I bite my lip, pleading for relief. For his cock. For him.
He takes his length in his hand. “Now, for the final test.”
My body trembles, my clit throbs, and my legs spread as wide as they’ll go. My knees hit the sides of the tub, and I wait for whatever comes next.
His face pinches, his cock softens, and I open my mouth, leaning as far forward as I can without moving the tarp, desperate to lick his shaft with my tongue.
He doesn’t move.
A few seconds pass.
Hot liquid streams from his tip and splashes on my chin and neck. It drips under the tarp, tracing my tits, going between my legs. I scoot out of the way. He slaps me and grips my chin.
“Drink it,” he growls.
My mouth opens. His piss fills me. It’s tangy. Hot. A mild broth with hints of apples and citrus.
He rips the tarp off, exposing me. My hands are cupped between my legs, my pussy riding my palm, rubbing the clamp. My core churns with pain and pleasure.
Why am I doing this?
He chuckles. “You didn’t realize you were humping your hand, did you?”
My cheeks flush. “I?—”
“Finger-fuck yourself.”
My hands are wet with his piss, and my body is so ready for him that my brain overrides my soreness. I insert three fingers instantly, and I stare at him with an open mouth as he strokes his cock. He appraises my piss-covered body, his cock harder than before, and I thrust my hips forward, wanting his penetration.
“You’re worse than your mother,” he says with a grin. “You’re a true gutter whore, willing to take any trash I give you.”
Benji told him about my mother during the consultations. I know that. But why do I like being worse than my mother?
Chills rake my skin, pins and needles spiking over me. A part of me knows I’ll never be able to cum again without thinking of him. Taking his fist. Licking his boot. Drinking his piss. And still, I push closer to the abyss where I know I’ll never be able to recover my sense of self.
“No. My—” I try. “My mo?—”
I try to remember why I’m here, why I can’t let him say things like that to me, and yet my head is vacuous, a feather carried into the sky. My tears flow as I fight my own arousal.
I’m here for my family.
I’m here for my family, aren’t I?
Dr. Ambrose is my family.
“I may have to keep you here for a long time. It’s for your safety, you know,” he says. “Now, be a good whore and cum for me.”
The pain bites through my clit as I grind on the clamp; at the same time, my entire body bolts with pleasure, and those sensations bulldoze me.
You don’t know who I am, he had said. You don’t know how wrong it is to want me.
A spasm surges through me and I wail right as another thought worms its way into my brain. It should be sobering. It should make me stop. But the intense need to get off controls me, and I can’t stop myself. I finger-fuck myself so hard, the toothed clamp rocks back and forth against my clit, causing pain to pummel me until pleasure throws me into a black hole where I’m spinning out of control. I sob. I shouldn’t want to make him cum. I shouldn’t want anything to do with him, and yet the desire is rooted at the base of my spine, lingering at the edges of my awareness, and it soothes me, whispering that at least I’m being good, doing what he says—what he wants—but that justification cuts a new fear inside of me and forces me to face myself.
Dr. Ambrose is the reason I’m alive. The reason I’m here. I have no doubt in my mind he’s my father and my mother’s murderer.
What if I still want him?
Chapter 13
