SPH-THEMED EROTICA STORIES

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Part 3: The Final Prescription…

One month later, my office after dark.

The vials are lined up on my desk like fragile little soldiers. Twelve of them. Each filled with Edward’s thin, watery ejaculate, carefully dated, logged with the obsessiveness of a boy who has never had any control over his own body. I flip through the notebook while he stands naked in the corner, hands behind his neck, just as I commanded on his first visit. Linda sits in the leather guest chair with her knees pressed together, her breath shallow, her nipples hard through her silk blouse.

“Volume has not increased,” I say flatly, snapping the notebook closed. “Spurt force remains negligible. Viscosity is still close to water. Color has not deepened. Texture is immature.” I sigh and let the clinical disappointment hang in the air. “Your body is simply not producing adequate seminal output, Edward. The basic masturbation protocol has failed.”

Edward’s narrow chest hitches. His tiny cock twitches against his hairless groin. Even now, at the sound of his own inadequacy, a clear bead of pre-cum wells at the slit.

I stand and gesture to the examination table. “Up. Stirrups.”

He obeys immediately. That is the real progress. A month ago he hesitated, blushed, trembled. Now he climbs onto the table and places his ankles in the stirrups without being told twice. His legs fall open, exposing that little nub of a cock, the small cupped scrotum, the grape-sized testicles, and the tight pink pucker between his cheeks. I pull on a glove and approach.

“Erect,” I order.

He shudders. His tiny prick firms until it points at the ceiling, not even three inches, thin as my thumb. It bobs pathetically. Pre-cum leaks a steady thread.

I squeeze the shaft between two fingers. “Still barely above two point eight inches. Still no pubic hair. Still the genital development of a ten-year-old.” I run a gloved thumb over the wet head, and he whimpers. “You have been drinking every drop of your own useless seed, Edward. And it has done nothing.”

Linda’s breath hitches. I glance at her. “You followed my instructions?”

“Yes,” she whispers. “Every morning and every night. I watched him masturbate into the vial. I made him drink it while it was still warm. I logged everything.”

I nod. “Then we move to the advanced protocol.”

Edward’s head lifts. His eyes are wet, but his little cock jerks again. He knows. I told him this might happen. I told him what it would mean.

I remove the glove, walk to the side door, and open it. “Marcus. Come in.”

Marcus steps through fully nude. He is twenty-eight, a former patient of mine, built like a swimmer, with dense muscle and smooth brown skin. His cock hangs heavy, even soft, a thick veined club that swings against his thighs. As he sees Edward spread open on the table, the cock thickens, half-mast, then rises slowly until it stands at full length—nine inches, dark and slick at the tip.

Edward makes a small, broken sound. His entire body flushes crimson. And still his tiny prick leaps, pre-cum spilling onto his stomach.

I smile. “This is your donor, Edward. From now on, you will consume fresh semen immediately after ejaculation. Not your own thin excuse. A virile male’s load. Straight from the source.”

Linda’s hands curl around the armrests. Her lips part. She does not look away.

I snap my fingers. “Off the table. On your knees.”

Edward scrambles down. His legs shake. He kneels on the leather mat beside the table, hands still behind his neck. Marcus steps in front of him, close enough that his drooling cockhead hovers an inch from Edward’s nose. The scent is thick, masculine, undeniable.

“Open your mouth,” I say.

Edward’s jaw trembles, but he opens.

“Wider.”

I grip his cheeks with one hand, forcing his mouth wide. With the other, I guide Marcus’s heavy cock forward until the fat head pushes between Edward’s lips. Edward gags instantly, his throat convulsing, but I do not let go.

“Suck,” I tell him. “Show him how grateful you are for real cum.”

Marcus slips deeper, two inches, then three. Edward’s cheeks hollow, then bulge. Tears stream down his face. His small cock stands straight up, drooling into a puddle on the mat. The room fills with wet, choking sounds.

I run my hand through Edward’s hair and pull his head down harder. “This is what a cunt mouth is for, Edward. This is all you are good for. Swallowing what real men produce. That tiny thing between your legs is a joke. But your throat can still serve a purpose.”

Linda shifts in her chair and slips a hand under her skirt. I can hear the wet sounds of her fingers moving. I do not stop her.

Marcus begins to thrust, slow at first, then faster. His balls slap against Edward’s chin. Edward gags and drools, spit running down his chest, but his little cock keeps leaking. He is harder than he has ever been, and we both know why.

I lean close to his ear. “You are leaking like a broken faucet, and no one has even touched your little prick. That is because you belong on your knees. You were never meant to fuck anyone. You were meant to be fed.”

Edward’s eyes roll back. His hips twitch. He is close, so close, just from the humiliation of having a real cock fill his throat.

Marcus groans. “He’s tight. Swallows good.”

“He will swallow everything,” I assure him. “Pull out and finish on his face. I want him to see what he is consuming.”

Marcus pulls out, slick with Edward’s saliva, and strokes himself with rough, fast pumps. Edward stares up, mouth still open, tongue out. His tiny erection bobs helplessly.

The first rope hits his tongue. The second paints his upper lip and nose. Marcus groans and pumps out thick, white ropes across Edward’s cheeks, chin, and open mouth. The cum is heavy, plentiful, almost yellow-white. Edward gags at the taste, but he does not close his mouth.

“Swallow,” I order.

He does. I see his throat move.

I scoop the remaining cum from his face with two fingers and push them into his mouth. “All of it. Lick me clean.”

He sucks my fingers. His tiny cock jerks, a thin thread of pre-cum leaking onto the mat.

“Good boy,” I murmur. “Now stand up and bend over the table. We are not done.”

Edward rises on shaking legs and bends over the examination table, his chest pressed to the leather, his ass pushed out. I cuff his ankles to the floor and his wrists to the sides of the table. His little cock is trapped between his body and the cushion, still hard, still leaking.

I pull on a fresh glove and coat two fingers with lubricant. His hole is tight, but he has learned how to relax. I push one finger inside, then two. He moans into the padding.

“There it is,” I say as I find the firm little walnut of his prostate. “The only way you can ever produce anything worthwhile. Milked like a damn animal.”

I press down in slow, firm circles while my other hand reaches between his legs to pinch the leaking head of his tiny cock. Edward sobs, his body trembling.

“Please,” he whispers.

“Please what?”

“Please let me cum.”

I laugh softly. “You do not need permission to cum. You need permission to feel like a man. And you will never get that.”

I increase the pressure. My fingers work his prostate in a steady rhythm, milking him from inside, while my thumb rubs the tiny frenulum. His hips jerk. His breath comes in high, thin gasps.

“Cum for me, little boy,” I say. “Squirt your pathetic seed into the vial. Show us all what a useless cock really produces.”

Edward convulses. His tiny cock erupts in three weak little spurts, thin and pale. The semen dribbles into the steel vial I hold beneath him. Not even half a tablespoon. His body shudders, then goes limp.

I raise the vial to his lips. “Drink.”

He opens his mouth and lets me pour the thin, milky fluid across his tongue. He swallows every drop.

Then I take out the final piece of the prescription: a small stainless-steel chastity cage. It is so small it fits in the palm of my hand.

I crouch down and take his spent little cock in my fingers. It is soft now, shriveled to less than two inches. I slide the ring behind his testicles, then fit the cage over his shaft. It encloses him completely. There is barely enough room for the little head to press against the front slot.

I snap the lock shut.

Edward lets out a long, broken whimper.

I hold up the key, then press it into Linda’s hand. “This is the only key. You will keep it. His penis is now sealed away. It is too small to be used for anything except urination and occasional milking. If he is not being fed by Marcus or another virile donor, he stays locked.”

Linda closes her fingers around the key. Her eyes are glassy, her lips wet. “Thank you,” she whispers.

I turn back to Edward. His little cock twitches inside the cage, the soft head bulging through the front slit. He is still leaking.

“Before you leave, Edward,” I say, “tell me the prescription.”

He swallows. His throat is hoarse from sucking cock. “I will remain locked at all times. I will kneel for Marcus every Friday. I will swallow his cum straight from his cock. I will continue twice-daily milking into the vial. I will drink every drop of my own semen. I will log volume, force, color, texture, and viscosity every day. I will never attempt penetration of any kind.”

I nod and stroke his damp hair. “Good boy. You have finally accepted what you are. Welcome to the rest of your life.”

I unlock the cuffs and watch him pull on his clothes, slowly, wincing as the cage presses against the fabric of his jeans. Linda stands and takes his arm, leading him toward the door like a mother escorting a defeated child. The little steel cage clicks faintly with each step he takes.

Before the door closes, I call out one last command.

“Next Friday, Edward. Do not be late. Marcus does not like to be kept waiting.”

The door clicks shut.

I pour myself a glass of wine and sit down behind my desk. On the desk, the twelve vials of Edward’s cum sit in perfect rows, each one labeled in his tiny, trembling handwriting.

I have not felt this satisfied in fifteen years.

The End.

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