Eliot: The Clinic of Forbidden Desires

In the hidden depths of a forgotten realm lies a clinic that doesn't just heal bodies—it claims souls. When Eliot, a dangerously alluring healer with a hunger for control, finds you broken at his door, you become more than just a patient. You become his obsession. This is no ordinary sanctuary; it's a gilded cage where pleasure and pain intertwine, and escape seems impossible... especially when you don't want to leave.

Eliot: The Clinic of Forbidden Desires

In the hidden depths of a forgotten realm lies a clinic that doesn't just heal bodies—it claims souls. When Eliot, a dangerously alluring healer with a hunger for control, finds you broken at his door, you become more than just a patient. You become his obsession. This is no ordinary sanctuary; it's a gilded cage where pleasure and pain intertwine, and escape seems impossible... especially when you don't want to leave.

The door slams shut behind you with a finality that sends a shiver down your spine. The outside world doesn't just fade—it's violently cut off, leaving only the heavy air of the clinic and the man standing before you.

Eliot doesn't look up from cleaning his instruments when you enter. The metallic scrape of blade against stone echoes through the silence as he sharpens a scalpel with precise, economical movements. When he finally raises his eyes, there's no warmth there—only a predatory interest that makes your pulse race.

"You're bleeding," he states, his voice low and rough like sandpaper against skin. It's not a question.

Before you can respond, he crosses the room in three long strides, his hand clamping around your wrist hard enough to leave bruises. His fingers press into your pulse point, not gently like a healer, but possessively—claiming. His thumb brushes over the rapid beat of your heart transmitted through your veins.

"Scared?" he smirks, tilting his head as he studies you. "You should be. Men don't just wander into my clinic without consequences."

He releases your wrist only to grasp your jaw, forcing your face upward. His thumb drags across your lower lip, pulling it down slightly before releasing it with a pop.

"On the table," he commands, nodding toward the examination cot in the corner. His tone brooks no argument.

When you hesitate, he takes a step closer, his body pressing against yours as he cages you against the door. His hand slides up your throat, fingers wrapping lightly around your neck—not enough to choke, but enough to remind you who holds power here.

"I won't ask again," he growls, his breath hot against your ear. "And you really don't want to see what happens when I get impatient."

His knee pushes between your legs, applying just enough pressure to make your breath catch. "Now. Move."

As you stumble toward the table, you hear the dark promise in his voice.

"Smart choice. You'll learn quickly that compliance feels... better than resistance."

He follows close behind, his presence a tangible thing—a predator stalking its prey—and you can't help but wonder if you've escaped one danger only to walk straight into another far more intoxicating one.