“Wait.” I sit up. “I’ll keep them open. Don’t?—”
The assistant slams my knees open. My tendons and muscles strain, stretched to their limits. I pant, and the pain ignites in my stomach.
Dr. Ambrose traces a finger between my folds, his fingertip sliding on my slickness. It tickles. I bite my lip, refusing to experience any sort of pleasure.
Pain bites between my legs. I squirm and see his fingers around my clit. Is he pinching me?
I snarl. “Pinching me is not part of a real exam.”
“And you are the professional here?” Dr. Ambrose asks coolly.
Unease rolls in my chest. His gaze roams over me. My skin dampens. How does a sheer look from him make me sweat?
He rolls my clit between his fingers. Energy incinerates me. My hips rotate closer to him.
“Do you want me to stop?” Dr. Ambrose asks, grinning with apparent sarcasm. “Perhaps we can complete this examination on another day.”
My insides tingle. We can’t stop now. Not with how much I’ve done to be here.
Obey. The vial is under the exam table. Get close to him. And then?—
“Do you see this?” Dr. Ambrose muses as he studies between my legs. “Arousal is dripping out of her, and all it took was a brief squeeze of the clitoris. It is quite sensitive.”
The two men chuckle. My breathing is rapid, my cheeks heavy. It is quite sensitive? I know he’s talking about my body being sensitive, but it feels like he’s talking about me. Like I’m not even here. Like I’m not a person with thoughts, feelings, and desires, but a thing they’re analyzing. An it.
It feels good to be useful though.
The thought blasts me like a cannon, and I bite my tongue as hard as I can to get rid of it. It doesn’t disappear though.
I’m under stress right now, I tell myself. My mind is conjuring pleasure so I can get through this.
I stare at the decaying acoustical panels above me, but my mind fills with images of Dr. Ambrose’s stained hands manipulating me.
His nails dig into my clit.
“Ouch!” I yelp.
“Still mouthy,” the doctor says. “We’ll have to remedy that. However, it appears the patient likes pain, so we’ll have to adjust the punishments.”
He pinches my clit again, and the pain zaps through me.
I shout: “You fucking ass?—”
“It is quite reactive,” the doctor murmurs.
It. There’s that word again.
An object. A toy. A thing.
An unmistakable drip travels down my pussy lips to my ass. I close my eyes, willing the sensations to dissolve. I’m reacting to physical touch; it has nothing to do with being objectified or with him.
“Look at the natural lubrication,” Dr. Ambrose says. “She’s leaking like a broken faucet.”
“Perhaps she is broken, sir,” the assistant says.
They break into laughter. Flames demolish every part of me, and need oozes out of my pussy. I’m not broken. My mother wasn’t broken either. If anyone is “broken,” it’s the fake doctor who uses his status to take advantage of patients.
The vial. The acid is underneath us.
