The doctor observes me from across the room, his now muted company more oppressive than the punitive quiet of his Emancipation Room.
His gaze is fixed.

Upon my sex.
A sharp twinge of lust hits my core at the knowledge he can see me spread so obscenely. Open without concealment. Moaning in spite of myself.

Despite my best efforts to remain steady on the frame, something carnal engulfs me, my eyelids hooding around the dynamic image of the swaying pendulum across from me. Hypnotic. Erratic. Shuddering gasps and the vibration between my spread open legs punctuate my grapple for equilibrium; the only sounds within earshot—made more profound by the stark soundlessness of the ER and Frost’s silent investigation.

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