When I was a young(er) man, I wanted to earn some extra cash by selling my sperm to a local sperm bank. I figured that the sperm of a blond, blue-eyed Viking would sell like hot cakes and find its way into countless wombs and eggs all over the world.
I went a couple of times to make a deposit. My college campus was in the old town as was the sperm bank, so I could easily visit it during the day. There was something extraordinarily delightful about masturbating between classes in the comforts of a clinic with coloured magazines and being paid to do so. I could think about the many young and beautiful freshman or sophomore girls in my classes or I could peruse through the already then retro magazines with big-boobed, hairy women receiving cocks in all openings. A nice change from the economics textbooks.
However, after a few times, the clinic told me that my sperm quality was subpar and suggested that I had it examined. So I did.
After having deposited a sperm sample and the prescribed blood tests at the central hospital, I got an appointment with a fertility doctor.
She was a nice-looking mature woman, twice my age, Swedish (not that unusual since I was living in Copenhagen at the time right across the narrow sound from Sweden), and completely no-nonsense business-like. She had flat shoes, a knee-long black skirt and rather tight blue sweater under the white lab coat with the mandatory pens and flashlights in her breast pocket and a stethoscope around her neck. She had loose, medium blonde hair with some grey in it. A very appealing face. She wore a dark red lipstick but otherwise very little make-up.
She greeted me, and we sat down on opposing sides of her desk. She leafed through some papers. She asked me the usual questions about drugs, sexual habits, disease history etc., and made notes as I answered. She smiled a lot. Then she went over the results from the tests. Sperm count, share of motile spermatozoa, STD markers. Everything checked out fine. Nothing to suggest anything problematic, although she emphasised that sperm banks might have higher standards than strictly necessary from a "normal" fertility perspective.
There was also a physical side to the examination, she then laughed. She drew the curtains albeit half-heartedly: you could still see (and be seen from) the other parts of the hospital across the street. Then she asked me to stand up and draw down my pants and boxers. She then rolled over to me on her office chair, realigned the desk lamp for better light. "I need to examine your testes for any possible irregularities", she continued.
She put on latex gloves and immediately took hold of my balls one after the other. She felt. Thoroughly. She rolled each testicles between her fingers while absorbed in her own thoughts. My cock stirred. First invisibly from the outside, then noticeably. The cool office air and her fondling was exciting. So was the thought that someone looking out the window across the street could watch my comprehensive examination.
"It happens," she said drily. "Since guys don't go to the gyno like girls regularly do, someone else's hands down here is usually sign of something sexual." That did not exactly help. My cock was soon pointing out horizontally above her hands and towards her face. She moved the shaft around, routinely to get a good look at and feel of the balls. She sure took her time. She seemed absolutely unconcerned with my growing hard-on, which made it extra titillating.
She rolled the chair back on her side of the desk. She made some notes and looked something up on her screen. She said nothing, and I was left standing with my pointy dick not sure what to do. When I was almost convinced, I should have dressed and taken my seat again, she rolled back towards me, removed her gloves and grabbed my balls again. My cock immediately jolted and resumed its rise, which had otherwise reversed somewhat in the absence of her hands.
