I step out of the cage, close the lid, then lock it again. Violet’s jaw drops, no doubt disturbed by the distance between us.
This is where she will remain every night until she finishes her stay at the asylum.
I reach through the bars and lift her chin. A drop of my semen wets my finger.
“This isn’t torture, sweet one,” I say. “I’m saving you from yourself. This is a form of humanity.”
Chapter 21
Violet
An object scrapes my throat; it’s sharp.
Is it plastic? Some sort of tool?
I open my eyes, and the fluorescent lights sear my pupils. I squint. It’s so damn bright.
Is it morning?
Glasses come into focus. Then black hair.
The assistant.
A thin funneled neck dips between the bars of the cage, then penetrates my lips. I gag on the tip, and the assistant adjusts the angle.
Dr. Ambrose sent his assistant.
Am I disappointed?
I am. I hate it, but I am.
“The results for your paternity test was 99.99997 percent,” the assistant says. “Dr. Ambrose is definitely your father. Swallow quickly now.”
Over ninety-nine percent?
The assistant shoves the funnel deeper. The plastic opening scratches my throat, which is still sore from Dr. Ambrose’s cock. The assistant rubs his lips together as he studies the large opening of the funnel.
“The doctor won’t like it if you waste your nutrition,” he says.
Sludge gloops out of the tube and clogs my throat. It’s bland and vaguely sweet, like powdered milk and blended oatmeal mixed with dirty dishwater. I choke, and the funnel drops to the floor, the contents splattering the bars of the cage.
My eyes sting. I don’t know if it’s from fear, the confirmation of my paternity, or the fact that I’m being force-fed by my father’s assistant and not my father.
I’m lost.
The assistant sighs, then picks up the funnel. It stabs my cheek, and the assistant grins down at me, an erection tenting his pants.
“The doctor has forbidden me from using you, but trust me, your feeding can become very painful,” he warns.
I don’t want him to feed or hurt me. I just want to get this over with.
I close my eyes and open my mouth. The funnel snakes between my teeth again, then the shake fills me. I swallow the sludge; I try not to think of what I’m eating. Instead, I imagine myself in another place. I’m not here, being forced to drink some sort of nutritional shake. I’m back in my apartment with Benji, watching a crappy sitcom.
Then the vision changes: Dr. Ambrose’s hand cups my chin as he pisses in my mouth.
The assistant smacks the side of the funnel, letting the last drop fall onto my tongue. I gulp it down.
“Good,” he says.
