In the dim light, her stockings shimmered with a cold, ambiguous sheen, much like the "therapy" itself—hovering between redemption and depravity, professionalism and desire, control and submission, no longer purely black or white.
The red, swollen bruises on the inner thighs of her stockings would become her secret stigmata—proof that she had opened her body to a boy, endured his violence, and from it, experienced an unprecedented, nearly destructive climax.
This time, the entire process had taken only fifteen minutes.
As her mind gradually cleared, Dr. Carter overcame her shame remarkably well, replaced by a strange sense of satisfaction—watching this boy, wounded by the world, reclaim a sense of aggression and control under her guidance.
She had sacrificed her own body, actively guiding him to strike her. This sweet boy didn't even realize he was engaging in sexual domination over her.
The sacrifice was worth it, for it brought the boy physical and emotional release—from the bullying, the humiliation of injustice, the resentment.
Was it ethical?
She didn't know.
All she knew was that when the additional fee promised by Shivani arrived—a substantial sum—she found the most reasonable excuse for her actions: for the money, to fulfill her professional duty, to help him.
But deep down, she knew there was more: the feeling of being needed, the sense of control in shaping a man, the thrill of seeking extreme pleasure from the edge of taboo, and… a morbid fascination with that enormous member itself.
"Get dressed."
She finally found her voice again, but it was hoarse, as if scraped by sandpaper.
Without looking at him, she turned her back and began cleaning up the aftermath—wiping the wet patches on the floor, the sticky fluids mixed with semen and the copious liquid that had gushed from her panties—whether called female ejaculate or squirting fluid.
As she wiped with the tissue, her fingers brushed against the warm, slippery liquid, carrying the scent of her own body.
Her cheeks, already flushed, reddened further.
Rohan silently pulled on his pants.
As he zipped up, he felt the sensitivity and fatigue in his penis, the foreskin red and swollen from the rough handling.
But there was no shame in his heart, only a hollow calm and the lingering, burning sensation in his palms—he had struck Dr. Carter.
This professional, elegant, unattainable female doctor had allowed him to hit her. And when he did, she had made those sounds, sweat pouring from her, the area between her legs drenched as if she'd lost control…
"I'm sorry… for earlier…"
He murmured in a low voice, his gaze drifting toward the sticky little puddle on the floor, recalling how he had handled Dr. Carter's body and the shocking red swellings on her thighs.
Dr. Carter paused in her movements.
She still did not turn around, afraid that the boy might see the lingering fire in her eyes—that greedy, unsettling hunger—and be frightened.
"Oh, Rohan," her voice softened, tinged with a weary tenderness. "Never apologize to me. You are my most important... client. I am absolutely certain of that in my entire career."
She lied.
He wasn't a client. He was... more.
He was the spark that rekindled her desire, the secret center of her life this past month where she betrayed her professional ethics, the person she grew more impatient and eager to see with each passing day.
She paused, then added:
"You did very well. You released what needed to be released. That's the meaning of therapy."
A few minutes later, Dr. Carter took a deep breath, adjusted her expression, and pulled open the door to the consultation room.
She tried to make her steps appear normal, but the bruise on her inner thigh sent a sharp sting with every step, a reminder of what had just happened.
Outside the consultation room, Shivani fidgeted restlessly in the waiting area.
She watched the clock on the wall, the second hand ticking forward one notch at a time.
Less than twenty minutes—about the same as last time.
That should have been a good thing, but for some reason, the uneasy premonition in her heart grew stronger.
The soundproofing was too good; it was too quiet behind the door.
No voices in conversation could be heard, only occasional faint, indistinct... thumping sounds?
No, she must have misheard.
The door opened.
Dr. Carter walked out, her posture somewhat odd—her steps stiffer than usual, her legs seeming unable to close properly.
Her expression was calm, but Shivani noticed fine beads of sweat at her temples, and her cheeks still bore an unnatural flush, as if from vigorous exercise.
And had she changed her white coat?
Shivani remembered the one she wore when she went in was off-white; this one was pure white.
"It went very smoothly, only fifteen minutes," Dr. Carter said, her voice slightly lower and hoarser than usual, carrying a trace of barely perceptible fatigue. "He's getting dressed now."
Shivani breathed a sigh of relief, but that sour feeling spread through her heart again—a sense of exclusion, of alienation.
Her son's most private, most painful problems were now being handled by a strange woman behind a closed door, while she, the mother, could only wait outside, knowing nothing of what happened within.
Dr. Carter had changed her clothes. Why? What had happened that required a change of clothes?
When Rohan walked out, Shivani keenly noticed the expression on his face.
Gone was the previous gloom, and there was no exhaustion after release. Instead, there was a calm determination, even... a hint of indescribable relief?
His eyes were clearer than when he went in, but also deeper, as if he had experienced something significant.
Then her gaze fell on his hand hanging at his side—the palm was very red, as if he had gripped something tightly, or... struck something.
"How do you feel?" she asked, trying to read something in her son's eyes.
"Much better," Rohan said, and this time he did not avoid his mother's gaze. "I told you, Dr. Carter's methods are very effective."
There was an unfamiliar certainty in his tone, as if the fifteen minutes in the consultation room had granted him a kind of strength she could not provide.
And he addressed her as "Dr. Carter," with a trust and closeness in his voice that she, his own mother, had never heard before.
Shivani's heart tightened slightly.
On the way home, Rohan, unusually, initiated the conversation:
"Mom, Dr. Carter said if I run into trouble at school again, I can try the breathing techniques she taught me. She said controlling your breath is the first step to controlling your emotions."
Shivani's fingers tightened around the steering wheel. Breathing techniques?
In the consultation room, besides physical therapy, was she also giving him psychological counseling?
What right did that vulgar woman in stockings and high heels have to teach her son?
Did she understand Hindu breathing meditation?
Did she know how to purify the soul through faith?
"What else did she say?" Shivani tried to keep her voice calm.
"She said," Rohan looked out the window, "some people feel powerful by putting others down. But truly strong people don't need to do that. Truly strong people... know when to release their aggression instead of suppressing it."
Shivani's breath caught.
The words sounded so right, so wise, yet she felt a sudden, inexplicable panic—because the person saying them wasn't her, not the school counselor, not any guide she had chosen for her son, but the female doctor who had been alone with her son behind closed doors, masturbating him.
And what kind of dangerous teaching was "releasing aggression"?
It completely contradicted the doctrines of restraint, purification, and transcending desire that she believed in!
But when she turned and saw the rare calm expression on her son's face, the words of reproach died in her throat.
At least he wasn't in pain.
At least this method worked.
And his hands... those reddened palms...
"What happened to your hands?" she finally couldn't help asking.
Rohan looked down at his palms, pausing for a second.
"Nothing, just pressing some acupuncture points hard during the treatment to help with release."
He said it naturally, as if he had prepared the answer long ago.
Shivani didn't press further. But the seed of doubt had been planted.
That night, Shivani knelt before the shrine for longer than usual.
She whispered prayers to Goddess Kali—the powerful and fierce mother goddess—asking for protection for her child from being tainted by "wrong influences."
But in the swirling incense smoke, she couldn't help asking herself: what was the right influence?
Was it her strict yet distant discipline, or Dr. Carter's seemingly effective but dangerously charged "treatment"?
She remembered the look in Rohan's eyes when he left the consultation room, his reddened palms, Dr. Carter's changed white coat, the woman's unusually flushed face and husky voice...
A terrible image uncontrollably invaded her mind: Dr. Carter changing clothes with her back to Rohan, revealing her mature, full figure; Rohan's hands pressing somewhere hard enough to redden his palms; the woman making suppressed sounds, her face flushed...
"No!" Shivani shook her head violently, trying to dispel the blasphemous thought.
But once the imagination began, it grew like wild vines.
There were no answers.
Only the consultation room door, closing again and again in her mind, shutting her out.
And what was happening inside was changing her son, in a way she couldn't understand or control.
...
In the empty consultation room at St. Mary's Hospital, Dr. Carter sat alone in the dark, lost in thought.
She hadn't turned on the lights; only the faint glow of the city's neon lights seeped in through the window.
She had taken off her shoes, her stocking-clad feet resting on the cold floor.
She gently traced the bruise on her inner thigh, each touch sending a sharp sting followed by a lingering, tingling aftershock.
Between her legs, a faint trickle of arousal still seeped out, her panties clinging damply to her skin.
She didn't change them, as if trying to preserve the sensation, to hold onto the memory of the most intense climax of her life.
She recalled the scalding heat of Rohan's release, the forceful mix of anger and excitement in his slap, the near-unconscious, overwhelming pleasure of her own squirting climax...
"Next time," she murmured to herself, her voice echoing in the empty clinic, "what color should I try? The little one seems to prefer stockings? Dark nail polish?"
Carrying the scent of his release on her skin, she returned home without rushing to wash.
She went to the cabinet, opened the drawer, and found neatly arranged rows of unopened stockings—black, purple, fishnet, garter... more than half purchased in a frenzy over the past two weeks.
She took out a pair of black tights, unfolding them in the dim light.
She imagined them on her legs, Rohan's hands gliding over the fine weave, the fire that would ignite in his eyes...
Her breathing quickened again.
That intense climax hadn't satisfied her—instead, it had breached the dam of her eight-year-long restraint.
Her fingers drifted involuntarily between her legs, pressing against her swollen clit through the damp fabric.
Her body was still hypersensitive from the earlier climax; even the lightest touch sent another shiver through her.
"God..." she gasped, leaning against the cabinet as her fingers moved faster.
This time, her mind conjured not just Rohan's imposing size, but his slender frame, his shy yet gradually resolute gaze, the blend of anger and vulnerability in him when he struck her...
She came quickly, faster than during the treatment, but the quality of this climax paled in comparison.
Fortunately, the earlier intense climax had already left her sated, so this second, quick release brought her temporary, complete satisfaction.
Her body slid down the cabinet to the floor, legs splayed, the stockings snagging and tearing at the knee. She didn't care.
Lying on the floor, she gazed at the blurred shadows on the ceiling, a tired yet contented smile curling her lips.
Emily Carter, forty-three, senior physician and partner at St. Mary's Hospital, had just experienced her second climax of the day—fueled by fantasies of a fifteen-year-old boy.
And this was only the ninth session.
She didn't know where this relationship was headed. She only knew she was addicted, utterly unable to pull away.
To his size, to the feeling of being needed, to the process of shaping this boy, to the thrill of drawing pleasure from the forbidden... she was completely, irrevocably hooked.
The bedroom door of the solitary woman closed quietly, locking her secrets inside.
Outside, the London night stretched on.
————
Emily Carter
Age: 43
Height: 168cm
Weight: 61kg
Body Fat: 26%
Cup Size: D
Relationship History: One six-year relationship, one five-year marriage, divorced and single for eight years. Previously experienced only a handful of orgasms from sex.
Sexual Partners: 2
Intercourse: 275 times (2,901 days ago)
Anal: 0 times
Oral: 0 times
Breast: 0 times
Foot: 0 times
Masturbation: 234 times +1 (0 days ago)
Climax: 240 times +2 (0 days ago)
Squirting: 0 times +1 (0 days ago)
Incontinence: 0 times
Desire: Deep craving
PS: Squirting also counts as climax, so both climax and squirting counts are increased by one.
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