"Are you listening to me, Miss Baudelaire?"

She takes a moment before looking back at the concerned doctor. It takes her another moment to remember that he probably isn't concerned and isn't really a doctor. He's a pseudo shrink, and not even a good one at that. She glances to the degrees on the wall, wonders again if they're real.

"Of course."

"You've seemed distant lately. What's going on, Miss Baudelaire?" He says her name again, as if that will make her any more forthcoming.

"Isn't it your job to tell me?" She can't resist the sharpness in her chest, but guilt immediately overtakes her. "I'm sorry," she rubs her eyes, "I didn't mean to snap."

"I've heard you've been skipping your other appointments. Your care team is worried."

She sighs, cheek resting on her hand. He's been her doctor since the unexplained, or at least, unsatisfactorily explained disappearance of the last doctor (not a doctor, she reminds herself). She thinks the last man, her school psychiatrist, had been the one who pushed for her to be hospitalized, had told the staff she was a danger to herself. Barely a session into her placement, he'd left with nary an excuse. As it turns out, it was a pattern in formation. Few adults here felt the need to explain or apologize to her. And then, out of nowhere, he had come. And as much as she had tried to hate him, he was actually alright. He was kind to her.

"I'm fine."

He smiles, tilts his head as he looks at her as if she very much doesn't know what she's talking about, "How have you been sleeping?"

For a moment, she stiffens, guiltily wonders if he knows. But no, he can't; she hasn't told anyone about the dreams. Reflexively, she looks at his hands, feels a tingle along the base of her spine. No, he doesn't know.

"Fine enough." Pursing her lips tight, she leans back, tries not to remember the way her body ached when she awoke that morning. It always felt the same, that horrible emotion as bliss faded into disappointment.

"You know you can trust me. I'm very good at keeping secrets," he reaches into the bowl on the desk, offers her a piece of candy. There is a moment of hesitation before she takes it, their fingers touching. He smiles.

"You don't need to know all of them."

"But you do have secrets?"

"Doesn't everyone?" She unwraps the candy slowly, makes sure he is watching as she slides it onto her tongue. He uncrosses and recrosses his legs.

"Miss Baudelaire. You know I am only trying to help."

"Yes."

"And I can't do that without your cooperation." And then he does that thing he always does, leans in to place a hand on her knee. She is glad she wore a skirt today. "Don't you trust me, Miss Baudelaire?" His eyes bore into her as she shrugs. She does actually like him. He's the only adult who's nice to her. He brings her things sometimes, which is why she doesn't ever skip his sessions; they're the only ones she never misses. Of course, that makes the dreams all the worse. It's a bad thing, to have those kinds of thoughts about the man who's been so kind to her. But still, she has them. A month ago she almost thought he might have them too; at the end of session he had held onto her just a moment too long after spending all session with a hand on her leg. But no, she was probably just lonely. With a start, she realized he had been talking.

"-so important that you trust me. I need you to be able to tell me everything."

"I do trust you, Sir." She meets his eyes, sees a twinkle in them at her words. "You're the only one I do; you know that."

All the others thought she was crazy. A crazy girl; that's all she ever was and ever would be. Somehow they had gotten the notion that she was utterly mad, and now she couldn't so much as speak without them trying to medicate her for it. It was lonely; desperately lonely.

"So what's the matter, then? Boy trouble, perhaps?" There was that twinkle in his eye again.

"I haven't got time for that." It isn't a lie, not really.

"Sexual interest in a girl your age is normal, Miss Baudelaire. It concerns me that you seem behind. Have you heard of Freudian theory?"

The first time he had brought up her… personal… life, she hadn't had room in her body to feel anything other than embarrassment. But as the sessions continued, he had continued to ask her all sorts of questions about the tucked-away parts of her. Talking with him about sex was comfortable at this point. She appreciated that, how he talked to her like an adult.

"I just don't like any boys."

"Girls?"

"I guess the thing is," she hesitates, weighs the truth, "I don't like any boys my age."

He cocks his eyebrow, smiles, "Good, I'm glad we're finally making progress on that front. Now, what's been keeping you from sleeping?"

She sighs, takes her time sliding her legs open nonchalantly so that he's certain to see the inside of her thighs, "It's nothing, just dreams. Silly things."

"You don't seem the type to become preoccupied over silly things."

She feels her stomach twist as he smirks.

"You'd be wrong, Sir."

"You're allowed to call me by my name, you know."

"You don't call me by mine."

"It would be improper."

"Maybe I like improper things," the words are out before she can stop them, but his immediate smile wipes away any guilt she might have had. He buries the smile quickly of course, but doesn't take his hand off her leg.

"Do you, Miss Baudelaire?"

"Everytime you say that, I feel like I'm under a microscope," she stands up although it doesn't really upset her, walks over to the window.

"I didn't mean to offend," he stands as well, follows her.

"I'm not, it's just- Sorry, I must be more on edge than I thought."

"Don't apologize for your feelings," he takes her hand, rubs it soothingly. She sighs, looks out the window at nothing in particular.

"I know, but… I'm sorry." Pulling her fingers from his, she reaches up to open the window. Suddenly it is much too hot in here. Her fingers fumble, still feeling the pressure of his own.

"Need some help?" He reaches around her, easily slides the top frame down. She freezes, the sudden size of him looming around her. The breeze that comes through is cold, but not nearly cold enough to dispel the suffocating heat of her blush.

"What type of dreams are they? Nightmares?"

"No." A part of her wishes they were; it would make things easier. As he rests a hand on her arm, she closes her eyes, imagines how much better it would feel if he'd only hold her a bit tighter.

"It's almost hard to believe life would bother such a pretty girl," he smiles and she feels guilty again. "You can tell me; it's okay."

She imagines leaning over, pressing herself against him. She remembers her dream from last night, the feeling of him hard through his pants, his fingers on her skin. Shivering, she turns to face him, surprised at just how close he is to her.

"Are you hiding something from me?"

"What makes you think so?" She stiffens her jaw, tries to remember to breath as he brushes her hair behind her ear.

"You're acting skittish. Do I bother you?" He runs his hand down her upper arm placatingly.

"No, it's not that-"

"If I've overstepped somehow, I apologize."

"No, you haven't done anything at all," she places a hand on his without thinking, guilt gnawing her insides as she lets go.

"Then what-"

"You got a girlfriend, Sir?"

"Excuse me?" There is the hint of a laugh in his voice when he responds, but he doesn't scold her. "No, I do not. Why?"

She shrugs, her heart racing, "You know everything about me. Why can't I ask you questions?"

"Fair enough. No, I do not have a girlfriend, Miss Baudelaire."

"Why? What's wrong with you?"

He chuckles, looks out the window as he crosses his arms, "Because I agree with you. I don't have any interest in girls my age."

Somewhere in her chest, something burns.

"No?"

"No." he drops his voice until it is almost a purr. "I have what some might consider a… fresher taste."

"Oh," she can't think of anything else to say, heart ringing in her ears.

"Any more burning questions?"

"Do you want to hear about my dreams still?" She looks up, meets his eyes.

"Of course," he gives a stiff smile. "Do you want to sit down?"

"They're different," she begins, not moving from her spot. "Always different. At least in the beginning. But they always end up the same."

"Yes? How's that?"

Despite the heat, she turns around, closes the window, taking her time in the stretch so that he has plenty of time to look her over, "With me. Begging."

"Begging? So it is a nightmare."

"No." Turning around, she meets his eyes again, sees him swallow. "Sometimes I'm on the couch. Sometimes I'm on the floor. I'm always begging, though."

"And how does that feel?" His voice is husky, low in his throat.

"Good. Not as good as what comes after, I'm sure."

"What comes after?"

"I don't know," she fixes her face in a look of innocence, "I always wake up before you do anything."

"I can see how such dreams could be tiring."

"That's why I'm hoping you can help me, Sir."

"You want my help?"

"Please, Sir. I'm…" she bites her lip, gut telling her this is a bad idea, "begging."

His lip twitches in and out of a smirk as he cocks his head. "Are you familiar with the term 'Jailbait,' Miss Baudelaire?"

She shifts her footing, tugs at her skirt, "Are you trying to give me another diagnosis, Sir?"

"Perhaps. Care for the definition?"

For the first time in her life, she wants a word she already knows bluntly reduced for her by a condescending adult. "If it's no trouble."

"It's another word for a very pretty little girl who has suddenly landed herself in whole lot of trouble."

"What sort of trouble?" She buries the nervous shake in her voice under a throaty rasp.

"All sorts. Dangerous sorts."

"I like danger."

"They always do."

"What sorts of things do you like, Sir?" desperate to hide the tremor of her body, she keeps her face plain, guiltless.

"I like red things. Red wine. Red raspberries. Red skirts on terribly unkind girls." Stepping forward, he places his foot between hers. Fighting the instinct to step back, she rolls her shoulders, straightening her posture.

"Only reds? No blues, or… purples?"

He smiles with the corner of his mouth, showing his teeth, "Oh, sure, sure." His voice is quiet as it drops into a whisper, "Bruises. Dark blood. Certain… temptations."

Craning her neck, she gets close enough to his lips that she is certain he can smell the adrenaline on her breath,

"Are you easily tempted?"

"If I like the prize enough."

"And do you like danger, Sir?"

"I like the way it tastes." His hands finally slide to her waist and it is everything she can do not to melt at the simple heat.

"Just a taste, then." Doing her best impression of the women on TV, she lowers her eyelids, pushes down the nervousness telling her to break eye contact.

"A small taste adds up quickly on such a little girl, Jailbait," brushing his hand up her ribs, he cradles her back, his thumb skirting against the base of her breast as if by accident.

"And are you easily baited, Sir?" She lets him pull her against his chest, slides her hands up his shoulders the way they do in movies. It must work, because he smiles again, hungrier.

"Evidently."

When he kisses her, it is not gentle. There is no more slow-wandering; it is a dive into forbidden territory as he presses her hard into the wall. She gasps, and he breaks the kiss, pupils dilated as he looks down at her. Although it is always a mess, his hair is particularly out-of-place, a strand falling over his forehead from the force of shoving her backwards. She can feel the violent, pulsing energy in the air as she pulls him down by the neck, kisses him again.

His hands are no longer behind her, having fled to her hips, her ribs, her throat. He is pressing her back, back, against the wall, and although he is engulfed in flame, he does not touch her the way she wants. She can feel the itch in her body, the buzzing, consuming itch as he pushes his tongue into her mouth, tilts her head up with both hands.

When they break for air, panting, she grabs his hands, holds his wrists tight, "Touch me." The words are heavy, more exhaled than spoken, but he doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he is very eager in his compliance, quickly squeezing her breast in his open hand.

"You're putting us both in danger, Miss Baudelaire."

"Then come have another taste," catching his face in her hands, she kisses his open mouth, this time quickly pressing her tongue to his. His hands come behind her again for just a moment as he kisses her back, the windowpane beside them radiating cold despite the winter sun. His hand is almost as cold against her abdomen as it pushes up beneath her blouse to cup her breast.

"Feels like lace," he pinches her, teasing. Reacting involuntarily, she shivers, pulling him closer.

"I-" she starts to respond, but groans instead as he grinds himself against her, his cock already stiffening as he presses it to her.

"Did you plan this, Jailbait?" His voice is not angry but his tone drops as if she is about to be scolded.

"Perhaps."

"And here I was, thinking you were a nice girl." Taking her cheek in his hand, he tilts her head, kisses up along her throat. "Do you know what happens to bad girls here, Miss Baudelaire?"

"What?" She holds him around his shoulders, desperate to pull him closer, wants to negate the space left between them.

"They get taken to my office." His tongue slides over her jugular and she gasps, pressing her hips forward against him, wishing very much for him to follow through on the threats his hands are making. "They get punished."

"Who am I to stand in the way of justice?"

He smirks, kisses her lips, "Who, indeed."

Digging his fingers into her thighs, he lifts her up, presses her against the wall. She gasps, clutching at him as he rocks himself against her, pressing between her legs as he pins her to the yellow wall. For a moment, she thinks she might wake up, but then he is moaning into her mouth, and she knows she didn't imagine that.

His tongue slides against hers as he groans, footing sturdy as he kisses her deeper than she had dared hope. He holds her easily, doesn't seem to have any trouble at all lifting her. She imagines him tossing her onto the couch and whines into the kiss, grip tightening.

"Are you sorry, Miss Baudelaire?" he growls into her mouth, teeth hitting hers.

"No, Sir," she resists the urge to apologize, wants to know what his plan of punishment entails if this is how it begins.

It is entirely too soon when he lets her slide down, her feet hitting the floor. She's still holding onto him as he breaks the kiss, both of them gasping for air. Letting her go, he turns around, striding across the office, back to the couch.

The room is small, cluttered, and habit almost makes it feel like she ought to take the small wooden chair opposite him. He falls onto the blue couch with ease, stretching his arms out across the back as he looks over her. Again, she feels that nervousness in her belly. Only it isn't nervousness; it's excitement.

"So." He leans back, restraining a wicked smile, "What shall we do with you, Miss Baudelaire?"

She doesn't respond, instead making sure he watches as she slowly raises her hands to her throat. Delicately, she unbuttons her collar, watches him swallow as he does so. Willing herself to move slowly, she unbuttons the next and the next, until she is untucking her shirt from her skirt, letting it fall over her shoulders onto the floor.

He takes his time looking over her, starts at the navel until he is looking at her lower lip, caught between her teeth.

"Come here." He pulls her forward by the hand, places his hands on her waist as he kisses her naked sternum. She shivers, wraps her arms around his shoulders as he begins to move more frantically, fingers digging into her skin.

"Careful," she gasps, arching away as he pulls down the fabric of her bra, nipping the skin with his teeth.

"My sincerest apologies," he says, though he doesn't seem sorry at all. Pushing his hands up her skirt, he digs his fingers into her ass. "Do you know how long I've wanted to do that?"

"How long?" She kisses his lips, hopes he can't feel her shaking.

"Ever since you 'accidentally' dropped your bag and bent yourself over the couch trying to get it."

"It was an accident!"

"This certainly wasn't," he lifts her skirt up, running his fingers beneath the waist of her panties. "Matching set. And cute, too. How were you so certain today was the day?"

"I wasn't. I've been ready every time for a few weeks now."

"You mean to tell me I've had a nicely wrapped little present just waiting for me all this time?"

"I wasn't sure, so I… planned ahead."

Unzipping her skirt, he lets it fall to the floor, "You really are bad, aren't you, Jailbait?"

"Is that my name now?"

"I thought you didn't like proper things? Besides, what other word is there for such a small temptress?" As he pulls her into his lap, she could feel his solid arousal pressing between her legs. Groaning, he holds her down by the hips, grinding up against her. "God… Do you see what trouble you've got me in, Baudelaire?"

"Do you do this often?" She gasps as he scratches down her back, running his tongue over her bare breast.

"Do I often have life-ruining little girls clamor into my lap? No. Which is why this has to be our little secret."

"Of course," she gasps as he pinches her nipple between his teeth.

"Good. Now do what bad girls do best and get this belt open for me."

Much more quick than she had been with her own shirt, she pulls his open, sliding it off along with his jacket. She is pleased to note that for such a thin man, he has a good amount of muscle to his frame. As he rewraps her in his grasp, he squeezes her breasts, watching her with delighted interest as she slowly unbuckles his belt, tugging his pants open before pausing.

"Is there a problem, Miss Baudelaire?" His voice is still rough in his throat, but there's an edge to it now.

"I… Do you think that maybe-"

"Maybe, what?"

"If it's as dangerous as you say, should we… not? Or at least, not here?"

"Miss Baudelaire," he pinches her breast again, rocking his hard arousal against her. "Are you familiar with the term 'cock tease?"

"I could take a wild guess if I wasn't."

"See," he continues as if uninterrupted, "the only thing worse than a very terrible little girl who insists on getting nice men into trouble is a very terrible little girl who is also quite selfish."

"Do you think I'm selfish, Sir?"

"I don't think it's very fair of you to strip down to your panties and then tell me it's just a joke."

"It isn't a joke!" Lacing her fingers behind his neck, she kisses him again. "I want you!"

"Then show me, little tease."

"Do you want me to beg? I've had lots of practice." She smiles, but she isn't actually joking.

"Beg," there is no reciprocating smile in his tone.

"Please," she brings her hands down over his shoulders, feels his chest beneath her hands.

"You think I'll sacrifice my career for a 'please' from a girl who can't behave herself? Try again," he traces over her cheek with his thumb before tangling his fingers tight in her hair. As he tugs her head back, she gasps.

"Please, Sir. I'll be good, I promise. No one will know!"

"No one will know what?" he growls.

"No one will know what I did! What I asked you to do."

"No one?"

"No one! Please, Sir. I really, really want you right now. I'm sorry; please, Sir."

"What do you want, Jailbait?"

"I want you to fuck me, Sir."

"Good. Because make no mistake, after the shenanigans you've pulled, I fully intend to find out how you look bouncing on my cock." Again, he tugs her hair back and she gasps, craning her neck as he begins to kiss along her throat.

"Sir, I-"

"Quiet now, Baudelaire." He lets go of her hair, drags his nails back down her back as she arches against his bare chest, skin touching skin as he runs his tongue over her throat. "Go ahead and be a good girl, just for me."

Reaching down, she slips her hands beneath the waistband of his pants, tugging his boxers forward until his erection is standing stiff between her thighs.

"See?" He smirks, "I knew you could be a good girl."

"Should I-" she pauses, not really sure what to do next. Her dreams rarely got this far.

"Go ahead and get on your knees for me." A shiver rakes down her spine like a Jacob's ladder, rapidly somersaulting out of paralysis as she slides off his lap, onto the floor. "So pretty," he strokes the side of her face before shoving her head against the inside of his thigh. Catching her hands beside his knees, she pauses before taking him in her hand. "Be a good girl. Be my good girl," his voice is kind again, a purr as he strokes her hair. Tentatively, she takes the tip into her mouth, presses her tongue against him as he moans, rolling his hips towards her, pushing himself in. "You don't want it to hurt, do you? Get me nice and ready for you." She doesn't reply, instead sticks out her tongue to lick along the underside of his cock. "Good little girl," he smiles, the same way he always does, and it makes her feel better. "You've done this before, haven't you, Jailbait? I better not learn I'm getting any other doctor's sloppy seconds."

"No," she pulls back, pumping him with her hand. "No, only you."

"Good. Let's keep it that way. I'm the only one who can help you, and they'll take you away from me if they find out, alright?"

"I won't tell, I swear."

"Good, I would hate to see you get into trouble." He pets her hair again, "My good girl."

She slides her mouth down over him again, tries not to cough as he holds her, pressing himself further in. After a while, she doesn't have to do much work at all, what with the way he's taken over. Her hands grip him lightly, trying to placate the gap between his need and her ability. A few moments more and he is pushing her back, sucking his breath through his teeth.

"Okay, you have to stop now. I'm too close."

She wipes the spit from the corner of her mouth, "Was that alright?"

"Come here," he opens his arms again, smiles like he's genuinely pleased. When she stands, he pulls her panties down over her hips, down to the floor, sliding his other hand along her inner thigh. "I can't believe what you've done," he sighs, shaking his head. "Little vixen."

"You won't tell, will you?" For a moment, panic seizes her.

"No," he smiles. "I told you, all your secrets are safe with me, Lolita."

She kneels on the couch, knees pressed to his outer thighs, kisses him on the mouth. He sighs, hands coming up to grip her ass, fingers leaving bruises on her skin.

"Touch me again," she murmurs the words against his teeth.

"Beg me again," he whispers, tongue pressing up against her own.

"Please," she kisses him, "I want to feel you."

"Where?"

"All over," she takes his hand, presses it to her chest.

"All over?"

"Yes."

"Even here?" When he touches her, she gasps, his fingers sliding between her legs to press against her clit. "So wet, just from sucking cock?" His voice resonates in his chest as he kisses her throat. "What a good little girl." He pinches her nipple between his fingers as he kisses her.

"Ah, Sir, I-" she shudders, groaning, as he rubs at her.

"And so easy, too. Here I was, worried you were behind. Why, you're a regular little whore, aren't you, Miss Baudelaire?"

The intimacy of her real name makes her tense as she clings to him.

"No, Sir, I-"

"Just for me, then?" He purrs. "How lucky. My own good little girl. Good little whore. Tell me, how often did you dream of having my cock in your mouth?"

"I-" she cannot answer, gasping as he thrusts his fingers inside her.

"Do you touch yourself and pretend it is me?"

"Sir, I-"

"You've been chasing me for a while, haven't you? Tell me, what would you give to have me inside you?"

"I need you-"

"How badly do you want it, Jailbait? Let me hear you." A high moan escapes he as he continues playing with her.

"I want you! Please, Sir, please."

"Very nice. Now. Have you been a good enough girl? Shall I fuck you now?"

"Please!" She is whimpering, groaning, practically writhing in his lap.

"You want my cock inside you?"

"Yes!"

"Say it."

"I want your cock inside me!"

"Because you're my good girl?"

"I'm yours, only yours!"

"Beg."

"Please, fuck me, Sir! I want you to fuck me! I want-" her words dissolve into a gasp as he thrusts inside her, actually managing to get most of the way in.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he holds her down by the hips, doesn't respond as she cries out sharply.

"Careful, you're-" she whines again, fingers digging into his shoulders.

"Good girl, you're doing so good," he bucks further in. "Such a good little girl."

As she clings to him, she gasps, letting him hold her by the hips as he began rhythmically thrusting into her.

"Sir, you-"

"Be nice and quiet for me, alright? We don't want you to get caught, now do we?" Holding her tighter, he begins to bounce her on his lap, moving her easily. "If word gets out, they might ask me to share. And you're my girl, right? Only mine." She nods, breath leaving hardly any space for words in her mouth.

"I- Oh my god," she squeezes her eyes shut, fingers digging into him as he fucks her, tongue moving over her bare skin.

She doesn't have a real wealth to judge by, but when he is inside her, the only adjective she has is "big." All of her senses are suffocated by the sensation of him stretching her, filling her, jutting into her. She whimpers in time with his strokes as he presses his body against her clit, makes her dumb with pleasure.

"God, you're so wet; you love this, don't you? You like begging to ride cock."

"Just yours," she doesn't open her eyes, doesn't relax her grip.

"Just mine? Well then. Let's make sure you get your worth."

In half a second, he has her flipped over on her back, his hands holding her legs up so that her thighs practically touch his shoulders. She gasps, groaning, fingers still raking his back as she feels all the stiffness of him thick inside her, his rough hands pinning her down as he fucks her. She can feel the penetration deep in her belly as he thrusts, hard, holding her to the couch.

"Is it as good as your dreams, Jailbait?" he growls, voice breathy between clenched teeth.

Every sound that comes out of her turns into a jagged electric pulse as she tries to respond, tries to tell him that no, nothing was ever like this. He thrusts hard, his body a solid presence above her as he kisses her, kisses her gasping mouth, sucking the air from her lungs. Arching her back, she tries to grip him in any way she can, wants him closer, closer.

"Oh my god- I'm- Fuck, Olaf, I'm so close!" She whines between her teeth, balls her hands into fists.

"Go ahead and show your gratitude, Baudelaire. Go ahead and come around my cock."

Maybe it's hearing her name in that voice, or maybe the timing is just right, but she does. Her toes flex, feet pointing as she climaxes, only wishing he could press her further down, would climb atop her entirely.

Pulling out, he groans, clenches his fist as he continues pumping himself with his hand.

"On your knees, Violet."

Not entirely waiting for her to listen, he grips her hair, pulls her down just in time to press the tip back into her mouth as he sits up. A moment later he is spilling himself onto her tongue with a moan, and she is both scared and confused as he holds her in place. An eternity later, he pulls back, groaning as he lets her go.

"Can't have any evidence," he sighs, relaxing onto the couch, "and good girls always swallow."

Wiping her chin with the back of her hand, she only nods, quiet. There is a moment of quiet, filled only by their thudding hearts and heavy breath.

"I… can't believe you made me do that." He pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Was it worth it?" Nervous again, she sits, uneasy. Slowly, he draws his hand away, looks at her.

"Come here," he opens his arms again, smiles as she curls into his side, head on his chest. "You're very good, Miss Baudelaire, no matter what the others say." He kisses the top of her head, runs his fingers over her naked arm. "Although, I do think we should increase the number of sessions you have per week."

"Yes?" she looks up at him, feeling something similar to relief, though she couldn't say why. Maybe she's just happy he isn't abandoning her.

"Oh yes," brushing her hair back, he kisses the top of her head again, "you're my good girl, and I'm going to take care of you. I promise."