I can’t fit his fist!
Chapter 8
Violet
“D-Dr. Ambrose,” I stutter. Fear churns my stomach, waves of nausea reaching the back of my mouth. I lift up, and the assistant pushes me back down on the exam table again. “You can’t put your whole hand inside of me. I don’t want that. It’s too big!”
“Ah, but with a used-up cunt like yours, you can take it,” Dr. Ambrose croons. He lowers his mouth, and his warm, wet tongue slides across the ridges of my asshole, tickling me, then his tongue dips up into my cunt, lapping my arousal. His mouth hovers over my clit, his breath teasing me. “You can verbally deny your desires if it helps you acclimate to our procedures here, but the evidence is plainly visible between your legs. I know what your body can take. And you will take it.”
I gulp. Dryness irritates my esophagus. I’m being squished to death by invisible forces of desire: the need to do what he says, to hear his approval when I take his fist, and the fucking terror of how it might shred me to pieces.
This is for my mother, I tell myself. My mother. My mother. My mother. This isn’t what I want. This isn’t for me. I’m supposed to?—
The assistant tightens his grasp on my shoulders, and I rattle on the table, the paper crackling. Dr. Ambrose puts his fingertips together, creating a teardrop shape with his fist.
My eyes burn; my vision blurs. It would be stupid of me to fight him now, wouldn’t it? The assistant is here; there would be no chance of success. I have to wait until we’re alone. That’s why I’m sitting here, waiting to be fisted. It’s not because I want to do this. I don’t want his fist.
Do I?
Dr. Ambrose puts his coned fingers at the edge of my pussy hole.
“Let’s see how much this useless pussy can take,” he growls.
His fist pushes past my pelvic bone. I wail. Pain obliterates me, my pussy pulsating around his fist. Everything aches like my insides are exposed and raw.
Tears stream down my cheeks. I don’t know what’s happening to me.
This is not for me, I tell myself. Not for me. Not?—
“Look at the puppet!” Dr. Ambrose’s hollow laugh booms through the exam room. “You may simply observe now, Oliver.”
The assistant steps back, reclines against the wall, and watches me.
Dr. Ambrose ripples his fingers in my pussy, and I can’t focus on anything but him. I weep. I want so badly to move—to scream and tear Dr. Ambrose apart with my bare hands—but if I move, overwhelming ecstasy rips through me, and I can barely breathe as it is.
“The stretched out cunt likes it,” Dr. Ambrose says. “Is that the only way it can cum? By being used to the point of worthlessness?”
It. My pussy is an it.
I am an it.
Not for me, I chant internally. This is not for me.
I have to do this.
I have to?—
What am I supposed to do?
I’m supposed to?—
I stare at Dr. Ambrose, my lips agape, my body tingling. He rotates his hand, my hips thrust to take in more, and I cry. Oh, damn it all, I cry, because I don’t understand what’s happening to me right now. Being fisted by a criminal, a horrible man, a man who could be my father, isn’t something anyone should enjoy, and yet I’m ready to explode. My mind flares with wanton instinct.
He punches my cervix, and I twist around his physical manipulation. I hyperventilate, each breath scraping my throat like razor wire. I can’t think of anything. I can’t. I can’t?—
“Already on the verge of orgasm,” Dr. Ambrose says.
With his free hand, he rubs my clit. Tears cover my cheeks. He’s so filthy, it’s wrong, but my body needs release.
