Chapter 3: The First Session

Chapter 3: The First Session

The clinic was unnervingly silent when Leo arrived at seven PM sharp. The cheerful daytime bustle was gone, replaced by a hushed, sterile quiet that amplified the frantic thumping of his own heart. The front door was unlocked as promised. He stepped inside, his soft-soled shoes making no sound on the polished linoleum. The air still smelled of antiseptic, but tonight, it was mingled with the faint, lingering scent of the lemon-poppyseed muffins from his first visit, a ghostly reminder of his initial desperation.

He found Dr. Thorne in the same examination room, the door slightly ajar. The overhead fluorescent lights cast a stark, shadowless glow, making the space feel more like a surgical theater than a doctor’s office. Julian wasn’t wearing his doctor's coat. Instead, he wore a simple, dark-grey Henley that stretched taut across his chest and shoulders, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing strong, corded forearms. He was washing his hands at the small sink, his movements methodical and precise.

“Mr. Vance,” he said without turning, his voice echoing slightly in the stillness. “You’re punctual. Good.”

“I followed all your instructions, Doctor,” Leo said, his voice barely a whisper. The day of liquids had left him feeling light-headed and hollowed out, and the requisite preparations had been both embarrassing and humbling. He felt stripped bare, a vessel waiting to be filled with health, with vitality.

Julian turned, drying his hands on a sterile paper towel. His gaze was intense, analytical, and swept over Leo from head to toe. It made Leo feel transparent, as if the doctor could see the results of his careful preparations, the nervous anticipation thrumming just beneath his skin.

“Excellent,” Julian said. “Remove your trousers and underwear and have a seat on the table. Lie on your left side, facing away from me, and draw your knees toward your chest.”

The command was delivered with such detached, clinical authority that Leo’s blush felt almost inappropriate. This wasn’t a request; it was a medical directive. He did as he was told, his movements stiff with nerves. He folded his clothes neatly on the patient chair and climbed onto the table, the paper crinkling loudly beneath him. The room felt cold against his bare skin. He curled into the prescribed position, his back to the doctor, staring at the blank white wall.

He heard the snap of latex gloves, a crisp, clean sound that sent a jolt of nervous energy straight through him. He heard the rustle of a drawer opening, the clink of something being set down.

“We’ll begin with the Targeted Myofascial Release,” Julian’s voice was close now, right behind him. A low, resonant hum. “The goal is to manually break down the deep-seated adhesions in the tissue. It may feel… unusual. A deep, persistent pressure. Just try to breathe, as I instructed.”

Leo squeezed his eyes shut and focused on his breathing. Inhale for four, hold for four, exhale for six. He felt a cool, slick sensation as a generous amount of medical lubricant was applied. His muscles clenched instinctively.

“Relax, Leo,” Julian’s voice was a soft command, the use of his first name startlingly intimate. “You must be relaxed for the therapy to be effective. Trust me.”

Leo forced his body to obey, forcing his tense muscles to go slack. He trusted him. He had to. A moment later, he felt a slow, careful pressure, the blunt tip of a gloved finger breaching his body. It was a strange, invasive sensation, but Julian’s touch was impossibly steady, confident, and unerringly professional. He moved with the slow, methodical purpose of a surgeon, finding a point deep inside and applying a firm, unwavering pressure.

“There,” Julian murmured, his voice a low vibration that Leo felt through the table. “This is a primary point of energetic blockage. Can you feel it?”

Leo could only manage a choked sound of assent. It wasn't painful, but it was an intense, uncomfortable pressure, a deep ache that seemed to resonate all the way to his bones. He focused on his breathing, on the feeling of Julian’s knuckles resting clinically against him as he worked. This was it. This was the myofascial release, breaking up the years of atrophy. He could almost visualize the sclerotic tissue dissolving under the doctor’s skilled hand.

Julian worked in silence for several long minutes, his touch precise and tireless. He shifted his angle slightly. “Now for the Direct Neuromuscular Stimulation,” he explained, his voice still a low, clinical murmur. “I’m going to target a key nerve bundle. We’re re-establishing the connection between your brain and this musculature.”

His finger moved, stroking with a new, rhythmic purpose against a sensitive spot that sent a jolt, sharp and electric, through Leo’s entire body. Leo gasped, his hips bucking involuntarily against the touch.

“Breathe,” Julian commanded, his other hand coming to rest firmly on Leo’s hip, holding him steady. The touch was grounding, authoritative. “That’s a positive neurological response. The pathways are opening.”

He continued the rhythmic, stimulating pressure. The initial discomfort of the procedure began to melt away, replaced by something else entirely. The deep ache was transforming, coiling into a tight knot of unexpected, burgeoning pleasure. Leo’s mind reeled. He tried to reconcile the sterile environment, the clinical language, with the shocking, undeniable sensations flooding his system. The lines were blurring, the boundary between doctor and patient dissolving with every skillful stroke.

The pressure increased, the rhythm quickened. Leo’s breath hitched, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the paper-covered table. “Doctor…” he gasped, the word a plea.

“The final stage,” Julian’s voice was strained now, rougher around the edges. “Induced Vascular Engorgement. We need to flood the area with blood. The hormonal cascade is beginning. Don’t fight it, Leo. This is the cure.”

The last vestiges of Leo’s clinical detachment shattered. He was awash in pure, overwhelming sensation. Julian’s expert hands were no longer just administering a therapy; they were conducting a symphony of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. Every touch was both methodical and masterful, pushing him closer and closer to an edge he hadn't known existed. He felt his entire body flush with heat, a desperate, building tension that demanded release. He arched his back, a raw moan tearing from his throat, all thought of medicine and procedure obliterated by the rising tide.

With a final, targeted press, the dam broke.

Leo’s world exploded in a blinding flash of white-hot pleasure. A shattering, full-body orgasm ripped through him, so powerful and profound it felt like his very soul was being wrung out. His back arched off the table, a cry torn from his lips as his body convulsed, the release going on and on, a systemic reset that left him utterly spent.

He collapsed back onto the table, panting, his limbs trembling and weak. In the ringing silence that followed, he could hear Julian’s ragged breathing. Slowly, carefully, the doctor withdrew.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then came the sound of a glove being stripped off, tossed into a bin with a soft thud.

Leo felt… euphoric. The exhaustion, the brain fog, the deep, persistent ache—it was all gone, scoured from his system by that incredible, world-altering release. He felt invigorated, alive, his mind crystalline and sharp for the first time in months.

It had worked. The cure was real.

He slowly, dazedly, pushed himself up. He turned to look at the doctor. Julian was standing by the counter, his back to Leo, one hand braced against the surface. His shoulders were tense, his head bowed. When he finally turned, his face was a mask of strained neutrality, but his sharp grey eyes burned with a potent, unnerving cocktail of emotions Leo couldn’t begin to decipher. There was a darkness there, a hunger, and something else… something that looked almost like guilt.

“The treatment… was a success,” Julian said, his voice husky, failing to achieve its usual clinical detachment. “The vascular response was… optimal.”

“I feel…” Leo started, his voice thick with awe and gratitude. “I feel incredible. Thank you, Doctor. Thank you.”

Julian’s jaw tightened. He looked at Leo, truly looked at the dazed, blissed-out man on his examination table, and a desperate, possessive craving warred with a sudden, nauseating wave of shame. He had gotten what he wanted, and it was a thousand times more potent than he had imagined. And he already knew, with a certainty that terrified him, that he had to have it again.

“We’ll need to continue the sessions,” Julian said, his voice regaining a sliver of its authority. “Regularly. To prevent a relapse. Same time, two days from now.”