Chapter One Hundred and Ten

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Breathing.

Someone's breathing.

It's all I can hear.

Strained, shallow, labored breathing.

Really labored.

And foreign.

Then I realize...it's mine.

It's me.

For several seconds—that seem to last an indescribable, twisted stretch of eternity—I stare up from my chair in utter disbelief, my limbs turned to mush, my brain on fire as it struggles to make sense of what just happened.

As it wrestles to process the sight before me.

The distinct, telling sensation of wetness all over my lower body is a good reminder—albeit one I could do without.

Drenched jeans encase my thighs, the denim starting to cling to my skin as the seconds tick by. The fabric turns cold fairly quickly, becoming itchy and uncomfortable as the heat of the fluids soaking it begins to dissipate.

My heart flutters wildly in my chest, like a bullet ricocheting inside a metal cage, desperately trying to find a way out of my body.

My very paralyzed body.

And yet, all the cells inside it seem to be on overdrive, jumping and bouncing around in a frenzy, colliding with each other and spiraling out of control.

A physical paradox.

A bizarre dichotomy.

A silent bundle of pure and utter chaos.

That's what I am.

The exact, polar opposite of the man in front of me.

Eyes that are too cold and too beautiful to be human bore into mine...as their owner sucks contentedly on his index and middle fingers.

Fingers that were just inside me.

Fingers that were covered in my...my...cum.

Fingers that pretty much just forced me to do the most embarrassing thing in my entire adult life:

Piss myself.

Scratch that.

Piss the crap out of myself.

Frost's eyes gleam dangerously with lust, his full lips curving sinisterly around the long, sculpted digits in his mouth as he stares me down.

In spite of the tsunami of shock and disbelief coursing through me—or perhaps, because of it—my own lips part at the sight; both vulgar and crude, yet in some way...strangely endearing.

He takes his time, making sure I see the lewdness of the action.

Making sure I'm aware of the unapologetic expression on his gorgeous face.

Making sure I fully understand what I've gotten myself into.

Making sure I digest the sheer magnitude of this situation.

Of this...arrangement between us.

He pulls his fingers out of his mouth, glistening as they slowly slide away from between his lips, and I catch the subtle movement of his Adam's apple, protruding ever so slightly and then retreating as he swallows.

For whatever seriously messed up reason, the sight makes my heart lurch into my throat. Its intense beats echo emphatically further down as blood continues to rush inside my core, and a novel sense of shame sweeps over me at the unmistakable feel of my pussy pulsating vigorously in response. The implication of what he just did sinks in, but that's about all I can manage to comprehend right now. I can't bring myself to form a single coherent thought.

Needless to say, I can't bring myself to speak, either.

Not a single word.

All that leaves my lips are shuddering, stuttering breaths that have yet to slow down.

So I watch.

Because it's all I can do.

And, now, in the aftermath of my accidental, self-administered golden shower, I watch in a haze of disbelief as the man responsible for it causally tucks his cock back under his slacks, shielding the weighty, naked rod of flesh from my view once more. I'm relieved when he does, no doubt about it. But...there's also this subdued, really disturbing sense of disappointment that it's out of sight. One that I wish I could ignore. One that I wish wasn't there. I don't understand it and I'm not sure I want to.

I vaguely register the cuffed wrist secured behind my back, now throbbing with a dull, subdued ache from the metal ring scraping against my skin while I involuntarily twitched and jerked in my chair. The sensation becomes more and more prominent as the seconds pass and the heat and craziness of the moment fade into the background, giving way for the sober, humbling present to resume once again.

My free hand lies limply against my inner thigh, feeling useless and weighty as a brick, knowing it failed to stop the much bigger, stronger hands less than a foot away from it from doing what they did. From taking what they wanted.

My legs feel impossibly sore from the effort of keeping them clenched and pressed so tightly against each other for so long. And the chafing sensation from my wet, itchy jeans certainly isn't helping.

I'm scared to glance down.

To see what I've done.

What he made me do.

I look away from him in spite of that, my eyes lowering, darting away from the overwhelming intensity of his.

But as soon as I do, I come face to face with my jean-clad thighs...and the evidence of my now empty bladder all over them and my legs.

As well as Frost's.

That's probably the only good thing that's come of the whole fucked up situation: the fact that my bladder is no longer threatening to burst inside my body. I feel utter relief at the light, normal feeling once more, no longer burdened by the pressure in my lower belly. Well, that and the fact that he got a pretty good dose of steaming piss himself. Though, I'm not quite sure he's as mad about that as he probably should be.

I can't stop the deep sigh of contentment that leaves me.

The release feels impossibly good.

Too good.

My eyes actually glaze over at the drop in pressure, involuntary tears staining them from much-needed reprieve even though I would have much preferred to have it without any other eyes on me—and Frost's, no less.

I'm still in shock that it happened. That he basically just had a mouthful of my cum—even though I'm a hundred and one percent positive I ended up pissing on his hand, too.

My heart pounds at the thought, and my brain spins against the idea that he might have certain, unexpected fetishes. Or very—perhaps too—liberal views on sexuality. He's a doctor so maybe things like piss don't put him off, but still...

Did he actually enjoy doing that to me?

Is this the kind of thing he's into?

Is that what gets him off?

That, I suppose, is the million dollar question...and thinking about the answer terrifies me to no end.

He settles back into his seat, facing me, his eyes never once leaving mine, their intensity relentless, not matching his calm, even words when he asks, "Feel better?"

***

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