Doctor-Patient Confidentiality: Chapter Two Hundred and Twenty Six

The impact rattles the plates, the utensils, sending some oysters clattering to the floor. The sharp sound barely registers because my back is suddenly against the cool surface, my honeyed tits rising and falling with my ragged breaths.

His gaze is molten, dark and wanting as his large palm spreads it over my tits, rubbing the sweetness in. Smearing it in circles, his fingers pinch and roll my nipples until they pebble impossibly harder.

Smack. The sharp sting against my left breast makes me gasp.

Smack. Another, directly on my nipple this time, the pain melting into something unbearably pleasurable.

I arch off the table, a strangled moan slipping from my lips. His mouth descends on me, hot and demanding, sucking my nipple deep into his mouth, biting down just enough to make me keen. My back bows as my thighs clamp together in search of friction, but he’s faster, wedging his knee between them, keeping me spread. His teeth graze the sensitive bud before he switches, his tongue circling the other nipple as he pinches the one he just abandoned.

The rough scrape of his stubble burns deliciously, and I don’t realize I’m moving until my hand finds his cock, wrapping around his length. He groans against my breast, the vibration rippling through me, and I stroke him, my grip tightening, my thumb smearing his leaking precum. He’s already getting harder, growing impossibly thick in my grasp, and something primal surges inside me.

Without thinking, I push him back, my chest heaving as I scramble off the table. He lands in the chair with a grunt, but I don’t wait for him to recover. I turn, facing away from him, spreading my legs over his thighs. Reaching between us, I grasp his cock, smearing my slick over the fat, swollen head before positioning myself. Then, with a desperate exhale, I sink down in one hard motion.

“Oh, fuck—”

His groan mingles with my strangled moan, and my eyes sting from the sheer intensity of being so suddenly, so completely, filled. My walls clamp down on him, my thighs trembling as I adjust to the fullness, the stretch, the sheer weight of him inside me.

His hands grip my hips, fingers digging in, and then he thrusts up, hard.

I cry out, bracing myself as he sets a ruthless pace, snapping his hips into my ass with sharp, punishing thrusts.

I grip the edge of the table, knuckles whitening as I push up on my thighs, rolling my hips to take him deeper. The movement sends a wicked shudder through me, a sharp wave of pleasure curling up my spine. The déjà vu slams into me—last weekend, this same angle, this same ruthless stretch. But then, we weren’t alone.

His attendant had been watching, stone-faced and unreadable, while Frost split me open on his cock right in front of him. I’d told myself it was humiliating, degrading, that I should’ve been horrified. But I wasn’t. Not entirely. Because I’d come harder than I ever had in my life.

My pussy squeezes involuntarily at the recollection, at the filthy secret of my own body’s betrayal.

I exhale sharply, eyes fluttering. There’s no audience now. No quiet spectator in the corner. And yet, I still bounce on him like I’m putting on a fucking show, taking his dick just as openly, just as greedily as he fed it to me that night.

“Taking whatever you want today, aren’t you?” His voice is smooth as glass, but there’s an edge of something deeper beneath it. Something dangerous.

My pulse spikes. I know exactly what he’s referring to.

The kiss in the greenhouse.

I don’t answer—not with words. Instead, I roll my hips, sinking down on him even harder, gasping as the thick head of his cock presses into something devastatingly perfect inside me. My nails bite into his thighs as I use him to chase my own pleasure, as if daring him to stop me.

The slap of our skin echoes in the room, loud and obscene, mixing with my gasps and his guttural grunts.

The pearls tighten against my throat.

My breath catches.

He uses it as a leash, the weight of the necklace shifting as he curls his fingers around the strand and tugs, controlling my movement.

“How does it feel?” His voice is like molten sin, and I know he doesn’t just mean his cock stretching me open.

I swallow hard, my pace faltering for half a second. The pearls slide against my throat, the smooth weight of them suffocating in a way that has nothing to do with breath.

“Heavy,” I rasp, my nails biting into his thighs for balance.

His smirk is wicked. “Good,” he grunts, thrusting up just as I slam down, yanking the pearls harder. “It should be.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, breathless, too full, too exposed.

“I want to take it off,” I gasp.

His grip on my hips tightens. “Why?”

I don’t answer immediately. Because I don’t know how to. Because my throat is thick with unspoken things, the pearls choking me in more ways than one.

His fingers trail up my spine, curl around the strand at my throat. “Would you have preferred not knowing?” His voice is deceptively smooth, a cruel, knowing purr. “To be content in your ignorance?”

My breath stalls.

He’s talking about the pearls, the oysters, the beauty born of pain.

But my mind twists them, reshapes them into something else. And the words strike deeper, splintering past the surface of our depravity, sinking into something raw and aching inside me.

My tumor.

Would I have preferred not knowing?

No.

My body had told me something was wrong. The abrupt heaves. The discomfort. The weight of something lurking beneath my skin, growing, pressing against the edges of my life like an uninvited guest.

I did ignore it. Pretended I was fine.

Until I couldn’t.

I walked into that clinic. Got referred. Chose to know.

And now I’m here.

Sitting on his cock. Wearing his pearls.

And not for the first time, I wonder: When did it start?

When Mom got sick? When she died?

When Dad followed soon after?

Or was it before that?

Was it born of my own pain, my own suffering—festering beneath my skin like an oyster trying to protect itself? Or was it an inevitability?

My pulse thrashes, something hollow and cavernous spreading in my chest. I don’t realize I’ve gone still, my rhythm faltering, until Frost’s grip tightens on the pearls, yanking me back to the present. 

I blink, gasping as his hips snap up, punching the air from my lungs. “Answer me, Ramona.”

But I can’t.

Because I already know the answer.

His chuckle is dark, threading through the obscene slap of our bodies colliding. “Silence?” His teeth graze my jaw. “Interesting.”

I swallow, my throat pressing into the pearls as his grip forces me to feel every cool, smooth bead against my skin. How much suffering had to happen for me to be right here?

My chest tightens, their smooth, cool weight suddenly reminding me of a different set of beads.

Rosary beads.

My grandfather’s hands guiding mine as he taught me to pray, each bead slipping between my small fingers, my voice soft, whispering devotion.

I bite my lip hard, trying to force the memory out. The comparison is so damning, I can’t reconcile the loaded snippet of the past with the damning exposure of the present. The girl I was with the woman I am now.

“Tell me…” Frost’s voice is silk-wrapped carnality, curling through my ears, threading between my ribs. “Is wearing the pearls any worse than eating the oysters?”

I exhale sharply, still bouncing on his cock, but the weight of my thoughts is crushing me.

“At least the oysters aren’t suffering when they’re dead,” I snap.

His chuckle is pure sin, amused and condescending. “I see. So, it’s the suffering that makes the distinction for you.”

A pulse of heat tightens low in my belly, traitorous and deep. His smirk sharpens, his fingers flexing possessively on my hips, as if he can feel the shift inside me.

“Tell me something, Ramona—when I shucked those oysters for you…” He thrusts deep, grinning when I whimper. “Did I cook them first?”

My breath catches.

The sharp brine of the oysters on my tongue flashes in my memory, the way the shells had cracked open in his hands, the way I had swallowed them whole.

Alive.

Oh god.

My stomach twists. My pussy clenches involuntarily around his cock, and I hate myself for it.

I hate him.

Hate that I let him make me realize this. 

My nails dig into his thighs, my body betraying me even as my mind spins, trying to process the weight of what I’ve done. Of the suffering I’m responsible for.

“I’m done talking about oysters,” I grind out. “If you’re going to fuck me, just do it already.”

His smirk spreads wicked and slow. “Gladly.”

Then, in one swift motion, he grabs my ass, spreads me wider, and slams up into me.

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