LUDOVICA LUXURY -IRON FOR YOUR ANEMIA -hd
Today I slip into the role of the doctor: a classic white coat, unbuttoned just enough down the front, and soft white slippers that barely make a sound on the studio floor.
At two o'clock sharp, Marco walks in. I take him in at a glance: dull eyes, grayish skin, pale nails, and when he sticks out his tongue it is completely washed out. Last night, after checking my schedule and seeing his name, I ate nothing but an enormous amount of spinach. All that iron is already inside me, transformed and ready for him.
I invite him to sit and listen to his complaints: the constant dizziness, the bloated belly, the sharp pains, the erections that just will not happen anymore. Then I reach for my stethoscope. I open his shirt and press the cold diaphragm to his chest. His heart beats slow and a little irregular; his lungs sound weak, like even breathing takes effort.
I nod with a knowing smile, then have him lie back on the exam table. I palpate his tense, hard abdomen, pressing gently to feel how distended it is, then slide my hands lower to check circulation. His breathing quickens; he knows the real treatment is about to start.
I help him off the table and point to the floor. He lowers himself onto the soft rug beside the table, lying flat on his back with his head tilted slightly backward.
I pull the low white chair right up to his face, sit down, turn my back to him, and lift the hem of my coat.
"Open wide, darling," I murmur in a low, warm voice. "The magic medicine is coming straight from the source."
I push gently and release everything directly into his waiting mouth. Today it is a real mountain, green, soft, steaming, sweet with transformed spinach. He swallows steadily, gulp after gulp, as the warm mass fills his mouth and slides down his throat. He takes in at least half of it, licking his lips between breaths.
Then I rise just enough to straddle his face. I start urinating slowly, aiming right into his still open mouth. He drinks greedily, swallowing every drop of the warm nectar I give him, while the overflow trickles down his neck and chest.
Whatever spills I direct onto his swollen belly and his cock, which immediately begins to harden under the stream.
With the leftover green medicine I coat his body like thick curative mud: over his abdomen, down his thighs, along his shaft, massaging it in slowly so it soaks into his skin and starts deflating the bloat.
I watch him relax, color creeping back into his cheeks, his erection growing firm and insistent under my hands.
I spread his legs wider, settle his arms at his sides, and leave him there, perfectly still on the floor, for exactly fifteen minutes so the cure can work deep inside and out.
I slip out of the room without hurry, close the door, and smile to myself.
When I come back I will walk him to the warm shower, wash everything away, and watch him leave completely reborn. And I will remind him that this treatment needs to be repeated at least once a month if he wants to stay this way.
