“In most cases, one would expect the overuse of the vaginal canal to eventually lead to a wider diameter.”
It’s like they’re discussing a medical essay.
“Your fucked-up heads have a wider diameter!” I shout.
They ignore me.
“Ah, one would think that, but the vagina is quite elastic,” Dr. Ambrose says to his assistant. “Perhaps the patient has a wide vagina due to her heredity.”
My mother.
“You fucking assholes,” I scream. “You?—”
Dr. Ambrose removes his fingers and licks them. His eyes roll to the back of his head, like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.
My jaw drops. Did he just taste me?
He offers his hand to his assistant. “Taste it,” he says. The assistant licks the offering in one long stroke. Dr. Ambrose turns to me. “Rotten, isn’t it?” he murmurs. “It’s the only way to describe it. The cunt is putrid to the core.”
“I agree, Doctor,” the assistant says.
I hide under my hands. It reminds me of my earlier thoughts about Dr. Ambrose breaking something in me, how I’m decaying from the inside out.
I have to do something, right? I have to?—
Dr. Ambrose locks onto my gaze. My belly simmers. As he licks his hand clean, his free hand caresses his groin through his pants. His tongue carefully swims between each finger, refusing to let a single drop go to waste. His erection fully tents his pants, and my jaw unhinges, dropping to the floor. His bulge is the same length as the clipboard. It’s monstrous.
And he likes doing this to me.
Dr. Ambrose inserts four fingers into me this time. The pressure pulls me apart and fills me with unbearable heat.
“Disgusting, isn’t it? A cunt who can’t be satisfied by a loving, normal boyfriend,” Dr. Ambrose says. The assistant chuckles, and Dr. Ambrose sneers. “No wonder he brought you in.”
My lips are parched. He’s talking about Benji. Benji never said I was a freak, but I could tell he thought I was strange, and now, Dr. Ambrose thinks I am too.
But Dr. Ambrose’s mouth is open and wet, and his erection pokes his pants. Arousal ravages his eyes, his intensity aimed at me.
Every part of me aches. I’m strange. I’m a freak.
And Dr. Ambrose still wants me.
“My assistant barely has to hold you down now,” Dr. Ambrose says.
The two men exchange a glance, and I whimper. Damn it. Why does the assistant have to be here? If he wasn’t here, I could kill Dr. Ambrose right now. Acid in his eyes. The stool in the back of his head. As soon as he was done inserting his fingers, I would?—
Dr. Ambrose pulls out his fingers rapidly, and their sudden absence steals the air from my lungs. He spits into his palm, then rubs the saliva over his hands.
“The patient obviously doesn’t need the extra lubrication. Regardless, we must test for arousal due to saliva,” Dr. Ambrose murmurs. “You see, Oliver? Her mouth dropped open with this simple gesture. Imagine what she’d do if I spit on her nasty twat.”
I smash my lips closed. Every fiber in my body tenses. My fingers contort. My heart races. Dr. Ambrose is driving my pussy—and my mind—insane. He said my pussy smells strongly, that I was too loose for a twenty-five-year-old, that my pussy juices tasted rancid, and somehow, he’s aroused by doing this to me. Why don’t I want him to stop?
Then my mind spins.
Saliva.
Lubrication.
He’s going to put his fifth finger inside of me.
