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Spying on the private lives of the couples that came to the island seeking love and light and reignited passion. That’s what she was doing.
That was what had her veins pooling with heat.
Oh sure it was unorthodox. Illegal. Scandalous. And, maybe, even a bit creepy.
But it was also more telling than any session could ever be. It showed, at times, couples at their most naked, most vulnerable.
Alone.
Behind closed doors.
When no one else was looking.
Dr. Dangerfield believed she couldn’t always trust that couples would bear their souls freely. So she needed to see that secret part of them, the part of whom they were that they didn’t always want her to see. She needed to keep her eyes on the couples, and her fingers on the pulse of the island; hence, the reason why every part of the island had hidden cameras, including each couple’s villa.
Each surveillance camera offered an overhead and eye-level view of everything happening around her.
The debauchery. The drama.
Each monitor displayed some part of the island. There were small surveillance cameras hidden up in coconut trees, along the trails, along the beaches, in the gardens. From every angle imaginable, nothing on Passion Island went unnoticed.
All caught on camera, every couple’s precious, private moments, all available for her viewing pleasure. There were even night-vision cameras to ensure everything, enticing or not, was captured.
The only room that was off-limits was the couples’ bathrooms.
She didn’t need to see that part of them.
Dr. Dangerfield sighed and sat up from the sofa, reaching over and grabbing a remote from off a white marble table. She then leaned back again; her legs spread, and looked over at a Zone three monitor.
LaQuandra and Isaiah.
She was already in bed, her hands between her thighs; the top sheet twisted around one of her legs; her mouth open in what appeared to be a silent scream; her fingers driving deep inside her body.
And he was stretched out across the sofa asleep. Well, drunk—judging by the six empty beer bottles and bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the coffee table.
Dr. Dangerfield feigned a yawn.
No excitement there.
She switched to Zone four.
Krista and Kendall.
She was in the bathroom, the door shut tight.
He—
Dr. Dangerfield blinked.
Mm. Yes.
Kendall was out on the balcony in his boxers, his dick in hand, masturbating. His jaw was set firm, as if his teeth were set hard, as if he were on the verge of an orgasm.
What—no, who—are you thinking about Mr. Kendall Evans?
She watched the way Kendall’s hand moved fluidly up and down and around the thick curve of his dick. Why wasn’t Krista out there with him, sucking him, fucking him?
Why wasn’t that dumb bitch down on her knees, making wet-sucking sounds as she bobbed her head, her mouth, back and forth over the length of him?
