My eyes go as wide as dinner plates, damn near spraining themselves as they bulge to capacity and beyond, my pupils dilating as though I just got dumped in a bottomless black hole.

 

It sure as fuck feels like it.

 

My left eye twitches involuntarily, but that’s the only motion either of my strained peepers are capable of, unable to blink as they continue to behold the impossible sight before me.

 

My hand juts out on autopilot in a stopping motion, a confused, panicked frown creasing my forehead.

 

“W-w-wait…wait, what are you doing?” I blurt incredulously, glaring at Frost as though he’s lost his mind because, at this point, I’m one hundred percent sure he has.

 

He arches his brow casually, not pausing for anything. “I’m sure it’s pretty obvious, Ramona,” he says, as though I’m a simpleton who just asked him the most ridiculous question on the planet. “I’m about to take a piss.” He doesn’t even look at me, his expression indifferent as he pulls down his sweats to reveal a pair of black boxers.

 

Both the sight and his words instantly spark a memory I haven’t recalled in a long time, with one particular moment sprinting to the forefront of my mind: Trixie and I were watching a raunchy comedy in her apartment not long after we first met. There was this hilarious scene that touched on the fact that, typically, it’s very hard—no pun intended—for men to go when they’re…well, hard.

 

But there’s nothing remotely hilarious about this situation.

 

Nothing at all.

 

I feel the wind get knocked out of me, the substantial outline of his package far more visible and prominent beneath his briefs, protruding shamelessly. But I only catch a glimpse of it before he tucks his thumbs underneath the waist band of his boxers.

 

“I can only do this once,” he says abruptly, his eyes meeting mine again, inadvertently confirming my thoughts as though he knew what I was thinking…again. “So you’ll have to use the sample for all the other urine tests.”

 

Wow…I’m not sure whether or not I should be grateful for that.

 

That’s how messed up this is.

 

I stare at him incredulously, disbelief written all over my contorted face even as my inherent sense of shame eventually forces me to look away despite the fact that I’ve already seen his penis. The whole thing just brings back a twisted sense of deja vu, and I swallow with difficulty against the insane idea of him straight up pissing in my presence.

 

Un. Fucking. Believable.

 

The brief shuffle of fabric soon fills the silence; the ominous sound of him pulling his boxers down.

 

“So you’re really going to do it here? Just like that?” I say before I can stop myself, sarcasm rolling off my tongue even though my eyes are still averted, an admitted coping mechanism and the only thing I can seem to do to stop me from combusting on the spot.

 

“I’m pretty sure you did the same thing not too long ago,” he counters, not missing a beat. “In fact, if my memory serves me correctly, you’d actually pissed on me.”

 

“That wasn’t my fault!” I retort, flames of both shame and anger incinerating my cheeks. My eyes dart to him impulsively as I protest his aggravating words…and end up landing on his cock.

 

My breath stumbles out of me at the sight, my own words instantly dying in my mouth.

It juts forward, standing erect above his waistband, the bare, fleshy rod only slightly obscured between it and the hem of his sweatshirt, seeming to peer right at me.

Raw.

Utterly raw.

That’s the only way I can describe it.

It gets further concealed when he wraps his fingers around the length of it, only the head visible, the tip bulbous and slightly red, as if it’s on the verge of getting angry.

 

I quickly catch myself, my attention moving away from his package at lightning speed on reflex, but I’m clearly not quick enough because I also catch a shadow of a grin forming on his lips, his brow arching knowingly.

 

Oh God, I want to die…

 

“Besides,” he shrugs nonchalantly, “my aim is good.”

 

Suddenly, I can’t swallow. At all.

 

Or breathe.

 

And I think my heart just fell right through my stomach.

 

The weight of that phrase lies heavy in the air, the implication of much more than having control over his piss projection.

 

My eyes dart to the floor, my gaze cast so low I might as well be looking through it, avoiding his again…as well as the weighty rod that’s currently in one of his hands. Impulsively, I clasp mine as I wait, but the action doesn’t pacify the tremors racing through them. There’s something of a pause, the kind of small but unbearably awkward stretch of silence that no one should ever have to experience. And then the sound of liquid hitting plastic abruptly replaces it, trickling in small, slightly punctuated streams, and it reminds me of the sound of him pouring water from the pitcher last night.

 

I have no idea how long it takes but it legit feels like forever, and I have to fight the urge to think about why that is. An inferno erupts from my cheeks, burning hotter and hotter with each passing second until it actually feels like I’m suffocating inside my own body. The stream stops almost as abruptly as it started, followed by more shuffling.

 

“Here,” I hear him say shortly after.

 

I slowly turn to him again, relieved to see his briefs and pants back on…until I see his hand stretched out to me.

 

With the fucking cup in his hand.

 

My jaw practically hits the floor, and all I have the capacity to do for the next six seconds is look at him as though he just lost his damn mind.

 

Because, by God, he has.

 

I shake my head adamantly, folding my arms over my naked chest in utter disbelief and quickly-rising aggravation. “No. Absolutely not!”

 

I don’t give a flying fuck how hot he is, I refuse to hold a steaming cup of his urine. I mean, what am I, the piss fairy?

 

“I thought you’d be over your bladder shyness by now, Ramona,” he teases, taking a step closer, the grin still on his face but it doesn’t reach his eyes. At all.

 

Only three words leave his sinful lips:

 

“Take. The. Cup.”

 

I hesitate for a moment, but eventually relent when the intensity of his glare becomes too much, the silent threat in his expression very real, a whisper of the wicked gleam I’d seen in him when he chained me to that device.

 

And I’ll be damned if I get an encore.

 

I clench my teeth and take it grudgingly, hating myself immensely for being so afraid of the dangerous edge in his eyes. I feel the heat of the cup on contact, regarding the pale yellow liquid and surprised that it’s almost odorless, not that it changes the fact that it’s still piss—that of a grown adult man, no less. I hold it tighter than I want to for fear of spilling it all over the place, and with the way my hands are quaking, it’ll be a miracle if I don’t. I proceed with the test, dipping the strip in the cup and trying not to think about what it is I’m actually doing.

 

We go through the rest of the kits in awkward silence. All three methods for each one. Rinse and repeat. Thirteen times. It doesn’t seem to be so awkward for him though, because he keeps looking at me, blatantly staring, to the point where it would be considered rude, his eyes roaming my body until I can’t take it anymore, shifting uncomfortably under his piercing gaze.

 

It must be well over an hour later when all the test results come back…and they all show that he’s clean. Each and every one of them.

 

“Are you satisfied?” he asks, the accusatory I-told-you-so all too apparent in his voice.

 

Hell fucking no, I’m not satisfied! Matter of fact, the only thing that would satisfy me is if I were never desperate enough to be here holding a man’s cup of piss in the first place.

 

I want to voice my thoughts and more, but instead, I grumble, “Yes.”

 

“I can’t hear you,” he frowns. “Speak up.”

 

I have to grit my teeth against the intense urge to roll my eyes and curse him out.

 

“Sir, yes, sir!” I say mockingly, as if answering an army general. But the second the words leave my lips, the image of my father in military gear pops out of absolutely nowhere, and it startles me beyond belief, making me sick to my stomach. I swallow against a sudden rush of nausea, struggling to push away his abrupt, unwelcome memory. He’s the very last thing I want to be thinking about right now.

 

Frost thankfully says nothing in return, interrupting my thoughts of the man responsible for bringing me into this world by pulling the last test strip from my hand and gathering all the other kits before taking them all out of the room.

 

I’m briefly left alone again, standing in the same spot for God knows how long, unsure of what to do or think, the abrupt intrusion of my father’s memory throwing me off unexpectedly, but all my wandering thoughts cease the second Frost walks back into the room…holding something completely different this time.

 

Leather cuffs.

 

He looks me in the eyes, his gaze intense and overwhelming as he towers over me. When he speaks, it’s only to give me a single order.

 

“On the bed.”

 

***

 

Series Navigation<< Doctor-Patient Confidentiality: Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-SevenDoctor-Patient Confidentiality: Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Nine >>
THIS CHAPTER MAKES ME FEEL...
  • Fascinated
  • Happy
  • Sad
  • Angry
  • Bored
  • Afraid

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