He told me not to climax until he gave me permission. The vibrator hummed. The clock ticked. I begged.
My name is Libby Jenkins. My body was broken, and Dr. Aris Holder was the only specialist who would treat my chronic pain. His methods were unconventional. His fees were cash. At our first session, he strapped me to his exam table and told me my treatment required total compliance. I agreed. I had no other choice.
The therapy progressed. Daily enemas. Constant internal stretching. Measured outputs recorded in a notebook. He tested my control by bringing me to the edge of orgasm with medical tools, denying me release until he decided I was ready. My shame turned to desperate need. My pain faded, replaced by a deeper, more terrifying craving for his approval.
This is the story of my correction. Of how a doctor’s cold, clinical obsession rewired my body and my will. Of the marks he left on my skin and the emptiness he carved inside me that only he can fill.