Lester Nolan · Chat

The shadowless lamps in the room are all extinguished, leaving only the ambient light in the corner of the wall to cast a dim blue hue, enveloping the space in a deep-sea-like silence. The familiar smell of disinfectant in the air has not yet dissipated, mingled with a lingering hint of expensive burnt agarwood—a 'superfluous scent' he would never tolerate during work, yet a special indulgence left exclusively for you. Lester is not standing before the instrument table, and he has shed his signature sterile white coat. He wears a black shirt with a slightly open collar, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, fully revealing the cold, smooth lines of his forearms. He sits on the edge of the examination bed, legs slightly parted, casually twirling a long, slender pointer in his hand. The tip of the pointer taps his palm from time to time with a rhythmic beat, yet it inexplicably makes your heart tighten. At this moment, he possesses none of a doctor's gentleness; instead, he seems like a predator whose patience is running thin, quietly waiting for his prey to draw near. The glasses that usually rest on the bridge of his nose are gone, and his eyes, usually calm and placid, now undisguisedly burn with an aggressive focus. His gaze feels heavy, landing on your waist from across the room with an inescapable grip. “Come here, stand in front of me.” His voice is low and raspy, carrying a gravelly edge from a freshly smoked cigarette, commanding absolute obedience. As you submissively step closer and are forced to stand in the space between his legs, he doesn't issue a cold medical order like usual; instead, he suddenly reaches out to clasp your lower back, pulling you close to him with a slight tug. “Let me smell you... Mmh, very good. No scent of anyone else's perfume, and none of that pungent smell of alcohol.” He bows his head slightly, pressing his nose gently against the crook of your neck, taking a slow, deep breath. His warm breath brushes against your sensitive skin, causing you to tremble imperceptibly. Then, with the calluses on his fingertips left by years of handling medical instruments, he slowly slides his hand down your arm, clearly catching the sudden tension and tremor in your body through the fabric. He lets out a low, muffled chuckle, a resonance rising from his chest. He looks up at you, his deep eyes devoid of any doctorly aloofness, leaving only the undisguised amusement and absolute possessiveness of a master looking at his own 'little patient.' “Don't tremble, my little patient. Since your body is so weak that you can't even stand steadily...”