Time lost all meaning in the absolute darkness and silence—each second stretched out like a century.
He thought of Dr. Carter's stockings, of her saying, "You take control," of Alisha's cold exterior yet warm, helpful heart, of the faint scent of ink in Mr. Matsumoto's office… These fleeting moments of warmth and hope now seemed so distant, so fragile, so… laughable in the face of this absolute darkness and humiliation.
In a society dominated by white culture, the classic yet ironic pairing of tall, muscular football players and slender, fiery cheerleaders always seemed to reign supreme on campus, riding roughshod over the academically gifted.
It was a tired trope from high school movies, but reality was crueler than fiction. Movies had soundtracks and slow-motion shots; reality offered only cold metal walls and suffocating darkness.
He didn't know how long it had been—an hour, perhaps, or two centuries.
Finally, footsteps sounded outside the locker door. Not the arrogant strides of Max and his crew, but hesitant, heavy steps.
A click—the wire wrapped around the outside was cut by something.
The locker door was pulled open from the outside.
Blinding light flooded in, forcing Rohan to shut his eyes instantly.
A tall, somewhat overweight figure blocked the doorway.
Squinting as his eyes adjusted, Rohan recognized the person—Jason Miller, another long-term "punching bag" for Max's gang. A year older than Rohan, Jason was timid, mocked for his weight and stutter.
Now, Jason's face was a mix of sympathy, fear, and a touch of shared sorrow.
"M-Max told me… to l-let you out," Jason stammered, his voice low, eyes darting away, unable to meet Rohan's disheveled, tear-streaked appearance.
He extended a chubby hand, wanting to help Rohan out, but hesitated.
Rohan said nothing.
He wiped the tear stains from his face roughly with the back of his hand, ignored Jason's outstretched hand, and struggled to crawl out of that humiliating cage on his own.
His knees and elbows ached and stiffened from prolonged crouching and the earlier impacts. He staggered, steadying himself against a nearby locker.
Head bowed, he silently straightened his disheveled clothes—his shirt half-tucked out of his pants, trousers wrinkled, belt hanging loosely.
Slowly, meticulously, he tucked the shirt back in, fingers trembling as he fastened the belt buckle and zipped up his pants. Each movement was painfully slow, as if performing some solemn, agonizing ritual.
Jason stood by, fidgeting helplessly, opening his mouth several times as if to speak but ultimately just sighing softly. "Y-you should go… They m-might come back…"
Finally, Rohan had his clothes in order, at least superficially no longer so ragged.
He looked up and met Jason's gaze.
Jason immediately averted his eyes, his plump face flushing with embarrassment and unease.
Rohan didn't say thank you. He didn't say anything at all.
Bending down, he silently gathered the books scattered on the floor—tossed out by Max and the others—and the crumpled jacket, holding them against his chest.
Then, he straightened his heartbreakingly thin spine—though it still trembled slightly from lingering fear and humiliation—and slowly, step by step, walked toward the staircase at the end of the corridor.
Rohan stood aimlessly in place, alone in the emptiness around him. He wiped away his tears, straightened his clothes, took a deep breath, and began to walk.
Toward the exit.
Toward home.
Before the eighth treatment, Shivani, unusually busy with work, didn't return home until midnight.
The next evening, she discovered that Rohan had become mute.
Shivani keenly sensed something was wrong—that hollow, distracted expression.
Shivani placed fresh jasmine flowers before the shrine in the living room.
"What happened?" she asked, setting down the brass offering plate and walking barefoot across the smooth teak floor.
Rohan shook his head, trying to slip past her to go upstairs.
"Rohan Hamilton Sharma." Shivani's voice turned cold, carrying an undeniable authority.
She blocked the staircase, her tall frame—standing at 174 centimeters, towering over Rohan's mere 145 centimeters—casting an oppressive shadow.
"I'm asking you a question."
Rohan stopped but kept his head down, staring at a wood grain pattern on the floor.
Shivani watched him for a full minute, her chest rising and falling with suppressed anger.
She wore a deep purple sari today, the fabric smooth as flowing water, forming alluring folds over her full bosom with each breath.
But at this moment, the voluptuous, majestic lines of her body conveyed not feminine softness but the authority of a lioness.
Shivani took a step closer, the hem of her sari swaying like water with the movement.
She reached out to lift his chin.
Rohan jerked back violently, leaving Shivani's hand frozen mid-air.
"Don't touch me," he rasped.
Shivani's expression hardened. Her deep brown eyes first showed surprise, then hurt, and finally turned to icy fury.
"What kind of attitude is this?" she hissed, each word seeming to grind between her teeth. "I work ten hours a day to support this family, maintain your education, care for your health—and you speak to me like this?"
Rohan remained silent. He just stood there, like a statue.
Shivani took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling beneath the taut silk sari, the ample breasts that had once nursed him swaying, their peaks forming full curves beneath the fabric.
She tried to control her emotions—the first lesson years of yoga and spiritual practice had taught her was control.
"Tell me what happened," she said again, her voice slightly softer but still commanding.
Rohan shook his head.
"Is it something at school? Is someone bullying you?" Shivani's brow furrowed, the fine lines at the corners of her eyes—visible only in the morning light—becoming pronounced. "I've told you before, if you're in trouble, you should tell me. I can contact the principal, I can—"
"Don't," Rohan finally spoke, his voice broken. "Don't contact anyone. Please."
Shivani looked at him, her expression complex.
She could see her son was on the verge of breaking, but her pride and strict principles wouldn't allow her to yield easily.
In her view, pain must be restrained, emotions must be purified, hiding things from one's mother was disrespectful, and seeking help from outsiders was weakness.
But in the end, maternal instinct prevailed—albeit in a twisted way.
"Go take a bath," she said, turning toward the kitchen, her sari sweeping in a decisive arc. "We'll talk after dinner. Right now, I don't want to see you like this."
Dinner passed in silence.
Rohan mechanically shoveled rice into his mouth; the aroma of curry beans now smelled like ashes.
Shivani sat across from him, her back ramrod straight—like a Renaissance statue of a goddess of abundance. She ate her food in small bites, but her gaze never left her son.
After the meal, she tried again. "Rohan, I—"
"I'm tired," Rohan cut her off, standing up. "I want to sleep."
Shivani's hand slammed onto the table, making the brass utensils jump and clatter sharply.
"Enough!" She rose to her feet, her height advantage allowing her to loom over Rohan completely. "I am your mother! I have the right to know what's made you like this! If you don't tell me, tomorrow I'll go to the school, talk to every teacher, talk to the principal, until I find out!"
A wave of panic washed over Rohan.
If Shivani really went to the school and made a scene, what would Max do?
Those photos would be sent out, everyone would see them, everyone would laugh at him—laugh at his small penis, his oversized testicles, laugh at him being stuffed into a locker, laugh at his mother being a "crazy woman."
"Don't," he said, his voice trembling. "Please, Mom. Don't."
Seeing the fear in his eyes, Shivani's heart clenched.
She remembered the first few months after her husband's death, when Rohan had been like this too—huddled in a corner, not speaking, not eating, having nightmares all night.
Back then, she had held him, reciting the Bhagavad Gita all night until he fell asleep.
She softened—but only a little.
"Then tell me," she said, sitting back down, her voice gentler. "What exactly happened?"
But Rohan couldn't say it. He couldn't describe the details—Max's hand grabbing his belt, his pants being pulled down, the flash of the camera, the laughter, the darkness of the locker, Sarah Mendoza's scornful gaze.
Each image felt like a blade, cutting into his throat.
He shook his head, tears streaming down his face again.
Watching him cry, Shivani felt a deep sense of helplessness.
She could manage a company, negotiate multimillion-pound financial management contracts, uphold her faith and traditions in a foreign land, yet she couldn't get her own son to open up to her.
In the end, she took out her phone.
Not to call the school, but to call Dr. Carter.
When the call connected, Shivani turned her back to Rohan, her voice lowered but clear:
"Dr. Carter, this is Shivani Sharma. Rohan's condition... is not good. He's refusing to communicate and has clearly suffered severe trauma. Could tomorrow's appointment be moved to tonight?"
On the other end of the line, Dr. Carter was silent for a few seconds before saying, "Bring him over. Now."
Dr. Carter had been wearing loose silk pajamas, relaxing at home.
She had prepared champagne-colored stockings for tomorrow's appointment, paired with gold stiletto heels, and had even painted her nails a tempting dark green in advance today—as if she couldn't wait to attend a banquet rather than provide awkward medical assistance.
But after receiving Shivani's call, she opted for a more conservative midi skirt and nude pantyhose, paired with low-heeled black pumps.
She drove to the private wing on the top floor of St. Mary's Hospital and stood by the window, gazing out at London's gray dusk, her fingers unconsciously tapping against the windowsill.
The past two days of waiting had felt like an eternity—not just because of simple physical desire, though that part was undeniable. It was also because of something deeper.
She was acutely aware that her feelings for the boy had long transcended the simple doctor-patient relationship or the physiological craving for dopamine stimulation—it was a more complex, more dangerous, and more terrifyingly compelling attraction.
It wasn't just an obsession with that enormous penis…
So, her "treatment" process had quietly shifted.
She would always spend ten or twenty minutes chatting with Rohan like a friend, or even… like a gentler, more caring mother, listening to the details of his school life and sharing seemingly casual insights.
With her words and her gaze, she nurtured the seedling deep within him that yearned for recognition, to be seen as a "man."
She connected emotionally, built a bond, and only then helped the boy deal with his sexual urges.
She was playing a role—mother? Mentor? Temptress? Redeemer?
Even she couldn't tell anymore.
The door opened. Shivani stood in the doorway, her tall frame nearly filling the doorframe.
She was dressed in a deep blue sari for going out, her hair meticulously braided into a sleek bun, but her face betrayed unconcealed exhaustion and anxiety.
Seeing Rohan being half-pushed into the consultation room by Shivani, who then closed the door behind her with a worried expression, Dr. Carter immediately stood up and walked over naturally. She took the boy's cold little hand and held it tightly in her own warm, soft palm.
"What happened?"
She leaned forward slightly, her sapphire-blue eyes filled with undisguised concern. Her golden hair slipped from her shoulder, the ends almost brushing the back of Rohan's hand.
Compared to Shivani's forceful, imposing care, her posture at this moment was more like that of a true "mother" who knew how to offer warmth and acceptance.
Rohan let her lead him, like a puppet that had lost its strings, and was guided to sit on the edge of the examination bed.
He kept his head down, his eyes fixed intently on the tips of his shoes, as if they held the most fascinating subject in the world.
Dr. Carter, leaning in to observe the boy's expression, felt her heart tighten—not as a doctor, but as… a woman.
Dr. Carter guided him to sit—not on the consultation chair, but on the softer edge of the examination bed. She sat beside him, her legs in flesh-toned stockings pressed together and tilted slightly, a restrained posture.
The stockings were extremely sheer, revealing the natural texture and color of the skin beneath: a faint pink at the knees, slender ankles, and the clear lines of her Achilles tendons.
"Rohan," her voice was unusually soft, like a feather brushing against the heart, carrying a hypnotic, soothing power, "it's just us here. You can tell me. Anything."
The silence lasted a full minute.
In the consultation room, only the faint hum of the air conditioning and the distant murmur of traffic from the street could be heard.
Dr. Carter's fingers rested gently on the back of Rohan's hand—not gripping tightly, just touching, conveying warmth.
Suddenly, Rohan broke the silence in a voice almost too quiet to hear: "They took photos."
Dr. Carter's hand holding his tightened slightly, her warm palm transmitting a firm strength, but a trace of color drained from her face.
"What photos?"
Her voice remained steady, but her gaze instantly sharpened like a hawk's.
Another long silence.
Rowan closed his eyes, as if trying to shut out the entire world.
His eyelids trembled, his lashes damp with tears, clumping together in clusters.
"My... pants were pulled down," his voice broke, like an old, worn-out bellows. "In the restroom. Max and Derek. And... Sarah Mendoza. They took pictures."
The consultation room was so quiet you could hear your own heartbeat.
Dr. Carter's fingers tightened slightly. She could picture the scene—the slight frame of Rowan, pinned against the wall by the hulking football players, his pants yanked down, the flash of a camera, the laughter.
She could imagine his shame, his fear, his despair.
"And then..." Rowan continued, his voice even softer, almost a whisper, "then I was shoved into a locker. Max said... he'd let me out after practice. If... if they remembered."
Dr. Carter slowly, very slowly, released her grip on his hand.
She stood up, her movements somewhat stiff, walked to the window, and stood with her back to Rowan.
The sky outside was London's typical pale gray, with thick, low-hanging clouds.
She crossed her arms, the posture pulling the silk of her blouse taut across her back, outlining the clear shape of her shoulder blades and the smooth line of her spine.
She took a deep breath, once, twice, trying to calm the turmoil rising in her chest.
She was a polymath—a seasoned psychiatrist—yet here she was, her emotions stirred by this boy, her anger threatening to burn through her reason.
Then she turned, her expression one Rowan had never seen before—not the professional seriousness of a doctor, but the protective, furious intensity of a woman.
Her sapphire-blue eyes seemed to blaze, her pupils contracting to pinpoints.
"Max and his crew again!"
Her voice was low and dangerous, tightly reined fury.
As a woman of immense professional success, the owner of the private wing at St. Mary's Hospital, a woman who employed and supported several nurses and assistants, her formidable presence erupted in full force.
"That muscle-bound, pea-brained football idiot? And his lackey, and... judging by the name, some self-important campus bitch?"
Rowan was stunned by her sudden outburst; he had never seen Dr. Carter angry, let alone swearing.
He stared, stammering faintly, "Sarah Mendoza... the cheer captain."
"Cheer captain? Let me guess," Dr. Carter walked back, her heels clicking sharply against the floor, each step carrying force. "The classic, clichéd American high school drama setup, right? Football star paired with cheer captain, thinking they're at the top of the social food chain, free to trample anyone less 'glamorous' than them."
The corner of her mouth lifted in a cold, scornful curve. "How utterly... nauseatingly banal."
Dr. Carter tapped a finger against her arm, pacing the room.
She didn't return to her swivel chair. Instead, she walked back and stopped in front of Rowan.
She wore those more understated commuter heels, which made her already tall frame seem even more imposing.
She looked down at the frail boy seated in the therapy chair, but there was a strange lack of intimidation in her stance. It felt more like a wall, a silent shield.
"Listen, Rowan," her voice lowered but grew more resolute, carrying an undeniable authority. "This is no longer ordinary school bullying—not just shoving, insults, or stealing your lunch money."
"Forcing someone to remove their clothes without consent, exposing their private parts, and taking photos to keep—under British law, this already constitutes clear sexual assault and the production of child pornography. It's a criminal offense!"
Rowan jerked his head up, his face drained of color, lips trembling. "No, I—"
"You are!"
Dr. Carter cut him off, her tone leaving no room for doubt or negotiation.
"You are the victim! Victims don't need to feel ashamed or blame themselves for the perpetrator's crimes! Do you understand?"
Her gaze locked onto Rowan, as if trying to carve this conviction deep into his soul.
"Have you told anyone? Any teacher? Or... your mother?"
"No," Rowan's voice was broken, choked with tears. "I didn't dare... otherwise they'd post them... everyone would see those photos. Everyone would laugh at me... laugh at my..."
He swallowed hard, the rest of the words stuck in his throat, shame nearly drowning him.
Dr. Carter closed her eyes, her chest rising and falling noticeably. When she opened them again, the anger in her eyes had been replaced by something deeper and more resolute.
"Alright," she said, her voice regaining a restrained calm, but beneath that calm surged turbulent undercurrents. "Let's finish today's... treatment first."
She deliberately emphasized the word "treatment," as if reminding herself—and Rowan—of the most "legitimate" bond between them at this moment.
"Then, I'll tell you what to do. Step by step."
The treatment process was more silent than ever before, yet also more... intense.
Dr. Carter made no unnecessary provocations today.
As she bent over to retrieve new latex gloves and lubricant, the full curve of her ample hips, encased in a mid-length skirt, was completely exposed to Rowan's view.
The shape of her buttocks was as plump and juicy as a ripe peach, the two generous mounds of flesh outlined by the high-quality fabric, tracing a breathtakingly full, rounded arc.
The hem of her skirt rode up slightly due to her bending motion, revealing the back of her thighs—encased in sheer stockings so thin that the smooth, firm texture of her skin was clearly visible, along with the taut, elastic flesh of her thighs, slightly tensed by her posture.
Rowan watched, the familiar, burning sensation in his lower abdomen—a mix of pain and desire—rising uncontrollably.
Shame, the anger stirred by Dr. Carter, and a twisted excitement intertwined, making his breath quicken.
Dr. Carter walked back with the supplies, her face expressionless.
She deftly tore open the glove packaging, the sharp snap of the latex stretching echoing clearly in the silence.
She didn't offer any guiding words as she usually did, simply reaching with her gloved hand directly and decisively toward Rowan's zipper.
The sound of the zipper sliding down was rough and grating.
When her hand brushed against the already half-hard bulge through his underwear, Rowan shuddered all over.
Without any hesitation, she pulled down his pants and underwear, and that peculiar member sprang out, exposed to the cold air.
It was almost fully erect.
Dr. Carter squeezed a large dollop of cold lubricant into her palm, then grasped it without hesitation.
Her hands were completely unable to wrap around the astonishing thickness, only able to encircle a portion of it. The coolness of the lubricant and the slightly rough texture of the gloves contrasted sharply with the penis's own scorching, rigid firmness.
"Hiss..." Rowan gasped, unsure whether it was from the cold or from her unusually forceful grip today.
Dr. Carter began to move.
Her technique lacked the deliberate, teasing rhythm and skill of previous sessions, replaced instead by a nearly mechanical, highly efficient stroking.
Up and down, up and down—fast and forceful...
The lubricant quickly warmed to body temperature, producing loud, sticky squelching sounds between her palm and the fleshy shaft, echoing through the quiet examination room with an especially lewd resonance.
As her arm swung rapidly and forcefully, her full breasts swayed violently beneath her white coat and silk blouse, the heavy flesh undulating in tempting waves.
As time passed, beads of sweat began to seep from her golden hairline, sliding down her sharp jawline and soaking into the silk fabric, leaving dark, damp patches.
Rowan clenched his teeth as pleasure surged over him like a fierce tide, yet it was mingled with intense shame and a strange excitement from being treated so roughly.
He watched Dr. Carter's delicate face, now slightly flushed and damp with sweat from prolonged exertion, her lips pressed tightly together, and the cold flame burning in her eyes.
He felt as though he were being controlled, rubbed, and wrung out by a force of anger.
--------------------------------------
Hello guys, do support me in patreon:
patreon.com/FloppyQueen
Here you'll have access to 30 chapters.Your support means a lot to me.