Dr. Carter was already waiting in the examination room.
The familiar scent of disinfectant filled the space, but today it was mixed with a faint hint of citrus—the fragrance of her new hand cream.
She stood with her back to Rowan, preparing instruments at the cabinet. Her white coat was tailored perfectly at the waist, accentuating the mature, full yet firm curves of her hips.
When Rowan hesitantly began recounting the events of the afternoon, her movements paused as she wiped down the instruments.
"So you didn't back down," she said. It wasn't a question but a statement.
She turned around. Today, she wore the most classic shade of nude stockings—so sheer they were almost invisible, only shimmering with a delicate, pearl-like luster when the light shifted.
On her feet were matching pointed-toe high heels with astonishingly thin heels, clicking steadily and crisply against the floor.
"No," Rowan replied, his gaze fixed on the faint outline of her ankles beneath the stockings—delicate bones, clear Achilles tendons, and pale blue veins winding beneath nearly translucent skin, like shy tributaries on a map.
"But I didn't really fight back either. He was still threatening me. And I..." His voice trailed off. "Everyone was watching, laughing."
Dr. Carter set down the instrument, the metal clinking softly against the tray.
She approached, the fabric of her stockings and pencil skirt rustling with a faint, tantalizing sound. She sat gracefully in the chair across from Rowan, crossing her legs.
Rowan noticed she had let her hair down early tonight.
Her usually meticulously pinned-up golden hair now cascaded over her shoulders, the ends curled into soft waves that swayed gently with her movements.
A few stray strands framed her cheeks, softening the innate sharpness and efficiency of her features.
She had even removed her signature gold-rimmed glasses. Her clear blue eyes appeared especially bright under the clinic lights—and unusually profound.
"Resistance takes many forms, Rowan."
Her voice was softer and lower than usual, as if sharing a secret. "Sometimes, simply refusing to cooperate, refusing to play the role they've assigned you, is already a form of strength. You did that today."
She leaned forward slightly, causing the collar of her white coat to part just enough to reveal a glimpse of her beige silk blouse underneath.
Rowan could see the elegant curve of her collarbone and the skin beneath it—a cool, pale tone that glowed softly under the light.
Dr. Carter was almost as pale as a mother—a natural advantage of pure Caucasian heritage.
"Next time he comes for you," Dr. Carter continued, her voice steady and persuasive, "try this—look him straight in the eyes, don't flinch, and ask very calmly, 'You're really afraid of the chemistry exam, aren't you?'"
As she spoke, she naturally extended one foot, placing it gently in the boy's palm.
The lines of her foot, encased in nude stockings, were graceful, with a high arch that curved sensually under the support of her high heels.
Her toes shifted slightly beneath the stockings, like an unconscious invitation to caress.
Rowan's gaze was riveted—the warmth of her skin stood out so vividly, so tangibly, in the cold clinic.
"Why?" Rowan asked, his voice slightly hoarse.
His palm holding her stocking-clad foot began to sweat again, but this time it wasn't from fear.
"Because what bullies fear most isn't confrontation—it's having their vulnerabilities exposed." Dr. Carter's foot swayed gently, as if she enjoyed this intimate contact between hand and foot.
"When you shift the focus from his strength—his height, his muscles, his followers—to his fear, to the fact that he needs to threaten others just to pass exams, the situation subtly changes. You're not challenging his power, but revealing his powerlessness."
She paused, her foot stilling. The stocking tightened across her instep, revealing the outline of her toes beneath—each one slender and neat. The boy's touch grew firmer, wrinkling the sheer, gossamer-thin stocking on her foot.
"Of course, this takes practice. It requires you to trust your own judgment and steady your emotions."
She lifted her gaze, meeting Rowan's eyes. Something flickered in her deep blue irises. "Just like the practice we're doing here. You're learning to face physical changes, understand your own reactions, learn to... control the rhythm."
As she spoke, she withdrew her foot and stood up. When she leaned forward, her golden hair cascaded like a waterfall, the ends nearly brushing his knees.
Her fingers—still feeling professionally steady through the thin latex—reached for his zipper.
The sound of the zipper sliding down was unusually loud in the silent clinic.
Rowan closed his eyes. But this time, it wasn't from shame. He was remembering, imagining.
He opened his eyes again. The sensual memories of his recent sessions with Dr. Carter overlapped with reality—the sheen of her stockings, the curve of her ankle, her calm yet firm tone when she spoke.
When her fingers wrapped around him, the already half-hard penis in his trousers quickly awakened and swelled. This erection carried a strange anger, a sense of suppressed power.
It rapidly expanded in her hand, growing to a terrifying size—hot and rigid.
Dr. Carter's breath hitched slightly—she didn't know how long it would take to get used to the boy's intimidating size, but certainly not anytime soon.
She felt the organ pulsing in her hand, veins bulging and prominent, each heartbeat transmitting astonishing heat and strength.
She began moving, her technique practiced and rhythmic after multiple treatment sessions. Her thumb applied just the right pressure at the coronal ridge of the glans, while her index and middle fingers gently rubbed the frenulum.
"Just like this," she murmured, her voice slightly hoarse. "You control the rhythm. You can give me signals, decide when to speed up, when to relax... when to finish."
Rowan bit his lower lip.
Pleasure shot through his spine like electricity, but unlike before, this time it was mixed with something else—an impulse to prove something, a desire to break free from constraints.
His hand gripped Dr. Carter's thigh with forceful confidence, squeezing until his knuckles turned white.
The tall, voluptuous woman contrasted by the slender boy let out a muffled groan, her brow furrowing slightly in pain. But she didn't stop him. Instead, she slightly parted her thighs...
Twenty minutes later, when hot semen shot into the collection bottle, Rowan didn't collapse weakly as he usually did.
He was panting, but his gaze was clear.
He watched Dr. Carter—she was washing her hands with her back to him, the hem of her white coat lifting slightly with her movements, revealing the curve of her hips tightly wrapped in a black bodycon skirt, full and pert, forming an enticing arc under the light.
The muscles of her stocking-clad thighs were slightly taut, the muscle fibers clearly defined, with a patch of red marks extending from the inner thigh near the knee upward beneath her skirt—this was the price she paid for cultivating aggression in a boy, accelerating his transformation into a man.
"Next time," Rowan suddenly spoke, his voice still hoarse from panting, "I'll try the method you mentioned."
Dr. Carter turned off the faucet and turned around. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes still slightly moist, whether from pain or some other stimulation.
She dried her hands, a few strands of her golden hair clinging to the sweat-dampened side of her neck.
"Good," she said, the corner of her mouth curling into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. "Remember this feeling. Mental strength is far more important in this world. Napoleon didn't have a strong physique either. He was short, too."
That Friday, Max cornered Rowan in the bustling locker area after lunch.
"Where's my notebook, nerd?" His tall frame almost blocked all the light in front of Rowan, casting a shadow over him.
At least a dozen people were around, including a few cheerleaders in short skirts and meticulously applied makeup. They stopped chatting and looked over curiously.
Among the crowd of seventeen- and eighteen-year-old classmates, the familiar, suffocating sense of oppression once again tightened around fifteen-year-old Rowan's throat.
But suddenly, the image of Dr. Carter's stocking-clad legs, glowing like peaches under the light, flashed before his eyes, along with her calm, blue eyes as she spoke those words, as if discussing the weather.
"Mental strength is far more important in this world. Napoleon didn't have a strong physique either. He was short, too…"
He lifted his head, his neck aching from the extreme angle, but he forced himself to look directly into Max's eyes, which were filled with impatience and disdain.
"You're actually," Rowan began, his voice tight at first, but he quickly adjusted, trying to make it sound steady, even with a hint of curiosity, "really afraid you'll fail this chemistry exam, aren't you?"
The smug, cocky grin on Max's face instantly froze.
A few sharp, involuntary gasps came from the surrounding crowd, along with one or two hastily stifled, ambiguous chuckles—not directed at Rowan, but more out of shock and amusement at this sudden, completely off-script turn in the conversation.
"What the fuck did you just say?"
Max's face darkened. He took a large step forward, almost chest-to-chest with Rowan. The significant height difference forced him to lower his head sharply to glare down at Rowan, his voice hissing through clenched teeth, dripping with naked danger.
"I said," Rowan's heart hammered wildly in his chest, his ears ringing, but he clung fiercely to Dr. Carter's teachings, even deliberately slowing his speech to make every word clear and distinct.
"I said, if you think you have to rely on threatening another student just to make sure you pass the exam, then your worry about this test has probably gone beyond the normal range."
"Need help? I can help you."
"Because everyone knows I'm a genius."
In his fear, Rowan felt an inexplicable thrill. He feigned nonchalance, even as cold sweat trickled down his temples.
Derek was shouting from the side, "Hey! Kid, you're looking for—"
"Shut up." Max raised his hand, roughly cutting off his lackey.
His gaze was locked tightly on Rohan's face, a storm brewing in his eyes: flames of anger were burning, but deep within those flames, Rohan seemed to vaguely catch a glimpse of embarrassment and awkwardness—the kind that comes from being publicly exposed and caught off guard.
The two of them stood facing each other in the middle of the noisy hallway for a few seconds, time stretching out as if pulled taut.
Max had his own pride, too. He was more than happy to throw a punch, but the target should at least be someone close to his own size and age.
"You've got guts. No one dares to challenge me," Max said, his anger turning into a cold laugh.
He twisted his neck, making it crack, then looked down directly at Rohan, his anger shifting into something more playful. "Remember what I told you about... about you and the locker? Have you seen that sitcom 'The Big Bang Theory'? The bit with Leonard and the locker is pretty funny."
After he finished speaking, as if he already had the image of Rohan being stuffed into a locker in his mind, he stared at Rohan with a malicious grin until Rohan couldn't take it anymore and lowered his head.
Only then did Max let out a snort through his nose, turned, shoved aside a passing classmate, and strode away.
Rohan stood where he was until the crowd of onlookers gradually dispersed with various expressions. Only then did he realize his fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles were white, and a small patch of his shirt on his back was soaked with cold sweat.
For the sixth treatment, the area around Rohan's left eye was a conspicuous, bruised purple—no matter how insistently Shi Wani questioned him before he came, he gritted his teeth and insisted it was from accidentally bumping into someone during basketball.
Dr. Carter had prepared carefully that day.
She was slightly turned to the side, looking down at her extended toes, painted with dark red nail polish—her feet were encased in sheer stockings, which gathered slightly at the backs of her knees into sexy folds, revealing the soft, smooth texture of the skin beneath.
Hearing the door open, she turned with a hint of vague expectation, but her expression froze the moment she saw the injury on Rohan's face.
She almost instinctively stood up from her chair, her originally lazy, elegant posture instantly becoming tense.
"What happened?"
The words escaped her lips, her voice carrying an unguarded shock and heartache.
She quickly approached, her high heels tapping urgently against the floor.
"Basketball class," Rohan said as he sat down on the treatment chair, avoiding her gaze, his answer brief. "An accidental collision."
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