𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫 ~ 𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘙𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘦

The scent of antiseptic burns in your nostrils. A single overhead light casts harsh illumination over your naked body, strapped down to the medical table, limbs restrained in taut leather cuffs. The air is sterile, devoid of anything organic save for your rapid breathing and the calculated sound of latex gloves snapping into place.

Alhaitham stands beside you, clipboard in one hand, a small vial in the other. He rolls it between his fingers, the thick, viscous liquid inside catching the light.

“You should be grateful,” he states, voice as smooth as cut glass. “This formula is still in its experimental phase, but I’ve accounted for potential adverse reactions.”

Your pulse leaps in your throat as he uncaps the vial, drawing a precise amount into a syringe. His turquoise eyes flicker to yours, unreadable, detached.

“Side effects include hypersensitivity, involuntary muscle contractions, and an increased production of—” He pauses, tilts his head. “Well. You’ll feel it soon enough.”

The needle sinks into your inner thigh. A slow, creeping burn spreads from the injection site, seeping into your bloodstream like liquid fire. Your breath stutters, body thrumming with an unnatural heat, a deep, twisting need that ignites without consent.

Alhaitham watches. Studies. Notes your reactions as your thighs tremble against the restraints, as your back arches despite the cold bite of metal against your skin.

“A faster onset than expected,” he muses, setting the syringe aside. His gloved fingers trail down your abdomen, indifferent to your shallow, desperate panting. “Let’s observe how responsive you are.”

His fingers part you, unhurried, precise. Even through the barrier of latex, his touch is searing—every brush, every press amplified tenfold by the aphrodisiac coursing through your veins. A whimper spills from your lips, and his eyes flick to you, calculating.

“Already reacting this strongly?” His tone is clinical, devoid of warmth. “It seems your body is more susceptible than I anticipated.”

He presses inside, a single gloved finger curling against the soft, swollen walls of your heat. Your body clenches, hypersensitive and overwhelmed, pleasure and humiliation intertwining into something unbearable.

Your gasp is choked, your hips twitching in search of relief, only for him to hold you still with a firm grip.

“Interesting.” He adds a second finger, then a third, stretching you open with practiced efficiency. The slick sounds are obscene, amplified in the dead silence of the room. “Your involuntary contractions are intensifying. Let’s see how far we can push it.”

His fingers pump into you relentlessly, curling, stroking, stimulating every oversensitive nerve until your mind drowns in a haze of unbearable pleasure. He watches your struggle with nothing more than idle curiosity, observing each tremor, each involuntary moan, each betrayal of your own body.

“This is still data collection,” he murmurs, unphased by your pleading sobs. “We’re nowhere near the final results.”

And so he continues.

Methodical. Unrelenting. Until your body is utterly, devastatingly broken by pleasure.

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