For the past eight years, she had responded to all such advances with polite but icy refusals, like a precisely programmed instrument.
But at this moment, she wondered how this "instrument" would react after undergoing the "system update" of the past month.
"Company?"
She repeated the word, her tone devoid of emotion—neither anger nor compliance, more like she was analyzing its meaning.
The blond man stood up and took two steps closer.
He was tall and powerfully built, the result of long-term sculpting in the gym, exuding the scent of expensive cologne and the vibrant aura of youthful masculinity.
"Of course. I know a place with good music and great privacy. A woman like you shouldn't spend a night like this alone."
His gaze swept over her again, filled with a sense of possession.
Dr. Carter observed him quietly.
Young, handsome, physically robust, his desires as straightforward as an animal on the prairie.
This was what society defined as a "high-quality man," the kind of encounter many women of her age and status might consider or even welcome.
Yet, her mind uncontrollably engaged in a cold comparison: comparing this body brimming with standard masculine vigor to Rohan's small, pale, seemingly stunted frame, which concealed earth-shattering secrets.
This straightforward, shallow expression of desire before her, devoid of mystery or challenge, paled in comparison to the complex interactions in the clinic—born from repression, shame, pain, control, and resistance, filled with forbidden tension and the thrill of destruction. The latter had given her, at the "advanced" age of forty-three, her first-ever squirting orgasm.
The former, however, would likely struggle to even make her wet.
"I'm forty-three," she stated flatly.
The blond man raised an eyebrow, his smile deepening:
"So what? You look thirty. And..."
He leaned in closer, his breath brushing against her ear, "To be honest, mature women know more and have far more flavor than those chattering young girls."
Dr. Carter suddenly laughed.
It wasn't a laugh of pleasure, but one of understanding, mockery, even tinged with pity.
She recalled the climax she had achieved alone at home last night, how her mind had been flooded with images of Rohan's eyes—a mix of pain, humiliation, and nascent desire—and how she had whispered those indecent, suggestive words into the empty bedroom in advance, practicing them.
That was the true "flavor" that thrilled her, the ultimate pleasure rooted in the distortion of power, the breaking of taboos, and psychological manipulation, far surpassing this simple physical attraction.
"Thank you for the compliment," her voice regained its usual, detached calmness, "but I already have plans."
"Oh? Lucky guy," the blond man refused to give up, pressing further, "Boyfriend?"
Dr. Carter paused, images flashing through her mind—Rohan's face, Shivani's cold gaze, the closed door of the clinic.
A twisted yet precise definition took shape in her heart.
"A young patient... in need of special guidance," she said slowly, each word seeming carefully considered. "My work is always full of challenges."
With that, she didn't linger, ignoring the man's stunned and bewildered expression, and turned to leave.
The steady, resolute rhythm of her high heels against the floor left the two young men and their shallow understanding of "mature charm" far behind.
She could feel the weight of gazes clinging to her back like something tangible, especially along the curves of her hips and thighs, but she paid them no mind.
The kind of "being desired" she truly needed did not come from these street prowlers, but from that boy in the consultation room—the one whose eyes, under her guidance, had gradually shifted from timidity to focus, even beginning to reveal a hint of aggression...
That was the gaze she craved, the ultimate audience for all her meticulous preparations.
She retrieved her car and drove toward her apartment in South Kensington.
Her apartment occupied the top floor of a Georgian-style townhouse, with two bedrooms and two living rooms.
The decor was minimalist and modern, featuring vast expanses of negative space, clean, cold lines, and furniture that was expensive yet devoid of warmth—like a showroom in a luxury hotel or a space designed for sterile procedures.
During the divorce, she had given up the Chelsea mansion filled with memories and chosen this place instead.
Her ex-husband had long since remarried, starting a happy life with a younger woman who loved gardening, and they now had a pair of twins.
As for her, she filled this cold apartment—and her equally cold heart—with frenzied work, strict self-discipline, and occasional extravagant shopping sprees. That was, until a month ago, when a "special case" crashed into her life like a meteor, blasting a boiling, primal crater into this frozen landscape.
She turned on the lights and slipped off her shoes.
Bare feet on the slightly cool hardwood floor, the mild stimulation sharpening her awareness.
She placed the two shopping bags like sacred objects on the white marble coffee table at the center of the living room, then walked straight into the bedroom.
Undoing her bun, golden hair cascaded down like a waterfall.
One by one, she unbuttoned her silk blouse. The fabric whispered against her skin as it slid away, like shedding a layer of civilized disguise.
Removing her bra, her body gradually revealed itself in the mirror: breasts still full and firm, with barely a trace of time or gravity, areolas a mature flesh-toned brown, nipples hardening slightly with anticipation.
A soft curve at her lower belly, the gentle fullness belonging to a healthy, mature woman.
Slipping off her trousers and panties, she stood completely naked before the full-length mirror.
She examined the body that had accompanied her for forty-three years with a calm, scanner-like gaze.
Finally, her eyes lingered on the inner thighs—there, the red marks left by Rowan's slap two days ago had already faded, leaving only faint, nearly invisible traces, like ancient, faded runes.
She reached out a finger and gently stroked that patch of skin.
The touch was smooth, but the remembered searing pain—and the revolutionary pleasure that followed—instantly reignited.
These marks were proof of her "cultivation" of his aggression, medals of honor for guiding him to unleash the inner "beast."
Merely gazing at these faded traces sent a familiar, hollow clench deep within her abdomen.
She walked to the bed and sat down, legs parting naturally, exposing her most intimate realm fully to the air and her own sight.
Her fingers first lingered over the "medals of honor" on her inner thighs, then, as if drawn by a magnet, slowly slid toward the already dampening private parts.
Her pubic hair was neatly trimmed, her labia flushed a deeper pink from the memories that set her blood racing, slightly parted to reveal the slick mucosa within.
Her clitoris, already excited, peeked out from its hood, hard and sensitive.
She closed her eyes and began to knead.
At first, her movements were restrained and rhythmic, like performing a familiar physiological self-examination.
But the images in my mind quickly flooded forth:
The first time Rohan walked into the consultation room—pale, small, with evasive eyes, like a frightened young animal. Behind him loomed the towering, oppressive figure of Shivani.
The shock I felt the first time I witnessed his absurd physiological structure—a childlike penis paired with giant-sized testicles—and the faint, offended sense of professional judgment that followed.
The first time she was forced to touch it with her own hands, feeling the horrifying sensation of that organ swelling like a monster in her grasp, she was so frightened she fled in a panic.
By the eighth session, he had become infatuated with her stocking-clad feet as if discovering a new continent, clumsily and greedily licking them—the first time he had shown a clear, active desire.
The ninth session, the last one, under her verbal guidance, he channeled his anger and humiliation into his palm, striking her thigh again and again. And she, in the mix of pain and a sense of control, experienced her first ever squirting orgasm—the most intense climax of her life so far...
"Oh..." A suppressed moan escaped from her tightly pressed lips.
The movement of her fingers suddenly quickened and intensified. Her other hand grabbed one of her breasts, squeezing and kneading it roughly, the nipple hardening painfully between her fingers.
"Rohan..." she gasped, her voice hoarse and broken, speaking to a phantom that wasn't there, "Look what you've done to me... Look what you've turned a respectable doctor into..."
Her fingers delved deeper, parting the slick labia, exposing the sensitive core completely to the torment of her fingertips.
"So wet... all because of you... you wicked little monster... you tempted me first... with your abnormal body... with those pitiful, longing eyes..."
The narrative she had constructed for herself kicked in again: it was Rohan's abnormality, his contradictory mix of fragility and potential violence, his mother's suffocating control—all of it had "forced" her to this point.
She was passive, seduced, a victim who had to venture into dangerous territory to "treat" him. This line of reasoning was her lifeline, the last thread keeping her rationality from unraveling.
But in this private moment, unseen by anyone, in her desire-scorched mind, fragments of truth still flickered:
She was the one who had actively chosen to cross the line. She was the one who had meticulously designed each escalation of the "treatment." She was the one intoxicated by this process of shaping and controlling. She was the one drawing unprecedented, vivid vitality and destructive pleasure from this forbidden relationship...
"Oh God... damn it...!"
She clenched her teeth, her hips involuntarily arching upward, her legs stiffening, the arches of her feet taut, toes curling. "You can't escape... tomorrow... I'll give you more... make you even more dependent on me... until you're completely... mine..."
The orgasm came swiftly and violently, like a small explosion inside her skull.
Her body arched violently backward, her neck stretching into a taut line, a sharp, almost whimpering cry tearing from her throat, utterly inhuman.
Fluids gushed out, soaking the dark gray silk sheets beneath her.
The intensity of this climax, catalyzed by extreme fantasy and self-degrading humiliation, nearly matched the real-life squirting in the consultation room.
She collapsed on the bed, as if all her bones had been emptied out,
only her chest heaving violently, sweat gluing her golden hair to her flushed cheeks and neck.
The aftershocks of the orgasm, like tiny electric currents, still coursed through her limbs, bringing waves of tingling tremors.
After a long while, she finally caught her breath, struggling to crawl to the edge of the bed, reaching for a shopping bag on the side table. She took out a black gift box, opened it, and pulled out a pair of top-tier, flesh-toned stockings.
She unfolded it, holding it up to the dim, yellowish glow of the bedside reading lamp.
The stocking was as thin as a cicada's wing, nearly transparent, yet under the light, it shimmered with a delicate, glossy sheen. The fine seam running down the back was clearly visible.
"Tomorrow..."
She murmured softly, pressing the cool nylon fabric against her still-flushed cheek. The slippery, smooth texture sent a shiver through her.
"Tomorrow, you'll see this. You'll learn more... about desire, about control, about... how to make your 'uniqueness' your strength."
She was speaking to Lorhan, and also to the increasingly vast plan of molding and possession taking shape in her own heart.
She recalled the lingerie shop manager's words: "Are you preparing for a special occasion?"
The corner of Dr. Carter's mouth twitched, and a smile—a blend of self-mockery, madness, and boundless longing—slowly spread across her face.
"Yes," she answered softly, addressing the imagined, stern shadow of a judge in the air. "A special 'consultation.' And I... am both the doctor and the first patient to be utterly corroded by my own prescription."
Outside the window, London's night was thick as ink.
In the distance, the heavy chime of Big Ben drifted faintly, striking nine times.
The tolling was drawn-out, as if measuring the depth of reason's descent, or counting down to a knowingly sinful yet unstoppable pursuit.
Meanwhile, in a sandalwood-scented townhouse in Kensington, on the other side of the city, Shivani knelt before the shrine, replacing the offering flowers for the night.
Amidst the curling incense smoke, she closed her eyes in devout prayer, yet her brow unconsciously furrowed.
A cold, clammy unease, like damp, creeping vines, was stealthily climbing up her spine.
She didn't know exactly what it was, only sensing that something was approaching her Lorhan, approaching the world she had painstakingly built yet now felt precarious.
That something carried the slippery sheen of stockings, the sharp click of high heels, and a pair of eyes as deep blue as the ocean—eyes that might conceal a deadly vortex.
Her son, her only child, was being drawn by a force she could neither comprehend nor control, step by step toward a boundary that was about to devour innocence, and perhaps reshape him.
And beyond that boundary lay salvation or deeper corruption—even the hunter who set the trap might already be lost within it.
The night was still long.
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