Sharp tendons angle in his jaw, and my lips part. Everything about him is sinewy and strong, an appearance of indestructibility. Like he’ll make me do this whether I like it or not.
My mouth goes dry. I look away. My body is on fire, and I have no idea why. What is going on?
“Be good for me,” Dr. Ambrose murmurs. “Lie down, sweet one.”
A grimace shakes through me, but I flatten myself against the bed. The paper lining crunches under my back. Heat pounces my thighs, which I do my best to ignore. On the ceiling, there are patches of rot, like a pipe has been leaking for years, and that’s what my brain feels like: Dr. Ambrose is breaking something inside of me, and I’m beginning to rot.
I’m following orders because I have to obey him, I tell myself. This has nothing to do with me and everything to do with killing him. It only feels like I’m on fire because?—
Because I?—
He picks through my folds, moving my lower lips in each direction, his inspection warming my insides. His acidic odor crowds me. I want to gag, and at the same time, my pussy scorches with need.
He spreads my pussy lips again like petals being plucked from a rose. His fingers are the same temperature as me now, or maybe I’m the same as him. I don’t know. I’m an animal in a testing lab, a prisoner restrained in a cage. I hate that he’s doing this to me. I hate that I’m?—
“Growing moist already,” Dr. Ambrose says, his voice full of gravel. Chills worm down my back. He nods to his assistant. “This may be the quickest duration from standard moisture to lubricated arousal we’ve seen in decades. Take note of the time, Oliver.”
“Yes, Doctor,” the assistant says.
Did he say “decades”? Does that mean he’s talking about my mother? And arousal?
I’m not aroused. Dr. Ambrose is lying. Even if I am technically wet, it’s not about him. Attention like this probably turns most people on, and for fuck’s sake, he has nothing to compare my current moisture level to; he’s just making random observations. He’s not even a real doctor!
According to my research, the asylum records claim he attended certain universities to get his degrees, but those schools don’t have any evidence of his attendance. I even bribed one of the university clerks to check for me; nothing came up. No Alicks. No Ambroses.
I don’t know how Dr. Ambrose got his position as the director of the entire asylum, his name on the facility, and his office in the Department of Sexual Deviancy, but he’s not a doctor. He’s using the title to increase his power over people. Over his patients.
Over me.
Dr. Ambrose leans closer, his head between my knees as he examines me like a beetle pinned to a board. Pressure increases in my pussy muscles. My mound is raw. Sweat beads my forehead, and my thighs grow clammy. He’s a heat lamp, and I’m going to burn.
The flashlight beaming on me is hot. That’s what this is. I’m not aroused.
“Fragrant,” the doctor says.
The assistant scribbles a note on the clipboard. I touch the back of my neck. What is he talking about?
Dr. Ambrose clears his throat. “Very odorous, indeed.”
“I noticed as well, Doctor,” the assistant says.
Odorous? I grit my teeth. Is he talking about the way my pussy smells?
I clench my jaw, but I keep myself on the exam table. Scents are natural. It’s a normal fucking vagina, you assholes, I seethe internally.
Follow the rules. Get close. Then he’ll be gone.
“Her musk is ten times stronger than average, which is potentially indicative of her atypical tendencies,” the doctor adds.
My entire body flames red. I admit sometimes, when I’m aroused, I do have a strong scent, and sometimes, it does embarrass me. I’ve had it checked out before, and the gynecologist reassured me it was normal. It usually only happens when I’m alone, pleasuring myself. Never with Benji or my ex.
So why is it happening now?
I press my knees together. This isn’t about Dr. Ambrose, his assistant, or what I want. This is about killing him. My body is just playing along.
“Clipboard down. Hold her legs apart,” Dr. Ambrose says.
Knives stab my insides. He’s going to hold me down?
