, I tried a different approach, “B-but… what if I meet someone?” I swallowed hard, barely able to get the words out. “What if I… what if I fall in love? What if she wants to be with me… intimately?”
Dr. Peters didn’t even flinch. She folded her hands neatly over her lap, her posture precise. “Timothy, that will not be possible. You must understand — once you begin this route….your body will no longer have the capacity for that kind of relationship.”
I blinked at her, horror pooling in my eyes. “Oh god no…. no, I… please! I like sex, I want sex! I need sex, I urr… I’m a man. I’m a normal man!! God, please!!”
She cut me off with a small shake of her head, her tone clinical, final. “You will never experience arousal in the way normal men do. You will not sustain desire. You will not perform. To a partner, Timothy, you will be the equivalent of a baby brother — present, affectionate perhaps, but never a man in the physical sense.”
My mouth opened, then closed again, as if the words themselves had struck me dumb.
“Listen carefully,” she continued, her voice lowering, more deliberate. “Do not cling to fantasies of being intimate. You will spare yourself endless torment if you accept this now. Your role in any relationship — if you ever have one — will not be as a lover.”
A soft laugh escaped one of the nurses at the back, stifled quickly. My mother’s lips tightened, torn between pity and a strange resolve.
I slumped forward, burying my face in his hands. “Please…” I whimpered. “Please don’t say that. Please don’t take my dick away from me. I’m normal, I am… I could be… I could love someone properly…”
But the doctor’s words came like iron. “No, Timothy. You will not. That door is closed. You must no longer think this way. Accept it now, before it destroys you. Intimacy, as you imagine it, will never be possible for you.”
The nurses exchanged knowing smiles, and my mother gently patted my hair, treating me more like a boy than a grown man. My cheeks burned, my chest heaved — but I knew, in my heart, they had already decided who I was. And who I would never be.
I groaned and whimpered, gently tugging my little erection, still hoping to prove a point to them. No one seemed to care. Dr. Peters leaned forward and gently brushed the tip of my little hard-on. “It’s no real loss. Those thoughts will eventually disappear. You won’t even dream about women when the drugs enter your system and those embarrassing little erections….” She paused, her eyes slowly meeting mine, “won’t ever happen again.”
At that revelation, a shiver ran up my spine. Just like that, my erection suddenly faltered, collapsing like a falling tree, metaphorically cut at the root. I looked down, mortified as it dwindled and retracted into my pubic mound. All the while, Dr. Peters maintained that sad, sympathetic expression. Her eyes wandered downward, and she felt compelled to say, “See….. it’s gone,” I groaned in despair as she added, “the last erection you’ll ever have, and it’s gone. So underwhelming…. Just imagine, you won’t ever have to feel this embarrassed ever again. You can just… be.”
And just like that, she stood back and snapped off her gloves. It was as if she were ending a routine appointment rather than ending someone’s sex life completely, eradicating someone’s manhood and identity. “That’s all, then,” she said, slipping the file closed before shooting a look at my mother. “Please make sure he starts the course immediately.” She didn’t look at me as she spoke; her eyes were already on the next sheet of paper. The clinical finality of it landed like a verdict.
The fluorescent lights suddenly seemed harsher somehow, the air colder.
I felt exposed in a way no nakedness had ever managed — stripped down not only physically but by authority and procedure.
I shuffled out of the room, the practiced mortification of this strange new existence making every step feel preordained.
The walk to the pharmacy was worse than I’d feared. My mother moved beside me with calm efficiency; people glanced at me, some with curiosity, some with pity, and a few with amusement. My chest tightened with every stare. By the time we reached the counter, my palms were slick. My hand hovered over the small amber bottle as the pharmacist counted the pills and slid the packet across the counter — the very thing that had been described in clinical terms minutes before, now a cold, present object in my mother’s palm.
I wanted to plead, to beg. I wanted to snatch them back and throw them away. Instead, I heard myself whispering apologies I didn’t mean to the indifferent air. My mother’s voice was quiet but firm: “We’ll start this tonight. It’s kinder.” The pharmacist offered the normal procedures about dosage and side effects, their practiced voice a background hum, “two pills twice daily, to be taken with food. Within a week, you will not be able to achieve an erection…”
The walk back to the office was an agony of tiny humiliations. I kept my head down, feeling the sting of every reflected look. At one point, my mother fell into a domestic, offhand line — “I never wanted grandchildren, anyway,” she said lightly, as if deciding my future could be folded into a household preference. “Now you won’t have to worry about that. You can be happy without pretending.” The words were meant to soothe; to me, they were a razor.
Remorse and rage tangled in my chest. I tried to push into my mind the memories that had once defined me — my old high-flying career, my Porsche, my inner-city high-rise, and of course, the endless women who seemed to swoon whenever I swaggered into the room confidently. The heaving, the passion, the sexual encounters that left me feeling more than a man, spent, satisfied, and proud. The gorgeous women who satisfied me, who I’d managed to satisfy. The hot, steamy passion, the dirtiest of fantasies explored… yes, I was a man’s man, a confident, able-bodied stud who went about spreading his seed, my sex life more than satisfying. It defined me. I was a man….. Now… I was nothing. Those recollections burned in my mind like photographs in a sunless drawer: vivid, untouchable. The knowledge that those experiences were being erased felt like a physical amputating: not just of function but of identity.
I pictured faces, remembered touches, the short-lived braggadocio that had once steadied me: balls deep into a bronzed, toned goddess, plastering my hot load across her face… god, the feeling of raw masculinity, how I was worshiped, how manly and powerful I felt…. Now those memories tasted like salt. I understood, in a slow, sick clarity, that the pills were not merely a treatment — they were an eraser. They would dull my appetite for life in one of its deepest forms and, cruelly, they would permanently bar me from giving what I had once taken for granted. My dick… would essentially become nothing more than a useless appendage for the removal of bodily waste.
By the time we reached the office building again, I was hollowed out. I moved through the familiar doorway like a ghost passing through the life I’d known. My mother’s assurances — practical, maternal, utterly unemotional in their finality — clung to me: safer, kinder, less embarrassing. I felt none of the consolation she believed she offered. All I carried back from the pharmacy was the weight of the bottle in her hand and the gnawing certainty that, in a matter of days, the things that had made me feel like a man would be gone. That certainty settled into me and left me feeling, in the rawest sense, worthless.
The door closed behind us with a soft click, and the air of the office wrapped around me differently than before. It dawned on me that this was a workplace that had witnessed my undoing, the same corridors where my nudity, my failures, and my humiliations had already been paraded.
My mother guided me forward with a gentle but unyielding hand on my shoulder. “There we are. Back now,” she murmured. The bottle of pills clinked softly in her purse, each sound a reminder of what was to come.
I tried again, desperate to claw back even a shred of agency. “Mom, please…. I’m fine. I don’t need those pills. I don’t.” My voice cracked halfway through, undermining the force I’d tried to muster. It came across as less a man making a stand and more a boy throwing a tantrum.
“Timothy, enough!”
Her words cut deeper than any public snicker or sideways glance. They were spoken to with love, but they annihilated me all the same.
Jane looked up as we entered. The curiosity on her face quickly shifted into a kind of sympathetic softness as she caught sight of my expression. My mother didn’t hesitate, stepping right into the conversation without consideration of my shame.
“The doctor’s confirmed it,” she said matter-of-factly, as if reporting a dental cavity. “Micropenis. Medication will make sure he doesn’t… well, act out anymore. Better for everyone this way.”
I froze. The words landed like a thunderclap in the room. I dared not look at Jane, but I felt her eyes on me — not mocking, not cruel, but brimming with pity. That pity was worse. Pity said: you are less.
I wanted to scream that it wasn’t true, that I had lived, had conquered, had been wanted. Instead, my throat locked. My cheeks burned. My mother kept talking, explaining the “treatment plan” as if Jane were a co-guardian who needed to be briefed.
Inside, I was collapsing. Every memory of conquests, of charm, of my old life, rose in defiance against what was happening. But even those memories twisted against me, mocking me with what I’d lost. A man who had once been desired, now reduced to a case file, a patient, a boy whose mother explained his inadequacies at the office front desk.
“The doctor says the medication should start working within the week,” she explained calmly to Jane. “That will settle things. No more… incidents.”
I winced. Incidents. The word clung to me, reducing everything — every private part of me — to a clinical embarrassment.
Jane’s brow furrowed. “That quickly?”
“Oh yes,” my mother replied, with brisk certainty. “She was very clear. Erections will stop altogether, and that will be for the best. He won’t have to worry about urges leading to humiliation anymore.”
The words landed like stones against my chest. I tried to open his mouth to protest, but all that came out was a broken whimper.
Neither woman looked at me.
Jane nodded slowly, though her eyes flicked over to me, soft with pity. “It might… save him from more pain, then. Poor thing’s been through so much.”
I wanted to slam my fists on the desk and bellow, “I am not a boy!” I’ve been with women; they wanted me, they desired me! But I couldn’t. The shame pressed down on me, pinning me silent.
My mother continued, unflinching. “And it means he’ll stop chasing things he can’t give anyone. He can focus on work. I never needed grandchildren, not really. Better that he’s safe and stable than deluding himself with all this manhood nonsense.”
Each word was a knife. Safe. Stable. Manhood nonsense.
Jane gave a small, sympathetic laugh — light, but it rang like a funeral bell in my ears. “You’re right. It’ll be kinder in the long run. It’s just… sad, I suppose. So many things in this life he’ll never get to experience.”
My vision suddenly blurred. I pressed my palms to my eyes, but it did nothing to stop the hot sting. They weren’t cruel. That was the worst of it. They weren’t mocking. They were simply stating, with maternal certainty and pragmatic sympathy, that my life as a man was over.
My mother snapped her handbag shut and turned to me with the same tone she’d used when I was twelve. “I’ll pick you up after work, darling. Don’t fret. Just get through the day. We’ll start your prescription tonight.” She gave me a brisk kiss on the temple — a mother’s goodbye — and was out the door before I could form words of protest.
The office felt cavernous in her absence, though it was only Jane and me. I stood there, vulnerable, exposed, and insignificant. It was unbearable — as if I’d been dropped off like a child at daycare, told to behave until Mommy came back.
Jane lingered near, her arms folded, watching me with that same pained softness she’d worn the whole day. Her voice was gentle, the kind you’d use to soothe a hurt animal. “Oh, Timmy… I’m sorry. I know this must feel… heavy.”
I lifted my head, eyes wet, jaw tight. “Please,” I croaked, my voice cracking. “Jane, please. You’ve got to help me. I can’t– I can’t let them do this to me.”
Her brows pulled together. “Timmy…”
“I need it! I need my dick to work!” my voice rose, desperate, raw. “I’m not useless! I am a normal man! I’ve been with women — I’ve made them laugh, I’ve made them want me. I’ve… I’ve lived! You’ve got to believe me. You can’t just let them take my manhood away!! Please!!”
She moved closer to me, her hand resting lightly on my arm. The pity in her touch was unbearable. “I don’t think you’re useless. I don’t. But–”
“But what?” I snapped, voice shaking. “This–this medication, will…. It will….. I won’t be a man anymore. It will take my dick away from me. I’ll be nothing. Nothing at all…. Please, Jane. Say something. Say you’ll help me. Say you’ll stop them.”
Her lips parted, then closed again. She looked at me the way one might look at a wounded bird, unsure if saving it would only prolong the suffering. “Timmy…” she whispered. “I… I don’t know if I can.”
The words punched through me, worse than any mockery. I slumped forward, gripping my hair, the edges of my pride and hope disintegrating in her sympathetic silence. “It’s for the best. Someone so inadequate shouldn’t really be concerned with procreation anyway. I think once you let go of those silly feelings… you’ll feel better. Trust me, you’ll be happier. Calmer.”
I groaned, my eyes meeting hers.
“Take, for example, this crush you have on me… It’s sweet, really, but… doesn’t it hurt? Knowing that… It’s useless?…. trust me, once you start this route… those feelings will vanish. You won’t think about that anymore. You won’t see me that way anymore. You’ll be happier…. It’s for the best, you’ll see.”
I shuddered before breaking down, sobbing into my palms as she gently rubbed my bare back, “there, there… It’s okay. You’ll be fine. It’s not a big deal. You’ll adjust.”
I knew I had to do something, to defend myself, to come up with some sort of plan. But in that moment, I was so utterly defeated, a complete broken shell of a man. I knew that evening I’d be taking medication that would essentially be taking away part of me that I once regarded highly…. But that’s a story for another day.
To Be Continued…?

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