Doctor-Patient Confidentiality: Chapter Two Hundred and Twelve

His words hang in the air, heavy with implication. For a moment, I’m frozen, the inflated condom sitting absurdly over my chest. My mind races, weighing the consequences of obeying versus defying him. But we both know I’m going to comply. That’s why I’m here, after all.

With shaky legs, I stand and make my way over to Frost. It’s only a few steps but it feels like walking a mile in quicksand. His eyes never leave mine as I approach, his gaze intense and unreadable. As I reach him, he spreads his legs slightly, making room for me.

“Turn around,” he instructs, his voice low and commanding.

I obey, my back now to him. I feel exposed, vulnerable, even though I’m still wearing the sweater. I resist the urge to clench my butt cheeks, feeling the heat of his stare on them as I lower myself on top of him. His hands come to rest on my hips, guiding me down onto his lap. I can feel the heat of him through his slacks, the hardness of his thighs beneath me.

And the prominent bulge of his cock.

As I settle onto Frost’s lap, his hands guide mine, showing me how to rub the inflated condom over the sweater. The latex squeaks softly against the wool, creating a strange, almost comical contrast to the tension in the room.

“Like this,” Frost murmurs, his breath hot against my ear. “Slow, steady strokes.” His voice is low, controlled, but there’s an undercurrent of something more—a tension, a hunger that makes my skin prickle with awareness.

I nod, not trusting my voice, and focus on the task at hand. But it’s impossible to ignore the way my body responds to his proximity, the way my heart races and my skin feels too tight. With every movement, every breath, I’m acutely aware of him—of us—and the precarious line we’re walking.

This is dangerous, I think. Not just the act itself, but the way it makes me feel. The way Frost makes me feel. Like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, torn between the fear of falling and the exhilaration of flight. And God help me, I think I might jump.

I almost do when his hands slip beneath the sweater, finding my nipples with unerring precision. I gasp at the sudden contact. The dual sensations—the cool latex in my hands and his warm touch on my skin—send shockwaves through my body.

“That’s it,” he says, his voice low and approving. For my nipples being hard as steel or the way I’m rubbing the condom against them, I’m not sure. The praise shouldn’t affect me, but it does. I feel a flush creeping up my neck, a mesh of embarrassment and arousal I can’t deny.