The sterile scent of the private clinic—ozone, expensive floor wax, and a hint of something medicinal yet floral—hung heavy in the air as Trevor Oak smoothed the front of his charcoal suit. He adjusted his silk tie with a precision that was both a habit of his "posh" cover and a grounding ritual.

Trevor was no stranger to high-stakes infiltration, but Simon Vance was a ghost in the medical world. The "Spy Doctor" was a man of whispers and closed doors, known for procedures that left the elite of the underworld both shattered and strangely devoted. Trevor checked his reflection in the frosted glass of the waiting room door. His dark brown hair was swept back in a perfectly tousled, gentlemanly style; his green eyes were bright, projecting a genial warmth that masked a razor-sharp focus.

"The Doctor will see you now, Mr. Oak," a receptionist murmured, her voice unnervingly smooth.

Trevor stepped into the consultation suite. The room was bathed in soft, amber light, a stark contrast to the clinical hallway. Behind a mahogany desk sat Simon Vance.

Simon was lean and poised, his medium brown hair layered with an effortless, messy grace. As he looked up, Trevor was struck by the intensity of his hazel eyes. They were observant—frighteningly so. Simon rose, his movements fluid and feline. He was a few inches taller than Trevor, a physical presence that seemed to subtly claim the space between them.

"Mr. Oak," Simon said, his Welsh accent rolling like low thunder, rhythmic and melodic. He offered a hand, his lips pulling back to reveal deep dimples and a slight cleft in his chin. "A pleasure. I’ve been reviewing your charts, though they tell me very little of the man himself."

Trevor took the hand, his grip firm and polished. "One prefers to keep a bit of mystery, Doctor," Trevor replied, his own British accent crisp and refined. "I’ve heard your diagnostic techniques are… unparalleled."

Simon didn't let go immediately. His thumb brushed against the back of Trevor’s hand—a contact that lasted a fraction of a second too long to be merely professional. To Trevor, it felt like an electric current; to Simon, it was a confirmation. Simon recognized the callouses, the way Trevor’s weight was distributed, ready to spring. He knew a spy when he saw one. But more than that, he saw the boyish charm in Trevor’s face, the deep dimples that mirrored his own, and a fire in those green eyes that he suddenly wanted to see extinguished by pleasure.

"Unparalleled, yes," Simon whispered, his voice dropping an octave as he finally released Trevor’s hand. "But they require a certain… vulnerability. A willingness to be seen completely."

He gestured to the leather examination chair in the center of the room. It looked more like a throne than a piece of medical equipment.

"Please, Trevor. Take off your jacket. Let’s see what lies beneath that very expensive armor you wear."

Trevor felt a prickle of genuine tension at the base of his neck. He shed his blazer, hanging it carefully. As he began to unbutton his cuffs, he caught Simon watching him. The doctor wasn't looking at his charts; he was tracing the line of Trevor’s throat with his gaze.

"I’m told you specialize in the nervous system," Trevor said, maintaining his classy, unflappable facade even as his heart hammered against his ribs.

"I specialize in the body’s responses to stimuli," Simon corrected, moving closer. He was near enough now that Trevor could smell his scent—sandalwood and something sharper, more metallic. "The way the skin reacts to a touch it didn't expect. The way the breath hitches when a secret is almost uncovered."

Simon reached out, his fingers hovering just an inch from Trevor’s chest. "You seem very… controlled, Trevor. Very focused. It’s a shame to be so rigid when there is so much to feel."

The tension in the room was thick, a physical weight. Trevor’s training told him to stay alert, to watch for the trap. But there was a magnetic pull to Simon’s presence, a cunning intelligence that felt like a challenge. Simon knew he was being hunted, and he was clearly enjoying the sensation of the predator walking right into his parlor.

"Shall we begin the preliminary scan?" Simon asked, his dimples flashing in a way that felt predatory rather than kind. "I promise, it will be… enlightening."

Trevor met his gaze, his jaw set but his expression polite. "By all means, Doctor. I’m entirely in your hands."

Simon’s smile widened, a slow, dark thing. "You have no idea how true that is."

The air in the room seemed to thin as Simon’s gaze traveled over Trevor with the slow, heavy weight of a physical touch. Under the guise of a "thorough physical assessment," Simon’s Welsh lilt became a series of soft, irresistible commands that stripped away Trevor’s polished exterior piece by piece.

Soon, the charcoal suit and silk tie lay discarded like shed skin. Trevor stood in the center of the amber-lit room, completely nude and vulnerable. The contrast was striking; despite his "tough" reputation in the field, his body possessed a soft, classical elegance. His skin was exceptionally pale and smooth, looking almost like polished marble under the warm lamps.

Simon didn't say a word, but his hunger was palpable. He drank in the sight of Trevor’s slim, hourglass frame—the surprising curve of his hips and the gentle, plump swell of his chest. Trevor’s pink nipples peaked against the cool air of the clinic, a testament to the involuntary arousal blooming amidst his professional nerves. When Trevor shifted uncomfortably, the movement emphasized the soft, bouncy weight of his backside, causing Simon’s hazel eyes to darken with a predatory intensity.

"You are a rare specimen, Trevor," Simon whispered, his Welsh accent thick and honeyed. He stepped behind Trevor, his presence looming over the smaller man. "So perfectly formed. So full of secrets."

Trevor felt the heat of Simon's body radiating against his bare back. He tried to maintain his focus, his green eyes searching the room for a tactical advantage, but his mind was beginning to haze under the doctor’s intense scrutiny. He felt a sharp, sudden pinch at the base of his neck.

"A little something for the tension, darling," Simon murmured into his ear, the term of endearment sent a final, confusing shiver down Trevor’s spine.

Before Trevor could even gasp or reach for the needle, the world tilted. The mahogany desk and the amber lights blurred into a swirling vortex. His knees buckled, his "tough" resolve dissolving into a heavy, drug-induced weight. Simon caught him before he hit the floor, pulling Trevor's limp, nude form against his own clothed chest.

As Trevor’s vision went black, the last thing he felt was Simon’s hand possessively cupping his hip and the low, triumphant chuckle of a man who had finally caught his prize.

The world rushed back in a blur of blinding white and the sharp, rhythmic clack of metal. Trevor’s head throbbed as he blinked against the overhead glare of a surgical lamp—a halo of artificial sun that seemed to pin him to the spot. As his senses sharpened, the terrifying reality of his position set in.

He was no longer the poised agent in a charcoal suit. He was pinned to a cold, padded medical table, his body angled upward in a position of total exposure. His wrists were cinched tight to the rails, and his legs were hiked high, his calves and feet locked into heavy metal stirrups that forced his knees wide. The cool air of the clinic bit at his pale, smooth skin, but the heat of his own mounting panic was far more intense.

"Easy now, Trevor," the Welsh voice drifted from the shadows, smooth as silk and twice as dangerous.

Trevor’s green eyes went wide as Simon stepped into the circle of light. The doctor was a vision of clinical precision, snapping a pair of white latex gloves onto his hands with a sound like a pistol shot. He didn't look like a villain; he looked like a professional about to begin a routine exam, which made the array of tools he was organizing on the rolling stainless-steel tray all the more horrifying.

Trevor’s breath hitched as he watched Simon’s long, nimble fingers arrange the items: polished metal speculums that caught the light, various humming vibrators, long cotton swabs, and a row of vibrating plugs that looked more like instruments of surrender than medicine. Beside them sat tall, translucent bottles of lubricant, their viscous contents shimmering under the lamp.

"Let me go, Vance," Trevor rasped, his British accent strained, losing its polished edge as he bucked against the wrist restraints. The metal stirrups rattled with his effort, his hourglass frame straining against the leather straps. "You have no idea the mistake you're making."

Simon didn't flinch. He leaned over Trevor, the scent of sandalwood and latex filling the agent's nose. With a calm, terrifyingly gentle movement, Simon reached for a set of weighted nipple clamps.

"I know exactly what I'm doing, darling," Simon whispered, his hazel eyes fixed on Trevor's. He leaned down, carefully fixing the cold metal teeth over Trevor’s pink, sensitive peaks.

As the weight of the clamps settled, a sharp jolt of sensation shot through Trevor’s chest, making his toes curl in the stirrups. He let out a choked sound, his face flushing a deep crimson that clashed with his dark, tousled hair.

"You’re so beautifully reactive," Simon murmured, his thumb brushing over Trevor’s dimpled cheek. He moved to the end of the table, standing right between Trevor's spread legs, looking directly at the most vulnerable parts of the man he’d captured. "Don't fight it. I’ve spent years perfecting the art of the 'deep examination.' I promise... I'm going to take very, very good care of you."

Simon reached for a bottle of warmed lubricant, the sound of the liquid sloshing inside echoing in the quiet room as Trevor watched, breathless and trapped, as the first stage of his "treatment" began.

The bright, clinical light left nowhere for Trevor to hide, illuminating the pale, flawless expanse of his skin with merciless clarity. Simon stood at the foot of the table, momentarily motionless. His hazel eyes weren't looking at the medical tray anymore; they were feasting on the view afforded by the stirrups.

From this angle, Trevor’s bottom was a masterpiece of soft, rounded geometry. The two pale mounds were pressed together by the tilt of the table, looking like fresh, plump dough, separated only by a deep, enticing cleft. Right at the center, his rosebud stood out—a delicate, shimmering pink that looked agonizingly sensitive. Simon traced the lines of Trevor’s anatomy with his gaze, captivated by the way the two conjoining lines at the very top of the cleft met his lower back, creating a perfect, boyish silhouette that contradicted the agent’s supposed toughness.

Simon leaned in, his breath warm against Trevor’s inner thighs. He felt a primal urge to simply lower his head and taste that deep crease, to explore every inch of that smooth flesh with his tongue.

"Such a delicate, youthful shape," Simon purred, his Welsh accent vibrating with a dark, appreciative hunger. "It’s almost a crime to keep it hidden under a suit."

"Don't... Vance, please," Trevor gasped, his head thrashing against the padded table. The nipple clamps tugged with every movement, sending sparks of sharp pleasure-pain through his chest, but the psychological weight of Simon’s gaze was even more overwhelming. "Don't touch me there."

Ignoring the plea, Simon reached out. The white latex of his gloves hissed as he took hold of Trevor’s hips, his fingers digging firmly into the soft, bouncy flesh of each cheek. He pulled them apart with a slow, deliberate strength, exposing the hidden depths of the cleft and the puckered, reactive center.

"No! Stop!" Trevor cried out, his British accent cracking. He tried to surge forward, but the ankle straps held his legs wide and helpless in the metal stirrups. The sensation of Simon’s gloved hands—firm, clinical, and possessive—kneading his bottom made his face burn with a scorching heat.

"Shh, Trevor. Be still," Simon commanded, his voice dropping to a low, soothing hum that didn't match the predatory look in his eyes. He squeezed the plump flesh, watching how the skin paled then flushed under his pressure. "I told you, this is a deep examination. I need to see how you respond to being handled. I need to see everything."

He leaned closer, his face inches from Trevor’s exposed rear, savoring the scent of the man and the sight of his frantic, helpless tremors. The "Spy Doctor" was no longer just investigating a patient; he was worshiping a captive, and the real examination hadn't even begun.

Simon lowered his head, his shadow falling over Trevor’s trembling thighs. The clinical air was sliced by a soft, wet sound as Simon pressed his lips directly against that tight, pink pucker. Trevor let out a strangled sob, his body jolting in the stirrups as he felt the doctor’s warm breath and then the firm, rhythmic suction of Simon’s mouth. It was a terrifyingly intimate gesture that shattered Trevor’s remaining professional distance, leaving him gasping and twisting against the leather restraints.

"Please... Vance, have some decency," Trevor choked out, his face buried in the pillow, but Simon only hummed against his skin, a low Welsh vibration that echoed through Trevor's entire frame.

Finally, Simon pulled away with a lingering pop. He stood, the hazel fire in his eyes burning brighter than the medical lamp above. He reached for one of the tall bottles on the tray. With a flick of his wrist, he sent a thick, crystal-clear stream of lubricant cascading downward. The gooey slime hit Trevor’s sensitive folds with a cold, heavy splash, pooling in the crevices and slicking the pale skin of his inner thighs.

"You're so tight, Trevor," Simon murmured, his voice thick with a dark, melodic craving. "We need to make sure you're properly prepared for what's coming."

Simon’s gloved fingers dipped into the pool of slime, spreading it with a slow, agonizing thoroughness. He traced the sensitive edges, rubbing the lubricant deep into the folds until the sound of squelching latex filled the quiet room. Trevor’s hips bucked involuntarily; the sensation was a confusing rush of cold slickness and the mounting heat of his own body.

Then, the clinical gentleness vanished.

Simon bunched his fingers together, forming a blunt wedge, and pushed. Trevor’s eyes flew wide, a high, thin keen escaping his throat as he felt his body being forced to accommodate the intrusion. Slowly, inexorably, Simon pushed past the initial resistance. One finger, then three, then his entire hand began to disappear into Trevor’s wet, tight depths.

"Stop! Mercy... please, Simon!" Trevor cried, his British accent dissolving into desperate, raw pleas. His dimples were gone, replaced by a mask of strained, overstimulated agony and pleasure.

Simon ignored the begging. He tucked his thumb and drove his fist deep inside, the thick lubricant squelching loudly as he began a heavy, rhythmic milking motion. He used the strength of his forearm to stretch Trevor from the inside out, his knuckles grazing against the sensitive internal walls. Every thrust was calculated to maximize the pressure, forcing Trevor to feel the sheer scale of his own vulnerability.

Trevor’s head thrashed, his dark hair damp with sweat as he was "milked" by the man he was supposed to be investigating. He was a secret agent, a man of iron will, but under Simon’s relentless, fisted assault, he was reduced to a shaking, over-lubed mess, pinned to the metal stirrups and completely at the mercy of the Spy Doctor’s insatiable curiosity.

The force of the internal milking was too much for Trevor’s overstimulated body to bear. His back arched off the padded table, his green eyes rolling back as a sharp, ecstatic cry broke through his polished facade. He came with a violent intensity, his pale thighs quivering in the metal stirrups as his release splattered against his own stomach and Simon’s gloved forearm.

Simon watched with a clinical, predatory satisfaction, slowly withdrawing his hand. The sound of the slick, wet friction echoed in the sterile room. He looked down at the panting, broken man beneath him, his Welsh accent dropping into a low, patronizing purr.

"So sensitive, Trevor," Simon murmured, wiping a smear of lubricant onto the agent's hip. "A real agent shouldn't be so easily undone. It seems you need a bit of... toughening up."

Trevor’s chest heaved, the nipple clamps dragging painfully against his skin with every ragged breath. "No... no more, please," he rasped, his voice trembling. "I can't... I can't take any more."

Simon ignored him, turning back to the stainless-steel tray. He picked up a thick, long vibrator—a heavy-duty medical grade instrument that looked dauntingly large. He didn't skimp on the preparation, streaming a generous amount of gooey lube over the silicone shaft until it glistened under the bright light.

"Don't... Simon, please, I'm begging you!" Trevor’s posh accent was entirely gone now, replaced by raw, boyish terror. He bucked against the wrist restraints, the stirrups rattling violently as he tried to close himself off.

"Be a good patient, Trevor. Hold still," Simon commanded. Without another word, he drove the pulsing, vibrating tip home.

Trevor’s wail was loud and echoing, a sound of pure, unadulterated sensory overload. The vibration was a deep, rhythmic thrum that seemed to shake his very bones, filling him completely. His tears tracked through the sweat on his face as he sobbed, his body betraying him by arching into the sensation even as he cried out in protest.

But Simon wasn't finished. While the vibrator worked Trevor into a state of frantic, weeping pleasure, the doctor reached back for the tray. His fingers closed around a heavy, polished metal anal stretcher.

"You're far too tight, darling," Simon whispered, his hazel eyes fixed on the rosebud he had admired earlier. "We really must expand your horizons."

Trevor watched through a blur of tears as the metal tool caught the light, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs as he realized the "deep examination" was only entering its most harrowing phase.

The clinical silence of the room was replaced by the mechanical, rhythmic whirring of equipment and Trevor’s frantic, ragged breathing. Simon worked with a terrifying, calm efficiency. He positioned the heavy metal stretcher and, with a slow turn of the dial, began to force Trevor’s rectal walls apart. The sensation of being physically opened, wide and helpless, drew a sharp, panicked cry from Trevor that echoed off the sterile walls.

Simon leaned in, the guided medical light on his headpiece illuminating the deep, pink interior. He wasn't just looking; he was hunting. He reached for a long, thick wand—an industrial-strength device that hummed with an uncontrollable, aggressive vibration.

"There it is," Simon whispered, his Welsh accent dropping to a dark, satisfied hum. "The epicenter of your undoing."

He coated the wand in a thick, translucent layer of lubricant and, ignoring Trevor’s sobbing pleas for mercy, thrust it deep into the newly opened passage. He found that hyper-sensitive cluster of nerves deep within the rectal walls—a spot far more volatile than a standard G-spot. When the vibration made contact, Trevor’s entire body convulsed. A raw, high-pitched scream tore from his throat, his dark hair damp with sweat as his "tough" persona shattered completely into a thousand pieces of pure sensory overload.

"Please! Simon, please, it’s too much!" Trevor wailed, his head thrashing against the table, his deep dimples lost in a grimace of agonizing ecstasy.

Simon remained unmoved. With a practiced motion, he unlatched the metal spreader and slid it out, leaving the wand to thrum deep inside Trevor's core. Then, he moved back to the front, gripping the vibrator still buried in Trevor’s vagina and pulling it out with a wet, heavy suction.

Before Trevor could even catch his breath, Simon grabbed a massive, round-headed dildo from the tray. He didn't hesitate. He drove the thick girth deep inside Trevor’s vaginal canal in one relentless surge.

The intrusion was so vast that Trevor’s pale labia quivered and stretched to their absolute limit, the slick pink flesh appearing to beg for relief. His body’s natural instincts took over, the internal muscles pulsing and trying to heave the object out, but Simon placed a firm, gloved hand against the base, pinning the dildo—and Trevor’s pleasure—firmly in place.

"You aren't going anywhere, Trevor," Simon murmured, looking down at the shaking, overstimulated agent. "We’ve only just begun to see how much you can truly take."

The room was filled with the rhythmic, wet sounds of Trevor’s forced arousal, but the atmosphere shifted from clinical to predatory as Simon reached for a sleek, high-end camera. He moved with a terrifying grace, angling the lens to capture every detail of Trevor’s predicament. The flash went off repeatedly, a cold, white strobe that burned the image of Trevor’s vulnerability into digital memory.

Simon captured the way the agent’s pale, boyish bottom was flushed a deep rose from the spreader, and how his vaginal lips were stretched to a translucent thinness around the massive dildo. "You look so remarkably... compliant, Trevor," Simon mused, his thumbs flying across a handheld tablet. "I think your colleagues at the agency would find these 'status reports' quite illuminating. I've just started a poll. I wonder if they'll find your backside as 'inviting' as I do."

"No... Simon, stop... kill me, just don't..." Trevor’s voice was a broken whisper, his British refinement completely traded for raw, sobbing shame.

Simon ignored the begging. He moved to the end of the table and, with a sudden, slick motion, yanked the humming wand from Trevor’s rectum. The sudden absence left Trevor gasping, his muscles twitching in the aftermath. Simon leaned down, unbuckling the metal stirrups and the leather wrist restraints. Before Trevor could even attempt to crawl away, Simon scooped him up. Despite his slim build, the Welsh doctor was deceptively strong, carrying Trevor’s limp, nude form to a softer, more traditional bed in the corner of the suite.

He didn't leave Trevor free for long. Using soft but biting silk ropes, he bound Trevor’s wrists behind his back and cinched his ankles together, forcing him to lie on his side in a fetal position. The vulnerability of the pose made Trevor’s pale skin prickle with goosebumps.

"Now for the real science," Simon whispered. He produced two heavy, clear suction cups and fixed them over Trevor’s already sensitive, clamped nipples. The air was hissed out, pulling the pink flesh deep into the glass until they were engorged and dark.

Then, Simon moved behind Trevor’s bound legs. He held a cold, heavy metal device—a vacuum-sealed suction unit lined with static-shock nodes. He pressed it against the base of Trevor’s vagina, where the dildo still remained. With a mechanical whirr, the device locked onto the toy, creating an airtight seal.

"Stay very still, darling," Simon warned, his voice low and melodic. "If you squirm, the shocks will only intensify."

He flipped a switch. A low, evil hum filled the air as the suction began to pull. It wasn't a quick extraction; it was a slow, agonizingly steady draw. Trevor’s hole was stretched wide, the rim of his flesh being pulled outward by the vacuum as the dildo was slowly sucked out. Simultaneously, the metal nodes began to pulse, sending sharp, static shocks of electricity deep into his internal walls.

Trevor’s body bucked against the ropes, a muffled scream caught in his throat. Every inch of the toy’s exit was punctuated by a bolt of electrifying pleasure-pain that made his vision swim with static. The sensation of being slowly turned inside out by the vacuum, combined with the lightning-strikes of the shocks, pushed the British agent into a state of pure, helpless delirium.

The extraction became a spectacle of total physical surrender. As the vacuum relentlessly drew the dildo’s girth through the narrow opening, Trevor’s body reached a breaking point. With a sharp, broken cry, he climaxed again—a violent, pulsing release that squirted across the silk sheets and Simon’s clinical gear. The dildo, slick with a cocktail of heavy lubricant and Trevor’s own fluids, was slowly being "birthed" by the suction, stretching his pale, quivering flesh to a translucent, aching rim.

Simon’s hazel eyes were dark with a terrifyingly calm intensity. He didn't give Trevor a moment to recover from the waves of electricity and pleasure. He reached for a heavy, industrial-strength wand toy, its surface ribbed and unforgiving. While the vacuum continued its slow, torturous pull on the dildo, Simon drove the pulsing wand into the remaining space of Trevor’s vagina, thrusting in and out with a rhythmic, punishing force that made the agent's bound legs twitch rhythmically.

"You’re doing so well, Trevor," Simon murmured, his Welsh accent a low, honeyed growl against the mechanical whir of the machines. "Almost there."

To ensure Trevor’s total undoing, Simon reached around the agent's hourglass frame. His gloved hand, slick with the mess of the "examination," dove deep into Trevor’s rectum. He didn't go slowly this time. He sunk his fingers in with brutal precision, finding that hyper-sensitive, deep-seated spot and milking it with far more force than before.

The timing was calculated for maximum impact. Just as the dildo reached the widest point of its exit—crowning and holding Trevor’s front open in a wide, circular stretch—Simon’s internal milking reached a fever pitch.

Trevor was caught in a pincer move of sensory overload. The static shocks from the vacuum, the heavy thrusting of the wand, and the forceful, deep milking of his bottom merged into a single, white-hot scream of ecstasy and agony. He was a secret agent, a man of iron focus, but as he lay bound and exposed on his side, he was nothing more than a plaything for the Spy Doctor’s insatiable, cunning desires. His dimples were lost in a mask of sweat and tears, his body completely belonging to the man he had been sent to catch.

The final, agonizing inch of the dildo cleared the rim of Trevor’s body with a wet, heavy slide, pulled free by the persistent vacuum. The sudden release of pressure, combined with Simon’s relentless internal milking, sent Trevor over a cliff he couldn't climb back from. He climaxed with a desperate, full-body shudder, his back arching so violently the silk ropes creaked. A huge, messy spray of pleasure coated the sheets and his own trembling stomach, leaving him gasping for air, his green eyes unfocused and swimming with tears of pure exhaustion.

The room fell into a heavy, ringing silence, broken only by the cooling fans of the medical equipment.

Simon stood over him for a moment, watching the way Trevor’s pale skin was flushed a deep, bruised rose. With a methodical calmness, Simon snapped off his latex gloves and tossed them into a bin. The "Spy Doctor" persona returned instantly, though the dark glint in his hazel eyes remained.

"A successful first session, I think," Simon murmured, his Welsh accent returning to its professional, melodic lilt.

He moved with surprising gentleness then. He used warm, damp towels to clean the sticky mess of lubricant and release from Trevor’s smooth skin, his touch almost clinical if not for the way his fingers lingered on the curve of Trevor's hip. He untied the silk ropes, rubbing the faint red marks on Trevor’s wrists with a thumb.

Trevor was a hollow shell of his former self, his "tough" British reserve scattered to the corners of the room. He was shaky and silent as Simon helped him back into his charcoal suit. Simon even took the time to straighten Trevor’s silk tie and brush a stray, dark lock of hair from his forehead. To any outsider, it looked like a doctor caring for a dizzy patient; to Trevor, it felt like being branded.

Simon guided Trevor to the door of the clinic, his hand resting possessively on the small of the agent's back.

"You’ll find your nervous system is... quite transformed, Mr. Oak," Simon whispered as they reached the hallway. He leaned in close, his dimples flashing one last time. "I’ve taken the liberty of scheduling a follow-up for next Tuesday. I suspect there is still much more to uncover within you."

Trevor stumbled out into the cool night air, his body feeling heavy and strangely sensitive beneath his expensive clothes. He was a secret agent with a mission, but as he walked away, the phantom sensation of Simon’s touch remained, and he knew with terrifying certainty that he would be back for that appointment.

The spy had been caught, and the doctor was far from finished with his "investigation."