"GET OUT OF MY HOSPITAL!! SECURITY! THROW HIM OUT!! EXTRA BILL! EXPEL THAT MOTHERF—!"
The scream hit me like a cannon—a searing blast of pure, unadulterated rage that seized every muscle in my body.
I froze instantly, one foot in the hallway's supposed safety, the other suspended in debilitating fear. Oh god… if I mess this up, I'm done. Just done. I'll be expelled.
Papers scattered across the floor like startled birds. A nurse shrieked—a small, helpless sound—as a man in a rumpled suit was violently hurled, his last shred of dignity flying somewhere far ahead of him. A terrible, metallic silence immediately swallowed the chaos.
Then, he materialized.
He moved into the cruel light of the hallway: Dr. Lan. Long, dark, impossibly messy hair framed a face so unfairly perfect, so dangerously sculpted, it felt like a violation just to look at it. Light purple eyes, wide and incandescently furious, scanned the room like searchlights, leaving trails of heat in their wake. His hands, still encased in sleek, medical gloves, were slick with an oily sheen of… something. My brain sputtered, then violently short-circuited. The sickening, undeniable truth slammed into me: it was cum.
And there he stood, Dr. Lan—the Cultivator of Male Desire Systems and Intimacy. The man rumored to be so psychologically sharp, so utterly potent, that he could make grown men lose their minds and their control before they even registered his game had begun.
He peeled off one glove, the motion slow, deliberate, a chilling piece of theatre. He held the used glove for a beat, then flicked it—a casual, shocking gesture—sending a sharp, wet splatter of the substance directly across the disgraced former patient's face. The sound was a public, cruel final judgment.
"Take your cheap little thing back into you. Out of my place. I am not your personal toy to play with just because I treat your pathetic needs," he said, his voice dropping low, resonating like a deep cello string. It was the sound of a blade dragged over silk—lethal, sensual, and utterly commanding.
The other doctors retreated behind their clipboards. Nurses scribbled frantically, adding punitive fees and the man's name to a permanent ledger of shame. Dr. Lan ruled this high-end clinic like a quiet, untouchable sovereign, his authority absolute—and yet… I wasn't even a patient yet. I was just the next appointment.
I swallowed a huge, dry gulp. My knees were shaking, a deep, uncontrollable tremor. Don't get expelled. Don't breathe wrong. Don't exist wrong. Panic propelled my feet backward, and I was about to bolt down the corridor when I slammed to a halt.
His gaze had snagged me. Sharp. Precise. Utterly Predatory.
"Excuse me? Aren't you the next patient… Chen Rei?"
I froze, pinned by the sound of my name. My throat closed. I managed a stiff nod. His stormy gaze—furious a moment ago—had already calmed into something terrifyingly calculating.
"Why are you walking away without a proper check-up, boy? Trying to escape my bill? Daddy's credit card running low, yes?" His arms crossed, posture casually challenging, a condescending smirk playing on his lips. He was older, calmer, untouchable. And baiting me like hell.
"I… um… it's my own money," I muttered, staring at his immaculate shoes, the words a wounded, desperate whisper of pride.
He chuckled—a low, dark, and dangerously amused sound. It didn't just warm me; it sent a strange, liquid heat pooling low in my gut.
"Then why leave before I can find the broken wiring in your desire system? I can find your problems in a minute," he said with chilling certainty, turning to glide backward into his chamber, casually wiping his gloved hands with a towel.
I hesitated at the door. His consultation room was… not medical. It was half laboratory, half cultivator's sanctum. Ancient, polished swords lined one wall like silent guards. The soft, sorrowful sound of a Guqin whispered from a corner. The scent was a strange, intoxicating collision: sharp antiseptic mixed with something deep and earthy, like hot, dark musk after a storm. And there he stood, his posture regal, unreadable, and utterly commanding.
"Sit. Unpack your problems… layer by layer," he instructed, not looking up.
I obeyed instantly, dropping into the chair as if the floor were giving way. My hands shook visibly on my knees.
"I… actually can't… perform well… at bed," I admitted, the shameful confession barely escaping my lips.
"Oh, I see," he noted, his tone suddenly purely clinical, taking his seat. "Appetite? Regular… or chaotic, like the mess you're making of your sex drive?"
"Sometimes I skip meals… and my love life… is straight. Predictable. It's a script, not an experience," I managed.
"Sleep? Dreams or blank emptiness?"
"Mostly blank emptiness," I admitted.
"Daily habits. Exercise, work, stress."
"I… don't usually work out unless it's the weekend," I said cautiously. His intense, violet gaze was fixed on me, and I felt utterly translucent.
This wasn't a doctor inspecting a patient. This was a man inspecting the soul hidden in my nervous system.
He tilted his head slightly. "Do you smoke?"
"No."
"Drink?"
"Occasionally… socially."
"Porn?" His brow twitched, but his face remained a mask of professional curiosity.
I flushed a horrible, guilty red. "I… sometimes. Yes."
He made a swift, silent note. Tap. Tap. Tap of his gloved fingers on the desk. The silence stretched until it felt like a threat. Then came the piercing, personal questions.
"How do you feel about her… sexual competence?"
"Um… average."
"Finish too fast? Too slow? Or… not at all?"
"Too fast… or not at all. The two great failures."
"When you're with her, what do you notice first? Yourself? Her? The clock?"
"I… overthink everything. I feel like I'm auditioning. The script takes over. Intimacy is a memory, not a present tense," I admitted, my voice rough with shame.
Every word was a deeper incision. My heart was pounding, my cheeks blazing, my entire body rigid. I hated how exposed I felt; he had unzipped me without laying a finger on my clothes.
He leaned forward, slowly, like a serpent striking. His voice turned silken, a sound that bypassed my ears and hit my groin.
"Chen Rei… what if it were me?" He watched, rapt. He didn't bite his lip this time; instead, he made a slow, deliberate motion with his tongue against his inner cheek, a flash of wet pink in the corner of his mouth that felt brutally intimate. "Imagine… me… on you… or… even… inside you…"
The question was a silent, chemical explosion in my skull.
A roar of immediate, terrifying heat—the forbidden—crashed through me. My chest constricted, my stomach plummeted. And yet, the denial, which should have been a wall, was a sieve. That man has no shame.
I tried to clutch onto reality. No. This is transference. He's a professional. A weird, hot, aggressive, dangerous professional.
"Are you… fantasizing about me right now?" he asked, his tone quieter, a dark velvet whisper. He didn't ask if I was fantasizing; he asked if it was him.
What the actual holy fuck? My mind was a scrambled mess.
"Uh… I… I don't know," I stammered, my heart doing a frantic, chaotic jig.
His lips curved into a slow, utterly satisfied smile—the smile of a hunter who knows his prey is already caught. "Ah… indecision. That's where the power lies. You feel, but you fight. You see the cliff, but you lean in. A man who fears his own appetites. Classic."
He reached for a slim, polished wooden box, opening it to reveal small, dark, smooth stones. Without a word, he slid one across. "Close your eyes. Hold it. Breathe in. Feel the weight of the moment."
I obeyed. The stone was cool, grounding, and terribly silent.
"Now," his voice was low, controlled, the only sound in the universe. "Imagine the last time you felt true, desperate desire. Don't justify it. Just let the feeling take you. Focus on the weight of my voice. Which part of you is already saying yes?"
I swallowed a huge knot of saliva. My traitorous mind immediately conjured the forbidden image: him.
"Do you… prefer to be taken, or to control the fall?" he asked next, his voice so calm, so utterly offhand, it felt like he was reading the answer directly from my pulse.
I was blindsided. My entire body locked up. "I… what?"
"Control. Surrender. Desire is honest, Chen Rei. Your body is already begging while your mind is still negotiating the terms," he stated, precise, measured, as though the map of my darkest secrets was printed on my forehead.
I flushed a violent, blinding scarlet. I couldn't form a word. My body had already signed the contract before my brain had even started to read the fine print.
He gave a final, slow tap of his gloved fingers on the desk. "Intriguing. Very, very interesting."
Then, the smile returned—subtle, magnetic, the look of a scientist who'd just discovered a fascinating new specimen. He scribbled on his pad, tore off the slip, and slid it over.
"Call this number if you want further evaluation. My personal line. Not the hospital's… this time. I find your attraction patterns… compulsive."
My mouth was desert dry. Compulsive?
He continued, the clinical tone a sharp contrast to his eyes: "Prescriptions. Eat banana, kiwi, and dark chocolate—they're good for the neurotransmitters. Drink less. Stimulate desire naturally. Harmonize body, mind, and the energy that is currently trapped, struggling to escape."
Every word was a chemical pulse in my bloodstream. Heart racing, mind spinning, my composure utterly destroyed.
He reclined slightly, perfectly composed. Deadly. Waiting. A Master observing a fragile new obsession.
He smiled faintly, his voice turning low, a dark, rich velvet. Waving me off with a casual, dismissive grace. "Goodnight… wet dreams. Ba-bay~ And don't always waste your money as your treasures like that… they weren't made in your body, you know~"
What?! Wet dreams instead of sweet dreams?! My brain short-circuited again. And what did he mean by that treasure? The implication, the sheer, brazen nerve of it, made the blood rush to my face. Did I come here to fix myself… or to be slowly, meticulously broken into a new, hotter shape? I thought I was confused before coming in—now I was sure I was a disaster, and he was the one who caused it.
The Guqin music whispered its sad melody. The faint, dark musk of him clung to my clothes like a permanent stain. My hands shook so badly around the slip of paper with his number, I was afraid it would turn to dust. My pulse raced as if my heart had realized it was just a new toy for his amusement, a silly mouse caught by the most elegant, dangerous cat.
I tried to steady myself. I'm not coming back. I can't. I absolutely shouldn't.
But then I recalled the slow motion of his tongue against his cheek, the way he had casually exposed my need for surrender. And I knew, with a terrifying, primal certainty:
The call was already half-dialed in my mind.
My legs moved, carrying me out of the room before my mind could even form the thought of running. And deep in the pit of my chest, I felt it—like a seed of him was planted in my own bones, and now, somehow, I was infected.
I had come here thinking this was a consultation. That I'd leave as the same man.
I left… utterly, dangerously unrecognizable.