Living room, evening.
The daily half-hour news time mandated by Shivani.
Rohan sat on the edge of the sofa, his eyes absently fixed on the opening and closing mouth of the BBC news anchor.
The broadcast transitioned into a prelude for a cultural arts segment. Shivani stood up, smoothing her sari.
"I'll go prepare dinner. Fifteen minutes."
Almost the moment the kitchen door closed, Rohan grabbed the remote.
His fingers, defying years of ingrained absolute obedience, quickly pressed the channel button.
The screen flickered, skipping past several shopping channels and sports programs.
He channel-surfed aimlessly, savoring this taste of 'rebellious' freedom.
Suddenly, his expression froze. He switched back to a channel he had just skipped over, pausing on a scene—
The Royal Albert Hall.
Under the golden-red dome, the stage was bathed in icy blue light.
A figure was dancing.
She wore a modified ballet tutu studded with crystals, her figure as slender as a swan's, yet her movements were filled with the explosive power of modern dance.
Every point of her toes on the floor was as precise as a heartbeat. As she spun, her thick, deep golden-brown hair fanned out like a burning nebula.
Then, singing began—not a traditional aria, but an ethereal, soaring, and narrative fusion style, perfectly blending classical bel canto with an emotional release akin to a sob.
Singing while dancing, her foundational skills were remarkably solid.
It was Aunt Evelyn.
The last time he had seen his aunt was six months ago, during that suffocating annual visitation with Grandmother Cecilia.
In his memory were his aunt's unrestrained laughter, the pleasant scent of perfume mixed with theater air that clung to her, and the tall, platinum-haired woman with a bright smile who stood beside her, an arm around her waist—Aunt Nora.
Together, they looked like a bright, free painting utterly out of place in this household.
The Evelyn on TV was even more dazzling than in his memory. She was using her entire body and voice to tell a story—about breaking free, about soaring.
Rohan couldn't understand the lyrics, but he could feel the vitality that seemed ready to burst through the screen.
This was utterly different from the pious hymns his mother played, from the suppressed yet feverish breaths in Dr. Carter's office, from the cold bullying and hypocritical socializing at school.
He thought of his grandmother. That woman who always wore tailored suits, her hair impeccably styled, her gaze like an ice pick—Mrs. Cecilia Hamilton.
When his mother mentioned her, she always used terms like "devil," "defying God's will," "that family."
Five years ago, after his father's unexpected death, it was this "devil grandmother" who had used every legal means to fight for his custody, cornering his mother.
Those days were chaotic at home; his mother prayed day and night, and Rohan was caught in the middle, miserable.
In the end, his mother had won. Miraculously won.
Rohan's memories of his grandmother were complex fragments: during their last visitation six months ago, she had looked at him across the table and said in a lowered voice, "Remember, Rohan, the world is bigger than what you see. I can give you more."
He hadn't understood then.
Now, watching his radiant aunt on TV, he suddenly, vaguely, touched the edge of that statement.
The world is bigger than what you see.
Footsteps approached from the direction of the kitchen.
Rohan was startled, instinctively wanting to switch back to the news channel, but his fingers froze.
He stared greedily at the final shots on the screen—Evelyn frozen in an extremely expansive, almost flying pose, with light converging into a halo around her.
The subtitle read: "Evelyn Hamilton Winter: Redefining the Boundaries of Opera."
"What are you watching?"
Shivani's voice sounded behind him, cold and devoid of warmth.
Rohan instinctively pressed the power button. The screen instantly went black, reflecting his own panicked face and his mother's figure standing behind him.
Shivani's gaze swept over the darkened screen, then settled on her son's expression, which he hadn't fully managed to conceal.
She didn't ask, but she had clearly guessed.
Something heavier than silence began to permeate the air.
After a long moment, she walked to the TV cabinet, picked up the velvet cloth embroidered with a deity that perpetually covered the television, and carefully draped it over the screen, as if sealing away something impure.
"If I had known back then that your father's family was like this," she began, her voice soft yet sharp as a knife scraping through the air, "I would never have married him."
She wasn't looking at Rohan, as if addressing some deity in the void or reinforcing the walls within her own heart.
"Degeneracy. Betrayal of tradition. Women and women... that is the path to destruction."
Rohan desperately wanted to argue—even the law allowed same-sex marriage now—and that was ten years ago.
But he felt it was impossible to communicate with his mother, and there was no point.
He lowered his head, staring at his own tightly clasped hands, his knuckles white.
A strong, nauseating disgust surged from deep within.
He didn't respond.
Any words would be futile now, and could easily trigger another lecture about faith, morality, and control.
He simply let that disgust ferment in his chest, silently stood up, and walked toward his room.
Closing the door, he shut out the light from the living room and any possible gaze from his mother.
He couldn't wait for tomorrow's "treatment."
The next day.
The private medical wing of St. Mary's Hospital fell into its usual silence as night descended.
Emily Carter stood before the floor-to-ceiling window in the consultation room, her back to the door, arms crossed.
The fabric of her dark gray suit dress was crisp, cinching at the waist to outline a slender line before flaring dramatically at the hips—a perfect balance of fat and muscle, straining against the tailored skirt in a ripe, alluring curve.
The hem reached her knees, motionless for now, yet one could almost imagine its seductive sway with each step, clinging to the back of her thighs before lifting slightly.
This was her first layer of disguise today.
But beneath, pressed against her skin, was yesterday's carefully selected "ritual attire": flesh-toned 'shrimp line' pantyhose, overlaid with black pantyhose—slightly thicker, with a subtle matte texture. The double layer made her legs appear fuller and more mysterious under a hazy veil.
Ten-centimeter black pumps with red soles were like two unsheathed daggers, their heels sharp enough to leave marks on the floor.
Her arches were pushed to the limit, the tops of her feet taut beneath the stockings in a sensual curve, her five toes painted with dark polish curling slightly inside the shoe tips.
She had arrived an hour early.
The carefully arranged room was cozier, with the blinds adjusted to ensure privacy while allowing just the right amount of dim, golden light to filter through—light that would softly outline her body's curves rather than expose everything.
She discreetly sprayed a faint, cool-toned perfume with an aphrodisiac top note beside the air purifier—the dosage carefully calculated, enough to stir the senses without being obvious enough to raise alarm.
Finally, she took the dark brown handmade leather backpack from her handbag and placed it on the low cabinet next to the treatment chair.
The leather felt warm and supple, the metal fittings gleaming with a subdued shine.
This was the "gift" she had prepared for him—a symbol of "growth" and a "special relationship." Not a child's backpack prepared by a mother, but an intimate object gifted by an adult woman.
She heard footsteps in the hallway—two distinct rhythms.
One was steady and powerful, each step carrying undeniable weight, belonging to Shivani; the other was lighter and quicker, belonging to Rohan.
Dr. Carter's heart skipped a beat in her chest, then quickened.
Blood rushed instantly to her limbs, and she could feel her nipples hardening uncontrollably inside her bra, rubbing against the silk lining of her blouse, causing a faint, tingling itch.
A familiar, hollow throbbing stirred deep in her abdomen—a lingering aftermath of the intense climax two days ago, which had not satisfied her body but instead carved out a deeper craving.
She could even feel the crotch of her panties between her legs beginning to dampen slightly, arousal seeping quietly from her long-neglected and sensitive core, soaking into the black lace fabric.
She forced herself to take three deep breaths, tightening her abdomen and slightly tensing her glutes. Then she turned around, her face already adorned with the flawless mask of "Dr. Carter."
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Sharma, Rohan."
Her voice was steady, but upon closer listening, the tail end was slightly lower than usual, carrying a barely perceptible huskiness—a lingering effect of her frequent and excessive self-pleasure lately, as well as the tension in her vocal cords from suppressing her excitement.
Shivani was dressed in a deep purple traditional sari today, the silk fabric shimmering with a dark, luxurious sheen under the light, its edges intricately embroidered with gold thread.
Her hair was meticulously styled into a bun, revealing a smooth, full forehead and sharp, well-defined features. The vermilion dot on her forehead was a glaring red, like a drop of congealed blood.
She stood at the doorway, her tall frame almost filling the doorframe. Her deep brown eyes were sharp as a hawk's, sweeping over Dr. Carter in a quick, scrutinizing glance—from her neatly styled hair, to the collar of her blouse buttoned to the top, to her crisp suit skirt, and finally settling on the ten-centimeter black stilettos with red soles.
That gaze was like a scalpel, attempting to peel away the layers of disguise and reach the core.
Shivani's nostrils flared almost imperceptibly—she caught a faint, elusive scent in the air that didn't belong in a hospital.
Floral? Musk? Some expensive, suggestive perfume.
Her brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.
"Dr. Carter." Shivani's voice was colder and harder than usual, each word like ice pellets hitting the ground. "How long will it take today?"
"Based on last session's progress, about fifteen to twenty minutes."
Dr. Carter's reply was flawless, the curve of her smile unchanged:
"Rohan is adapting very well. We're finding the most efficient approach. Reducing the time is beneficial for both his psychological burden and your waiting time."
She stepped aside to let Rohan enter, her gaze briefly meeting Shivani's for a moment.
The gazes of the two women collided in the air—no sparks, only icy scrutiny and equally icy defense.
Shivani's eyes were filled with doubt, vigilance, and a restless anxiety at being excluded; while Dr. Carter's blue eyes resembled two unfathomable frozen lakes, calm on the surface yet churning with undercurrents known only to herself.
"I'll wait outside."
Shivani took a step back, her gaze still nailed to Dr. Carter's face like a spike. "Please ensure everything… is by the book."
"Of course." Dr. Carter's smile remained unchanged, yet inwardly she found it absurd—this Indian woman who had used money to sway her, to lead her astray, was now standing before her talking about propriety?
Masturbating a boy, coaxing him to slap her thigh, climaxing in front of him… this entire affair had been a departure from "propriety" from the very beginning.
The door closed, the lock clicked.
Click.
The sound was soft, yet it fell like a sluice gate, completely isolating two worlds.
The consultation room instantly sank into a stagnant silence, broken only by the gradually synchronized, slightly accelerated breathing of the two.
Dr. Carter leaned against the door for three seconds, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.
Her lungs expanded, and the generous D-cup breasts beneath her blazer and silk blouse swelled noticeably, the nipples already hard as pebbles, aching with a desire for friction that she could feel even through the layers of fabric.
When she opened her eyes, the professional mask on her face melted away like ice under sunlight.
The corners of her lips relaxed, her gaze shifting from cool composure to something deeper, softer, and far more dangerous.
She removed her gold-rimmed glasses and casually placed them on the instrument tray.
The motion loosened her meticulously styled golden bun slightly, allowing a few thick strands to escape the hairpins and fall beside her cheeks, gleaming like honey in the dim light.
"Rohan."
She called his name, her voice at least an octave lower than before, carrying a lazy, heated quality as if just awakened—like melted toffee, thick and cloyingly sweet.
Rohan stood beside the treatment chair, his slender frame appearing somewhat lost in the oversized school uniform, his shoulders narrow, his neck delicate.
He looked up, his attention first captured by the change in her expression—the shift from icy professionalism to something more intimate, more tender, making his heart race.
Then, his gaze involuntarily drifted downward.
Dr. Carter wasn't wearing her white coat today.
The dark gray suit dress outlined the curves of her mature body perfectly, the skirt ending at her knees, her calves completely sheathed in sheer black stockings that shimmered with a fine matte finish under the light.
Most lethal were the shoes—ten-centimeter black pumps with red soles.
The heels sharp as awls, arching her feet into a breathtaking curve, the tops of her feet stretched taut beneath the stockings, pale blue veins meandering like streams.
The patent leather gleamed coldly under the light, the flash of crimson on the soles like a hidden wound, or a silent provocation—Look, I am so refined, so elevated, yet so willing to wear this "sexy torture device" for you, tormenting my own feet until they are this strained, this fragile.
Rohan felt his throat go dry.
He could detect the faint, elusive scent of perfume in the air, along with the more intimate, feminine aroma emanating from her—not the smell of sweat, but like a flower in full bloom, on the verge of decay.
"Today..."
Dr. Carter took a step closer, her high heels tapping against the polished floor. In the quiet space, the sound echoed like the steady beat of a heart, each step seeming to land on Rowan's taut nerves.
"We'll try something... more proactive. I need you to... immerse yourself more in this process, not just receive treatment."
She walked over to the curtain—a movable partition used to separate the examination area. Her hand rested on the edge of the fabric, her dark-polished fingertips lightly tracing the material, but she didn't pull it open immediately.
"I need to change."
Her voice carried a deliberate hint of hesitation, her eyelashes lowered, casting a fan-shaped shadow across her cheekbones:
"This outfit isn't very practical for the procedure. You can sit for a moment."
Then, she made the move that nearly froze Rowan's blood—
She didn't close the curtain completely.
The fabric slid along the track with a soft rustling sound, stopping at a subtle position: leaving a gap of about ten centimeters.
Not wide, but enough to create a window for peeking, an unspoken invitation, a trap testing his desire and courage.
Light seeped through the gap, slicing her silhouette into fragments of light and shadow.
Dr. Carter turned her back to the gap and began to move.
Her heart pounded like a drum, her palms slightly damp with sweat, a mix of anticipation and fear.
She wondered—would the boy look? Would he stare without blinking?
Or would he avert his gaze in shame?
Either reaction would give her valuable insight into the progress of his desires.
She first unbuttoned her suit jacket and hung it on the nearby coat rack.
The cream-colored silk shirt underneath was now fully visible, its hem tucked into her pencil skirt, accentuating her slender waist and the curve of her hips.
Then, she began to undo the buttons of her shirt.
Starting from the bottom, her movements were agonizingly slow.
Each button slipped from its hole with a soft pop.
One, two... She gently pulled the shirt hem out of her skirt, the silk fabric gliding over the skin of her waist and abdomen, sending a faint shiver through her.
Her abdomen was still firm, but with the natural softness of a mature woman, there was a layer of plush, supple flesh.
Rowan stood frozen, his gaze locked on the gap.
His breathing grew shallow and rapid, blood roaring toward his head and lower body.
Reason told him he should look away—it was impolite, it was wrong.
But his body felt nailed in place, his eyes greedily absorbing the slowly unfolding, forbidden scene behind the curtain.
He watched as she lifted her long leg, clad in black stockings, and placed it on a nearby stool—this movement inevitably caused her skirt to ride up, revealing more of her thigh.
The black stockings clung to her thigh like a second skin, the flesh there clearly fuller and softer than her calves, the nylon accentuating the gentle curve of her plumpness. The soft flesh of her inner thighs pressed together slightly due to her posture, forming an enticing gap.
Her fingers hooked onto the top edge of the black stocking and began to slowly roll it down.
Inch by inch, so slowly it was almost torturous.
The nylon made a faint, tantalizing rustling sound as it peeled away from her skin.
As the stockings rolled down, more of the inner thigh was exposed—an area that had never seen sunlight, its skin tone more delicate than that of her calves, almost translucent, revealing a fine network of faint blue veins beneath the surface.
No... not bare.
Rohan's pupils contracted as he discovered another layer of stockings clinging to that skin—flesh-toned, thin as cicada wings, hugging her skin tightly, gleaming with an oily sheen like the just-peeled white of a boiled egg.
Layered stockings. This realization struck Rohan like an electric shock.
The black stockings were the outer disguise, while the flesh-toned layer was the true, most intimate wrapping against her skin.
He could see the edge of her black panties digging into the soft flesh of her thigh through the flesh-toned stockings, creating a seductive indentation.
The panties were of an extremely simple style—black lace—but they hugged the full contours of her vulva, with a small, dark, damp patch already visible at the center, spreading like ink under the flesh-toned nylon. It was her body's most honest response. Even before he had touched her, merely because of this display and anticipation, her pussy had already begun secreting arousal, enough to soak through her panties.
Rohan's breath completely halted.
He watched as the dark, damp patch slowly expanded—unsure if it was his own overexcited hallucination.
The black stockings were completely removed and tossed onto a nearby stool.
The full view of the flesh-toned "shrimp line" stockings was now revealed—they stretched from the tips of her toes all the way to the top of her thighs, possibly even higher, completely enveloping her buttocks and waist.
She bent slightly, adjusting the position of the stockings. This movement fully exposed the lower curve of her buttocks beneath the tailored skirt—two plump, perky mounds, slightly parted due to her posture, with the deep crevice between them forming an enticing shadow beneath the fabric of the flesh-toned stockings and black panties.
Then, she slipped into those ten-centimeter sky-high heels.
Her bare feet, clad only in the flesh-toned stockings, slid into the black patent leather high heels, her arch pushed to its limit, the top of her foot stretched taut, the skin beneath the stockings pulled nearly transparent.
She straightened up, giving a light tap of her feet to settle the shoes.
The curtain was fully drawn back.
Dr. Carter stood there, a faint, unmistakable blush spreading from her cheekbones to the tips of her ears.
Her breathing was slightly more rapid than before, her chest rising and falling noticeably beneath her blouse, the contours of her breasts swaying gently with each breath.
She knew she had left a gap—intentionally.
She wanted to see the boy's reaction as he peeked—that mix of shame, excitement, and an inability to look away was the best reward for her careful preparation.
And judging by his wide eyes, rapid breathing, and the obvious bulge in his trousers, her goal had been achieved.
But she was also afraid.
Afraid that her desire was too blatant, afraid that this carefully orchestrated "accident" might frighten him, make him retreat, and bring this dangerous game to an early end.
Her fingertips trembled slightly at her sides, and the arousal between her legs increased, the damp patch on her panties expanding further.
"Sorry," she said, her voice slightly huskier than before, carrying a faint breathiness from arousal. "I kept you waiting."
Rohan opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
His throat was parched and aching, his penis rigid and swollen, the glans pressing against the fabric of his underwear, seeping a bit of pre-ejaculate that brought a sticky, damp sensation.
His gaze couldn't tear away from her legs—the flesh-toned stockings were like a layer of glossy honey brushed over ripe fruit, tempting one to taste.
Dr. Carter walked over to the treatment chair and gestured toward the examination bed beside it.
"Lie down," she said, her voice carrying a trace of unquestionable authority, yet beneath that authority was a faint tremor—a tremor of excitement.
She needed him in a more passive, more easily controlled position, while she could stand above him, enveloping him completely with her gaze, her words, and her touch.
Rohan obediently lay down. On his back, his line of sight allowed him to watch Dr. Carter approach the bed.
Dr. Carter casually pulled over the rolling stool and sat down beside the bed.
This height positioned her perfectly at eye level with the boy's waist.
She didn't begin the "treatment" immediately. Instead, she first crossed her legs—her right leg elegantly draped over her left knee. This movement inevitably caused her suit skirt to ride up a full ten centimeters.
More of her thigh was exposed to the air.
Her foot dangled in the air, the ten-centimeter black high heels with red soles swaying gently. The heels were sharp, the toe pointed like a blade, yet the foot encased in flesh-toned stockings displayed a fragile elegance—the arch was high and curved, the ankle so slender it seemed it could snap with a single twist.
Through the nylon as thin as a cicada's wing, one could see the veins on the top of her foot spreading like tree branches, and the slight wriggling of her toes within the low-cut heels and stockings.
"Look at me."
She spoke, her eyes locked tightly on the boy, her pupils contracting under the clinic lights into two bottomless black dots, the deep blue ring around the edge of her irises like the sea before a storm.
"Don't look at the ceiling. Look into my eyes—or, look at my feet. Whichever you prefer."
Her voice was low, carrying a huskiness and warmth as if she had just finished a glass of whiskey.
Each word seemed to have tiny hooks, gently scraping against Rohan's eardrums and nerves.
Standing steadily on one foot in ten-centimeter heels, she lifted the other foot, lazily rotating her ankle. The pointed-toe high heels moved like a restless cobra flicking its tongue.
She was guiding, she was testing, carefully conducting her seduction on the edge of danger. She needed to stir his most primal desires, yet not go too far and scare off this young man.
Rohan's gaze was irresistibly drawn to her stocking-clad foot, which she was proudly rotating at the ankle—a visual temptation he couldn't resist.
Dr. Carter was satisfied to see the blazing fire in his eyes.
She could feel the wetness between her legs becoming more torrential. Her panties were completely soaked, clinging stickily to her swollen labia, each slight movement bringing a pleasurable friction.
Her nipples were also painfully hard, rubbing against her silk blouse inside her bra, her areolas expanded and darkened, the tiny bumps on her nipples raised.
She lowered her foot, approached with cat-like steps, and extended her hand.
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