“Thank you, Benji,” Dr. Ambrose says with a tone oozing with control. His gaze locks me in place. “I will contact you when the tests are over.”
Benji startles. “Wait a minute. I?—”
The assistant returns and shoves Benji out of the room. The door closes behind them, leaving Dr. Ambrose and me completely alone. To do tests.
A fluttery emptiness expands in my stomach. Dr. Ambrose’s gaze flickers over my naked form, his cold eyes lingering between my legs. He unlocks the restraints on my wrists; his rough, scarred hands send chills across my arms.
He steps away, and I rub my wrists. The flesh is tender, slightly bruised from the constant contact with the restraints.
A thought pierces my mind, and my pussy constricts.
Dr. Ambrose has fingered—no, not just fingered—he’s fisted me. Punched my cervix. Tasted my holes. Exposed me. Why is some sick part of me excited by the potential of his “tests”?
He removes a folder sticking out of the filing cabinet, and a smirk spreads across his lips. I redden. Can he sense my pussy muscles contracting right now?
I scowl. Even if I secretly like what he does for me sexually, I know who he is and what he did to my mother. And he will pay for it.
But why is he smiling? Is he laughing at me?
“Wh—” The tube in my cheek stops my words.
“Stand up,” he says.
The command sends an electric current through me, heat incinerating my core. I’m instantly on my feet. A slight tremble creeps through my legs, and a pleasing ache forms in my chest, licking at me like the flames of a fire.
It’s not because of him, I tell myself. It’s because he forces me. Because he doesn’t give me a choice. And it’s easier when I obey.
That’s not the full truth though. My thoughts go empty when I’m around him. And it’s not just his actions. It’s?—
“Listen to me carefully now; follow all of my instructions,” he murmurs. “Walk forward and open the door.”
His words tickle my skin, and my nipples peak. I walk forward with bare feet across the muck-caked tiles. I open the door.
“Keep moving,” Dr. Ambrose orders. My pussy tightens. As he walks, he leans closer, keeping his words between us. “You’re excited for your next test, aren’t you?”
You’re the one who’s excited to torture an innocent person, you sick bastard!
The acid tube in my mouth keeps me quiet, reminding me I only have to wait a little while longer.
He touches my shoulder, guiding me; tendrils of desire simmer from his fingers and capture my stomach. My brain whirls in a million directions. What could possibly be the next test? What will he expose now?
As we walk down the hallways, we pass doctors in lab coats and patients in various states of undress and stained gowns. Guards swing batons, and though a kind nurse seems to smile at me, she turns her back as soon as she sees Dr. Ambrose. The lighting is dim, and it’s like being trapped in the center of a cornfield where each direction seems to go on forever. I can’t tell where the asylum begins and ends.
Helplessness crawls in my temples, a cry buried in the back of my throat. Will I ever be able to leave this place?
“Stop here,” Dr. Ambrose says.
We stand in front of a closed door. As Dr. Ambrose unlocks it, a shiver rakes over me. I wrap my arms around myself. The acid tube dances across my tongue, comforting me, giving me purpose.
Dr. Ambrose opens the door. Darkness crowds the stairwell, and moisture is heavy in the air. As we descend, the stairs creak. I rub my arms to fight off the cold. Dr. Ambrose nudges me deeper underground.
We finally reach the bottom of the stairs. A few dim red lights illuminate the area above us; I can’t see much else. Dr. Ambrose moves me by my shoulder until I must be standing in the middle of the room.
He lets go.
I hug myself tighter. His boots thump across the floor, and I shuffle my feet, staying in place. The floor is scummy like the exam room. It must be unkempt down here too.
A single lightbulb flickers on, glowing with amber wires, the glass covered in a dusty film. The fixture dangles from the ceiling, creating a shadow across Dr. Ambrose. Wasn’t he carrying a file folder with him? Where did it go?
