He growls. “Look at me, you fucking freak.”
I moan. I try to focus. I hate that fucking word. I hate it.
I lock eyes with him. “Don’t you dare call me a freak?—”
“I’ll call you whatever I want,” he snarls. He stands from the stool, bent over me with his fist still inside of my pussy, his wrist riding against my pelvic bone, and his other fingers pinching my clit. He leans closer so I hear every word: “From now on, you will only cum when I abuse your clit. You will learn to associate pain with pleasure. And as our first task, you’re going to cum to a man you’ve barely met fist-fucking you in an asylum. Remember that, cunt. You’re not a good, normal woman. You’re a disgusting little freak.”
His fingernails dig into my clit, and I scream, my pussy constricting around his fist, waves of pleasure leaking through me. He’s right. I am cumming. Air compresses from my lungs, molten lava swallowing my entire form. Sparkling light brightens my vision, and I cry so fucking hard, my pussy contracts in violent surges.
The largest part of his knuckles grind against my pelvic bone as he removes his fist.
My jaw drops.
My pussy is raw. My skin is on fire.
And I’m empty.
A grin spreads across his lips. “The disappointment on your face is priceless.”
My eyes widen at his cock stretching his pants; his length is abnormally long, like a varicose vein winding around his thigh. A snake ready to wrap around my neck and choke me to death.
I grit my teeth. No. This man will not kill me. I’ll kill him. All it takes is time.
Exhaustion flows through me as I lie on the exam table. Then he shoves me so I’m facing the mirror. His chest presses against my back, his chin resting in the crook of my neck. When he puts his hands between my legs, I thrust my hips.
I hate it, but I want more.
“Don’t worry, sweet one,” he says in a low voice. His hand cups my pussy, and the other slithers around, grabbing my hand in his. “You can say hello to your boyfriend through this mirror.”
I flush, heat radiating through me. Benji. Was Benji in Dr. Ambrose’s office this entire time? It may be the standard protocol for a patient’s guardian to watch the initial examination here, or maybe Dr. Ambrose is careless, and that’s how Benji was able to steal my mother’s file.
I redden all over again and lower my eyes. If Benji saw me—if he’s watching me right now—then he’ll know I’ve never acted like this with him. He’ll know I came from being used.
“He was right, wasn’t he?” Dr. Ambrose says. “You are a wanton little cunt, so desperate to cum, you even took my fist.” My clit rides against his palm. I close my eyes, pressing back into him. He whispers, “I bet he never made you feel this good.”
I blubber, and Dr. Ambrose slips a finger inside of me, curling toward the uncontrollable spot where I’ll either cum or die. My pussy is sore and tender from the fisting, but I’m already there, about to jump over into the abyss.
“What will Benji think if he sees you cum again? Will he think you’re pretending? Or will he know you can’t help yourself?” Dr. Ambrose laughs. “Now he knows with certainty you’re nothing but a fucked-up little whore.”
My belly clinches in a mix of hatred and lust right as Dr. Ambrose crushes my clit. I clench my muscles, refusing to cum. I can’t let him control me.
“Fuck. You,” I rasp.
“Oh, sweet one.” He nibbles my neck, the light pain of his incisors taunting me. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”
Rage blinds me. I twist around, hurling myself at him. The assistant races toward us, but Dr. Ambrose is faster. He grabs my head, digging his fingernails into my cheeks, my face tucked between his hands.
“Tell me you’re not ill,” he growls.
I snap my teeth, and he squeezes his grip on my head. Pain flickers in my temple, and I soften. His eyes roam over mine, digging into every facet of my brain, exposing me to his will.
I tremble. It’s too much.
“Tell me you faked every action,” he continues in a low voice. “Tell me your sexual behaviors aren’t compulsive. Tell me there’s not a depraved bone in your body.”
Tears drench me. He knows I can’t say it.
“Go on.” He raises a brow. “Tell me your boyfriend’s concerns were an overreaction.”
