Chapter 2: The Treatment Plan

Chapter 2: The Treatment Plan

Leo returned to the clinic two days later feeling like a different person. The oppressive grey fog in his mind had begun to recede, replaced by the bright, sharp sunlight of purpose. He was no longer a man adrift; he was a patient with a diagnosis, a patient with a plan. He was going to be cured.

He carried another bakery box, this time filled with fudgy, sea-salt-dusted brownies. He’d baked them this morning not out of anxiety, but out of a bubbling, effervescent gratitude. When the receptionist called his name, he walked down the hallway with a steady stride, a hopeful smile on his face.

Dr. Thorne was waiting in the same examination room, seated on the same stool, a picture of cool, professional authority. He looked up as Leo entered, and for a fleeting moment, Leo thought he saw a flicker of something other than clinical detachment in those sharp grey eyes—something hot and assessing. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual unimpressed calm.

“Mr. Vance,” Julian greeted him, his voice a smooth, low baritone that seemed to vibrate in the sterile air. “Please, have a seat.” He gestured toward the patient’s chair, not the examination table. Today was for discussion.

“I brought you these,” Leo said, placing the box on the small counter. “As a thank you. For… for taking me seriously.”

Julian glanced at the box, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “That’s thoughtful of you. But the real work is yet to begin.” He folded his hands, his gaze locking onto Leo’s. The intensity was back, focused and absolute. “I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours developing a preliminary treatment protocol tailored specifically to your presentation of Anal Insufficiency Syndrome.”

Leo leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees, a rapt disciple ready to receive wisdom. “Okay. I’m ready.”

“Good.” Julian’s tone was grave, lending immense weight to his words. “Your condition, as we discussed, stems from a chronic atrophy of the deep pelvic musculature and a corresponding reduction in vital vascularity. Our goal is twofold: first, we must reverse the atrophy, and second, we must re-establish robust blood flow. It will be… rigorous.”

Leo nodded eagerly, hanging on every syllable.

“The protocol will be comprised of three primary modalities,” Julian continued, his voice weaving a web of complex, seductive lies. “First, we will begin with a course of Targeted Myofascial Release Therapy. This involves deep, methodical internal massage to break up the sclerotic tissues that are inhibiting proper function.”

Internal massage. The words sent a nervous flutter through Leo’s stomach, but it was overshadowed by a profound sense of validation. It sounded serious. It sounded scientific.

“Concurrently,” Julian went on, his gaze unwavering, “we will employ Direct Neuromuscular Stimulation. Think of it as physical therapy at a cellular level. By applying precise, rhythmic pressure to key nerve clusters within the pelvic floor, we can essentially ‘reawaken’ the dormant musculature and remind it of its purpose.”

Leo’s mind raced, trying to keep up. It all sounded so technical, so brilliant. He felt a blush creep up his neck at the intimate implications, but he pushed it down. This was medicine. This was his path to getting well.

“Finally, and most critically,” Julian said, his voice dropping slightly, becoming more intimate, “we will initiate what I call Induced Vascular Engorgement Therapy. This is the cornerstone of the treatment. To combat the deficiency, we must actively encourage and sustain significant blood flow to the affected region. This process will not only nourish the atrophied tissues but will also trigger a systemic hormonal cascade that should alleviate your fatigue and cognitive fog.” He paused, letting the weight of the statement settle. “The physical response to this particular therapy can be… potent. You may experience sensations of intense pleasure. This is a normal, expected clinical outcome—a sign that the vascular system is responding correctly.”

An involuntary shiver traced its way down Leo’s spine. Intense pleasure. The doctor was telling him, with a perfectly straight face, that part of his cure would feel good. Earth-shatteringly good, if the forum user ‘CosmicTraveler42’ was to be believed. The idea was both terrifying and electrifying.

“I understand,” Leo managed to say, his voice a little hoarse. “I’ll do whatever you say, Doctor.”

A dark flicker of satisfaction lit Julian’s eyes. The boy was perfect. So trusting, so eager. A canvas on which he could paint any reality he chose.

“Excellent,” Julian said, rising from his stool and turning to his desk calendar. The motion was fluid, predatory. “Given the severity of your symptoms, I see no reason to delay. We’ll schedule your first practical therapy session for tomorrow evening. The clinic will be closed, ensuring we have the privacy and time required for the procedure to be effective.”

Tomorrow. So soon. Leo’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of nerves and excitement.

Julian turned back to him, his expression once again that of a serious, concerned physician. “Now, there are some instructions you’ll need to follow to prepare yourself. This is very important, Mr. Vance. The efficacy of the treatment depends on it.”

Leo grabbed a pen from his pocket, ready to write on the back of his brownie recipe. “Yes, Doctor?”

“First, for the next twenty-four hours, I want you on a liquid-only diet. Broths, juices. Nothing solid. We need your system to be as clear as possible to allow for optimal access to the treatment area.”

“Okay. Liquid diet.” Leo scribbled.

“Second, you are to take a warm bath tomorrow evening, approximately one hour before your appointment. The heat will help relax the superficial muscles, making the deep tissue work more effective. While you are in the bath, I want you to practice deep, diaphragmatic breathing. Inhale for four counts, hold for four, exhale for six. It will help calm your nervous system.”

“Warm bath, deep breathing. Got it.”

Julian took a step closer, his voice lowering again. The professional distance seemed to shrink, the air in the room growing thick and charged. “Finally, Mr. Vance… the procedure requires absolute cleanliness. You will need to perform a thorough enema about two hours before you come to the clinic. Do you understand what that entails?”

Leo’s face burned. He could only manage a jerky nod, his gaze fixed on a point just over Julian’s shoulder. An enema. The instruction was so clinical, so medical, yet so profoundly intimate that it made his head spin.

“Good,” Julian said softly. The approval in his voice was a warm, intoxicating wave. “I will see you tomorrow. Seven PM sharp. Don’t be late.”

With a final, lingering look that felt like a physical touch, Dr. Thorne turned and opened the door. Leo walked out of the clinic in a daze, the cool evening air doing nothing to quell the fire in his veins. He wasn’t just a patient anymore. He was an active participant in his own healing, preparing his body for the skilled, life-giving hands of his doctor. The line between clinical procedure and something else entirely had blurred into a thrilling, terrifying haze. And he couldn’t wait.