17 – Dr. Weiss
DR. WEISS
Night Nine
C old streams attack my chest as I stand under the shower.
I can’t sleep—not with Sadie so close. And I know from glancing at the monitor that she’s not sleeping either. The way her hands slide under the sheets, the way she bites her bottom lip, eyes half-lidded in the low light…
Fuck.
When I’m practically frozen, I dry off and throw on a pair of sweatpants. I flip off the monitor and try to focus on tomorrow’s session notes.
Well— scripts.
As I’m finishing the first set, a loud CRACKKKK ! bursts from the kitchen. It repeats, then shifts into a slow, rhythmic creaking.
Confused, I pull on a T-shirt and follow the sound.
Sadie is sitting on the floor in front of the living room wall, dressed in nothing but a long, loose T-shirt.
It clings to the curves of her body, and it’s immediately clear—no panties, no bra.
Her brushes and paints are scattered around her, and she’s turned one of the white curtains into a makeshift canvas.
It’s blank.
“What are you doing out here, Sadie?” I clear my throat. “I mean, Miss Pretty?”
She doesn’t answer. Her hand continues moving slowly, thoughtfully across the canvas.
“Miss Pretty, I need you to give me an answer,” I say, stepping closer. “Why are you out here instead of in your bed?”
“The guards are smoking outside my window and talking really loudly,” she murmurs. “I can’t sleep, so I’m distracting myself.”
I walk past her and hit the lights in her room.
Sure enough, the window has a jagged crack—likely from something she threw during her arrival tantrum. Smoke drifts in, thick and stale.
I glance up at the camera and make a signal. A flash of lights grants me temporary access to the glass. I wet a towel, press it over the cracks, then send Sheldon a text message:
Move the guards closer to the lake for the night. Smoking complaint.
Seconds later, I spot the flashlights retreating toward the trees.
I kill the lights and return to Sadie.
“You can return to your bed now.”
“Why?” she asks softly. Her voice is fragile, almost hurt.
“You’re supposed to sleep at night. That’s part of the rules.”
“There’s no rule that says I actually have to sleep.”
“Thank you for making that clear. I’ll be sure to adjust that for the next patient.”
“Or,” she offers, “you could let them enjoy a night of freedom and see how it affects their behavior.”
She’s too damn smart for her own good.
Before I can say something corrective, she holds out a paintbrush.
“Can I draw a sitting portrait of you, Dr. Weiss?”
I blink. This should be a fast, firm no —a clear boundary.
“Just for an hour?” she pleads, already reading the hesitation in my silence. “Please…”
I cave. “Under two conditions,” I say. “Otherwise, you go back to bed.”
“What are they?”
“One—you agree to an additional isolation session tomorrow. Two hours. Silence.”
She bites her lip, considering it. “And the second?”
“I get to draw you when you’re done.”
Her eyes sparkle. She nods, smiling. “Okay.”
“Where do you want me to sit?”
“Right there’s fine.” She points to a barstool in the corner.
I take a seat, then casually pull out my phone.
Extend camera delay by two hours. Log out until I say otherwise.
Sheldon
Done.
She stares at me, and I stare right back. Her gaze lingers on my jaw, then my shoulders, before she picks up her pencil and begins.
She alternates between pencil and brush, eyes flicking from my face to the canvas. Her focus is surgical, intense. Each stroke of shading adds depth. Her detail is nearly photo-realistic, like she’s trying to possess me one pencil line at a time.
We’re both aware of the cameras. Me—because I don’t trust Sheldon’s perfect record. Her—because she’s always being watched.
So we move slow. Subtle. Controlled. It’s like we’re speaking in a private language made of silence.
When she begins to sketch me with a shirt on, I clear my throat and tug it off, revealing my chest.
Her cheeks flush. But she nods, adjusting the lines.
“Thank you,” she says, glancing at the clock. “I’ve got enough to finish without you sitting longer. I really appreciate it.”
“You’re very welcome.”
“Do we switch places now?”
“No.”
I stand and cross the room, grab one of the notebooks from her shelf, and reach for a pencil.
“I’d prefer to draw you in a different setting.”
“Outside?”
“You wish.” I smirk. “In your bathroom. Sit on the edge of the tub for me.”
She swallows, but nods. She steps into the bathroom and eases herself onto the clawfoot tub’s edge, legs bent slightly, one arm bracing behind her.
I drag a chair to the doorway and sit. Then I flip open the notebook.
She stares at me as I begin, her gaze locked on mine. Then—slowly—she spreads her legs.
Her perfect pussy glistens in the warm light, and for a split second, all I want to do is bury my head between her thighs and lose myself.
Not tonight.
I keep my gaze steady, my pencil moving. I glance at the clock every so often, holding myself together by a thread.
An hour passes. I shut the notebook and hand it to her.
“Let me know what you think after you look at it,” I say. “I have to step out for half a day—need to look into something for your case. But I meant what I said about the extra isolation session.”
“You’re leaving me?”
Her voice breaks a little. There’s a flicker of vulnerability.
“Not by choice.”
She hesitates. “Can you be honest with me? Do you really think I’ll get out?”
“Based on what I think of you , or based on evidence?”
“Both.”
“I’ll have to give you a raincheck on the latter.”
I step closer, right between her legs, close enough to feel her breath. Close enough that my cock stiffens and presses against her—right where it wants to be.
“But for the former… and between you and me?”
She inhales sharply.
“I think you’re a psychopath,” I whisper. “But you’re a harmless one.”
“Do you like psychopaths?”
“No,” I say, stepping back before I fuck up again.“I love them.”