The Fertility Test
By Ghirga.
I was there for a semen analysis. My wife and I had been trying for eight months. Eight months of ovulation calendars, temperature charts, and her hand on my thigh in bed, squeezing just a little too hard, like she could will my sperm to be stronger. The fertility specialist had ordered the basic workup. Bloodwork for her. A sample from me.
I signed in at the front desk. The receptionist—a woman in her fifties with a tight perm and reading glasses hanging from a beaded chain—handed me a plastic cup and a brown paper bag. “Room 3B,” she said, not looking up. “The nurse will explain the procedure.”
I walked down the hall, past posters of smiling babies and diagrams of fallopian tubes. Room 3B was small, windowless, with a single reclining chair, a sink, and a small table with a stack of porn magazines. Playboy, Penthouse, a few dog-eared issues of Hustler. I sat down, tried to relax, and realized I couldn’t.
The door opened without a knock.
She was in her early forties, maybe. Dark hair pulled back in a tight bun. A white lab coat over blue scrubs. She had sharp, intelligent eyes and a no-nonsense way of moving, like she’d seen every kind of cock in every kind of condition and was thoroughly unimpressed by all of them.
“I’m Nurse Patricia,” she said. “You’re here for a sample?”
I nodded, holding up the cup.
“Good. You know what to do. Take your time. We need at least two milliliters, so don’t stop early.” She gestured at the magazines. “Some men need visual stimulation. That’s fine. If you need more, just buzz. There’s a button on the armrest.”
She started to leave, then paused. “One more thing. If you have any trouble… getting erect, or finishing… just buzz. Don’t try to force it. Some men have performance anxiety. It’s normal.”
I told her I’d be fine. She closed the door.
I sat there for ten minutes, flipping through a magazine, trying to get hard. The photos were airbrushed, the women plastic. My hand felt clumsy. My cock stayed soft, curled against my thigh like a sleeping mouse.
I buzzed.
When she came back, she didn’t knock. She just opened the door and looked at me, still seated, pants still up.
“Problem?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I… I can’t get it up.”
She walked in and closed the door behind her. “Stand up,” she said.
I stood.
She looked at my crotch. “Drop your pants.”
I unbuttoned my khakis and let them fall. My boxers followed. My cock hung there, soft and small, a pathetic little button of flesh nestled in a nest of trimmed pubic hair. I could see her eyes track down to it, then back up to my face. No expression. No pity.
“Okay,” she said. “Take a seat.”
I sat back down. She pulled up a rolling stool and sat in front of me, close enough that her knees touched mine.
“This is common,” she said. “Performance anxiety. You’re thinking too much. Let me help.”
She reached out. Her fingers were cool, clinical. She took my cock between her thumb and forefinger, lifted it, examined it like a lab specimen. She rolled my foreskin back, exposing the pink tip. I shivered.
“Average flaccid length is about three and a half inches,” she said, almost to herself. “You’re… one, maybe oneo and a quarter. That’s on the small side. But not abnormal. Some men are growers. Let’s see if you are.”
She started stroking. Gently at first, then firmer. Her palm was warm. She used a little spit from her thumb for lubrication. I could feel myself starting to swell—the blood trickling in, the stiffening, the slow expansion. She watched my cock grow, her eyes never leaving it.
When I was fully hard, she stopped. She measured me with her eyes.
“Two point seven inches,” she said. “Fully erect. That’s… well below the first percentile. You’re a true micropenis case.”
She said it like she was reading a weather report. No malice. No cruelty. Just fact.
“Does that… does that affect fertility?” I asked.
“Not directly. Sperm count is independent of size. But some men with very small penises have issues with sperm transport—the urethra is shorter, the ejaculatory duct can be underdeveloped. We’ll find out when you give your sample.”
She kept stroking me. Her hand was a machine. Up and down, up and down. I was close to coming, but I held it back.
“Don’t hold it,” she said. “Let it go when it’s ready.”
“I’m trying,” I said. “It’s just… I’m nervous.”
She stopped stroking. She looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time. “Tell me something. When you have sex with your wife, does it work?”
“Sort of. I mean, I can get inside. But it’s… I have to push hard. And she doesn’t really feel it.”
“She’s never complained?”
“She’s never said anything. But I can tell.”
“Tell what?”
“That she wants more. That I’m not enough.”
Nurse Patricia nodded slowly. She stood up, walked to the door, and locked it. Then she came back and sat on the edge of the recliner, her hip pressing against mine.
“I’ve been a fertility nurse for fifteen years,” she said. “I’ve seen hundreds of cocks. Big ones, small ones, twisted ones, ones with scars. And I’ll tell you something: the size doesn’t matter to me. But I know it matters to you.”
She took my hand and placed it on her breast. I felt the softness through her scrubs. “You want to feel like a man?” she said. “Then take what you want.”
I didn’t move. She unbuttoned her scrub top, pulling it down, exposing a plain white bra. She guided my hand inside the bra, onto her bare breast. Her nipple was hard.
She leaned forward and kissed me. Her mouth was warm, tasting of coffee. She pushed me back against the recliner and straddled my waist, her crotch pressing against my erect little cock. She rocked against it, grinding, and I could feel how wet she was through her scrub pants.
“I’m going to tell you something,” she whispered, her mouth against my ear. “Last week, I had a patient who came in here, same problem as you. Couldn’t get it up. His wife was waiting outside. He kept apologizing. I told him to relax. I took off my scrubs. I sat on his face. He came in thirty seconds without even touching his cock.”
She pulled back and looked at me. “You want to know what he said afterward? He said it was the best orgasm of his life. And do you know why? Because he stopped trying to be what he thinks a man should be. He just let go.”
She reached down and pulled her scrub pants down, just enough to expose her pussy. She was completely shaved, the lips slightly parted, glistening. She took my cock—still hard, still tiny—and pressed it against her clit.
“Just lie still,” she said. “Let me use you.”
She rubbed her clit against the head of my cock, back and forth, her hips rocking. I could feel every ridge, every pulse. She closed her eyes, her breathing deepening. “You’re perfect for this,” she said. “Exactly the right size for clit stimulation.”
I didn’t say anything. I just lay there, feeling her use my tiny erection as a toy. She sped up, her breath hitching, and then she came—a sharp gasp, her body shuddering, her pussy clenching against my cock. I felt her wetness soak my pubic hair.
She stayed on top of me, panting, then looked down. “Now you,” she said. “Finish.”
She climbed off, knelt between my legs, and took my cock in her mouth. Her tongue swirled around the head, her lips tight. She sucked hard, her cheeks hollowing, and I felt the pressure building. I came in six seconds, spurting straight into her mouth. She swallowed, licked her lips, and held up the cup.
“You didn’t use the cup,” she said. “But that’s okay. The sample is still good.”
She stood up, pulled her pants back on, and smoothed her scrubs. She unlocked the door and handed me a towel.
“Clean up, then come out to the front. The doctor will call you with results in a week.”
I dressed in silence. When I walked out, she was at the reception desk, typing. She didn’t look up.
But I saw the slight smile on her lips. And I knew that for the rest of my life, I’d remember the day a nurse used my tiny cock to get herself off, then swallowed my cum like it was nothing.
And I’d remember that she didn’t even need my permission.
The End.
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