The umbrella had not yet fully opened, but the storm had already arrived.
It was two days before the eighth therapy session—a gloomy Wednesday afternoon in London, so overcast it seemed ready to weep.
Rohan had just stepped out of the library, cradling several hefty hardcover books in his arms: Principles of Neuroscience, Dopamine Receptors and Behavioral Addiction, Functional Anatomy of the Limbic System.
In their most recent session, Dr. Carter had mentioned dopamine receptors. While gripping his erect penis and stroking it up and down, breathing heavily, she explained:
"You see my stockings, you touch my legs, and your brain releases dopamine... This is the reward pathway, Rohan... Ah... Just like now, when you're about to come..."
He had become intrigued. Not by the sex—though that part was impossible to ignore—but by the mechanism.
Why did his body react so intensely to stockings?
Why did Dr. Carter's touch make him painfully hard, while his own attempts always seemed so difficult?
The slanting sunlight cast long shadows down the corridor at his feet.
He looked down at the complex neural pathway diagrams on the book covers, his thoughts drifting.
"Hey, nerd."
Rohan stopped. The books in his arms suddenly felt heavy.
The voice came from the shadows of the stairwell to his left.
Max Taylor leaned against the wall, wearing his rugby team training gear—a tight short-sleeved T-shirt stretched taut over his bulky chest and biceps, sweat darkening the gray fabric.
Derek Chen stood behind him, his tall, thin frame like a bamboo pole. There was also a less frequent hanger-on; Rohan remembered his name was Brett.
But today, there was someone else.
Sarah Mendoza, a senior a year above both Max and Rohan.
She leaned against the railing, arms crossed over her chest.
As the cheerleading captain, Sarah was a celebrity at South Bay High—not just for her position, but for that blend of wild Latin beauty and meticulously crafted "queen" aura.
Today she wasn't in her uniform, but wore a white cropped top so thin the lace pattern of her black bra underneath was visible.
Below were denim hot pants, cut so short they reached the top of her thighs, revealing her long, athletic legs—honey-toned skin smooth and firm, the muscles on her thighs swelling with a powerful, fluid curve, her calves slender and toned. Her cheerleading squad was exceptionally skilled, an acrobatic team where flips were daily training, and in toss-and-catch routines, she was the star flyer.
On her feet were platform sandals, her toenails painted a bright red that glittered in the sunlight.
Her long, brown curls were pulled into a high ponytail, exposing a smooth forehead and meticulously groomed eyebrows.
Her features were sharp, her lips coated with nude gloss that shimmered with a moist sheen in the light.
Right now, a faint, almost-smirk played on her lips as her gaze swept over Rohan's entire body like she was appraising merchandise.
Rohan had excellent eyesight, honed from years of burying his head in books and observing details.
In this tense, explosive moment, he found himself inexplicably noticing an extremely subtle incongruity beneath Sarah's polished exterior—a small silver butterfly earring adorned her left earlobe, reflecting the evening light, but upon closer look, the silver seemed... somewhat dull.
There was even a faint, almost imperceptible trace of oxidation and fading along the edges.
This discovery was like a fine needle, gently pricking the halo of her "perfect queen" image.
Would someone like her—a campus celebrity who pursued fashion and paid attention to every detail—really wear old earrings with obvious signs of use?
Or did these earrings hold special meaning for her?
Or perhaps her financial situation wasn't as carefree as it appeared?
The thought flashed through his mind but was quickly drowned out by the crisis at hand.
Max approached, his football cleats thudding heavily against the floor.
He stood a full two heads taller than Rohan, his shadow completely engulfing him.
A mix of sweat, cologne, and young male hormones washed over Rohan, forming an oppressive scent.
From Rohan's perspective, he felt as if he were facing a giant.
"Carrying so many books," Max pulled one out, its cover facing up—Dopamine Receptors and Behavioral Addiction. "What, you science nerd starting to get interested in anatomy? Trying to figure out how to make yourself taller? Or maybe you want to make your little—"
He didn't finish his sentence, instead looking down at Rohan's crotch with a malicious grin. Derek snickered knowingly behind him.
Rohan reached out to take the book back, his fingers brushing against Max's sweaty wrist. The sensation was warm and sticky, making him nauseous.
"What's the rush?" Max raised the book higher, the muscles in his arm bulging, veins protruding beneath his skin. "Let's see what the big brain is reading—dopamine? What's that? The stuff that makes you hard?"
"Max," Sarah finally spoke, her voice lazy yet carrying a sweet, dangerous magnetism. "Stop picking on the kid. Look at him, he's so scared he's about to wet his pants."
As she spoke, she straightened up from the stair railing and walked over.
Her long, toned, honey-colored legs gleamed with a healthy sheen, muscles subtly contracting and relaxing with each step, radiating youthful energy and a raw, almost savage sensuality.
Max grinned, revealing a set of overly perfect white teeth:
"What's the matter, Sarah? Feeling sorry for this bean sprout? Or maybe..."
His gaze lingered lewdly on Sarah's round, full buttocks tightly encased in her shorts and her honey-colored thighs. "You're interested in his other 'special talents'? Like... being really good at studying?"
Sarah ignored Max's crude teasing.
She uncrossed her arms and moved closer.
Her steps carried the bounce and rhythm unique to cheerleaders, full of vitality. The frayed edges of her shorts swayed slightly with her movements. She stopped in front of Rohan, so close he could clearly smell the strong perfume on her—a sweet floral scent mixed with a hint of spice, intense and aggressive, almost dizzying.
"I was just curious and came to see who got you so worked up," she leaned in slightly, putting Rohan's line of sight directly in line with the deep cleavage beneath her low-cut sports top and the lace edge cupping her full breasts.
Her voice lowered, her warm breath brushing against the hair on Rohan's forehead. "It's you. I know you're only fifteen, but you look even younger."
She tilted her head, somewhat nonchalant. "Max said you've been helping him with notes and stuff... What, did you study yourself stupid?"
Her gaze was contemptuous, her face etched with a superior arrogance as it slid from Rowan's pale, panicked face to the remaining books clutched in his arms, a look of amused mockery in her eyes.
"Does knowledge make you brave, little guy?"
Rowan felt as if an invisible hand were squeezing his throat, choking off any sound.
Humiliation and anger churned in his chest, but more potent was a cold, creeping fear—especially when he saw Derek had subtly shifted position, joining Brett to block his potential retreat.
Sarah tilted her head, her ponytail swaying. "Max told me he's planning to make good on his promise—to stuff you into a locker. I'm curious, will you keep up the tough act, or will you beg? What are you gonna do?"
Her tone was flippant, but each word pricked Rowan's skin like a needle.
"I didn't—" Rowan finally managed to croak out, his voice hoarse and broken.
"You didn't what?" Max cut in, suddenly tossing the book back into Rowan's arms.
The throw was forceful. The hardcover corner struck Rowan's chest, drawing a pained grunt as he stumbled back half a step, his back thudding against a hallway locker with a metallic clang.
"You think cozying up to that Japanese teacher lady, running errands for some lousy committee, gives you the right to stand tall and talk back to me?"
Max closed in, sweat beading at his temples and tracing a path down his neck into his collar.
Derek let out a shrill, mocking laugh from the side, mimicking what he imagined Rowan might sound like:
"'Ms. Matsumoto, help! Max is gonna hit me!' Oh, poor baby. Need to go back to Mommy for some milk?"
Brett, meanwhile, nudged the scattered books on the floor with his foot, sneering,
"Look at these titles. What else is in his head besides this useless paper? Bet he doesn't even know how to talk to a girl!"
Max grinned, revealing a row of overly perfect teeth.
He continued in a mocking, singsong voice:
"Or do you think that pretentious Alisa Matsumoto from the student council would stick her neck out for a curry-smelling freak like you, make a big scene with the football team?"
"That Matsumoto, the running beanpole, has legs for days, too bad her chest is flat as a board. I prefer something with more—" His lecherous gaze slid over Sarah's chest. She rolled her eyes in response.
Rowan clutched the books tightly, his knuckles turning white.
He wanted to leave, to run, but both ends of the hallway were occupied—lowerclassmen watched from a distance, too afraid to approach or leave, as if witnessing a free show.
It happened fast.
Max's hand shot out, not to shove, but to grab the waistband of Rowan's pants—the canvas belt of his uniform, fastened with a simple metal buckle. Rowan instinctively struggled.
"Let go—!" Rowan's voice caught in his throat, dissolving into ragged gasps.
"Let's have a look," Max's voice dropped, laced with cruel excitement, his breath hot on Rowan's face. "Let's see if the beanpole freak is just as tiny and laughable down there. I bet yours isn't even as big as my thumb!"
"Max, don't—" Rowan writhed frantically, but Max was far stronger.
This was a seventeen-year-old football player, standing 185 centimeters tall and weighing over 90 kilograms, who hit the weights four times a week and could bench press 120 kilos.
Rowan's struggle was like an infant's against a grown man.
Derek grabbed his arm from the other side, fingers digging into the thin muscle of his upper arm like iron clamps. The pain made Rohan gasp sharply.
The two of them dragged him toward the boys' restroom nearby. Sarah followed behind, leisurely picking up a book from the floor, flipping through it casually, then tossing it back down.
Her expression was inscrutable—neither encouraging nor discouraging, but a cold, almost cruel desire to observe. She wanted to see what would happen next, as if watching an experiment.
There were two younger students in the restroom, washing their hands at the sink. Seeing this scene, they quickly lowered their heads, dried their hands, and slipped out along the wall, not even daring to look up.
The door was kicked shut by Derek with a loud bang.
"Max, please—" Rohan's voice trembled, on the verge of tears. He was pressed against the cold tiled wall, his cheek pressed against it, able to smell the nauseating mix of disinfectant and urine.
"Yeah, beg me louder." Max wore a vicious grin, one hand tightly gripping Rohan's wrist while the other went for his belt buckle.
The metal clasp made a soft click as the canvas belt was pulled out and thrown to the floor.
Then came his zipper—yanked down roughly, the sound of the teeth tearing apart harsh and grating.
Rohan felt the cold air touch his skin, followed by a deathly silence.
Max stared at him, his expression shifting from confusion to something else in slow motion—his eyebrows raised, his eyes widened, the corners of his mouth began to twitch, and finally, he erupted into deafening laughter.
"Oh my god!" Derek laughed too, the sound sharp and piercing as it echoed off the restroom tiles. "Is that… what is that? Two… two giant potatoes?!"
Rohan stood frozen in place, as if all the blood in his body had turned to ice in an instant. His pants were pulled down to his knees, the cold floor sending chills up through the soles of his feet.
Exposed to the air and the cruel gazes of the three bullies was the physiological feature Dr. Carter had once explained as "congenital testicular hypertrophy"—
In its flaccid state, his penis indeed resembled an undeveloped bud, small, pink, and pitifully curled up.
In absurd, tragic contrast, below it hung an unusually full, large, and heavy pair of testicles.
The scrotum was taut, faintly revealing the blue veins beneath—a testament to the insane sperm-producing factory inside his body, capable of producing enough in a single ejaculation to mask a woman's face.
Objectively, it was a symbol of powerful reproductive ability. Subjectively, it was the source of his pain and shame.
But in this restroom, filled with the stench of urine and disinfectant, malice and mockery, this bizarre physiological feature was no longer a medical term. Instead, it had become the cruelest, most vulgar, and most soul-crushing joke and humiliation.
"Wow…" Sarah's voice drawled slowly. Her eyes widened slightly as she took two steps forward, crossing her arms. Her gaze, unflinching and even critically appraising, swept back and forth over Rohan's exposed lower body, as if evaluating a defective product.
Her crimson lips curled into a thin, mocking, and amused smile.
"Now I finally understand... why our little genius always acts like a shy virgin, practically trying to shrink into his shell. Turns out the 'hardware configuration' is so... unique."
She deliberately emphasized the word "unique," her tone dripping with detached, malicious mockery.
Max doubled over with laughter, tears streaming down his face, one hand braced on his knee. "It's like... like Derek said—two big potatoes with a little sprout hanging off! Fuck, that's the funniest goddamn thing I've ever seen!"
Beside him, Derek pulled out his phone—the latest iPhone, covered in football team stickers.
"No—!" Rohan finally found his voice, thrashing wildly, but Max pinned him down with one hand while wiping away tears of laughter with the other.
The flash went off. A blinding white light exploded in the dim bathroom, leaving Rohan's vision washed out.
Once.
Click.
Twice.
Click.
The phone camera zoomed in on his exposed crotch, capturing close-ups.
"Perfect!" Max grinned, admiring the photos on Derek's screen. "These deserve to be 'shared.' Let the whole school 'appreciate' just how 'gifted' our two-year-skipping 'child prodigy' really is!"
"Let me think... I've got the perfect caption—'South Bay High's Annual Smallest Dick Contest, and the Winner Is... No Surprise!'"
He released Rohan, but Rohan could no longer stand.
He collapsed onto the floor, the tiles icy against his skin, the air between his legs even colder.
Fumbling, he pulled up his underwear and yanked his pants on—the zipper was broken, barely holding together.
His fingers trembled so badly he could hardly fasten his belt, failing twice before finally managing it on the third try...
Sarah crouched down, meeting his eye level.
Her denim shorts tightened with the movement, the plump flesh of her thighs squeezed into a seductive curve, her honey-toned skin glowing softly under the bathroom's dim light.
That overpoweringly sweet perfume enveloped him once more.
"Listen, you poor thing."
Her voice dropped low, carrying an almost "merciful" arrogance and superiority. Her crimson lips nearly brushed his ear, her warm breath sending chills down his spine.
"The world is simple, just like a football field. Some people are born in the end zone—tall, muscular, fast, jumping high, destined to be winners surrounded by cheers."
Her gaze pointedly drifted toward Max's broad back by the door.
"And some people are born... only fit to be unnoticed ball boys on the sidelines. Or worse, like you—" Her eyes swept dismissively over Rohan's still-disheveled crotch, even with his pants pulled up.
"Not even qualified to step onto the field. Just hiding in the corner, watching others shine, then comforting yourself with 'I have brains' or 'my family is rich.'" She shook her head with feigned pity. "Know your place, Sharma. Weren't you perfectly 'safe' before, dutifully doing Max's homework and organizing his notes? Why did you have to lose your mind and think you could say no?"
She stood up, brushing nonexistent dust off her shorts. The denim hem rubbed against the tender skin of her inner thighs, emitting a faint, rustling sound.
Then, she linked arms with Max—his muscles bulging, sweat-damp skin pressed against her smooth forearm.
"Let's go, we're going to be late for training," Sarah said, her voice slipping back into that languid, queenly tone.
"Wait a minute," Max sneered, flexing his fingers, knuckles cracking. "I still have unfinished business... I promised to stuff him into a locker, didn't I? A promise is a promise—it's a Taylor family tradition."
Rohan looked up in terror.
Max leaned down, grabbing the collar of his shirt at the nape like he was picking up a puppy, and hauled him off the ground. Rohan struggled, legs kicking uselessly in the air.
In the hallway, the two thick hardcover books still lay on the floor, covers facing up. Dopamine Receptors and Behavioral Addiction—how ironic.
Max dragged Rohan toward the nearest row of lockers—the smaller ones used by the lower grades. He opened an empty locker, releasing the smell of old books and mildew.
"No—please—" Rohan's voice broke, tears finally streaming down, mixed with snot, a pitiful mess.
The bullies paid no attention to Rohan's pleas—Max sneered, and with Derek's help, effortlessly forced the struggling boy into the narrow metal locker.
Rohan's knees pressed against his chest, his back flush against the cold metal interior, barely able to breathe.
Bang!
The heavy metal door slammed shut in front of him.
The last thing Rohan saw was Max's face, twisted with excitement, and the final, faint sliver of light seeping in from outside.
Darkness swallowed everything in an instant.
Absolute, suffocating darkness, tinged with the smell of rust and dust...
The locker door was fastened from the outside—maybe with a padlock, maybe something else.
Rohan's world shrank to this icy metal coffin, less than half a cubic meter in size.
He frantically pounded the inner walls with his fists, kicked with his feet, producing dull thuds mixed with his desperate cries and sobs.
"Let me out! Please! Let me out!!!"
From outside came Max's muffled, echoing laughter:
"Enjoy your private space, 'genius'! When we're done with training... if we're in a good mood, maybe we'll come back to let you out! If... we remember you! Hahahaha!"
Footsteps and laughter gradually faded, eventually disappearing completely at the end of the hallway.
Dead silence.
Utter, suffocating silence.
In the cramped space, only Rohan's own rapid, broken, choked breaths remained, along with the frantic pounding of his heart against his ribs, as if it might shatter them.
Fear, shame, despair, anger... emotions like a black tide completely engulfed him.
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