The doctor observes you from across the room, his now muted company more oppressive than the punitive quiet of his Emancipation Room.
His gaze is fixed.
Upon your sex.
A sharp twinge of lust hits your core at the knowledge he can see you spread so obscenely. You are open without concealment, moaning in spite of yourself.
Despite your best efforts to remain steady on the frame, something carnal engulfs you, your eyelids hooding around the dynamic image of the swaying pendulum across from you. Hypnotic. Erratic. Shuddering gasps and the vibration between your spread open legs punctuate your grapple for equilibrium. They are the only sounds within earshot, made more profound by the stark soundlessness of the ER and Frost’s silent investigation.
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