The Follow Up

You return to the clinic after the three days, heart hammering, your loose sweatpants doing almost nothing to hide how little you’re packing. The memory of your neighbor’s amused laugh still burns—her eyes on your minuscule hard-on and those tiny raisin balls. Natalie greets you at the front desk, her tight scrubs hugging every curve, that knowing smirk playing on her lips as she looks you up and down.

“Are you ready? Good boy. Dr. Moore and Cathy are excited for your full panel today. Observation room this time more thorough data collection.” She leads you down the hall, her ass swaying, and your little cock twitches uselessly in your pants.

The observation room is larger, colder, with bright lights, an exam table covered in fresh paper, and a large two-way mirror dominating one wall. You can feel eyes behind it already. Natalie hands you a cup. “Start with urine. Fill it to the line. Don’t be shy—we’re watching your flow closely for the panel.”

You step into the small attached bathroom, door left slightly ajar on purpose. Your hands shake as you pull out your soft, tiny penis barely more than a thumb’s worth even when you try to aim. Those small balls hang loose and **** beneath it. You strain, the stream finally starting weak and hesitant, splashing a little on your fingers. It feels like it takes forever for the cup to reach the line, your pathetic flow sputtering. You know they’re timing it. When you finish, you seal it, face burning, and hand it to Natalie waiting outside.

“Nice and clear, but low volume again,” she notes clinically, eyes flicking to your groin. “Cute effort.”

Back in the main room, Cathy enters with Dr. Moore—a tall, stunning redhead in a low-cut lab coat. Both women smile professionally, but there’s heat in their gazes. “Strip to socks only, please,” Cathy purrs. “We need accurate flaccid measurements first.”

You obey, peeling off your clothes until you stand naked under the bright lights. Your small dick hangs soft and shrunken, maybe 2 inches at most, thin and unimpressive. Your testicles look even smaller today, tight from nerves, barely 2.5 cm as previously noted.

Cathy snaps on gloves, her full breasts brushing your thigh as she kneels. “Flaccid penis measurement.” She lifts your tiny shaft with two fingers, as if weighing something trivial. The ruler comes out. “Flaccid length: 5.1 cm. Girth… 6.8 cm. Very modest.” She jots it down while Dr. Moore watches. “Testicles next.” Her warm hands cup your small sack, rolling each one gently. “Left: 2.4 cm. Right: 2.5 cm. Poor volume, soft texture—consistent with low T.”

The humiliation washes over you in waves. You’re rocketed between shame and unwanted arousal, your little dick twitching slightly in her grip.

Blood draw comes next. Natalie ties the band around your arm while Cathy holds your other hand “for comfort,” her cleavage on full display. Two vials fill quickly. “We’ll run the full panel again—free testosterone, total, SHBG, everything. Your last results were… illuminating.”

They have you lie back on the table, legs slightly spread. More measurements scrotal skin, taint sensitivity. Every prod and note makes your face hotter. “Subject exhibits immediate vasocongestion despite minimal size,” Dr. Moore comments, glancing at the mirror.

Finally, Cathy hands you a fresh specimen cup. “Time for the semen sample. We’ll leave you to it, but we’ll be right behind the mirror for real-time observation. Maximize volume if you can, sweetheart. Use the lube if needed. Hit the button when you’re close or finished.”

They step out, the door clicking shut. You’re alone, but not really. The two-way mirror stares back at you like a judgmental eye. You sit on the edge of the table, legs dangling, and wrap your fingers around your tiny soft cock. It grows—sort of. To its full, embarrassing erect size. You stroke slowly at first, trying to ignore the feeling of being watched.

Behind the glass, you imagine their eyes: Cathy biting her lip, Natalie whispering notes. Your hand moves faster, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room. Your small balls pull up tight, barely moving as you pump. Pre-cum leaks generously from your small head, but the shaft itself looks so thin, so short in your grip.

You’re lost in it, hips bucking, when the door opens suddenly. Cathy and Natalie step back in mid-stroke. “Stop right there,” Cathy commands softly. Your hand freezes, cock throbbing angrily in the air undersized and ****.

“Erection measurement, now,” Dr. Moore says from the doorway. Cathy grabs the ruler again. Your heart pounds as she presses it against your stiff little dick. “Length: 10 cm exactly. Girth: 10.16 cm. Still quite petite, even at full mast. Good boy for holding it.”

The numbers hit like a ****. 10 cm long. Barely four inches. You throb harder at the humiliation, the clinical tone making it worse. They don’t let you cover up. Instead, Cathy nods. “Continue. We’ll observe closely.”

You resume stroking, mortified but unable to stop. Their eyes burn into you from mere feet away now. Your tiny balls bounce pathetically with each frantic tug. The pressure builds fast too fast. Hearing those measurements out loud your maximum size reduced to clinical inadequacy pushes you over.

You gasp, grabbing the cup just in time. Your orgasm is weak but intense: a few thin, watery spurts, barely filling the bottom of the cup. Most dribbles down your thin shaft onto your fingers. “Quick again,” Natalie murmurs approvingly. “Low volume, low motility expected.”

You slump, spent and humiliated, cum still leaking from your shrinking micro-cock. They take the sample and hand you wipes.

Cathy returns alone a few minutes later as you sit there naked, softening completely again. She pulls up a chair close, her knee brushing your inner thigh, eyes locked on your groin. The two-way mirror looms behind her.

“Well, your free testosterone is around 185 ng/dL, so that definitely needs some updating,” she says, voice smooth and professional but laced with something hotter. “Our concerns revolve around your relatively young age. You are far too young to be this low, but far too old for this to stimulate new growth…” She gestures directly to your groin, her fingers nearly brushing your spent little penis and those tiny balls. “As you can see, we’re working with limited material here. We are going to customize your injections, but I need to know… is more testosterone what you want? Or maybe you have interest in more estrogen?”

Her eyes sparkle with erotic promise, lips parted slightly as she waits for your answer, the air thick with clinical temptation and filthy possibilities…