"When we are alone, you may continue to call me..."
She paused, giving him space to respond.
Rohan looked up, hesitated for a moment, then whispered, "Emily."
Dr. Carter nodded with satisfaction, a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of her lips, her eyes gleaming slightly.
That gleam was not entirely sweet or comforting; it was more like a mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration—a residue of satiation that, despite her efforts to conceal it, seeped through the cracks of her soul.
She opened the consultation room door, her face already restored to its professional and detached smile. However, upon closer observation, one could notice the subtle puffiness beneath her bare eyelids and the faint trembling of her calf muscles as she maintained an upright posture—a physiological exhaustion, the aftermath of a body drained by overwhelming desire.
She said to Shivani, who was waiting outside:
"Everything went smoothly, Ms. Sharma. The actual treatment took less than twenty minutes. I spent some extra time helping him relieve academic stress... Overall, Rohan's condition has improved significantly since last time."
Outside, Shivani nearly sprang from her chair.
Her movement was so swift it stirred a gust of air. Her heart pounded like a drum in her chest, her eardrums buzzing.
Her gaze swept over her son's entire body like a searchlight, then, like the most precise probe, locked firmly onto Dr. Carter.
Shivani keenly detected several anomalies, and each piece of information pierced her taut nerves like needles:
Dr. Carter's previously impeccable makeup was completely gone, revealing even the fine wrinkles at the corners of her eyes in her bare-faced state.
The skirt on her lower body seemed to have been changed.
More crucially, that deeper scent, which should have been masked by the fragrance of the new skirt's fabric... Her cheeks were flushed with an unnatural redness—not the healthy glow after exercise, but a lingering, feverish blush that seemed to emanate from deep within her skin, as if she were being continuously warmed by an internal furnace.
Her temples were damp, with a few strands of meticulously styled blonde hair clinging disobediently to her skin. Though her breathing was deliberately kept steady and measured, the rise and fall of her chest beneath the white coat was noticeably more pronounced and rapid than usual.
What made Shivani's heart tremble, even causing her stomach to cramp and tighten, was the scent on Dr. Carter that could not be completely concealed.
Beneath the deliberately crafted fresh citrus notes of shower gel or strong hand soap, there lingered stubbornly, thread by thread, the distinct, musky odor of copious female secretions.
And... that unmistakable, almost tangible scent of concentrated male semen.
That scent had, over a month ago, soaked her entire face, seeped into her hair, clogged her nostrils, and even slid down her throat—an unforgettable memory, the exceptionally thick, vital marker of her son.
Now, it clung so vividly to another woman, like a silent yet arrogant proclamation.
"Twenty minutes?"
Shivani repeated, her voice tense.
This time, it was longer than last time. Yet, from the moment her son entered to when he emerged, a full forty minutes had passed.
The significant extension of the treatment time struck a heavier alarm bell in her heart.
Shivani's heart sank uncontrollably into a cold, dark abyss.
Dr. Carter's overall state—the unnatural flush, the damp traces, the exhaustion she tried so hard to conceal yet only made more suspicious, and that thick, almost tangible scent mingling semen with the fragrance of female pleasure—all these details frantically pieced together in her mind, leading to a terrifying connection that nearly froze her blood:
This unmistakably, absolutely resembled a woman who had just undergone an intense, secretive, and utterly draining sexual encounter, perhaps even multiple climaxes, leaving her body on the verge of collapse, legs so weak she had to lean against the doorframe.
No! Impossible! Absolutely not!
Sivani, of course, had no idea what sexual exhaustion felt like—she had never experienced an orgasm in her entire life.
But her intuition told her that her son could easily achieve it—just like the two times last month when she masturbated him until she was physically drained and exhausted.
She let out a silent scream in her heart, using every ounce of willpower to brutally crush this thought, digging her nails deep into the soft flesh of her palm, the sharp pain an attempt to suppress the panic in her mind with physical agony.
Once the seed of doubt was planted, it was like cold water dripping into boiling oil, instantly exploding, wildly growing and spreading, entangling every nerve in her body.
She could almost "see" the vague yet suggestive fragments of what might have happened after the door closed.
Did Rohan… do it with the female doctor right in front of her?
She almost forced herself to shift her gaze to Rohan.
Her son hung his head, the roots of his ears flushed so red they seemed about to drip blood, completely avoiding her eyes.
His demeanor was nothing like the relaxation after the previous medical procedure. Instead, it seemed as if he was still immersed in the aftermath of some enormous, shameful secret or intense stimulation, his soul not yet fully returned to his body, his flesh still savoring the forbidden tremors.
"Rohan?"
Sivani called out, her voice unconsciously tense, every syllable laced with suppressed emotion.
Rohan shuddered, jolting his head up as if startled, his panicked eyes skimming over his mother's face before quickly darting away, as if burned, to stare at the floor.
"Mo-mom… I'm done. Let's… let's go home."
His voice carried a barely noticeable hoarseness and an urgency to flee the scene.
This reaction, so starkly different from after the last treatment, sank Sivani's heart to the depths.
She knew her son too well. This wasn't simple shyness or post-treatment discomfort.
This was the guilt and evasion of someone who had participated in a conspiracy, who shared a secret.
Sivani pressed no further.
Years of navigating the business world and foreign cultures had taught her that, in front of Dr. Carter—a potential "rival"—she would get no truth now.
She had to maintain surface calm, uphold this fragile fortress of trust built on "treatment effectiveness" and "high fees," and not alert the enemy.
"Thank you, Dr. Carter."
Sivani's voice regained its usual polite, elegantly distant tone, but the icy scrutiny beneath it, known only to herself, surged like a hidden current beneath the ice.
"Same time in two days."
"Of course."
Dr. Carter nodded, her azure eyes calm and unrippled, perfectly masking all the frenzy, disarray, and exhaustion from moments ago in the consultation room.
Her current composure, in Sivani's eyes, seemed more like a masterful, chilling disguise.
As if suddenly remembering something, Dr. Carter turned to Rohan, her tone natural:
"Almost forgot—your new backpack."
She pointed to the deep brown, high-quality leather, exquisitely crafted handmade leather backpack on the low cabinet in the consultation room.
Rohan froze for a moment, clearly caught completely off guard.
He walked over and picked up the backpack with some hesitation.
The leather was warm, smooth, and exceptionally pleasant to the touch, with brass fittings gleaming with a subtle sheen—utterly different from the practical nylon sports backpack his mother had bought for his daily use.
It exuded a low-key yet expensive, adult-like quality, and... a hint of independence, a suggestion of breaking free from his mother's control.
"This is..." He looked at Dr. Carter, his eyes a mix of confusion and a touch of flattered surprise.
"A little encouragement."
Dr. Carter's voice softened, but that softness was saturated with an intimate, almost saccharine quality that made Shi Wani deeply uncomfortable, as if sharing a private joke or secret only the two of them understood.
"To celebrate the steady progress in your treatment, and to congratulate you... for starting to learn to protect yourself at school, for showing growth. A more mature, more refined backpack suits a young man growing up so quickly."
She lingered on the word "growth" with deliberate weight.
Shi Wani's nails dug deeper into her palms instantly, almost piercing the skin.
A gift?
A doctor privately giving such a personal, valuable gift to a minor patient?
And attaching suggestive hints like "mature" and "growth," encouraging detachment from the family framework?
This had already far exceeded the normal bounds of a doctor-patient relationship. It was a carefully cast rope, intended to quietly pull her son away from her.
Rohan gazed at the expensive backpack in his hands, his eyes flickering with a kaleidoscope of complex emotions—surprise, undeniable delight, a trace of unease about his mother's reaction, and... a secret, burning pride at being specially treated, secretly appreciated, seen as a "man" rather than a "boy."
He whispered, his voice as light as a breath, yet it struck Shi Wani's heart with unmistakable clarity:
"Thank you... Emily."
Emily.
That intimate name, stripped of its professional title, was like an ice-cold dagger, thrusting and twisting with the most precise, vicious angle into Shi Wani's heart.
Her son, right in front of her—his biological mother, his sole legal guardian and protector—had addressed another woman with that subconscious, intimate tone, even carrying a hint of barely perceptible dependence and belonging.
Dr. Carter seemed to ignore Shi Wani's instantly pale face and almost frozen breath. She merely gave Shi Wani a slight nod, a professional farewell, before turning and closing the door.
In the moment the door clicked shut, Shi Wani thought she glimpsed—or rather, she was utterly convinced she glimpsed—the corner of Dr. Carter's mouth lifting into a fleeting, elusive curve.
It didn't resemble a polite smile from a doctor finishing work. It was more like the aftertaste of a victor who had completed a stage of conquest, the possessive smile of a woman who had just won a crucial chip on a hidden battlefield—exhausted yet trembling with excitement.
Shi Wani turned and led Rohan away.
Her traditional sandals tapped on the marble floor, producing steady yet rigid click, click sounds.
On the way home, the black car was filled with a suffocating silence.
Rohan kept his lips pressed tightly together the entire journey, yet his hands clutched the deep brown leather backpack on his lap, his fingers unconsciously stroking the smooth, cool surface over and over, as if confirming the tangible reality of this gift from "Emily."
His breathing was sometimes deep and long, as if trying to calm himself, and sometimes short and rapid, betraying the turmoil within. It seemed he was struggling to suppress the immense emotional vortex stirred by what had happened behind that door, yet also silently, repeatedly reliving it.
Only when the car entered the familiar streets of Kensington, just minutes from home, did he suddenly speak:
"Mom, Emily said... next week she might try to introduce some 'more advanced sensory coordination training.' She said it's to help me establish a more stable, more efficient... self-regulation mechanism. It might... might require the use of some specialized auxiliary tools."
Shivani jerked her head around, her gaze shooting toward her son like lightning. The steering wheel slipped slightly from her momentary distraction, the tires emitting a sharp, faint screech against the pavement:
"More advanced sensory training? Auxiliary tools? What exactly does that entail? Did she give any examples?"
All pretense of calm vanished from her voice, leaving only sharp interrogation and bottomless fear.
Startled by her intense reaction, Rohan's eyes grew even more evasive, almost burying his face into the backpack in his arms:
"She... she didn't go into detail... just said everything is for 'treatment efficiency,' that I shouldn't worry, and to trust her professional judgment..."
Efficiency.
That cold, utilitarian word, yet one both he and she kept repeating.
A chill of anger and deeper panic coiled around Shivani's throat like vines.
What were these "auxiliary tools"? More stockings of different styles, more provocative?
Higher, more torturous, and more seductive high heels?
Or... something more direct, more transgressive, more unimaginable—real adult-world sex toys?
Where was that woman, Emily Carter—this elegant predator—trying to lead her son?
That night, in the master bedroom on the second floor of the Kensington townhouse, Shivani knelt before the shrine for a full two hours.
Incense smoke curled upward, the low, continuous chanting of Sanskrit mantras filled the air, yet not a shred of peace or connection touched her heart.
The scent of sandalwood couldn't penetrate the fragments of images flashing wildly through her mind: the possible creases on Dr. Carter's changed dress, the lingering flush of passion on her face, the mingled scent of semen and female arousal on her body, the glaringly expensive backpack in Rohan's hands, her son's dazed, evasive eyes, and that intimate, venomous "Emily"...
Pressure—a kind she had never experienced in her life, a crushing weight mixed with fear, jealousy, loss of control, and maternal protective instinct—descended upon her soul like the entire Himalayas collapsing.
She remembered her past battles in the financial world, negotiating the management of billions in assets, her heart pounding like a drum yet her mind sharp and clear. That pressure had been hot and sharp, a war waged outward.
But this pressure now was cold, viscous, and pervasive, an internal collapse corroding from the very core of her life, a fundamental threat to her very existence as a mother.
In comparison, the pressure of billions of dollars felt as light as a feather.
She could no longer continue reciting the scriptures.
She rose abruptly, her movements slightly unsteady from prolonged kneeling and inner turmoil.
She did not head toward the bedroom but went straight downstairs, entered the study, and firmly yet quietly locked the door behind her.
She did not turn on the light, allowing herself to sink into pure darkness. Only a few faint rays of streetlight seeped through the gaps in the heavy curtains, barely outlining the furniture.
She sat silently in the high-backed leather chair behind the desk, like a cold statue. Only the stark, pale glow of the computer screen illuminated her face after she pressed the power button—her beautiful features drained of all color, taut as a plaster mask. Her deep brown eyes churned with a silent storm.
She moved the mouse and clicked.
Inside were all the materials she had obsessively collected and organized during every spare moment since deciding to counter Emily:
From obscure medical journal case reports on rare adolescent sexual development anomalies to the strict ethical codes of medical associations regarding doctor-patient physical contact, privacy rights, and emotional boundaries; from psychological literature on "dependency cultivation," "cognitive manipulation," "abuse of transference and countertransference," and even some fringe materials on specific fetishes, guidance, and dominance dynamics...
Her gaze fell on the dense titles and abstracts of the documents, but she couldn't absorb a single word.
The cold text on the screen was no match for the vivid, terrifying images that flooded her mind: the intimate name "Emily" echoed in her ears countless times.
Next time.
During the next session, she absolutely could not—and would not—remain merely a passive payer, a politely ushered-out bystander, a helpless mother left to guess and doubt what transpired behind closed doors.
She had to know.
She had to confirm.
This was a war, and she could not afford to hesitate or hold back.
To reclaim control over her only son's body and mind, to defend the inviolable territory and dignity of her role as a mother, she would stop at nothing.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, Emily Carter lay immersed in a bathtub filled with water that had long since cooled.
The beautiful oil film formed by the rose essential oil floating on the surface had long shattered, leaving only the lingering fragrance vainly trying to mask something.
She closed her eyes, but what replayed in her mind was not the roses—it was the twenty minutes in the consultation room that had left her soul unmoored:
The scalding sensation and force of Rowan's release, the thick semen trailing stickily down her stocking-clad calves, the searing pleasure that tore through her the first, second, and third time she was pushed to the peak.
Especially the last time, under the extreme stimulation and visual impact, she had lost control, utterly stripped of all reason and dignity...
And the way he bit her toes—a mix of release, possession, and a hint of adolescent clumsiness and ferocity.
The exhaustion was real.
Not just the soreness in her arms, but the languid weakness throughout her body, as if her muscles had been dismantled and reassembled—especially in her abdomen and between her legs, where subtle, uncontrollable tremors still lingered, echoes of that overwhelming ecstasy.
Every breath tugged at the deep ache in her lower abdomen, as if it had been hollowed out and refilled with smoldering embers.
Her nerves were like overplayed violin strings, slack yet hypersensitive. The slightest touch—like the water flowing over her skin now—could stir tremors of memory.
The area remained terribly swollen and sensitive; even the mere cascade of water brought waves of tingling emptiness mixed with faint stings.
She remembered the crumpled, sodden stocking in her coat pocket, soaked with his semen and her own arousal.
Tomorrow, or the day after, when she had recovered slightly from this utter exhaustion and was alone, she would take it out. She would masturbate before the dried yet still fragrant traces, using his intense, life-filled scent to fuel her pleasure.
But before fully possessing the boy, she needed to be more patient, more cunning, more discreet in continuing her "cultivation" and "guidance." Until he actively craved more, until he could no longer bear the torment of ambiguity, until he himself willingly crossed that final ethical boundary, transforming this currently one-sided "therapy" she led into a mutual, real, and fervent sexual connection.
By then, she would no longer merely be the "Dr. Carter" he needed to visit regularly.
Emily Carter slowly opened her eyes in the gradually cooling bathwater. Her azure eyes appeared hazy and vacant in the lingering steam, yet against the backdrop of exhaustion, they glimmered with an almost obsessive light.
She lifted her slender, now feeble hand, gazing at her slightly trembling fingertips. She imagined how, once this exhaustion passed, they would touch, tease, and explore that boy, how they would entice him to caress her more intimate realms and uncover her deeper secrets.
The bathwater had turned completely cold, the chill seeping into her skin.
Deep within her body, the flame ignited over a month ago and never extinguished burned even darker, more persistent, and more reckless after this total exhaustion and collapse.
Exhaustion was not an end but the price of climax—a necessary interlude to gather energy for the next, more dangerous game.
The tenth session had concluded.
Dr. Carter reminisced in her exhaustion, while Shivani plotted under pressure.
The true, decisive game and conflict had only just begun.
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