The lights in the treatment room were low, almost golden — a single overhead lamp casting long, slow shadows across his body like a painting I had spent weeks creating.
Justin knelt exactly as I had left him: thighs spread wide on the raised medical bed, hands clasped behind his back, spine straight despite the constant, visible tremor in every muscle. The calculated delay had carved him into something exquisite — still broad-shouldered and powerful in form, yet so fragile now that even the air seemed to press down on him. His c**k stood heavy and flushed between his spread thighs, the head glistening, a slow, continuous bead of pre-c*m sliding down the thick vein along the underside before dripping onto the sheets.
He was breathing through his mouth, shallow and reverent.
I let the sil
