'Lift a Finger'

"Help me. Please, Heinz. I—I can't—I can't take it anymore," Florian gasped, his voice trembling, his fingers clutching the edge of the infirmary cot as if it were the only thing keeping him from collapsing.

His cheeks were flushed a deep crimson, his chest heaving under the thin fabric of his top. The moonlight streaming through the window cast a faint, ethereal glow over his delicate frame, emphasizing the sheen of sweat on his smooth, unblemished skin.

Heinz stood by the bed, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his jaw clenched as he regarded Florian with a mix of concern and discomfort. He wasn't used to this—seeing someone so utterly undone, so desperate.

And it wasn't just anyone. It was Florian. Slender, soft-spoken, and painfully shy. Now, the boy was writhing on the cot, his glassy eyes wide with a mix of pain and need, his body trembling as the potent aphrodisiac coursed through his veins.