Shivani strictly followed the doctor's orders, taking Rohan to the hospital every two to three days after school in the afternoon.
The atmosphere was noticeably different upon their first return to Dr. Carter's office.
Several of Dr. Carter's employees had already left, and she remained there waiting for Shivani and her son.
She wore a standard white coat.
Shivani noticed the faint edge of a black bodycon skirt peeking out from beneath the white coat, along with the subtle sheen of flesh-toned stockings on her calves.
"Ms. Sharma, you may wait in the outer seating area," Dr. Carter's voice was softer than usual. "Based on last time's experience, Rohan relaxes much more in a private setting, which is crucial for shortening the duration."
Shivani hesitated for a moment. Her gaze shifted between her son and the doctor before she finally nodded.
The miracle of those twenty minutes was too tempting for her—if every session could be as efficient as the last one, she would be freed from that forty-minute ordeal.
"I'll wait outside," her voice carried a barely perceptible tension.
The office door closed gently.
When Dr. Carter turned to face Rohan, her professional expression subtly relaxed.
She pulled over a chair and sat down, this time crossing her legs directly, fully revealing her stocking-clad calves, with her stocking-clad feet elegantly poised in a pair of sexy high heels.
"Today, let's try a different color," she said, taking out a small paper bag from a drawer containing a brand-new pair of black stockings, still sealed in their packaging. "Some studies suggest that color contrast may produce different psychological effects."
Rohan stared at the stockings, his throat dry.
The experience from last time replayed in his mind—the smooth texture of the stockings, the unfamiliar pleasure brought by Dr. Carter's technique, and the relief of finally escaping the prolonged torment.
"I... I don't know," he whispered.
"It's alright, we'll take it slow," Dr. Carter stood up and drew the partition curtain in the room. "I need to change."
Behind the curtain came the faint rustling of clothing.
Rohan sat in the chair, his fingers unconsciously twisting together.
He could hear his own heartbeat and the sound of Dr. Carter removing her shoes and stockings behind the curtain, followed by the almost imperceptible, characteristic rustle of nylon fabric stretching as she put on the new stockings.
When the curtain was drawn back, Dr. Carter reappeared before him.
The black stockings contrasted sharply with her beige blouse, gleaming with a delicate sheen under the cool white light of the office, accentuating every graceful curve of her calves.
She still wore the same pair of low-cut high heels, but had switched to a black pair with higher, thinner heels—more accentuating sensuality than practicality for daily wear.
"How does it look?"
Her voice carried a hint of inquiry, even a trace of unease and anticipation she herself hadn't fully realized—the feeling of dopamine was so wonderful, making her feel as if she had returned to her youth.
And during the two-day interval, whenever she thought about having to attend to Rohan's desires, she was subtly rewarded by the hormones related to addiction and love.
But being able to rationally analyze oneself did not mean she could escape its influence. Even a mind as rational as a machine could not completely erase the traces of feeling.
Yes... Emily Carter felt that if she could derive a little personal pleasure from her profession, perhaps it would help restore some psychological balance—her professional integrity, shattered by Shivani's money, had caused her self-esteem to plummet.
Rohan's gaze was fixed on those legs.
The black stockings offered a visual impact entirely different from bare skin—more mysterious, more mature, more... sensual.
He felt the familiar ache in his lower abdomen begin to mingle with an unfamiliar stirring.
Dr. Carter keenly noticed the change in his body.
She walked to the sink to wash her hands, an action that required her to bend slightly. The body-hugging pencil skirt clung tightly to her form, outlining the full curve of her hips.
When she turned around, her meticulously styled golden bun had loosened into cascading waves, and the top two buttons of her blouse had somehow come undone, revealing her collarbone and a glimpse of her chest.
This was no accident.
Dr. Carter had observed herself in the mirror—divorced for eight years, she had almost forgotten her own feminine allure to the opposite sex.
But the previous two experiences had awakened something dormant within her.
When she saw Rohan's clear, shy, yet deeply confused eyes, a complex emotion took root in her heart.
"Let's begin," she said, putting on her gloves. "Would you like to touch my legs or feet first?"
The boy nodded eagerly. In this moment, he shed his usual timidity—the timidity born of a domineering mother and bullying classmates. Now, he looked like any man craving a woman, his eyes alight with excitement and a hint of aggression.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of Dr. Carter's lips. She slipped her foot out of the high heel, extending her slender, stocking-clad leg toward him...
This time, the process went as smoothly as the last.
Another twenty minutes.
As the massive organ in her hand erupted, Dr. Carter, her shoulders aching from the exertion and her own body simmering with pent-up desire, felt a strange sense of satisfaction—not just from completing a medical task, but also a feeling of... conquest?
Control?
She dared not dwell on it.
Afterward, Rohan slumped in the chair, panting. Dr. Carter removed the semen-stained gloves, but this time she didn't wash them immediately. Instead, she walked to the window, her back to the boy, and took several deep breaths.
Her stockings were slightly damp with sweat, clinging to her legs—twenty minutes of non-stop service for the boy was still no light physical task.
The deep-seated heat in her lower abdomen hadn't fully subsided; her sex and nipples were fully aroused.
She knew this wasn't normal. It had already far exceeded the bounds of medical assistance.
But when Shivani's promised extra payment arrived—a sum that was quite substantial—she found an excuse for her actions: it was to help the patient, and to allow her to indulge in luxuries more comfortably.
Besides, it also helped build the boy's confidence.
He was pitifully oppressed by his overbearing mother. Why not do this for him?
"Get dressed," she said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Next time, we'll try a different color."
Shivani fidgeted in the waiting area. She watched the clock on the wall, the second hand ticking away.
In less than half an hour, the consultation room door opened.
Dr. Carter emerged, her expression calm, but Shivani noticed her bun was looser than when she had entered, and there were fine beads of sweat at her temples.
"It went smoothly," the doctor said. "It still only took twenty minutes. He's getting dressed now."
Shivani breathed a sigh of relief, but a strange feeling began to spread within her—a sense of alienation, of being excluded.
Her son's most private, most painful problem was now being handled behind closed doors by a strange woman, while she, his mother, could only wait outside.
When Rohan emerged, Shivani keenly noticed the expression on his face. Gone was the earlier collapse and shame, replaced only by a calmness after release, even… a hint of relief?
"How do you feel?" she asked, trying to read something in her son's eyes.
"Much better." Rohan avoided her gaze. "Dr. Carter's method… it works."
Shivani's heart tightened slightly. He called her "Dr. Carter," with a tone of trust and closeness she wasn't familiar with?
On the way home, Rohan spoke up on his own, a rare occurrence:
"Mom, Dr. Carter said that if I feel any swelling or discomfort at home, I can try imagining some neutral images, like… the color of stockings. She said it helps with psychological relaxation."
Shivani's fingers tightened around the steering wheel. The color of stockings? Neutral images?
She remembered the faint sheen of stockings beneath Dr. Carter's white coat today, and those clearly changed high heels.
"What else did she say?" Shivani tried to keep her voice calm.
"She said my situation is unique, but as long as I find the right method, I can manage it." Rohan looked out the window. "She also said… it's normal for teenage boys to have physical needs, and there's no need to feel ashamed."
Shivani's breath caught. No need to feel ashamed? In her strict religious teachings, desire itself was something to be restrained and purified.
How dare Dr. Carter teach her son this way?
But when she turned and saw the rare brightness and cheer on her son's face, the words of reproach died in her throat.
At least, he wasn't suffering. At least, the method worked.
That night, Shivani knelt before the shrine for longer than usual.
She whispered prayers to Goddess Kali—the powerful and fierce mother goddess—praying for protection for her child from "wrong influences."
From the third session onward, an unspoken ritual gradually took shape in Dr. Carter's consultation room.
The attire beneath the white coat grew increasingly refined—pencil skirts paired with stockings, high heels with heels growing slimmer each time, their crisp, rhythmic taps echoing on the floor.
Rohan's growing confidence was gradual but impossible to ignore.
These changes quietly spilled out of the consultation room and seeped into Rohan's school life.
South Bay Private High was the typical elite institution: red-brick buildings, neatly trimmed lawns, a parking lot where students drove cars more expensive than many teachers'.
Rohan Sharma had always been 'notorious' here as a nerd, a genius, or a freak—starting school two years early, excelling academically but never joining any clubs, always sitting alone in a corner during lunch.
But as the therapy sessions increased, something began to change.
It was a Thursday afternoon, the air in the chemistry lab tinged with the faintly astringent scent of ammonia and old metal.
Rohan was washing conical flasks one by one at the sink, the cold water rinsing over his slender knuckles.
Footsteps approached from behind—steady, aggressive, carrying the scent of mud from the football field.
"Hey, little Sharma."
A voice came from behind, low and deliberately drawn out.
Rohan's fingers paused in the stream of water. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was.
Max Taylor, star wide receiver of South Bay Private High School's football team, the talk of the twelfth grade.
It was said his girlfriend was cheerleading captain Sarah Mendes—a name even someone like Rohan, who paid almost no attention to campus social life, had heard of, because her difficult gymnastics routines appeared at every major school event, and her smile was plastered across too many people's Instagram feeds.
At seventeen, Max stood 185 centimeters tall, his shoulders so broad they seemed ready to burst the seams of his school uniform shirt.
He was leaning casually against the adjacent lab table, the contours of his pectoral muscles sharply defined beneath the taut fabric.
As usual, he was flanked by a few hangers-on. Rohan recognized two of them: Derek, the tall, lanky boy who resembled a bamboo pole, and Brett, short and stocky, his arms dotted with freckles from summer sun exposure.
"I need a favor."
Max slapped a crumpled, dog-eared chemistry textbook onto Rohan's lab table. The portrait of Lavoisier on the cover was stained yellow with coffee.
"There's a quiz on Friday. Mrs. Larson's scribbled equations—" He grinned, revealing overly perfect teeth. "You know, with that brain of yours that can solve any problem, handling these should be as easy as eating breakfast cereal. Two days?"
Rohan's gaze fell on the textbook.
Before—just a few weeks ago—he would have lowered his head, silently taken it, spent two nights organizing clear, easy-to-understand notes, and then "accidentally" left the notebook on the bench beside Max's locker the day before the exam.
He would have pretended it was nothing, his heart pounding wildly in his chest, both afraid of being discovered and faintly hoping for at least a thank you—which, of course, never came.
Now, Dr. Carter's voice unexpectedly surfaced in his mind—from last week's session, as she leaned against the examination table, slowly pulling sheer, pearl-white stockings over her knees, her tone a casual blend of professionalism and languor:
"You know, Rohan... learning to say no is the first step to growing up. Especially when the other person hasn't given you even the most basic respect."
Yes, he had reached the point where he could discuss school life with Dr. Carter. He had complained about this cowardly practice of serving bullies to avoid being bullied—how it violated the innate sense of fairness everyone craved.
Rohan took a deep breath. The slightly stale air of the lab filled his lungs.
He turned around and looked up.
At 145 centimeters, his line of sight only reached the third button of Max's taut shirt. The stark height difference made him feel as if he were standing before a wall of flesh.
"I can... teach you," Rohan heard his own voice, drier than he'd imagined, but each word clear. "But I can't, and won't, take notes for you anymore. I have my own things to do, too."
The hushed whispers from a corner at the back of the lab abruptly ceased.
A delicate silence spread, as if even the bubbling liquid in the beakers had momentarily quieted.
Derek, the tall, lanky hanger-on beside Max, let out a short, derisive snort through his nose.
"Listen to that, our little genius has developed a temper? Learned how to bargain? Are you still half-asleep?"
Max himself didn't laugh.
He narrowed his light brown eyes—the same ones that assessed opponents' weaknesses on the field—just slightly. A predator-like glint flickered in his pupils, causing Rohan's stomach to reflexively clench.
"What did you say?"
Max leaned forward. The scent of cologne mixed with the potent hormones of a young male washed over Rohan, forming an oppressive blend.
"I said," Rohan felt his palms growing clammy with sweat under the cold lab table, but he forced himself to continue. This was Dr. Carter's "gradual resistance" technique—start with a compromise. "After school, I can spare half an hour to explain the difficult parts to you. But you have to take your own notes."
Max's response was to take another half-step closer.
He was now so near that Rohan could see the faint golden stubble on his chin and the outline of his bulging pectoral muscles beneath his shirt.
"You think I'm asking you?"
Max's voice dropped lower, making it sound even more dangerous.
Several students nearby had stopped their experiments, their gazes—some overt, some covert—turning toward them.
Out of the corner of his eye, Rohan saw Ms. Larson, the chemistry teacher, standing at the lab entrance with her back to them. She wasn't the warm-hearted type; she wouldn't go looking for trouble.
"Not asking," Rohan swallowed, his throat tight, but he kept his voice steady. "A trade. You invest time to learn, I invest time to explain. It's not one-sided. More... fair?"
"Fair?" Max laughed. He suddenly reached out—not to shove, not to grab, but to extend his index finger and jab Rohan in the chest.
Once.
A dull pain radiated from his ribs beneath the school uniform shirt.
Twice.
The force of his fingertip pressed through the thin fabric, bearing down on his sternum.
Each jab carried a humiliating rhythm, slow and deliberate.
"Let me tell you what's fair, little Sharma."
Max leaned in, his hot breath hitting the fine brown hair on Rohan's forehead. "A rich kid like you, living in a Kensington townhouse, who's never even touched a football, talking about fairness with me? Do you even know what fairness is?"
"Fairness is on the field—I charge, I score, I win. Fairness is in the locker room—the strong call the shots."
Rohan's cheeks burned as if on fire. He wanted to step back, but his heels felt nailed to the lab's anti-slip tile floor.
"The notes need to be in my locker by Friday morning."
Max leaned in closer, his breath fanning Rohan's bangs, his voice dropping to a hissing whisper only the two of them could hear:
"Otherwise, you can look forward to my 'special tutoring.' I promise, without the notes, you'll be the one stuffed into the locker—at your current size, you might just fit perfectly."
With that, he straightened up and deliberately looked Rohan up and down.
Rohan only came up to the lower edge of Max's pectoral muscles. His slight frame was almost completely swallowed by the shadow Max cast.
Max gestured, measuring from the top of Rohan's head, then slowly lowered his hand, stopping insultingly at the height level with his own crotch. He even wiggled his fingers provocatively.
Derek immediately caught on and let out a mocking whoop:
"Whoa! See that, guys? Our little genius is 'impressively' tall! Only comes up to Max's dick!"
A wave of suppressed low laughter and whistles echoed from various corners of the laboratory.
The onlookers' gazes held far more curiosity than sympathy, even carrying a certain amusement as if watching a farce. Bullying had become a refreshing diversion during the dull break.
Max swaggered away with his followers in tow, leaving Rowan frozen by the lab bench, his heart pounding wildly in his thin chest.
That evening during therapy, Rowan voluntarily opened up about what had happened at school.
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