A harsh shadow casts over his bulge. He’s got an erection already. I gnaw on my bottom lip. To be honest, I’m turned on too.
My eyes adjust to the lighting. I realize the red glowing lights are cameras stationed in each corner with another device aimed at the stairwell. A metal o-ring hangs from the back wall, and I imagine an iron leash attached to it, chaining someone. Chaining me.
As Dr. Ambrose circles me, his black boots thud on the floor. Sensual heat sneaks up my limbs, but I shake myself out of it.
No. Think. Plan. There’s a vial in your mouth. Search for other weapons.
I move the acid tube, hiding it under my tongue. As long as I don’t speak, it’ll be invisible, and I can hide it once he’s distracted.
Dr. Ambrose drinks in every inch of me, searing my insides, and those thoughts of revenge dissipate from my brain.
No. Stay focused. What else can help me kill him?
There’s a drain a few feet away from us, and in the other corner, there’s a sink and a showerhead. There’s also a deep claw-foot bathtub covered with a small tarp and a metal shower hose attached to it.
The hose. If the hose comes off, the metal shower head will be sturdy enough to hurt him.
My attention falls to the floor, and I latch onto his boots. Wait—is it typical for a doctor to wear boots in a place like this? Obviously, he’s not a real doctor, but shouldn’t he be at least wearing sneakers or something more comfortable? Is he wearing the boots to intimidate me?
A monster in a lab coat.
“And now, we will determine the depth of your perversions,” he says in a low voice.
The hairs on my arms stand on end, as if reaching for him. My legs twitch, and my body throbs as if it can’t remember he raped, impregnated, and killed my mother.
If I kill him, I’ll have justice. Revenge. Closure.
And he won’t turn me on anymore.
Chapter 12
Violet
I swallow hard. Invisible knives flick across me, fear electrifying my spine. I’m alone with Dr. Ambrose in some sort of basement, and I have no idea what he plans to do to me right now.
“Grind on my boot,” Dr. Ambrose commands.
Hunger radiates from his dark pupils, his lips open and wet. He expects me to rub my pussy on his shoes?
He wants me to debase myself.
The leather of his boots is worn. He doesn’t seem like someone who would wash his shoes often, and I’m naked; the grime on his boots will get on my pussy. Obeying him will mean risking infection, lowering myself mentally and physically.
Obeying him also means getting off.
I’ve never done anything with shoes before.
My tongue is heavy and wet, my fingertips pulsating with the need to touch Dr. Ambrose. His boots. His legs. To see how the leather rides against my pussy. To please him.
To see how much he wants me.
“Don’t keep me waiting,” he murmurs.
Sweat traces my palms, and my cheeks redden. I’m grateful for the fact he can’t see me blushing in the darkness.
I sink to my knees. Grit and concrete particles cut into my skin, tiny blasts of pain crowding my kneecaps. My pussy squelches against the leather.
I flush again. Why am I so wet when we haven’t done anything yet? Is it just because he fisted me a little while ago?
