Fifteen minutes—faster than any previous session—and Rohan reached his limit.
It was a sensation of being violently pushed off a cliff, a feeling of freefall.
There was no gradual ascent, none of the sticky warmth Dr. Carter usually deliberately coaxed from him. Only mechanical, efficient friction, as if trying to forcibly squeeze some toxin from the depths of his marrow.
Pleasure sharp as a blade cut through the nerves of shame and pain, blending into a bittersweet, agonizing release.
"I'm... I'm going to come..." he almost roared, his body arching backward, toes curling tightly, nails nearly digging into the soft leather inside his shoes.
Dr. Carter's arms had long grown sore and swollen, the muscles in her forearms trembling slightly from the sustained, high-intensity exertion.
She panted heavily, her chest heaving violently beneath her white coat and silk blouse. A few strands of golden hair clung to her flushed skin, damp with fine sweat.
With one hand, she barely managed to pick up the wide-mouthed specimen jar. With the other, she gripped his scorching, terrifying erection, stroking faster and more ruthlessly, almost using brute force to squeeze and extract, her knuckles turning white from the strain.
This was not treatment; it was a direct confrontation with pain, a cleansing.
Lubricant mixed with copious pre-ejaculate produced loud, wet, squelching sounds between her palm and him, echoing sharply in the silent examination room.
The first thick, scalding jet of semen shot out with astonishing force, landing with a dull thud against the inner wall of the glass jar. Milky-white mucus immediately began sliding slowly down the side.
Then came the second, the third... an alarming, seemingly endless amount.
Each spurt was accompanied by violent, uncontrollable convulsions in Rohan's body and short, pained groans he couldn't suppress from deep in his throat.
For nearly twenty seconds, the terrifying shaft pulsed and throbbed in her hand like a dying serpent, releasing an unsettling, overproduced vitality.
The milky-white fluid filled nearly half the jar, warming the glass rapidly. The rim was coated with thick, stringy liquid, reflecting a lewd sheen under the clinic's ceiling lights.
When the final, thin dribble of semen fell weakly, Rohan collapsed into the chair as if all his spirit and bones had been drained, leaving only the faint, rapid rise and fall of his chest.
Dr. Carter also gasped heavily, her full breasts heaving. The silk blouse beneath her white coat was soaked with sweat, clinging to her skin and outlining the contours of her bra and ample curves.
Breathing heavily, she didn't release her grip immediately. Instead, she mechanically stroked a few more times until the massive organ gave a final weak twitch in her palm, squeezing out a few drops of residual clear fluid, before finally stopping.
She quickly screwed the lid on the jar, her movements clumsy from exhaustion and urgency. As she attached the label, her fingers trembled almost imperceptibly.
Then, almost roughly, she tore off the latex gloves, now coated with sticky semen and lubricant, the milky fluid stretching into unpleasant, thin strands.
She tossed them casually into the trash bin, where they landed with a soft thud.
For a moment, the only sounds in the examination room were the uneven, heavy breaths of the two people, and the air was thick with the pungent, impossible-to-ignore scent of male semen. It mingled with the smell of disinfectant and the lingering, expensive perfume notes from Dr. Carter, creating an eerie and decadent atmosphere.
A few minutes later, when both had somewhat recovered from the intense physical release and emotional turmoil, Dr. Carter finally spoke. Her voice still carried a hint of hoarseness from exertion and a slight breathlessness from exhaustion:
"About those photos..."
As she spoke, she finally walked toward the sink.
A stream of icy, biting water rushed down with a whoosh.
"First," her voice came through the sound of the water, calm to the point of coldness, "tell Ms. Matsumoto—not as a request for help, but as a formal report. Use the clearest, most composed language to tell her exactly the time, place, people involved, what they said, and what they did. This is for the record."
She turned off the faucet, and the water abruptly stopped.
The examination room plunged into an even deeper silence.
She meticulously dried each finger with a clean paper towel, including under her nails, her movements precise and thorough.
Then, Dr. Carter turned around, leaning her back lightly against the cold stainless steel edge of the sink, crossing her arms.
This posture, both defensive and supportive, lifted her chest with the pressure of her arms, creating a strangely tense contrast between the sensual squeeze and the serious expression on her face.
Her gaze, sharp as a scalpel, fixed on Rohan, who was slumped in the chair with vacant eyes. It was piercing, as if determined to dissect all his evasive thoughts.
"Second," she continued, her tone steady and unyielding, "contact Alisa Matsumoto, the student council president. You know she's not just a top student—her father is a diplomat, and she has influence even with the school board. She has the connections and the ability to have those photos tracked, deleted, and even traced back to their source within the campus network system. What you need to do is inform her and ask her to use her resources."
She paused, leaning forward slightly, bringing an intangible sense of pressure.
"Third..." Her voice deliberately slowed, her eyes locked on Rohan's face, not missing the slightest change in his expression.
Sure enough, she saw Rohan's face instantly turn deathly pale, filled with utter terror—the clever boy had already guessed.
Rohan shook his head violently, the movement so forceful it seemed he might strain his slender neck, and whispered urgently, "No! Absolutely not! Mom... she can't know!"
"She needs to know, Rohan," Dr. Carter's voice was resolute. "She is your legal guardian. She has the right, and the responsibility—"
"She'll think it's all my fault!"
Rohan interrupted her, his voice rising with a desperate sob, tears welling up instantly.
"She'll look at me with that... that disappointed, harsh look, thinking I'm weak!"
"She'll make a huge scene, go to the school and cause trouble, force the principal to expel Max... and then everyone will hate me even more, everyone will know even more clearly!"
"Things will get even bigger, even more out of control! Please, don't tell her..."
"Rohan." Dr. Carter's voice suddenly dropped, soft yet like a cold surgical blade soaked in disinfectant, precise and cruel, severing the chain of the boy's runaway emotions. He came to an abrupt halt, leaving only the sound of suppressed, ragged breaths.
She stepped away from the sink and moved two paces closer to him.
Her black mid-heeled shoes, worn today, tapped against the polished floor with a steady, clear click, click, carrying an undeniable rhythm that beat against Rohan's taut nerves in the silence.
"Listen to me." She stopped just a step away from him, not touching him—any contact now could trigger a collapse or misunderstanding—but her presence felt tangible, enveloping him with her body warmth and the faint lingering scent of perfume.
She leaned in slightly, her deep blue eyes drawing near, their pupils reflecting his disheveled, terrified face.
"This is not your fault. It never was."
Each of her words fell like a hammer, trying to drive this statement into his chaotic understanding.
"You are simply... an existence beyond their narrow comprehension. A... blessing from God. They have no idea what kind of... potential, or power, lies within you."
Her gaze seemed to sweep inadvertently, yet perhaps deliberately, over the space between Rohan's legs—that monstrous penis that had nearly dissolved from exhaustion, causing astonishing chaos, and had left her arm muscles aching.
Even in its softened state, its current size remained unnaturally substantial, hanging there like a withered eggplant, the skin flushed red from excessive friction, even slightly swollen, looking painful.
"You have done nothing wrong," her voice lowered, carrying a hypnotic certainty. "The fault lies with their brutality, their baseness, their ignorance. You are the victim, understand? Victims should not feel ashamed of the perpetrators' crimes, nor should they punish themselves for them."
Rohan stared at her blankly, at her serious, resolute, beautiful face so close, at the light in her eyes—a mix of professional analysis, faint sympathy, and something deeper, more inscrutable.
The tears that had been building for so long finally gave way under their own weight, breaching the last fragile defenses and rolling down in large, hot drops.
They were scalding, mingled with too many things: the humiliation of being bullied, the terror of having his privacy exposed, the despair over his mother's reaction, and now, after being so plainly "seen" and "defined" by Dr. Carter, a sense of being completely understood.
Dr. Carter watched the tears surge from his eyes, watched the subtle, uncontrollable tremors in his thin shoulders. The turbulent surge in her chest—a mix of maternal instinct, professional duty (however twisted), complex pity for the boy's unique predicament,
and... a more private, scorching emotion she herself refused to examine closely—threatened to breach the carefully maintained dam of her rationality.
She felt a strange, intense tightening deep in her abdomen, as if the organs of conception and protection within were resonating.
She wanted to pull him into her arms, to shield him from the world's harm with her body; she wanted to "comfort" him in a more direct, more primal way, offering herself as proof of his "power" and a vessel for his vented fury... These dangerous thoughts slithered through her mind like venomous snakes.
But she held them back, fiercely.
She merely extended a hand—not to embrace, but to hover in the air near Rowan's thin shoulders, forming a restrained, almost invisible barrier. A silent, tension-filled gesture of "I am here," fraught with contradiction.
"You are far stronger than you think." Her voice returned, low and firm, carrying an undeniable, almost hypnotic power as she tried to infuse courage into his crumbling spirit.
"You faced me. You faced this... awkward yet necessary treatment. You faced the beast within your own body—the one you cannot fully control. You endured the pain and shame it brought."
"You even began to resist bastards like Max—you said no. Though the outcome wasn't ideal, it was a start. You are younger and thinner than your peers, but braver. That matters most."
She paused, her gaze deepening as if to pierce through his eyes and plant a seed in the deepest recesses of his soul.
Her voice held a certainty and persuasion she herself hadn't fully recognized—a near-longing:
"You can face this. You must face it. Because only when you stand tall yourself, no longer afraid, no longer running, will others dare not—and cannot—look down on you. Setbacks won't break you. What comes next is your counterattack, declaring to them, to everyone, that you are not a weakling to be manipulated."
She knew exactly what she was doing—she was shaping him. With words, with her gaze, with this dangerously ambiguous "therapeutic" relationship, she was forging a man's backbone and aggression.
At the same time, she was feeding a secret, dark craving within herself: the control over this "shaping" process, the anticipation for this "work" with astonishing "raw potential," and a savior complex—rescuing the boy from helplessness and guiding him toward a certain kind of "strength."
Rowan lowered his head. More tears fell silently, torrential, and the trembling of his shoulders grew more pronounced. But he made no sound, only biting his lower lip so hard it nearly bled.
Dr. Carter withdrew her hovering hand, her fingertips seeming to retain the burning desire to touch him.
She turned, deliberately brisk, and walked toward the cabinet where supplies were kept, retrieving a box of tissues.
Her back was straight, but upon closer look, the lines of her shoulders and neck were overly tense, betraying a subtle stiffness—she was using every ounce of her willpower to resist the maternal impulse to pull the boy into her arms for comfort, and the deeper, more dangerous, more burning hunger beneath.
She pressed the entire box of tissues into Rowan's cold, trembling hands. Her fingertips brushed unintentionally against the damp, chilled skin of his hand, sending a shiver through him.
Then she quickly averted her gaze, looking out the window at the London sky gradually swallowed by dusk, tinged with gray-blue and deep purple, as if something there demanded her full attention.
She gave him the private space and time to wipe away his tears, blow his nose, and gather his shattered emotions—treating him with the respect due to a man.
Yet, her very presence was a form of silent surveillance and control...
After what felt like an eternity—a few minutes—when Rowan's sobs gradually subsided into intermittent sniffles and finally settled into a suppressed silence, Dr. Carter spoke again.
Her voice had regained its usual professional detachment, but upon closer listening, beneath that steady tone seemed to lurk a forcibly suppressed, eager excitement, and deeper scheming.
"Next session," she said, still not turning around, her gaze fixed on a streetlamp outside that had just flickered on, "I'll prepare something special. Smoke-gray stockings, paired with silver high heels."
Her pupils dilated with excitement.
"Do you know why?"
Rohan blew his nose hard with a tissue, the tip of his nose and the rims of his eyes flushed red.
He shook his head, his voice thick with congestion and hoarse from crying: "No."
Dr. Carter slowly turned around.
Outside the window, the lights from the building opposite formed a hazy halo behind her. Her face was backlit, some details indistinct, but those azure-blue eyes were exceptionally bright, like two eerie flames glowing in the dimness.
Her expression was calm, even gentle, but deep within those eyes, something was quietly burning, boiling—not anger, but a more intense, more complex, more resolute emotional storm: a mixture of protectiveness, desire for control, a shaping impulse, a certain dark anticipation, and a raw, mature woman's fascination with forbidden power.
This was a blend of emotions a professional should never harbor toward a patient, yet within her, it felt terrifyingly real, even making her shudder.
"Because gray is a transitional color," she began to explain, her voice steady as if lecturing a student, yet every word seemed meticulously polished. "It lies between pure black and absolute white. It symbolizes change in progress, old boundaries blurring and dissolving. A new state, a new you—not yet fully formed, but no longer what you once were..."
She took a small step forward. Her high heels made a crisp, solitary click on the floor, unusually clear in the quiet clinic, like the drumbeat of some ritual.
"And silver," she continued, her gaze firmly locked on Rohan as if to pin him to his chair, "it represents reflection—not passively receiving light, but actively, clearly mirroring back whatever shines upon it, whether kindness or malice, without distortion."
"Let those who wish to humiliate and belittle you with the filthiest, most vulgar means see themselves clearly, with nowhere to hide—their ugly faces and despicable souls—reflected in you, in this 'mirror' you are about to become."
Rohan looked up, his tear-blurred eyes meeting her backlit silhouette.
Dr. Carter stood tall and straight, wrapped in a slightly disheveled white coat.
Her words felt less like comfort and more like a mission-bestowing incantation, or a prophecy of transformation and retaliation. Each syllable drilled into his ringing ears, sank into the turbulent lake of his heart, stirring ripples of sharp pain and unfamiliar power.
"Go home now," she finally commanded, unable to restrain her twisted urge for control—a rare directive from her.
"Do as I say, in order. Tomorrow, first go find Professor Matsumoto and complete the formal report. Then, contact Alisa Matsumoto and ask for her help. Step by step. Don't skip, and don't retreat."
She paused, her gaze sharp as a torch, looking deep into Rohan's eyes as if to sear these final words into his very soul: "Remember, from the moment you step out of this door, you are no longer that 'child' who could only hide in the corner of the lab, trembling in the darkness of a storage locker. You are facing it, you are changing. You are a... powerful man, capable of conquering anyone."
Any woman—Dr. Carter's toes curled uncontrollably inside her thin stockings, gripping the soles of her high heels tightly, feeling the subtle pressure and silky sensation under her feet. In her heart, she added with absolute certainty, even a trembling desire.
Especially those seemingly mature, all-controlling women.
In truth, if not for maintaining this dangerous "therapeutic" relationship, if not for the lingering pull of professional ethics and a sliver of fear about the consequences, if not for the fact that she had recently resorted to increasing the frequency of self-pleasure to relieve the complex desires stirred to their peak by the boy—a mix of maternal instinct, conquest, and perverse attraction...
She might have truly been unable to resist doing something even more transgressive and irreparable to him on this examination bed.
That massive presence, that humiliated yet fragile gaze, that dependent yet rebellious posture—to her, it was a deadly temptation.
As Rohan turned to leave the consultation room, his steps were somewhat unsteady, his mind still foggy, immersed in a mix of shame, fear, and the faint, twisted sense of exhilaration stirred by Dr. Carter's words.
He didn't notice that behind him, the moment he closed the door, Dr. Carter's throat involuntarily tightened, swallowing a nonexistent dryness.
Her previously calm mask instantly fell away. Deep within her azure eyes surged an almost overflowing mix of hunger, possessiveness, and a dark, thrilling excitement. She stared fixedly at the closed door, as if her gaze could pierce through it and pin itself to the boy's slender, retreating figure.
That look—it was as if she wanted to devour him whole, to absorb him into herself...
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