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Dr. Morningstar entered Alastor’s padded room, a warm and saccharinely pleasant smile on his lips.
Alastor stiffened where he’d been slumped in his preferred corner, where he spent his days curled in such a way as to create a meager shadow in the small gap between his body and the wall, the only thing he could change in a room filled to bursting with cold, white, clinical light.
The overhead light was white. The room was white. His loose pants were white. The jacket was white. He knew they had placed soft, white caps over his antlers to keep them blunted.
“Good afternoon, Alastor,” Dr. Morningstar greeted brightly, closing the heavy door behind him so that the padding was sealed throughout the space once more. On the other side of the door’s padding lay inches of steel.
And beyond that, Alastor was not entirely sure anymore. He had broken, blurred memories of white hallways, rows of painfully harsh lights above. A room with a chair. Painful burns. Or were they shocks? It had been a long time since he’d left this room. At least, he thought so.
There were no windows, and he had no way of marking the passage of time. He lived the entirety of his days bound up in the straitjacket, unable to scratch and claw as he wanted so desperately to do.
“How are we feeling today?” Dr. Morningstar asked, seeming entirely unbothered by Alastor’s lack of response thus far. And even now, Alastor only answered with a glare, his ears pressed back flat against his skull. His permanent, manic smile was more a warning baring of teeth. “I heard we had some trouble yesterday.”
He didn’t sound angry about it. Concerned, maybe. Or at least that was what he was aiming to convey.
“It made me realize how I’ve neglected our treatments recently. It’s been so busy here, you know. All of the new intakes. And you had been making such good progress, I had thought.” Dr. Morningstar sighed and removed his hands from where they had been resting comfortably in the pockets of his white coat.
“But I recognize that you don’t have much other means of getting my attention. You need treatment, and you found a way to make that clear.” Dr. Morningstar turned and reached for the length of chain locked to the wall beside the door, freeing it so that he could start pulling. The chain ran up through a ring in the ceiling, then down through another just behind the head of the bed - a cot on the floor – before ending at the shackle around Alastor’s neck.
“Don’t-” was all Alastor managed out before the pull on his throat turned the sound into a strained bleat and he was gradually, carefully, tugged into position. He scrambled on bare, hooved feet, which found little purchase on the padded floor. He had to follow the pull of the chain. Dr. Morningstar would not drag him by the neck onto the bed if he lay on the ground and refused to move, but he would keep the tension on the collar unbearably tight until Alastor finally relented. They didn’t need to go through that lesson again today.
The chain stopped it’s tugging when Alastor was seated on the bed, close enough to the head of it that his tail brushed his pillow. Alastor’s eyes flashed to radio dials only briefly, before the powers seemed to sputter out, leaving him to simply stare icily at the doctor. Dr. Morningstar fastened the other end of the chain in place before making his way over, entirely unhurried, moving with easy confidence rather than out of some concern of spooking his patient.
“Lie back,” Dr. Morningstar instructed simply. When Alastor did not move, the doctor gave another sigh, but Alastor could see the hint of a smile playing at the edge of his lips. “There’s no need to make this difficult. I’m here now, ready to give you what you need. You’ll feel nice and happy and relaxed after, like always. Don’t you want us to get to that place quickly?”
Before Alastor could bite out some reply, a denial, an insult, anything at all, Dr. Morningstar dropped to kneel on the end of the bed and wasted no time in reaching out grab hold of one of Alastor’s dainty ankles. The doctor yanked Alastor down onto the bed with strength that always managed to surprise him, another pathetic little bleat of protest escaped his lips as he fell backwards and his feet ended up in Dr. Morningstar’s lap. Alastor writhed as his pants were swiftly yanked down, all part of medical the process, no teasing or seducing involved.
“I don’t need treatment,” Alastor growled out through a clenched smile, his breath coming quickly already, his chest rising and falling sharply even under the arms bound crossed overtop his body.
“Yes, you do, Alastor. Your hysteria is still spiking in fits of violent mania. You bit Dr. Vox yesterday,” Dr. Morningstar said firmly, not really admonishing, but Alastor felt like that was there, beneath the ridiculously, utterly fabricated diagnosis.
Dr. Morningstar wrapped both of Alastor’s legs up with one arm and lifted them over one of his shoulders, shifting himself forward so his knees were resting right up against Alastor’s rear. Alastor growled and tried to bend his legs, to twist and kick, but Dr. Morningstar merely waited him out with an iron hold and a patient expression.
“You know, Dr. Vox actually asked if he could help with administering these treatments for you, now that I’m so busy,” Dr. Morningstar continued as if Alastor hadn’t interrupted with his futile struggling.
“I’ll bet he did,” Alastor hissed, bile rising in the back of his throat at the thought.
Dr. Morningstar merely smirked with a sideways look up at Alastor’s face, his free hand busy fishing in the pocket of his coat for a pair of pink exam gloves. “Now, now. No need to be rude. Dr. Vox is a very skilled physician. But I did refuse the offer, as this really isn’t his area of expertise. He has great success with shock treatments, but we know that you’re much more responsive to manual manipulation to express your built up hysteria. He can keep brining you your meds and helping with the talk therapy part of things, but I am going to remain in charge of this particular treatment administration.”
Alastor’s body went stiff in Dr. Morningstar’s hold. Shock treatments. The chair. That’s right. That was Dr. Vox.
No wonder Alastor had felt such intense revulsion when the man had tried to pet his ears yesterday. He had thought Dr. Vox just another garden-variety creep, but some part of him must still remember the previous attempts at treatment, even if it had gone all hazy and fragmented over time.
“Alright, try to relax now, Alastor. I’m going to start your treatment.”
When had Dr. Morningstar gotten his gloves on? Alastor could have used that opportunity while he was distracted to – to do. Something. Anything. But thoughts of Dr. Vox had gotten in the way.
One gloved hand wrapped gently, but firmly, around his soft member and began to stroke.
Alastor choked on a noise that was a mix of surprise and protest, his hips jerking and angling in an attempt to get away. Once more, Dr. Morningstar merely waited him out and continued on with absolute calm.
Even in the complete absence of lust or desire, with enough dedication to the application of consistent friction, and a well-timed squeeze or swipe of a thumb, even the most quiescent of bodies could be encouraged into reaction.
As with everything, Dr. Morningstar only had to remain patient, and he eventually got what he wanted.
He only stopped once to awkwardly fumble in his pocket for a bottle of lubricant, popping the cap with a quiet snick before drizzling some of the cool fluid onto Alastor’s cock. It made things much smoother. Pleasure without a merciful bite of discomfort to dampen it.
Once Alastor had been worked in to hardness, the movements of the doctor’s hand became quick and efficient. Not wholly unlike how Alastor might have once taken himself in hand, on the exceedingly rare occasion his body was overcome with that specific ache and would not be ignored.
He groaned against the unwilling pleasure, his eyes screwed shut and his smile something much more akin to a grimace.
“There you are, Alastor. You’re being so good for me. Let it out.” Dr. Morningstar’s words were a gentle murmur, so soft in their encouragement. Alastor felt himself twitch in the doctor’s hand entirely unbidden.
The heat was slow to build low in his guts, a beckoning warmth that warred with the roiling nausea in his stomach at having this done to him yet again.
He knew by now that he could not hold out forever, but he could remain stubborn and resistant if he could find something to think about that wasn’t the coiling need. Difficult to do in a room with nothing but the doctor and his persistent attentions.
He cracked open one red eye and glared down at Dr. Morningstar, at his blond hair that was still perfectly styled and his overconfident, knowing smirk. The doctor was already looking at him. Alastor’s clawed fingers flexed uselessly within the thick fabric of the jacket, utterly incapable of lashing out and plucking free those blue eyes so they could never look at him that way again.
“How many patients do you treat this way?” Alastor bit out, trying desperately to distract himself with thoughts of just how wrong this all was, how Dr. Morningstar was probably abusing his power to touch all of his patients this way.
“Aww, Alastor. You don’t need to feel jealous. I am only doing my job, you know. Even now. Although…and I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but you are doing so very well for me right now. Your case is actually incredibly unique to this institution. I developed this treatment plan especially for you. All of the other patients respond with the more conventional methods. But you require special care.” He sounded so disgustingly fond.
The answer wasn’t what Alastor had been expecting, yet neither did it surprise him. Dr. Morningstar had been bizarrely committed to his ‘care’ since day one.
All of that attention fixated on him. It made a cold sweat tickle at the back of Alastor’s captured knees. It made him keen against a sudden tightening low in his abdomen.
He attempted thrashing again, only managing to toss his head against the pillow as a wave of pleasure rose up suddenly, totally consuming. If Dr. Morningstar would just still his hand for a moment, maybe. Maybe he could beat back the crest. But of course he didn’t stop. This was just what he wanted.
With a squeal of feedback, Alastor’s back arched harshly up from the mattress as he came, his mess splattering all the way up to his folded arms.
Dr. Morningstar worked him through it, until the sensitivity pulled a shameful whimper from his collared throat.
“Good boy, that was so good. We’re going to move right into the next one now, alright? Your hormones won’t balance with only one. I think we may even need three this time, and see how long that keeps you mellow and behaved.” Dr. Morningstar delivered his treatment plan bluntly, simple statements that were not up for rebuttal. They were not spoken cruelly or coldly, though, his voice remaining soft and cajoling. Careful not to break Alastor from the haze that was starting to settle over his mind with the warmth from that first release.
Alastor was still panting hard, his eyes blinking slowly and his gaze difficult to focus, when he felt the grip on his legs loosen. Dr. Morningstar was using both hands to reopen the lubricate and coat the fingers of one glove. He even allowed one leg to slide off his shoulder as he reached down to press a single, slicked digit to Alastor’s hole.
A sudden sharpening of senses. A blat of feedback. The unshakable feeling that this could not be permitted to go any further.
Alastor jerked his legs sharply and abruptly toward his stomach, his incredible flexibility allowing himself to fold nearly in half, giving him a good amount of room with which to strike out with two hard hooves right at Dr. Morningstar’s head.
The doctor had regrettably good self-preservation instincts, and reflexes, and ducked to the side just fast enough to avoid one hoof completely while the other managed to knock hard enough into the side of his head that he was made to double over with a cry of pain.
His back bowed and one hand pressed against where he’d been struck, his other arm lashed to grab up Alastor’s feet by his nimble and fragile ankles, holding his patient still and unable to attack again while he weathered the throbs of pain.
He stayed still, breathing hard through gritted teeth, long enough for Alastor to wonder if he’d actually managed to do some real damage.
Dr. Morningstar then let out a long, slow breath, and when he looked up at Alastor, he’d forced a pleasant smile back onto his lips. His hair was a mess now, but unfortunately there was no blood. Probably a good sized lump on his head, though, Alastor thought with a small sliver of pride. But he knew he couldn’t gloat long. He hadn’t hurt his doctor enough to make him leave, not if the determined look in those blue eyes was anything to go by.
The hand on Alastor’s ankles tightened its grip, enough to make the bones creak and cause Alastor to jerk fruitlessly at them in attempt to escape the threat of pain. “Ah, ah. See? I knew you were still being driven to violent outbursts. It’s not you fault. We’re just going to have to put you on your stomach today, okay? We need to escalate your treatment, I think.”
Alastor’s eyes went wide at that, a chill rushing up his spine and making him shudder where his body had been so warm and flushed with pleasure only minutes before.
With his arms bound, there was very little he could do against being forcibly turned over on the mattress, the doctor’s hands firm, but somehow still not cruel despite the blow Alastor had delivered and with it a reasonable expectation of punishment.
Dr. Morningstar kept one of his strong hands placed between Alastor’s shoulder blades as he swung his leg over his patient’s thighs to sit on them, pinning Alastor and preventing any further kicking. In fact, Alastor could barely turn his head on the pillow for breath, feeling wholly pressed and captive beneath the doctor.
Alastor’s ears twisted back to follow the sounds of movement, unable to see what was being done and jolting in start when a finger returned to his hole once more.
Clinical precision. Not unnecessarily rough, but steady and sure as the slicked digit pushed inside of him in one long, slow slide. Alastor let out a strangled deer sound that was blended up and garbled with feedback.
Dr. Morningstar’s finger pressed this way and that, practiced and precise. He knew just when the muscles had been forced to relax enough to take a second finger and did so with the same unwavering push before the digits spread and thrust shallowly and stretched.
Alastor was panting harshly against the pillow, the burn of the initial intrusion fading far too quickly and leaving him feeling full with a dull ache.
And then Dr. Morningstar’s fingers curled just so, and Alastor was helpless against the sharp cry of pleasure that burst from between bared teeth. “F-Fuck. What –” he practically whimpered.
“Shh. Easy, Alastor. Just relax and feel it,” the doctor murmured soothingly, even as one hand remained like an lead weight on Alastor’s back and the other was relentless in how it sought out and rubbed at that spot again and again.
Somehow, far too soon, Alastor’s cock began to twitch back to hardness once again where it was pinned against the mattress.
But his body couldn’t keep up with how quickly the intense pleasure was mounting. He moaned and keened, his eyes even tearing up from the force of it all. A third finger was added, but as soon as the pressure returned to that one place, he hardly noticed the new stretch.
His body tried to writhe beneath the doctor, the smaller man utterly unmovable. “S-stop. Can’t! Can’t –” Alastor didn’t know what he couldn’t do. Whatever it was, it probably turned out to be wrong, because even without his cock being back to full hardness he was once more overwhelmed with a surge of pleasure that made his vision white out and his ears ring with a sound of feedback that was only partially his own making.
He went boneless, his slim body wracked with quivers. He was distantly aware of wetness under his cheek, both by his mouth and eyes, and beneath his stomach.
“Very good, Alastor. Such a good job. I can already tell that one did a lot of good for you. You needed it so bad, huh?” Dr. Morningstar murmured, but Alastor’s ears didn’t even twitch back to listen.
The sound of snapping latex as gloves were removed, then the doctor’s warm hands were petting up his tail, earning a hitched breath and a whine of oversensitivity from Alastor. They moved on, smoothing along his lower back until they reached the hem of the jacket, then skipping over the harsh cloth to pet and stroke his hair and ears.
Alastor’s breath began to slow, but his mind remained sluggish and distant, his body so very heavy.
The hands left his head, moving down to his hips. His thighs were parted, Dr. Morningstar moving to kneel between them. There was the faint sound of a zipper. It was all far away.
A blunt pressure returned to his entrance, then a new stretch. Alastor gasped and tried to tense away, but his body was uncooperative and the push was unrelenting.
“There you go, just try to breathe for me. Relax. You’re going to feel so much better, sweetheart,” Dr. Morningstar said from somewhere behind him. The term of endearment felt immediately wrong, sticking strangely in Alastor’s molasses mind.
Even as Dr. Morningstar sunk fully inside, letting out a low, satisfied groan when he bottomed out, Alastor’s mind clung to that bizarre word.
Sweetheart.
That wasn’t right. That sort of term didn’t belong in this. That wasn’t what this was.
Alastor’s hips were being held up by strong hands, his knobby knees unsteady as a fawns as his body was rocked forward. He moaned, gaze unseeing and directed at a white, padded wall.
His cock was hard again. It had only taken a few slow, deep thrusts, and his treacherous body was leaking and responsive.
But Dr. Morningstar didn’t touch it. He seemed much more concerned with seeking something for himself this time. His pace soon quickened, his hips snapping with sharp smacks of skin on skin.
“Oh. Yes, good boy, Alastor. Taking your treatment so well,” Dr. Morningstar groaned his praise. Sticking to the lies somehow, despite chasing his own pleasure.
Fuck. But it did feel good. The fullness. The pressure deep inside. The push against that place with every forward snap of hips.
Their breaths were loud in the sealed room. The air was so humid and sticky. The straitjacket pinched and pulled as Alastor’s lower half was held and lifted and pulled and angled wherever the doctor desired.
Dr. Morningstar began to thrust ever faster. “So good. My good Alastor. That’s it, sweetheart. Just a bit more,” he panted. He curled over Alastor’s body, their height difference putting the doctor’s face between bony shoulders.
A few more hard, sharp thrusts, then Dr. Morningstar stilled deep inside as he emptied himself with a long moan.
He remained buried within even after the twitches of release had stopped, and Alastor was so full he whined.
“Shh, I know. I know my sweet boy. I won’t leave you like this,” Dr. Morningstar whispered oh so kindly, words warm and adoring and assuring.
He reached under Alastor and began to stroke his weeping cock, even as he himself remained seated inside. Maybe it was that continued pressure, or maybe Alastor was just that close already, but it took only a few quick strokes before he, too, was spilling.
Alastor’s body shuddered hard with the force of his third release, even his cries of pleasure sounding broken and tired and practically wrung out of him.
Dr. Morningstar, ever the dedicated physician, worked his patient until there was nothing left, then finally allowed himself to slip free so he could guide them both down onto their sides on the small cot.
Despite everything, Alastor did feel rather floaty and peaceful. His body, always so tightly wound within his straitjacket that he ached constantly, finally relaxed and melted into the hold of the restraints, into the soft mattress under him. For at least these few moments, he truly didn’t feel the desperate drive to tear and claw and bite. He just felt warm and good.
“There you go. So good, Alastor. Just what you needed, hm? I know.” Dr. Morningstar was petting his hair, smoothing down the rumbled fur along his ears. This time as well, it didn’t feel entirely terrible. The doctor had managed to catch his breath, it seemed. Enough to pick up his chatter. His gentle praise was back to being calm and soothing, without the frantic undercurrent of his own wants. “I’ll be sure to come back sooner next time. Before you get so backed up again. We’re going to keep working on this, you and I. I’m going to keep taking good care of you.”
Not cure him. Never that. Just keep taking care. Keep giving ‘treatments’. Always. Forever.
Later, Alastor would press his head into his corner, staring down at his shadow, and think about this eternity that lay before him. But not right now. For now, he was far too calm, drifting and buzzing with a pleasant hum over his thoughts. Even under the harsh white lights, he felt like he could actually sleep like this, sleep and get some real rest.
And then later. Later. He’d think about how he was going to escape one day. Someone would get sloppy. Given enough time, someone always did. Dr. Vox had potential for that.
Or maybe Dr. Morningstar could be convinced he was well enough for home treatments. Not ideal. But. Bearable. Worth the price of freedom. Eventually. Some day. If the situation ever became so dire.
All later, so far in the future.
Dr. Morningstar laid a brief kiss onto his hair, just behind his capped antlers.
“Look at you,” Dr. Morningstar practically purred, all warm contentment and self-satisfaction with his job well done. “So good for me now. I always know what you need. And just how much you can handle. Only I can take care of you so well.”
So much talking. Seeping in past the happy haze, a niggling feeling of agitation blooming at the edge of his consciousness.
Dr. Morningstar returned to petting his ears, his fingers sliding down to scritch at the base, then further to stroke tenderly at along Alastor’s cheek. It felt nice.
But of course, the man had to continue his gloating. “You can be so well behaved. I think you want to be, deep down. This feels so much better, doesn’t it? A little release was all you needed.”
Alastor turned his head, nuzzling more into that soothing touch. A lover’s caresses, nothing clinical about them.
“Hmm. Not all,” Alastor murmured, eyes heavy and smile small.
Dr. Morningstar only just managed to make a short sound in curiosity before he was shouting in pain and alarm as he tried to pull his hand out from the fierce and vicious rows of teeth that had suddenly whipped around and clamped down hard onto the meat of his palm.
With hot blood on his tongue and Dr. Morningstar’s scream in his ears, now Alastor felt truly, wholly satisfied. His ‘hysteria’ at peace.