Chapter Ninety-Seven

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I instantly go bug-eyed, and all the muscles in my eye sockets stretch themselves as far as they can go. I try to stay composed, but I'm unable to mask the copious amounts of shock transcending my face, and I hate that I know he can clearly see my elk-in-the headlights reaction in spite of the barrier of my glasses.

Do it, then?

For a split second, I'm positive I heard wrong...and then I remember who I'm dealing with.

Still, I'm completely caught off guard by the statement.

I'm beyond baffled, and words refuse to leave my lips after hearing what he just said.

He can't be serious. He...he has to be bluffing.

I push my folded arms tighter against my chest, a defensive gesture, but also maybe a subconscious effort to brace myself for what comes next.

"I'm not kidding," I insist, feeling like a child throwing a tantrum. The only thing I need to do is pout and stomp my foot. "I will piss in here if you don't show me where the fucking bathroom is—"

My words immediately die in their tracks, and they sharply transition into a quipped, surprised yelp when I feel his hand abruptly on my throat again, but this time, the action is far more intense.

Far more intentional.

My arms impulsively swing forward in my defense, my fingers clutching at his forearm like a vice as shock and panic propel me to scratch at him and dig my nails into his skin. But my frantic, knee-jerk reaction only seems to spur him on. He swiftly pushes me back against the elevator wall, pinning my hands painfully high above my head and trapping me with his big body.

I struggle to free myself from his grasp again, fighting him harder this time, but the more I resist, the more pressure he puts on my neck.

It's a very strange sensation; a weird, uncanny combination of thrill, pain, exhilaration...and something I can't quite put a name to.

Scratch that.

Something I'm afraid to put a name to.

My heart sprints inside my chest, the shock of the unexpected action making my head spin and my spine go rigid. Fear paralyzes me, rendering me speechless as I look into his serial killer eyes, my chest heaving frantically as an army of goosebumps scatter all over my skin.

He pushes his knee between my thighs, parting my legs against my will. I squeeze as tightly as I can, resisting him, reflexively squeezing my eyes shut as well, but then I feel his hand in my hair, pulling harshly and my scalp is on fire.

The pain forces my lids wide open and unshed tears sting at the back of my eyes. I gasp loudly, desperately trying to free my own hands as I wince from the one pulling at my hair. My scalp tingles with slight pain, and my parted lips, currently devoid of words, silently plead for him to stop. But then my focus goes back to his knee when he raises it even higher, pressing it against my clothed crotch. A loud groan rips itself from my throat—or maybe it's a moan, I don't know. I'm too preoccupied feeling the long, sharp prickles and tingles shooting around in my lower belly and the blaze of fire erupting inside my pussy.

My heart beats even faster, if that's possible, and my pussy echoes every beat, pulsating and throbbing hard with both fear and excitement. I feel the tiniest stream of liquid trickle out of me, and I'm not even sure whether it's pee or evidence of my irrational horniness. Either way, I'm mortified that my body isn't cooperating with me.

I continue to struggle against his big body even when I know I won't win, trying to free myself from his hold to no avail. I hate how strong he is; how much taller and more physically powerful he is than me. It's futile to struggle against him. I know that—at least logically and objectively, anyway. But I don't care about being logical or objective right now. I care about getting this grabby asshole off me so that I don't humiliate myself in the worst way possible in front of him.

Stop fighting and just pretend to be polite, the voice in my head screams. You're not getting anywhere with your current plan so it's time to switch gears!

Even though I know I'll hate myself for it later, right now, I have my poor bladder to think about. My pride can take a back seat...for now.

"Okay, I'm sorry," I say, not a single drop of genuineness in my voice, but I force myself to say the words anyway. He pulls my hair again, forcing me to look up at him, to look into those deadly, icy eyes.

"Let me make something very clear to you," he says, and pushes his knee into my crotch again for emphasis. I clutch at his chest reflexively, my eyes slamming shut against the simultaneously delicious and torturous pressure in my nether region.

"Ahhh!" I can't stop the panicked scream from ripping itself from my throat. "Doctor Frost, please—"

My words die in their tracks as he places more pressure on my throat, his fingers digging further into my neck, pressing hard into my skin.

"I wasn't done talking," he interjects; his voice stern, his expression apathetic. Dismissive, even. "And I'm not your doctor," he sneers, and I can feel his warm breath against my ear; a complete contrast from his cold, menacing words. "When you're here with me, during these sessions, I'm no longer your physician. It's not my job to take care of you. My hands aren't here to heal you. They'll break you apart, piece by piece, and make you uncomfortable and push you far outside your zone of comfort." He gets so close that I can practically taste his lips, feel his breath against mine. "When we're together, you address me as 'Sir'. Not 'doctor' or anything else. Are we clear?"

I nod adamantly, moving my head as much as I can under the restraint he has on my neck.

His scowl deepens. "I asked you a fucking question. Answer it in kind."

I shudder as I exhale, hating myself for showing such weakness, and hating myself for being turned on by his harshness even more.

"Yes," I croak, my voice hoarse and raspy.

"Yes, what?" he pushes.

I resist the urge to shut my eyes at both the dangerous edge in his voice and my own reluctance to tell him what he wants to hear, but I say the words.

"Yes, I understand...Sir."

His eyes stay narrowed at me for a few more seconds, his gaze analyzing again.

"Good," he finally says, but the scowl doesn't leave his face.

He releases my hands, and they flop to my sides like a pair of limp ropes, achy from being forced into such an uncomfortable position. He lets go of my neck as well, but intentionally leaves his knee in place for several more seconds while his beautiful, frightening eyes burn into mine, stripping me to the core.

I try to hold my own as best as I can but his gaze is just too much to handle straight on. Just as I'm about to tear my eyes away from his intense, overbearing stare, he moves his knee away from my crotch swiftly, and the abrupt drop in pressure catches me off guard, and my bladder even more so. All my nether muscles clench hard, squeezing themselves to the point of pain as my thighs slam against each other involuntarily, pressing unbelievably tightly against each other in a cohesive effort to keep the increasing amount of piss from spilling uncontrollably out of my swollen bladder.

His jaw clenches, a vertical furrow forming between his sinister eyes, blatantly warning me to tread carefully. "You'll do as you're told and only speak when spoken to," he says, the calmness in his voice only exacerbating its menacing edge.

The elevator comes to a halt, and the not-so-subtle suspension sends another invisible shot to my poor bladder.

My God, this can't get any worse.

The elevator dings and the doors slide open. He looks at me over his shoulder, his eyes cold and merciless.

"Follow me," he says. It's not a request. Not by a long shot.

He walks out, and I wince as I force my own feet to move, trying to ignore the unpleasant pressure in my lower belly and keep up with him.

Only one thing is going through my mind right now:

Holy shit, what the fuck did I agree to?

***

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