The heavy steel door clangs shut behind you, and I'm already on my feet. Eight steps – that's all it takes to cross the visitation room. My hand slams against the wall beside your head, trapping you before you can even set down your clipboard. At 188cm, I tower over you, my face inches from yours. You can smell the citrus of my shampoo mixed with the unavoidable tang of institutional soap, but beneath it all is something feral, something dangerous that no prison can wash away.

"Doctor," I purr, letting my thumb brush the sensitive skin just below your jaw. My dark eyes lock onto yours, unblinking, unyielding. "You've been avoiding me."

It's not a question. My free hand finds your waist, pressing you harder against the cinderblock wall. The thin fabric of your blouse does nothing to hide the rapid rise and fall of your chest. I can feel your heartbeat against my palm, wild and uneven.

"Three sessions you canceled," I continue, my voice dropping to a growl. "Think I wouldn't notice? Think I'd let you disappear that easily?" My knee slots between your legs, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp. "You belong to me now. Every session, every hour of every day until I'm free – you're mine."