Chapter 5
The next eight sessions with Dr. Wojcik followed procedures similar to those laid laid out previously. Each time, I was forced to mount the table, allow myself to be strapped in place on the apparatus, then slowly driven to a state of sexual near-madness. I was never allowed to thrust the first time, then positively forced to the second! I hated the control she had over me, and several times resolved ahead of time to not thrust no matter what. I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of watching me rut her hand like a stud-horse. But, alas, her ministrations to my member grew increasingly expert as each session passed, and soon she knew exactly what to do to coax out my animal passions.
I dreaded the moment each time when I lost control, and succumbed to my overiding need to begin thrusting. At that moment, her face would invariably light up in a half smile, and she would often say something like, "Mmmmm, that's better", or, "Yes, I knew you needed to do some nice thrusting, didn't you?", or, in a mock-serious tone, "Now now, don't take so long next time, Mr. Douglas! There's no need to be shy here, you know!", followed by a mocking laugh of triumph.
She became increasingly brazen and domineering in her handling of my manhood. Once, her handphone rang in the middle of the first, non-thrusting part of a session. To my utter astonishment, she cradled the phone on her neck, and carried on a perfectly normal-sounding conversation in a thick, strange foreign language, even as she continued her gentle, slow pumping. I could hear a woman's voice on the other end, obviously a friend of hers. On and on she chatted, sometimes laughing, sometimes asking questions, then quickly barking out several observations, while I was still being unceremoniously milked. It was an absurd combination.
Finallly, she released my shaft, wiped her left hand clean of the white lotion, , then walked over to her desk and picked up her black appointment book. It was placed on the examination table beside my right knee, and then, grasping my penis again with her right hand, she resumed teasing me while talking on the phone and rifling through the pages of her appointment book. It was as though she were churning butter, I thought. When I ejaculated, she didn't even notice until several dollops of warm semen landed on her forearm. Frowning, but still chatting, she quickly pointed my shaft away from her, as I continued to spasm uncontrollably. Then she gingerly grasped my shaft with the tips of the fingers of her left hand, trying to get as little of the whitish lubricant on her fingers as possible, and then scraped the semen off her arm, using my penis as a scraper!
Unfortunately, I was still in the final throes of orgasm, and this scraping created a powerful additional stimulation, and actually induced several more spasms. Consequently, even more scraping was required to remove that new deposit. Just to be sure, she matter-of-factly rubbed what semen remained on her forearm onto my legs. Then, without a further glance at me or my penis, she released my dangling member, sat down behind her desk, lifted her substantial legs onto the seat of the other chair, and, reclining comfortably, carried on with the conversation for another 15 minutes or so, oblivious to my presence. I waited to dismount at her pleasure.
Despite all this I was managing to keep my sanity - barely! I eventually gave up trying to hold off my thrusts, sensing that she enjoyed watching me break down, and instead took the opposite approach. At the beginning of the second session, I began to thrust almost immediately after getting an erection. Yes, I knew just what to do, what my appointed role was, and I guess I finally decided that there was no point in resisting further. My penis belonged in her hand, and once it was returned to its rightful abode, and in a suitably erect state, it was my duty to perform for her as she expected. If she stepped away for a moment or two to attend to the computer, I waited, patiently, then, as soon as she returned and that hand engulfed my member, I immediately resumed a steady humping action. After a while, it almost seemed normal! Amazingly, Dr. Wojcik and I seemed to have established some sort of grim equilibrium.
About the third session, she began to collect my semen. I didn't dare ask why, although I assumed it was for chemical analysis. As I approached the ejaculation point, she would pull a small glass beaker from her labcoat pocket, about two inches high but with a flared neck. I noticed that it was graduated, with the quantities in cc etched in the glass. My ejaculations at first caused some trouble, because the first spurt would often fly out at high speed, followed by a more or less steady stream that tapered off to a dribbble in a few seconds. The first time she attempted the collection, , she held the beaker too low, and the semen shot over the top. The next time she got it right, but the subsequent pumps fell to the floor before she could react.
Eventually, she got it right, even to the point of adjusting her positioning of the beaker depending on whether it was my first session ejaculation, or the second. It almost became like a game to her. I think she took pride in her skills in catching all of it. Holding the beaker almost horizontal at first, she waited for the first violent spasm to send the white substance shooting forward, then quickly whipped the beaker into position under the head to catch the remainder of the 'drippings'. I wondered why she didn't just stick the head of my penis up against the mouth of the beaker, so as to be sure to not miss anything, but she never did. I suppose she did not wish to contaminate the sample with the white lubricating cream, and so invalidate the chemical analysis. After each collection, she noted the quantity, date, and time on a label, jotted those same details in her notebook, then capped the sample and stored it in a tiny medical freezer located in the far corner of the room.
This led to an extremely nasty incident that occurred after Dr. Wojcik had collected samples for five weeks or so. I still shudder to think of it. By way of explanation, I must mention that my marriage had broken down almost completely after my trial and subsequent sentencing. My wife had wanted a trial separation, so I had rented a cheap apartment on the other side of town. I sorely missed the sudden loss of sex, so I , ahem, took matters into my own hands, so to speak. With increasing frequency. Despite the maulings I regularly received at the hands of Dr.Wojcik, I still took to beating myself off regularly just to relieve all the tension in my life.
After one particularly sad and lonely week-end, during which I managed to satisfy myself five times, I arrived Monday afternoon for my regular appointment. After the first session, I noticed Dr. Wojcik frown as she labelled the sperm sample.
"This is not good. You usually provide me with four cc of semen, first session, but today it is only two and a half!"
However, she did not persist any further in the matter, so I thought nothing of it. I quietly sat down and wearily awaited my second session. After I had performed a second time, in the usual manner, Dr.Wojcik measured the second sample. A look of pure alarm spread across her face.
"What is this? Only one and a half cc! Ridiculous! What have you been up to, Mr Douglas?"
I sheepishly just looked at her, with a 'what do you think?' look on my face.
Dr. Wojcik looked flustered and hot.
"Every session I get at least six cc of semen sample, today only four. At a minimum I smply must have at least five in total. This cannot be allowed. We must continue until we have the full sample."
And with that she angrily walked over to me, and began to roughly resume her pumping of my penis, a penis which had just ejaculated for the second time that afternoon only three minutes earlier! And that, after a weekend of five ejaculations! The agony! The over-stimulation was intolerable. In vain I immediately pleaded for her to stop. Her face was hard with anger. She pumped me angrily, roughly, and her finger pressure on the head of my penis was beyond imagining. No teasing this time. This was sperm extraction, pure and simple.
I screamed out in pain and discomfort, begging her to stop, but her face remained hard.
"This will teach you to waste yourself with your silly activities, when you know what my requirements are! One way or another, you will give me sufficient material for my study!"
And with that she mercilessly pumped away at my poor head - all pain, no pleasure at this point.
I was in a state so desperate that I screamed for help at the top of my lungs, hoping that my violent outburst would shock Dr. Wojcik into stopping. But the lady was not for turning. Only for pumping.
"You can scream all you like, Mr. Douglas. No-one will hear you. This room is completely sound-proofed. Now you'd better focus on giving me more material, because I can keep this up all night if need be."
And so on she went, pumping, twisting the head, roughly yanking on my testicles, finally reaching around and cupping my buttock with her left hand so that she could better slam her hand into the base of my pubic bone on the downstroke.
I became like a maniac under her ceaseless torture. I couldn't take any more.
"Damn you, you bitch " I shrieked. "You fucking cunt! You're killing me! I can't take anymore! Stop it! Stop it!"
She stopped for a moment, then looked up at me, pure hatred in her eyes. She clenched her teeth, then spoke quietly.
"Calling me names now, are we? It seems to me that the first time we met you called me some names, Mr. Douglas. Apparently you haven't outgrown this nasty habit of yours. Fine. Is that how you want it? Ok, Mr. Douglas, lets see what names you call me now!"
And with that she took both hands and grabbed my abused manhood, one hand mostly on the head, the other on the mid-section. She began to violently twist her hands simultaneously back and forth, in opposite diections, flooding my penile nerve-endings with an wave of extreme stimulation that was monumentally unwelcome. I thrust wildly back and forth, even side-to-side, in an attempt to shake those hands gripping my member like a terrier. To no avail. I bellowed like a castrated bull, but Dr. Wojcik showed no mercy. On and on it went. Tears began to fill my eyes. At last, somehow, I felt a slight pressure building, and out of the depths of my loins I managed to conjure up a weakest-of-all ejaculations, a mere ebb where once there had been a mighty wave. A tiny dribble of sperm popped out, and clung to the head of my penis.
Dr. Wojcik saw it and stopped, breathing heavily, still holding my shaft in both hands. My lungs gasped in huge quantities of air. For several minutes we remained that way, her hands locked on my insane shaft, the sound of our tortured breathing filling the room. I was so exhausted that my chin rested on my chest.
I saw her head lift and look me in the eye, fatigued, but still determined, and for a second I saw the memory of the words I had screamed at her cross her face. A flash of anger boiled to the surface there, and for a terrible instant I thought she was going to resume. I knew the dribble was insufficient to reach the five cc mark. And yet I knew I could not survive any more of this. Somewhere deep in my brain I summoned up what little reserves of rationality were left to me, and whimpered as gently and imploringly as I could.
