I left him in strategic weakness for forty-eight hours.
No boosters.
No movement.
No illusion of strength.
Only the slow, deliberate drip of the restricted recovery serum and the constant, cruel throb of denial.
When I returned to the treatment room at the end of the second day, the sight of him stole the breath from my lungs.
Justin lay exactly as I had left him — wrists and ankles loosely cuffed to the bed, body glistening with fever-sweat, chest rising and falling in shallow, helpless pants. His c**k was a masterpiece of my making: thick, flushed dark red, the head swollen and shining with an endless, slow leak that had soaked the sheets beneath him. He couldn’t even lift his head when the door opened. His golden eyes simply tracked me, glassy and devoted, as I approached.
Strategi
