Glencross Manor – Richard’s Story

Amateur

Author’s Note: Following on from the first Glencross Manor story, we turn our attention to Ruth’s donor, Richard, and how he came to be a donor at the formidable yet mild-mannered Mrs. Elspeth McEill’s rather unusual human reproduction and embryology institution, and his encounter with his first ever client. As always, all characters are over 18 and any similarities with any real life person either living or dead are entirely unintended and coincidental.

Right, on with the story! Enjoy!

———-

Glencross Manor – Richard’s Story

How did I come to find myself here? Here in this place – this sprawling country estate in the wilds of the Scottish highlands where ‘professional ladies’ and ‘stable but childless couples’ come to help make their dreams of having children of their own a reality? Well, it’s a question I’ve often asked myself, and now as I look back I never fail to smile at the memories of those first few weeks at Glencross Manor. To begin with, I only expected to be around for a few weeks – that was five years ago now, and I’m still here!

My story begins in my hometown of Leeds, in the summer of 2013. I was 23 at the time and studying accountancy at the University of West Yorkshire, and by now I’m sure you can guess the rest. Yes, I was the typical impoverished student trying to balance my studies with earning enough to keep myself fed and my share of the rent paid in the flat I shared with two girls, Heather and Molly. The three of us all came from similar working class backgrounds and were the first in our families to study at university. The girls both came from Sheffield, whilst I was a Leeds lad born and bred. I could have stayed at home with my parents in Wortley, a suburb of Leeds, but I wanted some independence from my folks. Another reason for living closer to the university was the shorter journey time to and from lectures and work.

I had a part time job, as did both of my flatmates, and I rather enjoyed my shifts in the fried chicken place near the city’s main rail station, but it was hardly the most well paid of positions, and as a result money was always tight. During one of our many evenings in together watching TV and drinking beer, I groused about how the girl’s jobs (they both worked in a shoe shop in the main shopping mall in the city centre) paid better than mine, and that if only I had the time for a second job to earn some more cash. It was then that Heather made a rather startling suggestion.

“You could always, y’know, donate some of your sperm!” she said, a proposition that immediately caused Molly to burst out laughing and almost choke on the mouthful of tortilla chips she’d just managed to swallow.

“You what?” I replied in bemusement at her idea. “Me? Becoming a sperm donor? One of those sad blokes who go and have a wank into a little pot in order to help some childless couple to have a kid because hubby’s firing blanks? No way!”

“No, I’m serious!” Heather insisted. “My brother told me he did it when he was at uni – he said it was the easiest money he’d ever made!”

“What? Karl? As in Mister “I’m an alpha male but with a soft, sensitive side once you get to know me” Karl?” Molly chuckled.

“Of course I mean Karl – he is the only brother I have!” Heather retorted.

“Unless there’s something your dad never told your mum about!” Molly giggled, which earned her a sharp jab in the ribs courtesy of Heather’s elbow.

“Forty quid a go, he told me,” Heather carried on in spite of Molly’s continued mirth at the subject.

“Forty quid? Just for going into a little room and having a wank in front of some porno mags with dog-eared pages that are all stuck together with other men’s jizz? Ewww!” Molly went on regardless of the frankly evil look that Heather was giving her.

“Look, it was just a suggestion, okay?” Heather said huffily as Molly continued to laugh unabatedly.

“Yeah, a bloody stupid one!” Molly fired back. “I mean, Richard? Becoming a sperm donor? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!”

“And what’s so ridiculous about it?” I said, weighing in to the developing argument myself.

Well, I had to, didn’t I – my virility was being called into question, and there was no way I was about to allow that to happen!

“You realise they only accept the highest quality cum, don’t you?” Molly sniggered. “I doubt your little swimmers would ever make the grade!”

“Well, we shall see, won’t we?” I said, feeling a sudden rush of bravado and determination to prove her wrong. “I’ll do it! And then we’ll see who’s laughing!”

And that was how it all began.

A couple of weeks later, following a chat with my doctor who made me an appointment for a sperm count, I found myself sitting in the fertility and embryology department of Leeds City Infirmary. It was a fairly typical NHS facility – plastic chairs, posters on the wall about various ailments, a receptionist ataşehir escort behind a glass screen and nurses to-ing and fro-ing through a set of double doors that led into the department’s inner sanctum. I was feeling a mixture of excitement and nervousness – excitement of the thought of being able to masturbate in unfamiliar surroundings and being able for the first time in my life to say that it was for a reason other than for self-gratification, and nervousness at what the ultimate result of my sperm count might be. The nagging thought that I might be totally infertile refused to go away. Several times as I waited for my name to be called, I considered backing out and going home, and I was about to get to my feet and do just that, until at that very moment my name was called.

“Richard Selworth?” the nurse called out as she approached the waiting area.

“Umm, yeah, that’s me,” I said as I stood up.

“I see you’re here for a sperm count,” she said, a little too loudly for my liking, as she consulted her clipboard.

“Er, yeah, that’s right,” I replied, feeling somewhat embarrassed.

Quite why I felt embarrassed I have no idea – there were six other men in that waiting room at the same time as me, and I expected they were there for the exact same reason! The nurse, a tall and elegant looking black woman whom I guessed was in her late thirties, led me through the doors and along down a corridor lined with doors.

“I’ll put you in room eight,” she said as she stopped outside one of the doors.

It had one of those vacant/engaged symbols you see on toilet cubicle doors, but apart from that it was just a normal plain door with the number 8 on it. The nurse ushered me in and handed me a small plastic pot.

“Erm, what do I do?” I asked her.

I know what you’re thinking – the most stupid question ever asked by anyone in the history of everything, right? But in my defence I was nervous and wasn’t really thinking straight.

“I’m sure it’ll come naturally to you!” the nurse said with a hint of amusement in her voice.

She was obviously trying to maintain a professional manner, but it was clear that she found my stupid question to be utterly hilarious judging by her lopsided smirk. If ever there was a moment when I would have loved the ground to open up and swallow me whole!

“When was the last time you ejaculated?” she asked me.

I’d been told to refrain from masturbating or having sex for a few days before my appointment, and I had followed the advice to the letter.

“Tuesday,” I replied.

“And was it through sexual intercourse or by masturbation?”

“Does it matter?” I replied, finding that particular enquiry to be a bit too personal.

“It’s not vital to us to know, but it can assist the technicians to know the full picture when they perform your count.”

“Oh, right. It was through masturbation,” I confirmed, feeling the heat of embarrassment in my cheeks.

“Right,” the nurse said as she jotted it down on the form on her clipboard. “There are some magazines and DVD’s to help you along should you need them. And there are some clean towels to sit on if you want them. All you have to do is just masturbate as you would normally, except that when you ejaculate you must do it straight into the sample pot. Don’t ejaculate onto your hands and then dribble it into the pot as it could cause the sample to be contaminated. Just ejaculate straight into it, trying not to let your penis touch the inside of the pot – again, that could cause the sample to be contaminated. When you’ve finished just put the lid on the pot and leave it on the table and we’ll do the rest.”

“Erm, okay,” I said as I took the little plastic pot from her.

I stepped into the room, closed and locked the door and surveyed the scene before me. Now, for any women reading this it’s unlikely you’ll have ever seen the inside of one of these rooms, so if you’ll indulge me for a moment I shall describe it for you. Firstly, if you think that a sperm production room is like some palatial, comfortably furnished room such as you’d find in a nice hotel, but with stacks of porn mags and pictures of naked women adorning the walls, then I’m afraid I shall have to disappoint you. The room I found myself in was small, windowless, and furnished in that distinctly institutional style that pretty much typifies the National Health Service. It wasn’t exactly like something from soviet Russia, but definitely not as plush as a private clinic. There was an armchair – one of those uncomfortable ones with wooden arms that you always find in hospitals – a low table upon which was a small stack of porn magazines, a box of tissues and a couple of fresh white towels. Mounted to a bracket on the wall was a small TV (not a modern flat screen, but an older style CRT) with a built in DVD player, and a few DVD’s lined up on a shelf. There was also a small washbasin in the corner of the room kadıköy escort with a small bottle of liquid soap. There was a framed picture on one wall – one of those fairly generic woodland scenes, and that was basically it. It was definitely a ‘no frills’ experience.

Well, now that I was in the room I had to just get on with it, didn’t I? So I took off my jacket and hung it on the hook on the door, sat on the chair and untied my shoes and once I slipped them off I took off my trousers and pants to leave me naked from the waist down with only my white t-shirt separating me from total nudity. Realising what the towels were for, I draped one over the armchair before sitting down. I picked up one of the magazines and flipped through it.

At least I could straight away dispel one of Molly’s predictions – the pages weren’t all dog-eared and stuck together with ‘other men’s jizz’, but they weren’t exactly the highest quality porn I’d ever seen. Not that I’d ever really seen much in the way of porn besides the few porn sites my mate from school had shown me in his room. Mum and Dad had always taught me to respect girls, and so looking at porn never really appealed to me. Before any of you ‘keyboard warriors’ out there get started, they taught my sister to respect boys too! I was blessed however, with a rather fertile imagination, and instead of looking at online porn I would fantasise about some of the girls I fancied at school or of one of my favourite film actresses or girl band singers (I never liked their music, but oh, the skimpy outfits they wear never fail to get me going!)

So I put the magazine down and instead just closed my eyes and imagined myself in the company of a beautiful naked woman, and began to idly stroke my penis. It wasn’t long before I was rewarded with a sturdy erection and once I felt I was hard enough I began to masturbate in earnest. As I pumped my fist up and down my stiffly engorged manhood, I imagined myself making love to the woman – a hybrid of several female celebrities I quite fancied. We were on a tropical beach, carefree and totally naked, the turquoise blue waters lapping gently onto the golden sand. She laid on her back, parted her legs to reveal her inner sanctum (totally free of pubic hair, naturally) and invited me to take her and make sweet love to her. In my mind’s eye I dutifully obliged and plunged myself into her, causing me to gasp aloud and her to sing her praises for the size of the pillar of pure masculinity now lodged inside her.

This was always my go-to fantasy and it never failed to bring me towards a decently satisfying orgasm, and so it didn’t take too long for me to reach the pinnacle of my arousal. After several minutes of fervent fist-pumping I felt the first tingling of my impending eruption deep within me as I rapidly approached the point of no return. I was just seconds away from ejaculating, and nothing could stop it. Just in time, I remembered to pick up the sample pot and with my left hand I deftly managed to unscrew it (impressing myself with my own ambidexterity in the process) and brought it toward the tip of my penis.

I shuffled forward in the chair and pointed my erection downwards into the sample pot and with one final effort of rapid strokes, I felt the brief flash of orgasm course through my veins and race across every single nerve in my body before focusing itself in my groin. My muscles clenched involuntarily, my penis throbbed in my hand and I gnashed my teeth and grunted as I came, my semen ejected forcefully from within me, squirting from my penis directly into the waiting sample pot.

After the initial eruption, I coaxed out the remainder of my ejaculation as I gradually came down from my all too brief orgasmic high. I looked into the sample pot at the grey-white substance that moments earlier had come from within me. I’d never really looked at my semen properly before, but as I held up the pot to examine its contents I felt an emotion I’d never felt before. It was a sort of mixture of curiosity and a feeling that the contents of the pot represented a moment of destiny. Little did I know at the time, that single ejaculate would indeed change my life forever.

I took a few tissues from the box and cleaned myself up, and then screwed the lid back on the sample pot and left it on the table as I’d been instructed. I went across to the washbasin and washed my hands before retrieving my pants and making myself decent once again. And that was pretty much it – I left the room and reported back to the reception desk to let them know I was finished, and the nurse behind the glass screen informed that they’d be in touch with the results in due course.

* * * * * *

After my visit to the fertility clinic I returned to my normal life as a student: lectures and tutorials at uni, shifts at the chicken place three nights a week, keeping up with all my coursework and assignments, and occasionally finding the time for a drink at bostancı escort the student bar with Heather and Molly. The girls were naturally curious about my experience at the fertility clinic and asked me at length about what it had all been like, and of course I had to explain to them that it wasn’t anything as exciting as they imagined it would be.

“I just went into a little room, took off my trousers and pants, had a wank into a little pot and then left,” I told them as I shrugged my shoulders. “Nothing more to it, really.”

A week or so later I received a letter from the hospital – the familiar blue logo of the NHS on the envelope was a dead giveaway. Sure enough, as I opened it to find the words Leeds City Infirmary Department of Fertility and Embryology emblazoned at the top I already knew what it would be about. It would say “we regret to inform you that the sample you provided was not of suitable quantity to be considered for donation” or words to that effect. In fact, I expected it to contain even worse news, namely that I myself was firing blanks and that I would never be able to father a child of my own.

I could not have been more wrong, but the contents of the letter didn’t really give much away:

Dear Mr. Selworth,

I am writing to you with regards to the semen sample you produced on June 15th. We have conducted all the relevant tests and performed a full sperm count to assess the quantity and motility of your sperm.

I would like to discuss your results with you in person, so at the earliest opportunity please call the number at the bottom of this letter to arrange an appointment to see me.

Kind regards,

Mrs. Kiyari Dutta MSc MACE MRCS FRCS

Senior consultant embryologist

Well, it just had to be bad news! The senior consultant embryologist, no less, wanted to discuss my results in person? It could only mean one thing – I was definitely firing blanks!

Once again however, I couldn’t have been more wrong.

I called the number, expecting to book an appointment for a couple of weeks time, but as soon as I gave my name to the well-spoken woman at the other end of the line, I was told that Mrs. Dutta could see me that very afternoon if I was free. I told her that I was available, and an appointment was made for me at three o’clock, just after my final lecture of the day. Of course, for the rest of the day at university I was something of a nervous wreck.

Heather, bless her, tried her best to calm my nerves over lunch in the refectory once I explained to her about the letter and the subsequent appointment later that day. She reassured me that it should be nothing to worry about, but she was fighting a losing battle in trying to convince me.

“Why would she want to see me in person? Today? Not in a few weeks or just a couple of days, but today? ASAP?” I said to her.

“Well, she just wants to give you your results in person, I guess,” Heather calmly replied.

“Don’t be stupid!” I chided her. “They just send you a printout with a load of numbers on it, don’t they? Isn’t that how your brother received his results?”

“Well, yeah, but that was at a different hospital,” Heather shrugged. “They probably just go for a more personal touch here.”

Despite her best efforts, she utterly failed to convince me.

It was therefore with a heavy heart that I made my way to the hospital and through its labyrinthine network of corridors towards the fertility and embryology department for what felt like a date with destiny – which it was, but not in the way I thought it would be.

I reported once again to the reception desk and was told to take a seat. I sat in the very same plastic chair I’d sat in the last time I was there just over a week earlier, and just as before, I was a bag of nerves contemplating whether or not to stay and see it through or get up and leave. But the nagging doubt that whether I could live without knowing if I was infertile kept me rooted to my seat.

After ten minutes or so a rather diminutive Indian lady dressed in a colourful sari sauntered along and entered the waiting area.

“Richard Selworth?” she addressed the room.

She may have had the appearance of an Indian woman in traditional attire, but her accent was flawlessly English.

“Um, Yes, that’s me,” I said as I stood up.

“Hi, I’m Kiyari Dutta – thank you for coming along at such short notice. Please, follow me,” she replied, and beckoned me to accompany her down the corridor.

This corridor ran in the opposite direction to the one where the sperm production rooms were located, and consisted mainly of what appeared to be consultation rooms. A short time later we came to a door at the end of the corridor and Mrs. Dutta invited me inside. I found myself in a large office with a window that overlooked the city outside. It was dominated by a large desk in the centre of the room, before which were two chairs, and in the far corner of the room stood an examination bed, surrounded by curtains.

“Please take a seat,” the embryologist said as she sat behind her desk.

“This is because I’m infertile, isn’t it?” I said hastily as I sat down.

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