His Prescribed Pleasure

CHAPTER TWO

Table of Contents: | CH 1 | CH 2 |

⚠️ Content Warning ⚠️

This story is a work of fiction and fantasy intended exclusively for readers 18+. It contains explicit sexual gay male on male content, exaggerated power dynamics, and taboo scenarios that are not meant to reflect real-world ethics, behavior, or medical practices. Please do not take anything depicted here as a model for real-life relationships, healthcare, or mental health treatment.

In real life, consent, ethics, and patient safety come first. Sex is not a cure for anxiety. I say that as someone who takes medication for anxiety and depression — and believes in getting real help when you need it.

If you’re struggling with mental health, I encourage you to talk to a professional and seek support. You deserve it.

This story exists solely in the realm of kinky, erotic fantasy. It is meant to titillate, not to teach. If that’s not your thing, feel free to skip. If it is your thing? Welcome, and enjoy responsibly. 💉🩺🍆

— Josiah B Vale 💙💜

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CHAPTER TWO

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The world outside the clinic door was the same, yet Jarik saw it through a newly polished lens. The sunlight felt warmer on his pale, freckled skin, and the sounds of traffic, usually a trigger, were just noise. He walked with an unsteady gait, his legs still shaky from the dual assault on his body, but the faint soreness wasn’t pain—it was the satisfying ache of a body worked to its limit.

As he fumbled for his keys, a realization hit him … the anxiety was gone.

He paused by his car, hand on the warm door handle, and closed his eyes. The familiar, cold knot that had resided in his gut since he was a teenager—the one born of his father’s judgment and his family’s rigid shame—was simply not there. It had been physically and emotionally evicted, flushed out with the combined climax of the two medical professionals who had claimed him. He had been taken, praised, and cared for. That was the opposite of everything his home life had taught him, and the relief was intoxicating.

Jarik slid into the driver’s seat, the residual warmth from the massage oil soothing his skin. He took a long, deep breath that didn’t hitch or rattle, his chest expanding fully for the first time in years. The shame he’d anticipated never materialized; instead, a hot flush of primal satisfaction warmed his cheeks.

He caught his reflection in the rearview mirror: flushed, wide-eyed, and undeniably sated. He looked at the flimsy appointment card on his passenger seat: Follow-Up: Additional Treatments.

A slow, predatory grin spread across his face …

He didn’t just want the next appointment. He needed it.

***

The week that followed was the quietest Jarik’s mind had ever been. He slept soundly, dreams filled with the rhythmic pressure of Dr. Johnson’s thick cock and the overwhelming presence of Nurse Williamson in his mouth.

He was different at work. The frantic energy of anxiety had been replaced by a grounded, almost heavy confidence. When the coffee machine broke down, he fixed it calmly instead of spiraling into a panic attack. When he saw a cute guy at the bookstore, he made eye contact, and his hands didn’t shake. He knew, with absolute certainty that he was no longer a nervous, ashamed virgin. He had been thoroughly and expertly remade.

Jarik didn’t try to use any hookup apps. He didn’t need to. He was singularly focused. He looked up the clinic online, pulling up the professional photos of Dr. Johnson and Nurse Williamson, staring at their crisp, official headshots and remembering the dark smirks and rough hands that had so carefully obliterated his inhibitions.

On Wednesday evening, his phone buzzed with an automated text reminder from the clinic: Your follow-up appointment with Dr. Johnson is confirmed for 3:00 PM tomorrow.

He meticulously shaved the pale, freckled skin of his body. He ironed a pair of black jeans that perfectly showcased the round, plump curve of his ass, and chose a loose shirt that was easy to shed. He was no longer preparing for a medical consult, he was preparing for a submission.

***

When Jarik waited in the clinic on Thursday, he didn’t bounce his leg. He didn’t fidget. He gave the receptionist a calm, direct smile, his nerves a low, pleasant hum of anticipation rather than a frantic tremor.

“Jarik Renlow,” Nurse Williamson’s smooth voice called.

This time, Williamson didn’t just glance. His green eyes performed a slow, deliberate inventory as Jarik rose. The nurse’s gaze dropped to the obvious cut of Jarik’s jeans, lingering on the inviting curve of his butt before flicking up to meet Jarik’s eyes, which held a bold new confidence. Williamson’s smirk was less a hint of kink and more a promise of it.

“Right this way,” Williamson said, his voice lower than before.

They didn’t turn down the hall toward the same exam room as last time. Instead, Williamson led Jarik past the usual clinical wing, down a dim corridor with only a heavy, unmarked steel door at the end. The air here was muted, the antiseptic smell replaced by something musky, leathery, and faintly spicy.

Williamson paused at the door, his hand resting on the metal. “The doctor feels that your progress last week warrants a change of venue for your continued advanced therapy,” he said, his green eyes boring into Jarik’s. “We need a space that’s ... less constrained.”

He pushed the door open, revealing a room bathed in softer, controlled light, where the usual sterile table had been replaced by a luxurious, adjustable medical bed with stirrups and leather restraints.

Dr. Johnson was already there, leaning against a counter, his presence even more dominating in a crisp, black lab coat worn over tailored trousers. He smiled, the dark smirk reaching his eyes this time.

“Welcome back, Jarik,” the doctor’s voice commanded, rich with proprietary satisfaction. “I see you responded well to the initial diagnostic tests. We’re ready to proceed with your Unmedicated Cure.”