The Stallion of the Three Balls novel · Chapter 1 of 12
Chapter 1: Physical Treatment
"Since I can't cure you through the mind, Lalo, I'm going to have to start the treatment physically."
Dr. Valentina Dávalos told me that as she closed my file.
She said it in the same voice she'd used to recommend breathing exercises, journaling my thoughts, and stop comparing myself to other men.
I was sitting in the leather armchair in her office, hands between my knees, ears burning.
I'd been in that chair for six Thursdays.
Six weeks talking about my mother, my workshop, my ex, and the three balls hanging between my legs.
Yeah, three.
I was born that way.
Polyorchidism, the doctors say in hushed tones.
An extra testicle on the left side, small, harmless, confirmed by ultrasound.
It didn't hurt.
It didn't get in the way.
What got in the way was my head.
Because the last woman who saw it laughed.
Her name was Jessenia, she was twenty-seven, and she had the sharpest tongue in Quito.
She laughed and let out a phrase I haven't been able to get out of my head for fourteen months.
Since that night, no woman has seen me naked.
And my dick, the traitor, hasn't gotten hard when someone's watching either.
"Physically how?" I asked, swallowing.
The doctor got up from her desk.
She was thirty-six, with long dark brown hair, black plastic glasses, and honey-colored eyes that made me sweat every Thursday.
Under her white coat, you could see wide hips and a waist that didn't belong in any serious conversation.
"Come to the exam table."
"You and me?"
"You and me."
"Doctor, I don't know if..."
"Lalo." She stopped in front of me. "We've been talking for six weeks. You tell me you know what's happening. You understand it. You repeat it perfectly." She held my gaze. "And you still can't. The body learns differently."
I didn't know what to answer.
She walked to the exam table at the back, covered in white paper.
She stopped beside it.
And then she did something that didn't fit into any of my fantasies or my worst nightmares.
She reached under her skirt.
She took off her panties.
She left them on the chair, small, black lace.
She sat on the exam table.
She lay back.
She opened her legs, skirt bunched up around her hips, and I saw, under the cold office light, a half-shaved pussy, glistening, gorgeous, that knocked the air out of me.
She crooked her finger at me, with a flirtatious smile no medical textbook recommends.
"Come here."
I stood up.
My legs wouldn't obey.
I crossed the office like a sleepwalker.
I reached the foot of the exam table.
"Doctor, I don't..."
"No 'doctor.'"
"No what?"
"No 'doctor,' Lalo. Here you call me Valentina."
"Valentina."
"Better."
She took my hand.
She brought it to her knee.
Her skin was warm and soft.
"Go up," she whispered.
I went up.
My fingers scraped the inside of her thigh, calloused from grease and wrenches, and she gasped.
"What hands you have."
"Mechanic's hands."
"I see." She closed her eyes. "Keep going."
I reached the top of her thigh.
I froze, my fingertips a millimeter from her heat.
She opened her eyes.
"Touch me."
"I don't know if..."
"Don't think. That's the problem."
I touched her.
Just a brush, up and down.
She let out a long sigh, and under my fingers I felt how wet she was.
She was hot, slippery, alive.
Something stirred inside my pants.
A tingle, a pull.
Something I hadn't felt in fourteen months.
Valentina noticed.
She looked down at my crotch.
"Lalo."
"Tell me."
"Look."
I looked.
There was a bulge under my mechanic's pants.
Hard.
Tense.
Real.
My eyes filled with tears before I could stop them.
"I thought it wouldn't..."
"I know." She smiled tenderly. "I thought so too, for you."
"And now?"
"Now the treatment continues."
She grabbed my shirt and pulled me toward her.
She kissed me.
It was a doctor's kiss, firm, tasting of mint and coffee.
My tongue found hers, and my hands went on their own to her waist.
"Take off your shirt," she ordered against my mouth.
I obeyed.
She took off my belt, unbuttoned my pants, and pulled down the zipper.
She reached inside.
When she took hold of me, I cried out.
"Shhh."
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize for this."
She pulled it out.
She stroked it, slowly, with cold, steady fingers, looking at it with a clinical attention that almost made me laugh.
"It's very pretty," she said.
"Don't say that."
"It's a professional opinion."
She squeezed the base and slid her open hand up, and the pleasure was so sharp I had to grab the edge of the exam table.
With her other hand, she pulled my pants down a little more.
She exposed my balls.
All three.
I tensed up instantly.
I waited for the laugh.
I waited for the awkward silence.
She looked at them calmly.
And she touched them.
With her fingertips, one by one, with immense gentleness.
"How beautiful," she whispered.
A sob escaped me.
Not from sadness.
From something stranger.
"You're lying to me."
"I'm your doctor." She looked up. "I don't lie about anatomy."
She kept stroking me, and I couldn't speak anymore.
I closed my eyes.
I let her do it.
Her hand went up and down, the other cradled my balls warmly, and I was breathing like a bellows.
"Valentina."
"Tell me."
"If you keep going..."
"Not yet."
She stopped.
I opened my eyes.
She had lain back down again and was looking at me with her legs open and her face flushed.
"First, come here."
"Where?"
"Here."
She pointed between her legs.
I leaned in, nervous, my knees trembling, and braced my hands on either side of her body.
Then someone knocked on the door.
Three sharp raps.
And the voice of an older man, from the hallway.
"Valentina, are you in there? I need to talk to you."
She froze.
So did I.
With my dick out and my pants around my thighs, I looked at her.
She covered my mouth with her hand and, in a low voice, without moving her lips, whispered:
"It's the director."
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