by Eme Strife
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THE CONFIDENTIAL SERIES
www.emestrife.com
DOCTOR-PATIENT CONFIDENTIALITY
FIRST OMNIBUS
VOLUMES ONE, TWO, AND THREE
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Copyright
Reader Warning
Dedication
VOLUME ONE’
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
VOLUME TWO
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
VOLUME THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
A Short Message From (e)Me to You
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Copyright© by Eme Strife. 2016. All rights reserved in all media.
No part of this work may be reproduced without Eme Strife's express consent, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
The moral right of Eme Strife as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act of 1988.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Published in 2016 by (Eme)nded Publishing ™.
Reader Warning
PLEASE NOTE:
Doctor-Patient Confidentiality is episodic in nature and is just as much about the individual lives, development, and growth of the main characters (Roni and Dex) as it is their taboo relationship—which, by the way, just happens to revolve around a lot of kinky and unconventional sex.
This is not a ‘wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am’ kind of erotic romance. As such, the progression of the series is slower than what you may be used to, and the story unfolds and evolves over several volumes. It is not a standalone.
If this style of publishing (i.e. serials/episodic books) is not your cup of tea, now would be the time to refrain from drinking. If it is, chug along, my friend. Chug along (^_^).
Dedication
For those who love hard, with passion, determination, and zero apology.
For those who are hesitant to try, out of fear, hurt and uncertainty.
But most of all, for those who really aren’t sure where they stand with love—for everyone in between.
THE CONFIDENTIAL SERIES
I lie here in this incredibly soft, cushioned California King Bed, draped by navy blue silk sheets in a room illuminated only by the dim glow of scented candles.
The blended aroma of lavender and jasmine fills the warm air, but despite the pleasant, therapeutic scent, I am hardly relaxed.
The sound of my shallow breathing fills my ears, and it becomes even more audible as I feel it getting slightly labored, no doubt with sheer anticipation.
My skin feels impossibly hot, my face flushed beyond belief, and my dark, curly hair is a tangled mess against the soft pillow underneath my head. I vaguely register the ticking sound of the large wall clock hanging high above the headboard.
I feel a bead of sweat trickle down my chest and between my breasts, tickling my skin as it moves further south to collect in my belly button.
I stare into the eyes of the gorgeous man on top of my naked body with uncertainty as he enters me for the fifth time tonight, wondering how it is exactly that I got into my current position.
Literally and figuratively.
I continue to behold his large, muscled body as it effortlessly covers mine.
God, I don't think it'll ever be possible for me to get tired of looking at its impeccable display, clothed, naked, covered in mud, or in a glowy sheen of sweat like it is now.
My eyes travel upwards to find him staring hard at me, and I feel my sex clench and throb violently, as if it's the first time his arresting gaze has covered me in goosebumps.
He remains silent as he pushes into me without warning or restraint, and I quickly feel myself getting even more flushed at the squelching, sucking sounds that his entry causes.
I feel myself gaping wide open as he quickly buries himself deep inside me, like he's done many times before. His strong fingers dig into my skin as he grips my hips roughly and brings them hard against his pelvis in one quick motion.
I'm unable to stop the yelp—a throaty mesh of pain and ecstasy—that escapes from deep within my throat at the deliciously forceful invasion. I arch my back and push my head further into the pillow in surrender, because frankly, that’s all I can do.
This man owns me.
I'm certain of it now.
And I honestly can't believe just how willing I am to be owned by him.
I instantly cream myself and his now sheathed cock, still in utter disbelief at how much he fills me up. A moan escapes my quivering lips as my upper body is pressed further into the mattress by his incredible weight.
My fingers instinctively reach out and dig into his forearms, feeling the magnificently corded muscles and veins in them as I wrap my legs tightly around his waist. My feet are pressed against the taut skin of his firm ass. I feel his hips flex under my thighs, and I can't subdue the pleasured smile that sneaks its way onto my lips.
I'm all too aware of how much he stretches me open, and despite the embarrassment that still lingers, I love feeling the incredible heat and thickness of his cock pressing almost desperately inside my pussy.
I crave it.
Badly, sometimes.
The soreness I still feel presents raw evidence of what he did to me just twenty minutes ago, as does the pool of sticky wetness between my thighs, and I can't help but revel in the sweet pain. As twisted and obscene as it is, I always love reminders of how roughly and thoroughly he fucks me.
He pulls back and pushes forward again with even more force.
He does it again.
And again.
And again.
And all I can do is surrender myself to his deliberate actions.
All I can do is take every inch of each powerful thrust and allow my body to feel each and every second of the raw ecstasy that’s running wildly through its veins.
The flickering flames of the candles cast shadows against the beige walls, and I watch our entwined silhouettes moving in sync to a frantic, sexual rhythm—like that of passionate, devoted lovers
.
But that can't be further from the truth. We aren't lovers, and despite the romantic setting, this isn't a romantic getaway or honeymoon. The gorgeous man inside me is not my boyfriend or my husband.
In fact, he's someone else's.
Husband, that is.
And we aren't making love. Or even just having sex. This is good old-fashioned, raw, reckless, uninhibited fucking.
Just like he likes it.
And just like I've come to as well.
He looks at me with unapologetic lust, and his stare is unfaltering. He digs into my very soul with icy blue eyes that both terrify and captivate me. The same eyes that wouldn't leave mine the moment we met. The same eyes that have blatantly refused to leave my mind ever since. And the same damn eyes that still haunt my every waking hour, and won't leave my dreams alone when I sleep at night.
He moves faster and faster, pumping into me harder and harder with abandon. The sticky, slapping sounds of cock in pussy crack and echo through the stillness of the night, giving testimony to our raw and depraved coupling.
I want to kiss him, so much that it physically hurts. I want to press my lips to his full, pink mouth and suck on his tongue, like I’ve been dying to ever since I met him.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
Because I know he won’t let me.
He never lets me.
It’s the one thing he refuses to do with me; his number one rule for me to keep if I want…whatever this is between us, to continue—this arrangement of sorts. And as wrong as I know this is, I also know that I’m not ready to stop just yet.
Our tempo becomes even more hurried, more frantic, and each of his angry thrusts sends me deeper and deeper into an abyss of sheer ecstasy. My moans are turning into a mesh of cries, whimpers, and pleas. My skin is scorched, ablaze with lust and want, and all the pores on my body are screaming in emotional overdrive as I feel myself becoming feverish and drenched in sweat.
I can't believe how different things are now; how complicated my life has become in such a short amount of time.
It was never supposed to be like this. He's off limits.
He's always been off limits.
I keep telling myself that; that being here with him is not supposed to feel this good.
God, he's not supposed to feel this good.
I wonder what my life would have been like now if I had gone to the clinic on a different day, or if I had just insisted on going with the physician I was initially referred to.
Never in my life would I have thought that in the events that followed the beginning of a regular school week, a random check-up would end up spawning a highly angst-filled, incredibly confusing, and quickly-unfolding mess.
***
The wipers sway intermittently across the windshield, and their blades do a sloppy job of clearing the precipitation from my view. Their constant rubbing against the glass emits ear-wrenching squeaks that I wish I could ignore, but cannot.
These ancient wipers need to go.
At least that's what I've been saying for…how long has it been now? Five months? Yeah, about that long.
Every time I get around to changing these annoying wipers, something else more urgent suddenly comes up, and whatever money I’d been saving toward replacing them goes to that 'more urgent' thing. That happened again yesterday.
I spent the money I’d been saving for a pair of new wipers on a newly published music composition book that I absolutely need and can't seem to find in any of the libraries. I guess it'll be at least another month or so before I get rid of the ancient wipers—and that's if nothing else ends up taking priority over them before that.
Somehow, I highly doubt that things will actually go that way.
Maybe I'll get used to the squeaks.
Yeah, right.
A tired yawn escapes me as I reluctantly listen to the obnoxious voice of a man streaming from my car's radio. He goes on and on and on, blabbering away in an infomercial that's way too dramatic and really over-the-top.
The guy is desperately trying to make flannel jackets sound like magical garments that have been woven into golden pieces of fabric by Rumpelstiltskin, and then later catapulted into retail stores straight from a unicorn's asshole.
He really is doing—or saying, as the case is—far, far too much. I doubt the company's marketing team intended for their ad to sound this ridiculous. Or at least, I hope not, for their sake.
I'm extremely tempted to change the station, but I don't. As much as I'd rather listen to something that doesn't make my eardrums want to commit suicide, the obnoxious banter is effectively chasing away any sleepiness I still feel, and this early in the morning, that's something I desperately need.
Another yawn escapes me and I feel my eyes water slightly behind my glasses as the lingering sleepiness slowly evades them. I crank up the heat a bit and enjoy the blast of hot air that emanates from the heater.
There's barely anyone on the road now, and I'm glad I don't have to deal with so many other cars and their equally grumpy-from-sleep drivers so early in the morning.
My fingers are firm on the steering wheel as I hit the gas, speeding up and managing to pass a traffic light right before it turns red. Pretty soon, I'm pulling into the only unrestricted parking lot on campus.
Even at this early hour, the lot is fairly full, mostly because it's not that big, and most students without a parking permit, like myself, scramble relentlessly for a parking space here every day. I'm sure some kids leave their cars here for days at a time just to ensure that they have a spot.
I circle the lot once and I'm fortunate enough to find a spot without as much hassle as usual, and given my morning crankiness and impatience, I'm pretty darn thankful for that. Even though my car isn't big, the spot is pretty awkward, and it's not even a little bit bright outside. I suck at parallel parking, and being fairly new to driving a stick-shift makes maneuvering my '98 Volkswagen Polo right now even more frustrating.
After more attempts than I'd like to admit, I finally manage to park the old Polo without setting off World War Z. The rumble of the engine eventually dies down as I turn off the ignition, and the absence of any radio feed leaves me encompassed in complete silence.
I take a moment to look out through my blurry windshield, and I have just one word to describe my surroundings.
Depressing.
Actually, make that three words.
Depressing as fuck.
Except for the still cars that are lined up, the lot looks like some post-apocalyptic barren wasteland.
Maybe I did set off World War Z.
I grab my satchel and reluctantly open my door. As soon as I step out, I'm greeted by a gust of frigid wind, and I have to stand still for a moment so that I can adjust to my new frosty environment.
It's that time of year again, and winter has come back full force with a vengeance, rearing its ugly, frigid head once more. At six-thirty in the morning, the sky looks no different than it did at midnight.
Pitch fucking black.
It's way too dark out here, not to mention ridiculously cold.
I walk briskly through campus, feeling the crunch of ice and snow beneath my boots as I take every shortcut I know of to head to west campus—home of the Liberal Arts School.
***
I tug on my jacket and pull my beanie further down on my head as I continue to brace myself against the mercilessly frigid onslaught. I say a silent 'fuck you' to whichever administrator is responsible for this currently fucked up parking situation.
Fuck, it's cold.
I realize that I say 'fuck' a lot when I feel like my blood is turning to ice.
It's my fourth winter in Milwaukee, and I'm honestly not sure I'll ever get used to how cold it gets here. And to think I used to complain about winter in Manchester as a kid. What a joke. That was nothing compared to this. Even my winters in New York never got as bad as it does here.
I pull the sides of my brown padded jacket cl
oser together as if doing so will make me feel any less cold. I knew I should have worn a third layer underneath before I left my apartment. Once again, I grossly underestimated just how cold it can get here.
The jacket by itself isn't nearly as insulating as it looks. Despite its deceptive size, it's not very practical, big for no reason. I wish I had known that before I wasted almost sixty bucks on the damn thing.
Another blast of wind accompanied by snow flurries washes over me, and all I can do is groan in despair.
"Holy hell," I mutter. I silently curse for the umpteenth time, wishing like hell that I didn't have to head to vocal practice so damn early, especially when most of the campus is still sound asleep. What I wouldn't give to be cozied up in my bed right now.
