The Indiscreet Doctor, the title story, begins with a simple case of back pain and ends in a moment that reshapes the narrator's understanding of his own body. Dr. Becker, a stoic, broad-shouldered physiotherapist, offers more than just clinical relief. In the silence of the treatment room-under hands that know where to press and how deep to go-boundaries blur, and something raw awakens.
"Undress and lie down," he said, handing me a towel. His hands were strong-calloused but precise. I felt the weight of them on my back, the heat of his skin near mine. A murmur of pain. A slow pull of pleasure. And when I woke, confused and aroused, my body remembered something I couldn't explain-only feel.
These are stories where masculinity isn't just performed-it's lived in sweat, in discomfort, in need. Where arousal doesn't ask for permission and tenderness hides behind firm hands and silent gazes. The Indiscreet Doctor is not romance. It's carnal memory-the kind that stirs again when the door closes and you're finally alone.
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