𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫 ~ 𝘗𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘭

The aphrodisiac is a wildfire in your veins. It ravages every nerve, every muscle, twisting logic into need, burning away resistance until your own body betrays you completely. It shouldn’t feel good. It shouldn’t be this overwhelming, this all-consuming. But it is.

Alhaitham watches you clinically, detached even as his gloved fingers press against your slick, trembling entrance. His turquoise eyes track every shudder, every labored gasp, as if dissecting a biological response in a controlled experiment.

“Fascinating,” he murmurs, curling his fingers inside you again, deliberate and unhurried. “Your reactions continue to escalate. Heart rate—elevated. Muscle contractions—persistent. Fluid production—” He adjusts his wrist, pressing his thumb against the swollen bud of nerves that has you jerking violently in your restraints. “—excessive.”

Your body clenches, oversensitive, wracked with unbearable stimulation. It’s too much. Too sharp. Too good.

Your throat tightens as you try to form words, to beg, to scream, but only incoherent gasps spill out. Your thoughts are fragmented, breaking apart under his methodical touch.

Alhaitham tilts his head, watching. Assessing. Calculating.

“Your cognitive function appears impaired,” he notes, removing his fingers with a wet sound. You barely have time to register the loss before something else presses against you—the thick, blunt heat of him, hot and unyielding.

A slow, calculated push.

The stretch is unbearable, your body struggling to accommodate the sheer intrusion of him. The aphrodisiac heightens everything—the burn, the pressure, the way your walls pulse around him despite your mind’s horrified rejection.

His gloved hand presses against your stomach, feeling the way he fills you. “Your body accepts me easily,” he observes, voice unwavering. “The drug is functioning at peak efficiency.”

A harsh thrust—deep, precise. Your breath shatters into a broken cry.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t hesitate. His pace is methodical, relentless, driving into you with calculated force, testing the limits of your overstimulated body.

“You’re taking me well,” he muses, adjusting his angle to elicit a sharper reaction. Your body reacts instantly—writhing, clenching, sobbing out a sound that barely resembles a protest. His fingers wrap around your throat, tilting your head back so he can examine you further.

“Your pupils are dilated,” he murmurs, pressing deeper. “Tear production—excessive but within expected parameters.”

He fucks you through it, through the trembling overstimulation, through the betrayal of your own pleasure-drenched body. He watches you come apart with clinical detachment, tracking the moment you convulse around him, wracked with involuntary spasms as the aphrodisiac drags you into another unbearable climax.

His pace never falters. Never softens. Never stops.

“Again,” he states, voice steady. “For accuracy.”

And so he does. Again. And again. Until you are utterly ruined. Until you are nothing but a writhing, crying, shattered experiment.

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