Deathly silence once again enveloped the small examination room.
Only Shivani and her son, Rohan, remained, along with that still semi-erect, quietly standing, yet silently menacing, thick and massive penis...
A large amount of pre-ejaculate continued to slowly seep from the urethral opening, pooling on the white sterile paper covering the examination bed into a small, increasingly large, sticky, wet patch that reflected a cold light.
Shivani's lips moved soundlessly as she rapidly recited more prayers—beseeching Lord Ganesha to remove obstacles, and Goddess Lakshmi for protection and normalcy.
But deep in her heart, an icy, piercing voice echoed: This is not a blessing from the gods.
This evil form, the pure agony on her son's face—this could not possibly be a sacred gift symbolizing fertility and prosperity.
Was my devotion insufficient?
Did my overly strict, almost harsh discipline of Rohan over the years anger some deity?
Or was this punishment for living and doing business in England, away from India, and inevitably straying from tradition in certain ways?
Rohan let out a stifled, broken sob, pushed to the absolute limit. Tears finally overflowed, mingling with sweat, carving shiny, humiliating trails down his pale, bloodless little face.
That sob was like a whip, snapping Shivani out of her religious reverie.
At this moment, there were no deities, no punishments, no business negotiations.
Here, there was only a suffering, helpless son, and a mother who must take action.
She walked to the bedside, the hem of her sari brushing against the cold floor with a soft rustle.
She stopped by the bed, looking down at her son.
"Look at me, Rohan."
Her voice was unnervingly calm, even as her heart hammered wildly in her chest, pounding painfully against her eardrums.
"We can get through this. We must, to understand what is truly happening to you."
The boy looked up at her through tear-blurred eyes, his gaze fixed on her mature, beautiful face that bore a striking resemblance to the French actress Monica Bellucci. His eyes were filled with utter pain and shame.
Shivani took a deep breath, the air seeming to carry ice shards that stung her lungs.
Then, she reached out and, without any barrier, directly grasped that scorching, terrifyingly large organ.
She immediately recoiled her fingertips from the shocking, intense heat!
She faintly remembered her husband's warmth—a gentle, mild heat. But the temperature here, at her son's, was like the burning fever of a sick patient, clearly abnormal—just as Dr. Carter had said.
This discovery sank her heart even deeper into despair.
She firmly closed her fingers again.
These hands—the same hands that had prepared his meals, checked his homework, and stroked his forehead all night when he had a fever; these hands that followed religious rules, kept themselves clean, reserved only for sacred household duties and necessary work—now resolutely held a monster she could not comprehend, one that even filled her with fear.
The thing was slick with prostatic fluid, its texture sticky and nauseating, pulsing vigorously in her palm.
Each throb transmitted a scalding heat and an astonishing sense of power, instantly causing fine beads of sweat to form on her palm.
She began to mimic Dr. Carter's earlier motion, sliding up and down—something she had never even done for her late husband.
For a traditional Hindu woman like her, sex was meant for sacred procreation, not sensual pleasure, let alone such explicit manual service.
Her movements were initially extremely stiff and awkward, her joints clumsy with tension and discomfort.
But soon, the remarkable control over her body and actions, cultivated through years of strict self-discipline, came into play.
Squelch, squelch…
She found a rhythm, her arm movements becoming steady and consistent, though every stroke against that thick, scorching member churned her stomach.
"Look at me," she whispered, both a command to her nearly broken son and a self-hypnosis. "I'll only teach you this once. It's almost over, almost done…"
The pre-ejaculate flowing from the tip grew thicker, slick, and warm, coating her entire palm and fingers, even trickling down the delicate skin of her inner wrist—a nauseatingly sticky sensation.
Shivani clenched her teeth, her breathing erratic. Beneath her high, elegant nose, her delicate nostrils flared rapidly, and the muscles of her fair cheeks tensed.
Squelch, squelch, squelch… She quickened her pace, increasing the pressure.
The muscles in her upper arms and shoulders visibly tightened, their graceful lines faintly visible beneath her sari, revealing the broad, hourglass-shaped back and resilient strength shaped by years of disciplined exercise.
Yet, after five minutes, her breathing grew heavier and deeper, her towering chest rising and falling dramatically.
A bead of sweat seeped from her dark temple, tracing the sharp, defined curve of her cheekbone down to her elegant jawline, before silently dripping onto the embroidered edge of her sari's neckline, leaving a small, damp spot…
Another fifteen minutes passed.
Her lips were pressed tightly together. The sari shawl draped over her back was soaked with sweat, revealing a dark, inverted triangle of dampness that clung to her subtly shifting back muscles…
Another twenty minutes… She was drenched in sweat, her forehead damp, a few strands of black hair escaping her meticulously styled bun, sticking to her sweaty forehead and cheeks.
Her breathing grew ragged, her chest heaving violently, her full breasts swaying with each breath.
Her arms felt leaden and weak, each lift and fall now requiring immense willpower. The muscle fibers in her forearms trembled faintly beneath her thin skin, yet she still bit her lower lip fiercely, almost drawing blood.
With astonishing perseverance, she maintained that mechanical, soul-draining motion…
Rohan's body finally began to tremble more intensely.
His breathing became fragmented, rapid, and irregular. His slender fingers clawed desperately at the already crumpled bedsheet beneath him, knuckles white and prominent, nails digging into his palms.
"Mom… I… feel… strange… like I'm going to lose control…"
His voice was halting, filled with the agony of a breaking point and an inexplicable physiological panic.
"Let it out!" Shivani glimpsed a sliver of hope in her despair, commanding him with an almost fierce tone, her voice cold and hardened by desperation.
Her bun had completely come undone, her black hair disheveled and draped over her shoulders, clinging to her neck and cheeks with sweat. The usual grace and neatness were gone without a trace.
She continued the maddening stroking with one hand while the other trembled as it grabbed the wide-mouthed sterile collection bottle. Gasping for breath, her voice hoarse and nearly broken, she rasped, "Shoot it all out! Aim for the bottle!"
The flaccid base of the penis could be easily manipulated. She adjusted the glans, pointing it slightly downward, aligning it with the bottle's opening.
The final moment came violently and abruptly.
Rohan's body arched backward as if struck by a high-voltage electric current. The veins in his neck bulged, and from deep within his throat erupted a sharp, inhuman whimper—a sound mingling extreme agony with some form of release.
Immediately after, a massive amount of thick, nearly paste-like milky-white semen shot out with astonishing pressure and volume—a wet, explosive "splat." This was not the typical few spurts common in adolescent or adult males, but a continuous, powerful, volcanic eruption, as if suppressed for far too long.
One, two, three... over a dozen times!
It seemed endless!
The massive organ throbbed violently and spasmodically during ejaculation, each convulsion releasing more semen... yet it never reached a fully rigid, iron-hard state.
It was utterly bizarre. Like a dying yet terrifyingly vital giant serpent, in its final frenzied convulsions, it expelled all the accumulated, abnormal "venom" stored within.
When this prolonged eruption finally ended after nearly half a minute, the wide-mouthed bottle had collected nearly half its volume with thick, milky-white fluid!
Even more astonishing was that, due to the immense pressure and the semen's extreme viscosity, a large amount of the thick, white, sticky fluid had splattered outside the bottle's mouth, clinging to the rim and stretching into long, snot-like strands that slowly dripped down.
Shi Wani's hand gripping the bottle felt almost glued by the sticky fluid, creating an absurd illusion that it might not come off... The semen's texture was as thick as paste, and the quantity far exceeded any medical textbook's description for males—not a few milliliters, but dozens...
Rohan seemed completely drained of all energy and spirit, collapsing limply on the examination bed. Only the faint rise and fall of his chest remained, his eyes vacant as he stared at the ceiling.
Meanwhile, the penis that had just produced such a terrifying spectacle, after ejecting that shocking volume of semen, finally began to shrink—slowly, visibly.
Even in its fully softened state, its base size remained unnaturally large, hanging there quietly, the skin slack and reddened from overuse. It was unclear how long it would take to barely return to its original "underdeveloped," diminutive appearance.
Good heavens... He didn't even have pubic hair yet, clearly indicating delayed overall development. But why...
Exhausted, Shi Wani released her grip. The sticky residue coating her hand made her nauseous.
She had always paid close attention to him—his studies, manners, diet... But clearly, this "health" had never included his private physiological development.
Her identity as his mother and strict religious upbringing had subconsciously led her to avoid this aspect.
And his father was long gone.
With a lonely, forced effort, she pushed herself up. The good physical strength from years of regular exercise barely supported her now.
She walked to the sink, her arms trembling and weak, and set down the heavy collection bottle—the half-filled container of thick, white fluid resembling some ominous evidence. Then, turning on the faucet, she scrubbed her trembling hands repeatedly with strong disinfectant.
The icy water stream washed over her skin, rinsing away the memory of those sticky, slippery, scalding sensations. Yet she knew that feeling—the astonishing size, the unsettling semi-soft, semi-hard texture, the throbbing veins, the searing heat—had already been branded deep into her skin's memory and nerve endings, unlikely to fade for a long time.
She turned and looked at her son curled up on the bed.
Rohan was huddled with his back to her, his thin shoulders still trembling silently and subtly.
His penis hung limp between his legs. Though significantly shrunken, it remained considerable in size. The tangled veins on its surface had not fully receded, and the foreskin was swollen and shiny from prolonged rough handling—painful just to look at.
Shivani picked up the collection vial, carefully tightened the lid, and attached a label. The vial still carried a lingering warmth, the residual heat of a living body.
She stiffly, determinedly maintained a calm expression on her face, but felt her cheek muscles rigid as a plaster mask.
"Clean yourself up."
Her command sounded especially cold and harsh, strained by exhaustion and suppressed emotion.
Rohan's sense of shame had long since shattered. He merely complied mechanically, wiping the mess between his legs with a tissue in a perfunctory manner.
He kept his eyes tightly shut, as if not seeing could help him escape reality, yet tears continuously welled from the corners of his eyes, soaking the hair at his temples and the white paper beneath him.
"Get dressed." Shivani felt as if something were choking her throat; all words of comfort were blocked in her chest, unable to emerge.
She could only fall back on the habitual exercise of maternal authority, speaking in that oppressive, artificially calm tone, "We're going home."
Rohan moved like a robot following inputted commands, slowly and clumsily pulling on his pants, struggling several times before successfully zipping them up.
Shivani looked out the window.
The London sky had darkened again at some point, thick, low-hanging gray clouds looming overhead.
She softly and rapidly recited a prayer to the Trimurti, familiar since childhood, seeking the protection and guidance of the supreme beings.
But today, for the first time, these sacred syllables—which had brought her comfort countless times and even helped her emerge from the shadow of her husband's death—tasted so hollow and powerless, dissipating into the cold air thick with the smell of disinfectant and semen.
The collection vial in her hand felt heavy, a mix of cold and warmth. It didn't feel like a medical sample, but more like a ticking bomb, uncertain when it might explode.
Before leaving, she met once more with Dr. Carter, who had regained her professional composure.
The female doctor looked at the mother, drenched in sweat and appearing utterly disheveled, with inner respect.
She offered a sincere apology for her earlier lapse and inquired in detail about Rohan's feelings after ejaculation.
"Regular ejaculation can somewhat alleviate the pain caused by his abnormal congestion, but this is only a temporary measure that doesn't address the root cause," Carter privately explained to Shivani, her tone cautious. "Next time... perhaps we could try letting him handle it himself, in a private setting. The psychological pressure might be less. This time taking so long might have been due to excessive tension?"
She paused, uncertain herself, because her professional knowledge told her that male tension typically leads to premature ejaculation—lasting longer was completely contrary to the norm.
She added, "I'll notify you by phone as soon as the semen analysis results come in. Rohan's condition is indeed... highly unusual. No wonder his testicles are so large—his ejaculation volume clearly exceeds normal physiological limits."
"Next, we'll need to schedule a reproductive system ultrasound examination. That will require a separate appointment."
Shivani keenly noticed the fleeting, barely concealed shock and confusion in the female doctor's eyes as her gaze swept over the collection bottle containing the astonishing volume of semen.
Of course, Shivani understood—even ten ejaculations from her late husband couldn't compare to Rohan's...
What was happening to Rohan?
On the way home, a cold drizzle began to fall over London.
Shivani drove the conservatively styled black sedan, her hands resting weakly at the ten and two positions on the steering wheel.
The shawl of her sari had slipped slightly from her left shoulder, revealing the elegant curve from her neck to her collarbone and the rounded slope of her shoulder—skin that glistened with a pearlescent, cool-white sheen in the dim light of the car due to excessive perspiration.
Even a faint blue vein could be seen gracefully disappearing into her collar along the side of her neck.
"I've scheduled the ultrasound with Dr. Carter," Shivani said abruptly, breaking the almost suffocating silence in the car as she casually brushed aside the sweat-dampened hair clinging to her cheek.
Her eyes remained fixed on the street ahead, cleared and blurred again by the rhythmic sweep of the windshield wipers.
"Thursday afternoon, at three. I've already adjusted the company meeting."
Her tone was flat, as if she were merely stating a routine schedule change.
"Thank you, Mom."