by Xavier Mayne
Now, I had just given my first blow job ever, and I was self-aware enough to credit its efficiency to Trevor’s desperation for release. There was just no way I was that good the first time out—it seemed like I suddenly had too many teeth, and I was constantly worried I was going to bite him. Trevor, though—he rose to the occasion and went at his task with the mouth of a practiced whore and the work ethic of a lumberjack. It was like his mouth—and, to be honest, his throat—had been shaped and formed for the express purpose of bringing my cock to ecstasy. There were stars dancing around my head as I simply tried to keep my knees from buckling. I fought with all my might to keep from collapsing into him.
I didn’t fight long.
The orgasm he pulled me into was like nothing I’d ever experienced. It started deep inside, with a cold seizure that gripped parts of me I hadn’t even been aware of before. Then my balls pulled up, threatening to return to their ancestral home, and the icy sword that had penetrated me turned into fire, spreading heat from the base of my erection to somewhere deep inside Trevor’s throat. It was then that my cock turned into an obscene fire hose. I wasn’t aware of individual spasms, but rather a constant, overwhelming pressure that opened the tip of my cock and held it open as everything I had created flowed into him. I shook all over, and though I seem to recall a somewhat less-than-masculine whimpering, I held strong.
Until I collapsed on top of him.
He took it well, bless him. I don’t know if I could have handled a cock being driven down my throat by the full weight of the body it was connected to, but Trevor did it. He lifted my hips slightly to ease me out past his tonsils, and then I was able to roll onto my side. He kissed the head of my cock, lapping up the last dribbles of the load that had blasted directly down his throat.
It took me a minute or two to catch my breath.
“How do you know how to do that?” I croaked. “That was the most amazing thing ever. I think I died a little at one point.”
He smiled and gave my cock one last kiss before sliding up the bed to look me in my no doubt bloodshot eyes. “Don’t think because you flatter me on my first try I’m not gonna keep practicing on you,” he replied with a grin. “But I guess when your parents have drummed it into your head that the only sex you’re ever going to have is with a woman, and only after you have married her because otherwise you’ll make Jesus cry, you tend to fantasize a bit about other ways the whole sex thing might work out.”
“I’ve fantasized too. What you did was well beyond fantasy.”
“I may have studied some porn too,” he said with a laugh. “I figured I might never get a chance to do it for real, so I spent a lot of time working out what my technique would be like if it ever happened.”
“You nailed it,” I told him, then kissed him. “I will never experience anything better than that.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure,” he said, wrapping his arms around me. “We have the whole weekend.”
“Yes, I did partake. I mean, I was sexually intimate with other males during high school.”
“Ah,” Rauthmann replied, nodding sagely. “Many men experiment at that time in their lives.”
“I did more than experiment,” Sandler said in a voice that he managed to tinge with equal measures of pride and regret.
“I see.” Rauthmann stood, walked around the desk, and leaned against it meditatively, looking Sandler up and down. “Are you currently troubled by thoughts of intimacy with men?”
Not currently, Sandler thought, because looking at your ugly bigoted face has pretty much taken care of that. “Yes… yes, I am.”
“Even when you are intimate with your wife?”
How unhappy Rauthmann’s patients must be if they come to him because they hate themselves for picturing men when they are having sex with their wives. He felt bad for everyone involved. Except Rauthmann. “Yes, especially then.”
“And you wish to be free of these… thoughts?” Rauthmann asked gravely.
“I would do anything, try anything, to be free of them.”
“What have you tried in the past?”
“I went to counseling in my church, and then to a psychologist. Those didn’t help, and I was pretty depressed by my failures there, so then I went to a psychiatrist who prescribed medication. When that didn’t help, I felt I was out of options. Then my wife heard about you. I think….” Sandler paused to daub at his eyes, thankful that his high school drama career had left him with the ability to cry on demand. “I think you are my only hope. I just want to be normal, Doctor. Is that too much to ask? To be normal?”
“No, of course it isn’t,” Rauthmann replied, something like compassion creeping into his voice for the first time. “There is a protocol I have developed that may be of some help in cases like yours.”
“Has it helped other people?” Sandler looked up at the doctor, his eyelashes heavy with tears.
“While the mainstream psychiatric profession will tell you it’s impossible, I have achieved positive results even in the most extreme cases.”
“And these men you treated, they went on to be straight and happy?”
“I can tell you that not one of them ever expressed an interest in being intimate with a man again. Even in cases where the habit of homosexual intimacy was well established.”
Sure, if you count the dead ones as straight, Sandler thought, but he managed to keep his disgust from showing on his face. “That sounds like the answer to my prayers.”
Rauthmann beamed.
“Can you tell me what this protocol involves? Just so I know what to expect.”
“Certainly. Under clinical observation, I administer a drug that is known to be effective in altering the sexual identity. I will observe you throughout the day to ensure that the correct dosage has been administered, and you’ll stay the night for additional observation. By the end of the second day, you should be able to return home—not necessarily a new man, but a better one.”
“And this treatment is entirely safe?”
“Absolutely. The drug is one that has been approved in the United States, and by the relevant authorities here as well. It’s taken—in smaller doses—by hundreds of thousands of people every day.”
Sandler wasn’t at all sure he’d gotten anything from Rauthmann that would justify revocation of his license. But he felt to probe more would arouse suspicion, so he simply looked up at Rauthmann. “I had almost given up hope of ever being truly happy.”
“What you must understand is that homosexuality does not offer happiness. Homosexuals are interested only in gratifying their sexual urges. There is nothing in the way of emotional attachment in their coupling, only the satisfaction of base, animal desires. For happiness you must look to your wife, for there is no love between men.”
“You’re beautiful, you know,” Trevor said as I brought a bowl of popcorn into the living room.
We were spending a blissful Sunday morning watching old movies, entwined on the couch. We were, of course, naked.
“You’re just saying that so I’ll sleep with you.”
Trevor laughed. “We hardly slept at all last night. I’m a little sore, and I think I fell asleep during the last part of Heathers. Now I’ll never know how it ends.”
“I hardly watched it myself. You started snoring, which was distracting enough, but then you started to get hard, so I just sat here staring at your dick for like a half hour. It was mesmerizing. Then you woke up, and I got hungry.” I kissed him on the nose. “Now you’re all caught up.”
Trevor cuddled up, tucking himself under my arm with his head resting on my chest. “I could stay here forever,” he purred contentedly.
“I wish you could.”
He looked up at me. “Why can’t I?”
“Because my aunt and uncle are going to get home eventually, and they may have something to say about us lounging about naked.”
“For you I might even put clothes on. Eventually.”
“Very dignified.” I sprin
kled some popcorn on his head. “There. Even better.”
He laughed and flicked the kernels at me. “Seriously, though, I love being here. With you.” He paused for a moment. “I love… you.”
Warmth surged through my chest, fluttering up into my throat. He’d said what I’d been thinking all weekend, afraid to say it. “I love you too.” It was a huge relief to finally give voice to what had been on the tip of my tongue for what seemed like forever.
“Did we just… say that?” Trevor asked, his voice awestruck.
“We did. And the world didn’t come crashing down upon us. We’re guys, and we love each other. And it’s okay.”
“More than okay,” Trevor said. “It’s perfect.”
We never did see the end of Heathers. We debauched my aunt’s sofa for a good solid hour, then collapsed again in a tangle of blankets and some stray kernels of popcorn.
Flushed and glistening with hard-earned sweat, Trevor kissed me and then looked me seriously in the eye. “Are we really doing this? We’re really in love?”
“Yes. You keep asking that as if you expect my answer to change.”
He shrugged. “I’ve sort of been conditioned to fear the worst when it comes to sex. Especially this kind of sex.”
“Trevor, you have to accept the fact that we are normal. We fall in love, we mess around; then maybe someday we get married and have six kids. The usual stuff. Relax.”
“Six kids? Oh my God.”
“I’m just teasing you. It’s not like I’m going to run out tomorrow and tattoo your name on my chest or something.”
“You’re not?” he said with a pout. “That’s heartbreaking.”
“Shut up, you,” I scolded, whacking him with a sofa pillow. “I’m not really the tattoo type, anyway.”
Trevor looked at me thoughtfully. “Let’s say you were going to get a tattoo. What would you get and where?”
“I just told you—your name across my chest.”
“No, seriously. Come on, this is the stuff people talk about when they’re… in love.”
He was adorable. Clearly he’d been convinced by his parents or their church or whatever that he wasn’t worthy of love, and he was having a hard time reconciling that with the fact that he was sitting next to a naked man who both loved him and wanted to rub his dick all over him.
“Okay, a tattoo. Let’s see. Something dignified and classic.” I pondered this for a long moment while the opening credits for the next movie we wouldn’t actually watch started up. “I’d probably get a tattoo of the winged sandal of Hermes.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to travel someday. Hermes was the messenger of the gods, and so he was always on the move. I think it would be a good reminder that in order to really live, you need to see new places and do new things.”
“Where would you put it?” he asked.
I had to think about that for a minute. “It would need to be someplace where people wouldn’t see it until I wanted them to,” I replied.
Trevor ran his hand down my chest to my hip. He drew a little circle with his finger along the V-line, just above where my pubic hair began. “Here,” he said. “Put it here, and only I will see it.”
I looked down and saw my cock beginning to stir, even though it was still damp from the last adventure. Just the proximity of his finger was all it took to get me going again. “Well, if I ever get over my pathological fear of needles, I’ll keep your suggestion in mind.” I shuddered. “You should see me at the blood drive—giving blood’s a good thing, but I have to do it with my eyes closed. If I ever caught sight of them sticking that needle into me, I think I’d scream, barf, and faint, and not necessarily in that order. I’m kind of a mess that way.”
“You’re not a mess, and I’d still love you even if you were,” Trevor said, edging his hand inward from my hip. He quickly encountered a substantial—and growing—obstacle, and that was fine with me.
“I love you Trevor Hendricks.”
“I love you, Sandler Birkin.”
“Right. Sex, not love. Just so. Doctor Rauthmann, you are exactly what we’ve been looking for.”
“Excellent,” Rauthmann replied, standing and gesturing toward the door. “Let’s join your wife in the outer room, and give her the good news.”
Clinic director’s office, Geneva
“THANK YOU for taking the time to see me, sir,” Brandt said as the man behind the sleek imposing mahogany desk stood and extended his hand. The chamber they stood in was the epitome of a stultifyingly dignified office, heavy with dark paneling and armored against natural light by heavy brocade curtains that blocked any hint of the sun. Even sound was muffled—by the thick Persian carpet and voluminously stuffed chairs—as if to discourage any possible objection.
Brandt took the doctor’s hand. Though his hands were small, they were as strong as steel traps, and the firm grip surprised Brandt.
“Mr. Brandt, is it? I am Dr. Galen Schwegler, director of the clinic. How may I help you today?” the doctor asked, sitting back down behind the desk and smoothing the white lab coat that overlaid his sharply tailored suit.
“I’ve come to talk to you about one of the doctors who works here,” Brandt began.
“First, I must clarify,” Schwegler broke in. “The doctors who practice here are not employees. They are independent practitioners who contract with the clinic. We provide space and support staff, but we do not in any way monitor or control their work.”
“I understand that, sir,” Brandt replied, “but surely if one of the doctors who practices here is the subject of a lawsuit, the clinic would wish to avoid any implication that you in any way sanctioned his work.”
Schwegler nodded and opened his mouth to respond, but Brandt forged ahead.
“Or that you were warned of potential malpractice and did nothing to address it.”
Schwegler’s eyebrows lifted. “There is always the chance that anything a doctor does, no matter how proper, may be viewed by someone with imperfect understanding as malpractice. This is particularly true of Americans, I have found.” Schwegler’s words were polite but his tone made clear the implication—that Brandt was a troublemaker from overseas. “We cannot let the lamentable state of jurisprudence keep doctors from doing what they know is best for their patients.”
“But surely you have an obligation to act if you are informed that one of the doctors working here is acting irresponsibly.”
Schwegler’s eyes narrowed. “Let us leave behind this vague talk, Mr. Brandt, and deal with particulars. Are you here to make an accusation?”
“I am simply here to inform you that one of your doctors continues to use a therapy that has been discredited in every study that has examined it, and that the pharmaceutical company that makes the drug he uses in his protocol is taking action to stop him.”
Schwegler sat back in his chair—if he was startled by Brandt’s statement, he made no sign. He took a deep, measured breath and let it out slowly. “Do you know why this clinic exists, Mr. Brandt?”
Brandt shook his head, wondering what Schwegler was getting at.
“It exists to offer treatments that people may not have access to in their own country—pioneering therapies that face a long and bureaucratic approval process. National health care systems are by nature conservative, slow to adopt promising new procedures. Switzerland is different because we rely on private practitioners and hospitals. We can innovate in ways many other countries cannot.”
“But that’s also true in—”
“The United States?” Schwegler interrupted with a condescending smile. “I can tell from your accent. The United States presents a challenge of a different kind. With no national health system, one would think that innovation would abound. And it does. But it brings two untoward side effects: lawyers and charlatans. There’s a charming phrase in English… let me see… ah, yes. ‘Snake oil salesman.’ Americans are beset by medical fraud, which then encourages an infestation of lawyers. Real
physicians, the ones who want to advance medical science to benefit their patients, suffer from the presence of both. If real doctors offer real hope, they are accused of being grifters. And if their results are not perfect—and they never are, not on the frontiers of medicine—they get sued out of existence. And so we open our doors to the pioneers, Mr. Brandt, to give them a place to innovate for the benefit of their patients. Patients with nowhere else to turn.”
“But a doctor who pushes the bounds shouldn’t endanger patients by doing so.”
“That is an objection often made by those without an understanding of how medicine works. Breakthroughs are not made by incremental clinical trials. Small, halting progress is, but not real, paradigm-shattering breakthroughs. The advancement of medicine requires risk. And doctors must be free to undertake such risk on behalf of patients with no other options. Tell a man whose son is dying of rapidly metastasizing cancer that a new therapy will be available—once clinical trials conclude, sometime in the next decade. That’s not medical progress, that’s a death sentence. If a doctor can offer another option—even one that carries with it some risk to the patient—is that really an option you wish to see suppressed, whether by government regulation or by fear of lawsuits?”
“Are you actually claiming that no amount of documented negative outcome is enough to compel a doctor to stop offering his ‘option’ to desperate patients? How many have to die, Dr. Schwegler?”
Schwegler’s face hardened. “Again, I must insist that if you have a specific accusation to make, you make it. Otherwise I have more pressing matters to see to this morning.”
“Dr. Rauthmann. I’m here to talk to you about Dr. Rauthmann.”
Schwegler pursed his lips and lowered his gaze to the desktop. It was a momentary gesture, but it told Brandt all he needed to know. He was not the first to talk to Schwegler about Rauthmann.
The doctor recovered quickly. “And what is it that concerns you about Dr. Rauthmann?” His tone conveyed his utter lack of curiosity in any answer Brandt might make.