The Circus

You're clutched in the maw of a cold by the time that your date arrives to scheduled fruition. It's not a bad one, per se, the type that saps the strength from the marrow and drains the ichor from the blood—but it's persistent.

The coughs that rise unbidden are insistent to double the meter of your body over. The dizziness-inducing vertigo that upsets what precarious mobility you have is fast and fleeting—but worrisome.

The onset of the affliction seems to be at the departure you made from Rhodes Hill—though the connection between both seems to be conjecture. Kendra is fine and she returns back from her post every day; you've acquired this illness elsewhere.

But there's worry at how it coincides with your date. It's a date that you'll wholly admit has inspired no small degree of excitement at your eventual reunion—so this worries you. And that you'll have to disappoint the good doctor.

This is what makes your fingers hover over the phone number you two exchanged—yours for him, he for you—just a dial away.

He's not a texter—you had already assumed; but this was confirmed a few days ago when his number, his name manifested brightly on the screen. And with a haste almost Pavlovian in nature, you had answered it.

When you spoke, it was almost like your words were not your own. As though you were a harlequin on string excited to converse, purporting a more brilliant, interesting version of yourself.

And he spoke, after a polite pause, that silken voice unmarred in quality even over the telephone line—all attention devoted to you.

Much as he does now. Much as you hope that this call does not guarantee cessation of his audience, never granted again.

"Hello, my dear." He greets. "What do I owe this pleasure?"

"Uh," you say, because you ascended to the task before you, negligent of the necessity of battle plan. You realize now at your gauntlet that you have no idea what to say.

"I'm not feeling well," you begin, before it comes to you that this sounds as though you're spurring him of any opportunity for you to reunite, "And I'd like to see you still—only—"

He chuckles, and it's a lulling, pacifying noise, halting the stumble of your words upon articulation. "I'm fairly resilient to the common cold, given the profession."

"Ah—"—you titter in the throes of palatable anxiety, "I assumed so, but I don't know if I, uh, have the energy for the restaurant you suggested."

There's a moment of silence that draws tense. It insistently tugs at the seams of your anxiety in manner that makes you consider whether you've flown too close to the sun. That you've crossed the rubicon that determines the suspension of his company—something, that even though you've only shared the duration of his company with him once, frays something worried to lose him.

"Why not," His voice takes a dark, lustrous quality that slices through the burst of static that coalesces between you both, "Come and join me at the hospital?"

Your words are stymied by confusion before you can substantially formulate response, an odd feeling that is drawing an off-kilter, enjoyable sensation in your abdomen. But you can't acknowledge this. You must regale him with response if you're seeking to find the pursuit of this conversation.

"What—"—You pause before you adventure into the unknown and where it will take you—"—What do you mean?"

"Given that I'm the director of Rhodes Hill," he provides with no lack of sleek posturing, "I have my own private suite and kitchen provided. I would be happy to cook us both dinner."

Dinner—in his own personal room. In his own personal kitchen. Outfitted with the prime fixtures of a building that was an archetypal paradise—but all that comes laden with such proposals, all that is outfitted with the offers that are given in tandem with it.

You willingly become Daniel walking into the heart of the lion's den should you accept the luxury of his offer.

This is why all that you opt to reply with is a simple, "Are you a good cook?"

And when you are rewarded with a satisfactory chuckle, a rolling vibration that disrupts the homeostasis of your breath, that makes you stutter, you hold on to every word.

"I'm told that I'm exceptional."

It's odd, to walk to into Rhodes Hill in the late hours of closure. To stride past the doctors departing the monotony of their labor, accomplished with the fruit of their labors to the sanctuary of home. And to descend into past the wide-yawning doors, to the reception desk where task awaits you.

But perhaps to call it task is inadequate, especially if it's appointment that you've taken dogged excitement towards. Perhaps you are more canidae in nature, the way you approach the master of this house as he awaits you by the reception desk where he beckons you closer. A desk, which stately when Kendra sat behind it, was prominent and imposing.

But with his presence beside it, proprietary, lord of his estate—you feel the tick of your pulse beat thrice for every pace given across the perimeter of the room. Magnetized to the gravitational pull he exerts over you, expecting you to grant him the pleasure of your audience.

Smiling—though he does not speak until you have completed summit to the apex where he awaits you.

"How very good to see you again," he asserts, "To have braved illness on my account."

His voice lilts with the tease, the challenge unspoken for you to answer or shirk from—a modicum to gauge your mettle by. If you are brave enough.

"When the offer is so appealing," you smile up at him, stopping short to afford yourself tolerable sanctity of space, "How could I turn it down?"

"I hope you find yourself sated by the reward," he says—you have to manually recall means by which to promote circuitous breath through your lungs. To ignore how your heart takes uneven keel in the enclosure of your ribs—but he scarcely permits sufficient instance for you to contemplate his statement.

"Shall we?" He asks, and offers the bent crook of arm. You have to exercise restraint to keep from latching upon it too quickly—lest you betray the emotions that are riding deep undercurrent in this moment.

And so you're summoned back into the labyrinth, guided down by docent who is happy to inform you of details that are present within.

He informs you how the columns are made out in the Doric style, to harken to an age of antiquity. How this painting is an original Vermeer donated by a rather enthusiastic patron. How this is a portrait of one of the people we ascribe to most ardently at Rhodes Hill.

"Who is it?" You ask, and it appears that there's a degree of satisfaction, as though he's aware that he has made more-than-adequate choice in requesting your audience.

The two of you turn to regard this carved wooden statue, that appears odd, unmatched singularity foreign and beautiful in the marvel of Western architecture that surrounds him.

"This is a statue of Sushruta," Dr. Gideon explains to you. You both admire the statue that dwarfs you in size and stature, sitting imperiously at short-legged table.

Were he not carved out of the wooden grain that renders him in such sterling detail, you would wonder if he would spring to life, educating you on the treaties of his works.

"One of the fathers of ancient surgery," Dr. Gideon informs you, and you are poignantly aware of the fact that his voice is directed downwards to you rather than the emulation of articulated form.

You fear if you look up you will be lost in the hypnotic sway of that gaze. "An Indian surgeon from the 6th century, who we owe for paving the way for the technologies we have today."

"You must respect him a lot, to have a statue of him in your center," You comment with steadfastness—you would have expected a bust of an older white man, a pompous person from fabled ages of yore. Not this man in traditional robes, with delicate beaded necklace that rings his neck, with the arch of a rounded-tip nose, the furrow of an imperious brow.

"He was a pioneer of plastic surgery—"—The doctor is practiced in the art of keeping a dulcet, suffused inclination of voice as he educates you—"—Providing nasal reconstruction and rhinoplasty for prisoners and amputees."

The concept of a doctor doing this in times that others might qualify as barbaric due to the archaic time. For the man to be well-regarded centuries later in the modern era, you think, warrants the praise. The doctor continues, and his hand folds over yours as he does so—you're so enraptured by the history lesson that you don't call to attention to it or the shoal of heat that radiates into you.

"He was one of the first to identify the symptoms of diabetes in those afflicted—"—He continues, and you think it would be no small exaggeration to say you could listen to his voice forever—"—Though he could do little to prevent the symptoms."

You muster enough bravery to direct your gaze up to him—he has been waiting for you to corral the courage to do so. His smile is almost amused as he watches you track the detail of his face.

"His followers were required to train under him for years before they could even hold blade to a patient." There's something almost acerbic in his voice as he says this, as though there is something from the medieval period that could still be translated to the standard for today.

"He sounds like a very impressive man," You inform him as he guides the two of you away from this—the lesson is over. It appears that the doctor has other agendas he needs the two of you to fulfill while you remain here in the Care Center. You continue down the winding hallways that beckon you further in, the one thing anchoring you the rigid column that holds you to him.

"He was a giant." The doctor informs you in euphonious manner—his hand still remains over yours. You won't correct him in this overstepping—you enjoy how it feels too much. "His practices were used until the 18th century until more modernized forms of medicine were implemented. He paved the way for other pioneers to take in after his footsteps."

You feel daring, emboldened by the fact that you appear to be residing in the doctor's good graces—perhaps this is attributed to the fact that though you have been on his arm, he has done nothing to avert his gaze from you. As though you are the object of most crucial significance within an institution of necessary, accredited work.

"Do you hope to walk in his path?" You ask, keeping your voice regulated—not implying any insult, but waiting to see his reaction. This will determine the acumen of his work—and, you think, the guarantee of a second date. He offers a smile that you would qualify as humble.

"I can only hope that I will one day achieve the accomplishments of a man like him." He replies to you with unswerving quality to both eyes and answer—he does not turn to right his gaze to the walk before him. It is as though he knows the estate like the back of his palm.

"Do you think you're close to it?" You ask, and can't resist a genuine smile at this. How very interesting this doctor is, who you tour with today. It seems as though you are being granted the privilege of more proximity than the man during professional hours.

You'll have to see how he becomes more himself as the night continues.

There is a liquid, abyssal quality to his eyes that makes your heart thrum sterling in your throat. "I shall be sure to let you know."

He pauses before a beautiful oaken door. "It seems that we're here."

It takes little effort for him to coax the grand door forward, and then you're introduced to a sumptuous apartment. This is something that you assume can be afforded given the grandeur of the remainder of the facility.

It's made of modern, whitewashed walls and marble counters, lush, simple furniture that evoke the phrase money talks, wealth whispers. There are the furnishings of a well-made man, who doesn't need frivolity to impress.

It's here that he releases you, so that he may close the door behind him. You don't notice the click of the lock in the jamb as you admire the beauty, the perfect reflection of your face in the dining room table with elegant straight-backed chairs—the coffee table besides a lush couch with deep, leather cushions.

The cabinet that houses several diplomas, awards, magazines that document his many storied accomplishments. The wine cabinet that sports taste and quality you would hope a man like him would possess.

"This is a beautiful apartment." You comment, feeling woefully out of your element. Your hand is drifting instinctively over your mouth, as you hope that you don't make inopportune sneeze at the wrong moment, the improper location. You turn to find him looking to you—though he is across the other side of the room that you've taken care to make exploration of, it's as though he's towering directly over you.

"Do you live here?" You ask, and at this you cast wayward glance to a similar door that leads to what you presume to be a bedroom. Vaguely, you wonder if you will be given privilege of exploring that with him later.

"I will admit," He takes an easy stride towards you, a touch of amusement on his face, "This is more lived-in than I would prefer."

"Well," You don't resist the wry grin that drifts instinctively over your face, "I've never heard of a doctor that has a good work-life balance."

You look in the direction of the pans that are simmering patiently over the stove, making wonderful aroma drift over. "Or that knows how to cook."

"Allow me to be the exception to the rule for you." He promises you—though you're more dedicated to wondering how he slunk across the distance in such silent, purposeful strides. But it appears that the time he takes to admire you is distracted by continuing over to the kitchen, where the meal for tonight awaits you both.

"Tonight I've made something a little more out of the wheelhouse for me—"—You wonder just how much care he has taken to impressing you, if this is out of the wheelhouse for him—"—Tartufi pasta."

At the lack of knowledge you're certain the blank look on your face communicates, he clarifies, "Egg noodle with white truffles and oil—something I hoped that would be less overwhelming, considering that you're compromised at the moment."

As if you could forget about the vague physical discomfort you have felt, though the doctor has been wonderful distraction at preventing you from succumbing to it entirely. You feel heartened at the concept that he has gone to pains to ensure that you were accommodated for.

"How considerate of you." You smile, though there is something about you that feels so small in this room, so overwhelmed by all of the details that have swallowed you up in his domicile.

As you are given access to the confidential details of the doctor—and what more you may be introduced to—this sends another jolt of sensation that you must fight to keep from manifesting on your face.

His eyes are of even level to you as he speaks. "I live to serve, my dear. Do you drink?"

"Occasionally." You admit, watching as he raises a bottle that has patiently waited by the stovetop for him to display to you. You admire the dark bottle with distinguished label, wax seal yet to be broken.

Surely it must be worth more than your rent several times over, but he wields it casually for your paired enjoyment—another thing to ensure your good graces. And something that works fretfully well at the edges of your self-preservation.

"Only in good company." You levy in challenge for him to rise to—from the way that his eyes darken, it's clear the he will do his best to match it. You're granted a glimpse of those golden teeth again in smile that wink in the light—there's something else that begins to awaken to life in between your legs at the sight of it.

"Then you would be remiss to try this—"—His large hand is searching for the corkscrew that he inserts neatly, deftly into the sink of plug—"—Barbaresco from Piedmont."

All it takes are a few graceful turns of his wrist for the cork to pop from the neck of the bottle—then you're captivated by the way that he so elegantly finds two matching Burgundy glasses of crystal clarity, without blemish.

He pours and you admire the blood-red veneer to the liquid, the means in which your fingers brush against each other as he offers you yours. It's only when he speaks that you realize you've watched him in rapt silence.

"Do tell me what you think of the taste." He purrs, and when he chimes his glass against your own, a low mellifluous noise—the command is given.

You raise the glass to your lips, take in the earthy bouquet—taste the dry flavor that bathes your soft palate, lingers in cherry tanin to the burn making peristalsis down your throat.

You've held his gaze as you've sipped, taken this first step towards the irrevocable. "I think it's delicious."

Neither of you speak for a long, endured moment, as the headiness, as the warmth of the alcohol begin to take root within.

Finally, when he speaks, it is with cool deliberation, as he grants you the retreat of his body. And the heat of his stare that you miss. "I hope you have similar opinion of the food."

"I'm certain my expectations will be exceeded." You water yourself with another sip as you watch the span of that back that is turned to you, that takes care to ensure the perfect last touches to the food that the two of you will eat.

"I was expecting—"—You hesitate, realizing that this may skirt into unintended insult—"—Well, not this."

He chuckles, a wry noise of humor—his hands knuckle over the serving spoon in a way that demonstrates the facets of one of the gems on his rings. You find your mouth drawing dry, even though you've just taken ample swallow of the wine again.

"Why would I ever do anything to lower your expectations of me, before we met?" His head angles to look at you from behind—you're captivated in his sights. "And have you go back to my receptionist and tell her what poor host I am?"

You smirk at the idea of kissing and telling to Kendra, who awaits in your shared apartment, a furtive smile the last goodbye you made to her before you walked out the door.

"I would never—"—You realize that you tell the truth; whatever elapses will be a secret that you intend to keep close to the chest—"—I'm afraid you charmed me too much the first time we met."

He makes another humming chuckle as he completes the first plate, settling his glass by the stove. The liquid mesmerizes you, deep crimson hues catching prisms of light.

"First impressions only last so long, my dear." His voice is a dry bristle as he shares your confidences, "I intend to make sure that mine is far more long-lasting than that."

You feel the need for another steadying drink, though a smile is already taking arrangement on your face. "Trying to arrange a second date already, doctor?"

"It's in my nature—"—You miss the significance of the ken to his stare upon you, distracted by the stygian quality of your drink—"—To plan for the future."

He turns, both plates finished and ready for consumption. "Doctor's instinct to prepare for all possibilities."

Perhaps it's the tedium of sickness that still lingers in the backdrop, the familiar fogging dullness of alcohol that clouds the forefront, that makes you daring.

"And how do you expect this night to go, Dr. Gideon?"

His face is squared neutral, save for the trace of a smirk that makes subtle appearance. "I hope for your highest praise by the conclusion of it."

"Is that so? I—"—You don't know what disrupts your equilibrium, what makes you sway where you stand.

You haven't consumed enough alcohol, your illness didn't seem to have reached such nascent crest to overwhelm you. You watched him pour the wine from unopened bottle—there is no justifiable explanation for the reason that you lose your footing.

But you have little to worry about tumbling in crumpled skew of limbs to the ground, folding upon the fine tapestry rug that lines the floor beneath you.

Dr. Gideon is already there, looming in your sights. The spread of those hands that you have become well-schooled in are guiding you to remain standing, removing the glass of wine from your grasp. The doctor, it seems, remains level-headed even in emergency.

"Oh—"—Your vision doubles before coming back into focus; your feet tremble in their standing in manner you've never had occur before—"—I'm so sorry—I don't understand."

The words are halted, like cotton has been stuffed by fistful into your mouth as you try to regain any faculty that might be offered you. But all are fleeting—all that remains is your wholehearted reliance on the doctor that holds you so very still.

"Are you alright, my dear?" He asks, a siren's croon.

Later, you'll realize he lacked the level of concern that you felt would be necessary for the situation. Almost as though he were reciting words that were necessary, without the level of verve needed for it to be given the gravity due.

As though he expected this—as though he was certain of this. But in the moment, all that you can care for is the diligence his hands took to right your lack of equilibrium in the moment. All that you are concerned with is the cant of his face as he watches you, searching you for external irregularities with the scan of that gaze.

"I—I don't understand." You repeat, feeling as though you draw your limbs through molasses to make any successive motion occur—he seems sedate, observant. "I feel sick—I'm so sorry."

"It's of no concern to me—"—He reassures you, the ever-experienced doctor. Someone losing their balance is, after all, old hat for him. "I only want to make sure you're well."

He turns, guiding you to follow the track of your gaze to the lush couch. "Perhaps you should sit down."

"I—"—You don't know why you're resistant to the notion, as though it means the crossing of unhallowed, virgin grounds—"—Alright."

As before, he is patient, he is gentlemanly as he guides you to the couch, lets you sink into it—when he kneels, he still is able to overshadow you.

"Now—"—He speaks with the practiced ken of the clinician, consoling and professional at once—"—What is the issue at hand?"

"Oh, you don't have to—"—You try to wave him away, but it's difficult to move your hand, trapped in amber, as is the rest of you. It seems that you've inhabited a fractal of light that makes everything more stolid but brilliant—the doctor greatest jeweled geometric body with you.

Something is bastardized, something is profane—but you don't know what. Coherency is such a difficult thing to maintain now, above all else.

"I'm a doctor." He persuades with such ease, sounding so logical in the face of your inanity. "It would be a failing if I didn't attend to those most in need of me."

His hand moves in the periphery of your vision—you look at the small penlight that's even more miniscule in the landscape of his great hand. "Now, look at the light—let me see your pupil reaction."

You're blinded, distracted by the plume of light that you seek to avoid, following the rigidity of his fingers as you try to focus. But clarity is denied you, the edges of your vision fraying—whether this is due to sickness or drink—though you only had a few sips, you keep trying to tell yourself. This couldn't be the cause to your lack of equanimity, your unmooring in this moment.

This couldn't be the reason that the doctor's hand, so massive and cool, draws around the column of your neck, his thumb pushing into the underside of your jaw. This can't be the reason why you move in obesiance to him, as though your willpower is subservient to the pleasure that this evokes from his mere touch.

"Very good, my dear," He purrs, "It appears that your faculties are still in order. Your temperature—"

At this, his hand that holds the penlight stows it away, and you feel the press of knuckles, those bands, push against the span of your forehead. Tilting your head further back to give him better access to the view of your face.

"How very perfect," He murmurs, as though it's not the homeostasis of your body that he speaks of—but the pliancy, the limberness that you move in accordance with how he guides you. It feels as though you've wanted nothing more but to follow his non-verbal direction, each touch sending frisson of heat up you.

"Doctor—"—You begin, and there's something coiled in your abdomen, in between your legs, at the way that you catch the dilation of pupils, the flaring of nostrils at the keening manner in which you vocalize it—"—Your hands feel so good."

"Indeed, my dear?" He asks, and there's the barest touch of humor in his voice at this comment. "Perhaps you'll enjoy it with the stethoscope—"

"After all, I must do my due diligence." He says, and his fingers are crooking at the buttons of your shirt, something nice you wore for the occasion. "I wouldn't want to deny the chance to ensure your good health."

You feel like honeyed jelly, arching into the touch of his rasping knuckle as it presses against your collarbone, encourages the slide of the button out of the first stitch—the cool air christening your skin with a coupled sigh of gusty relief. "Ah—"

"How receptive you are to my touch," He comments through the haze of illness that seems to be growing round the crown of your head, "Perhaps I should have administered this salve first."

"Maybe," You commend, for the hand that motivates the slide of the third, the fourth button out with practiced ease is so distracting to you. "They just—they're grounding to me right now. I still—feel sick."

"You're warm to the touch," he croons, "Though warmer still here."

And when his hand slides over the perk of your nipple, beading under his touch—you don't resist the wanton moan that slides past your lips. You don't fight the way that you are already inching towards him, through the haze of your unwellness, across the fabric of the couch.

"My, how eager we are for my curative," He chuckles, "Don't good things come to those who wait?"

"I just—"—You falter, something in the background of your mind reminding you that you are not like yourself.

You are ill, being touched by a man that you hardly know, who has you coming undone under the exploration of his fingers. You should be going home—you should be having him escort you to a telephone, to a car. It would be the gentlemanly thing, the right thing to do.

"I've been told—"—you say, and your voice is slurred, but the syllables are executed with enough coherency the two of you can proclaim you were of sound mind—"—That physical touch is the most—recuperative."

"How very astute," He returns. When his hand slides over the expanse of your chest, you can scarcely understand how his hands have already worked open your shirt. How it already has become pooled, crumpled heap around your hips—and how his body has moved to take audience between the spread of your legs moving wide to accommodate him.

"And how very lovely you are," He states, "How I had hoped for this."

He leans down—and he doesn't kiss you. Instead—he presses the rasp of his teeth to your pulse—and sucks. The noise that you make is salacious, lustful, especially as his hand works over your chest—and dares down.

Perhaps it's the fact that all sensations are brought to heightened glories—the way that his tongue laves over you, as you realize that there is something different, something unnatural about it. But the way that it explores the untouched detail of your neck is overwhelming.

The way that his forefinger and thumb pinch over your nipple sends a shock of pleasure in between your legs, has you urging your hips into him—though he is wont to reward this inclination of movement. Instead, his mouth drifts to your collarbone, bites the bone, the vulnerable flesh—you gasp.

"Doctor—"—You beg, and you're forced to lean back into the sinking couch that draws you in, exposes you defenseless and unprotected to the advances that he makes. His hands wrap so easily about your hips, which are still infuriatingly clothed—though you have neither willpower nor means to amend this.

All you can do is receive the rasp of pleasure that each lick of the flat of his tongue—forked, you realize with horror and with joy for what it ekes from you—moves up your body.

When he kisses you, it feels as though it was always meant to be. You, underneath the press of his massive body, as that tongue works against the seam of your lips. As you feel your mouth pushed open, made susceptible to the search of that tongue that delves against the back of your teeth, that scrapes against your own.

You feel as though you are awash with sensation—and when he pulls up, leaving you without the privilege of his expert touch, you find yourself wanting.

"Are you well, my dear?" He asks as he surveys the results of his handiwork, of how he has made you trembling and weak. It's clear that there is more taunt in his voice than not—as though he is aware of the dichotomy of illness and rapture that he has taken ample advantage of.

As though he is aware of the effect that he has had upon you. But you barely have time to consider this as your hands are scrabbling upon the serpentine quality of his jacket to right yourself.

"I—I need to lie down—"—Is all that you can manage before you feel the edges of your vision white out.

You're not certain when you're accepted into the carriage of his arms that hold you without difficulty, nor when you're spirited down the diameter of a hallway much like the ones that you travelled with him before.

It's only when the top half of your body settles down into the cushion of an examination bed that you feel as though your vision rights, adjusting to the dimmed lights that provide intimate ambience of you. And then you can look down to where the latter half of your body lies, suspended by the great grasp of two hands that are stroking up the acreage of your bare thighs.

You don't have the cognizance to question where your clothes went. You don't have the capability for modesty, to cover your body that is already prickling under the heady balm of the electric air, the press of those eyes that are admiring you. Those hands that are memorizing the minutiae of your thighs with the palms that seek out your physical secrets.

"I had hoped for the inoculation to take root now," The doctor says, his thumb stroking on the inside of your thigh—you shiver open-mouthed, leaning into him—"—As it was of utmost importance I would be able to secure you within the facility by now."

"Why—is that?" You ask, distracted by the urging of his index finger that is nosing up your entrance. Your voice doesn't sound like yourself—you don't feel like yourself.

You could hardly care less. The only thing that buoys you into this situation is the doctor who looms between your legs.

"How else would I be able to ensure I could keep you here, my dear?" He asks, and you squirm and whine as his finger slides into you with little resistance—though you relax as you feel your walls clench around him. "For when I saw you—I knew that I must have you."

"How—how kind—"—You moan against him. He laughs, listening to the words of someone not in their right mind. The small, cognizant part of you screams for you to clutch to this lucidity, but you're awash with something effervescent that cloaks your consciousness, that is growing with each pump of his fingers between your legs.

"Of course," He agrees with your mollified statement, "I would only bring the best with me to Eden."

"Am I—"—you arch your back against the mattress as his fingers hit that spot that makes you see stars—"—Adam, or Eve?"

He begins to set a rhythm that has soporific, wanton moan after moan escaping you.

"My dear, you have misunderstood—"

You gasp as he leans over the meter of your body, his fingers working brutally into you with slick, arousing noises. His other hand is wrapping possessively over you, ensuring through inarticulate confirmation of one truth. He will never let you go.

"I am the serpent—"—He growls, and his mouth finds the first mark that he made over you that claimed you as his—"—And you are the forbidden fruit."

You swallow up the pleasure that his fingers continue to work into you as you hear the clinking of a belt unbuckling. He continues as you arch into the touch of Eden itself.

"And you, my dear—"—His eyes gleam as they find you—"—Will never leave paradise. Not so long as I have control over it."

"Yes, yes, yes," You plead, and the chuckle that washes over you in mockery and delight confirms that while your oath of fealty is a compromised one—it shall never be revoked.

And you know that you delight in its obscenity all the same, as the serpent slinks his coils around you for good.