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Doctor Blake recognized Oliver from the boarding school clinic where he worked on Thursdays. It took a moment to place him, haunting the waiting room of his general practice like a ghost, his weekend clothes loose and tatty. But he had taken notice before—the quiet, fair-haired young man was from common stock but finely formed, his face a beautiful cipher, full lips pressed anxiously together when he was being spoken to, but softly parted in concentration and (Blake would later come to learn) in sleep. He remembered the striking face, and the fact that he’d come by the school clinic more than once with the kind of bruising associated with systematic bullying, although of course he just claimed to be clumsy. Blake had idly enjoyed prodding his injuries for breaks with a tad too much force, gratified to watch him hiss and flinch, and admiring the delicate shadows under his eyes up close—but that was as far as he thought it would ever go.
He’d already gathered this was a poor boy on an insufficient scholarship, simply by asking routine questions on sleep and nutrition. His ribs were showing at his last checkup, his growing body always slightly short on fuel, and now he was sick with worry over his family.
It took cursory research, but mainly supposition. The father was living beyond his means sending him to that school, in an effort to elevate the family’s status. Oliver was only two years from graduation, one if he studied hard over the summer. It would all be for nothing if the family fell into debt now—especially if the father, who was seriously ill, couldn’t return to work.
Doctor Blake struggled with himself awhile, but truthfully from the moment he realized who he was treating, the path forward was never in question. The father came in for a routine operation, and it was easy as sin to give him too much ether, let him drift away and never wake up. There are risks with any surgery.
Alone in the infirmary, Blake was hard as marble watching the life leave the poor man’s body. It was finally real to him, this golden opportunity.
He stared deeply into the slack-faced corpse, looking for Oliver in his high cheekbones and straight, noble nose. He looked at the man’s blue lips and pictured Oliver’s, soft and nubile, in their place, frigging himself furiously until he spilled his seed over his conquest’s dead sire.
Then he went to deliver the news, with grace and gravity, staring into the eyes of the orphan he’d created. He swore to do all he could to help him graduate. The poor little mouse thanked him with tears in his eyes.
*
He took on Oliver’s school fees, room and board, pulling him out of the dormitories where he was so abused and placing him in the apartment next to his own in a well-appointed boarding house.
He also began to design a rigorous medical routine to help him compensate for any hereditary defects. A composite physiologic method: well rounded, to aid both body and mind. This included a vegetarian diet, brisk exercise, cold water therapy, and frequent enemas. If the trembling, gooseflesh, and desperate clenching of increasingly overtaxed anal muscles aroused Doctor Blake, that didn’t mean they weren’t also effective treatments. Ultimately, it was Oliver who stood to benefit. The boy was game and bore up surprisingly well under increasingly harsh treatment.
He frequently bade him strip so he could examine his posture and spine. Luckily, he was able to intervene before an unsightly hunch developed, the way it often did in studious boys; he began to visit Oliver’s bedroom every night and lash him securely to a stiff wooden board. He would rest thus, in a forced supine position, to ensure his bones finished growing properly. It was desperately uncomfortable, of course, so Doctor Blake also allowed him a spoonful of laudanum as a sleep aid.
Most importantly, for his ongoing sexual development, he decided to strap down Oliver’s wrists to prevent self-abuse; even involuntary, even while dreaming. He was right to do so. In spite of such measures, nocturnal emissions would still seize the boy in deepest sleep. Staying at his bedside, Blake would look up from his notes to observe the phenomenon with rapt attention. Oliver trembled against his bindings, arching his back, looking for friction that would never come, and heaved a great sigh like his heart was breaking. Then he collapsed back into a more subdued sleep, wet spunk staining his nightshirt. Doctor Blake took his time cleaning up after the boy, sparing him the indignity of waking up soiled. He lingered, stroking his skin, getting to know the particularities of his penis and gonads. The problem was so persistent he knew he would soon need his genitals locked away at night.
Oliver's neglected prick grew consistently harder during their daytime appointments, and they both noticed it. The poor boy’s skin flushed dark with shame, even down his neck, shoulders, and chest. Blake was content for a time just to savor the discomfort, but the third time it happened, he felt compelled to say something.
“I believe you are overstimulated. If I may.”
And without waiting for assent, he worked a generous portion of petroleum jelly into his hands and began to massage his ward’s swollen appendage.
His shocked gasp, the way his cock twitched harder than his locked body did... Doctor Blake schooled his own face carefully. It was more beautiful than he had dared dream.
The jelly warmed quickly, and the boy went from freezing to melting with the impressive sensitivity of the young. He gripped the edge of his chair and all but mewled, the effort of suppressing his voice causing it to crack dreadfully.
If hysteria was generally a female affliction, it was only further evidence of his inverted, misguided nature. Dr. Blake made him solemnly promise never to minister to himself, for this would agitate his nerves and weaken his constitution. Always go to a trusted professional like himself.
This too became part of their bedtime routine: extract the orgasm in as brief and detached a manner as possible. Restrain him thoroughly, drug him to sleep. Spend hours fondling his unconscious form, warming it up, giving it the touch it craved. He caressed and sniffed and licked every inch of the body, so limp and slow-breathing he may as well been a beautiful, fragrant doll.
He sensed himself becoming very fond of the boy.
*
He had fantasized often of the first time he would fuck his young ward. He imagined giving him a double dose of morphine and undoing his restraints, rolling his limp body over and spending hours working open that unresisting hole, making him soft as butter. Satisfying himself with his doll's body. Allowing him to wake up alone every morning feeling empty and craving and unsure why. Indulging nightly, driving him mad, inspiring a deep lust and allowing the boy to believe it came from within. The anticipation was sweet —so sweet that he waited too long.
His burgeoning plans were dashed the day Oliver came home from school limping. Blake knew with certainty, before the examination, that he would find evidence of rape. He probed the abused little hole, found gooey evidence of Oliver's attacker’s completion. He felt his blood run cold with fury.
“Who did this to you?” he asked calmly. "Another boy? A teacher?"
Oliver’s chin trembled. “I don’t want to say.”
Doctor Blake reacted with a violence that shocked them both. He seized his delicate patient by the neck and hurled him to the floor. Oliver landed with a wounded cry, too shocked to do anything but stare up with his wide damned doe's eyes.
“You’ll tell me,” Blake swore, “but not before you receive some goddamned discipline.”
He shoved his thumb between the boy’s teeth, forcing his jaws apart till he could produce his billfold and wedge it tightly into Oliver's mouth. “Bite down,” he ordered gruffly. Oliver obeyed in bewilderment; it was all he knew in this moment.
“Assume the position,” he snapped, and Oliver curled onto his side, fetal. He waited like a rodent in a trap, breathing shallowly, pulse racing. Blake was distantly proud of his training.
“Go on,” he urged.
He reached back slowly and held himself open, as he did for his enema treatments.
Doctor Blake unbuckled his belt slowly and fingered the expensive, supple leather for a moment, letting the boy cower awhile longer. Then, decisively, he began to whip Oliver—aiming right for his hole and striking true. The helpless youth shrieked into the wallet, shocked and agonized, but he didn’t let go of his arsecheeks even as he tried to squirm away. It was a beautiful testament to a treatment plan that had been succeeding, even if it was to be modified now.
“Little slut,” he spat. “Whatever he did to you, I know you asked for it and I know you liked it. I thought I taught you better than this.”
Oliver shook his head frantically. Blake knew he was being unfair, but he allowed himself the indulgence of venting his frustration. He continued until the boy’s hole was so inflamed he could practically see it throbbing, until the boy’s voice gave out, although the screaming continued.
When he saw Oliver's hard prick he was infuriated anew. He gripped the offending piece of flesh and began to tug and knead at it far too roughly. When Blake brought him off, it was with all the tenderness of a factory worker on the assembly line; Oliver fainted.
*
He awoke with a pained, panicked gasp, sober and shivering, in nothing of the comfort Blake had once envisioned. He watched him try to move with grim satisfaction, saw him realize he was strapped into his torturously hard medical bed, but this time prone; facedown, his stinging and clenching little bud exposed to the cool air.
"I've washed that man's seed out of your whore's ass," he sneered. Oliver's face was dazed for a moment before it flushed dark with humiliation.
Doctor Blake moved around the bed so that his own swollen cock entered Oliver's field of vision. Damn near engulfed it, in fact; he was flattered by how quickly the youth's red blanched white. He thrashed to no avail, his animal instincts fighting what his human mind had surely already realized.
"If this is the kind of behavior you invite, Oliver, then by all means," he said, "I shall indulge you." He circled to the other side of the bed with crisp, deliberate footsteps. He mounted the bed and straddled the boy's thighs, already panting with arousal.
Oliver's voice was sodden with tears. "Please don't," he begged. He would soon learn it was the exact tone of voice that drove the doctor wildest. He would soon learn very much about the doctor indeed.
"I'm afraid this is the only way to help you," he said with false regret, and began to feed his girth into the weakly resisting orifice. He had also applied some perfunctory lubrication, out of consideration for his own comfort rather than Oliver's, so of course the boy screamed some more, as well as he was able through his shredded throat and the drool-dripping, deep bitten leather wallet. Blake seated himself deeply inside and, though his loins quivered with the effort of restraint, savored the moment. In spite of the unexpected change of plans, this was the culmination of his chase and, ultimately, the achievement of Oliver's treatment goals.
Then he took the young man in hand and showed him what his purpose was.