The measured pain began at midnight.
I had designed the new protocol with deliberate cruelty — micro-doses of a neural sensitizer delivered through the IV line every fifteen minutes. It would not heal him faster. It would not restore strength. It would simply make every nerve ending sing with amplified awareness while the calculated delay kept his body locked in strategic weakness.
Justin was on his knees when I entered.
The position had become his default state — thighs spread wide on the raised medical bed, hands clasped behind his back, spine straight despite the constant, visible tremor running through every muscle. Sweat rolled down his golden skin. His c**k hung heavy and flushed between his spread thighs, the head swollen and glistening, leaking in slow, rhythmic drops that fell
