I entered the treatment room at precisely 0600.
Justin was already awake, strapped to the reinforced bed, body glistening with fresh sweat. The binding clauses had taken root overnight. His c**k stood rigid and flushed, the head swollen and slick from hours of involuntary leaking. The monitors showed elevated cortisol, racing pulse, and testosterone levels so high they would have driven any lesser Alpha insane.
He looked perfect.
Broken exactly the way I wanted.
“Doctor Sanchez,” he rasped the moment the door sealed behind me. His voice was raw, cracked from begging in his sleep.
I didn’t answer.
I simply walked to the instrument tray and began laying out the tools for today’s procedure: the sonic flush probe, the neural suppressant, and the new arousal inhibitor I had designed speci
