The measured healing began at midnight.
I had calibrated the new protocol myself — slow, precise micro-doses of regenerative serum delivered directly into his nervous system while keeping every nerve ending raw and hypersensitive. It would repair the last of the physical damage from the poison, but it would do so gradually, forcing him to feel the slow knitting of tissue, the creeping return of strength, and the constant, throbbing ache of denial that never eased.
Justin lay strapped to the table under the dim surgical lights, body glistening with fresh sweat. His c**k remained rigidly hard, flushed dark and leaking in slow, steady pulses — the binding clauses still in full effect. No release. No relief. Only measured healing.
I stood beside him, adjusting the drip rate with clinical pr
