What have I done?

Much like on my way in, my leaving the prison is to the soundtrack of a persistent refrain.

What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?

One minute, I have power, and I’m in control, and the next—I’m undone.

One minute, we’re patient and doctor, and the next, we’re fucking in my office like rabbits, ethical codes be damned.

I’m still shocked that no one heard us. I was able to straighten my office and my clothes, then coolly escort him back down into the prison. A model of professional conduct even as I felt his cum slide into my underwear.

The memory makes me shudder with a fresh flame of desire.

I’m not sure what possessed me, but I couldn’t control myself. Can’t seem to, even now, away from temptation. My body doesn’t feel like my own.

However, with distance from Jaxon Covington comes at least some degree of clarity.

Stopped at a red light, I bury my face in my hands.

Oh, god.

What have I done?

I was right: he’s a collapsed star, a cosmic void—and I just crossed the event horizon.

I might have been staring into it when I plucked him from Gen Pop for his surprise session, but I passed the point of no return when he rammed his cock down my throat. Because even though I gagged and it made me a bit sick, I liked it.

There’s no turning back now. And even if I could take it all back…

I’m not sure I want to.

And that’s what scares me.

As a student of psychiatry as well as psychology, I respect drugs. However, unlike many of my peers, I’ve never dabbled in street drugs.

But as I drive home from work, I feel drugged.

I feel full and empty at the same time. I’m utterly exhausted, yet I’m…edgy and filled with an almost manic energy. I want to scream and laugh and gorge myself on honey and vanilla ice cream.

I want to turn the car around to go fuck him all over again.

While everyone watches.

I want to weep.

Instead, I just drive.

In a sense, I guess I am drugged. I’m still riding an adrenaline and orgasm high after my brain’s repeated flooding of estrogen, dopamine, norepinephrine, serotonin, and oxytocin—lust, attraction, and orgasms, respectively.

I flatten my hands on the steering wheel and watch, mystified, as they tremor. I don’t know what’s happening to me. Never in my entire life have I ever felt so, so…out of control.

I grip the wheel until my knuckles turn white, as if I’m grasping at the last vestiges of who I was. No matter how hard I grip, I still feel as if my old self is slipping away.

I make my way back up to my apartment with all of my files and go through my post-arrival customs—purse on hook, keys in bowl, shoes by door, files on table.

But everything feels surreal—no, absurd. I’m attempting to maintain the monotony of everyday while my life is imploding, like the doomed star I fell in love with.

I stop short.

Love?

Do I really love him?

Is it even possible?

Is it just my chemical-laced brain making me feel this way? Sex can do that. I would know, I’m a doctor.

I hear laughter and find myself leaning against my kitchen counter, trying to hold myself upright as I shake from mirthless, unhinged giggles.

How stupid and foolish can I be to fall in love with someone who is more than likely incapable of loving me back?

Pretty damn stupid, it seems. And it feels like a sucker punch to the gut.

Then suddenly, I’m on the floor, and it feels like an entire lifetime’s worth of emotions is pouring out of me.

I just had sex with a possible psychopath. And it wasn’t just sex, but “losing my virginity” sex.

Despite knowing virginity is a social construct placed on women by the patriarchy, it still feels deeply personal and profound. It meant something to me and to have allowed myself to be deflowered by such a violent criminal seems not only unwise, but excessively reckless.

And I am neither of those things.

Usually.

Tears are pouring down my face as I rock myself on the cold tiles of my kitchen floor in an attempt to self-soothe. The enormity of what I have just done has finally hit me, and with it came a fresh fount of conflicting emotions.

But it was so good. Yet at the same time, what we did was also so incredibly wrong— socially, professionally, and ethically. Morally, too, depending on whom one asks.

Once again, I find myself strangely flustered, unable to organize my thoughts.

My brain—formerly a cleanly compartmentalized space, a paradigm of organization, and clear, concise thinking machine—now feels like the jumbled mess of my patient’s. Not only that, but I also seem wholly incapable of logical, reasoned discourse.

Even with myself.

I am all emotion. My ego and superego have fled.

Because despite the fact that he lies to me at every turn about everything; despite not knowing a single thing about him, outside of what’s found in his file, half of which I think is false anyway; despite the fact that he’s violent, conniving, manipulative, arrogant, narcissistic, and remorseless…

And despite ethics and reason and rational thinking…

I want him.