After the lightbulb has cooled, I put it on my desk and grab my dick. My fingernails are just long enough to break skin if I desire, and they’re packed with visible filth. There’s no doubt in my mind Violet will notice my lack of hygiene, but a desperate little cunt like her will want to be used regardless.
As I stroke, each nerve reaches from my cock and sews into my spine, throbbing with pain, until the most exquisite pleasure, like a scalding bath, pulsates through me.
Then it’s pure euphoria.
On the screen, Violet clasps her sopping snatch, grinding on her palm. Her boyfriend—no, her supposed boyfriend—came to me concerned with her salacious appetite, such that an innocent request to kneel became a need to bathe in his urine. I suspected a case of compulsive sexual behavior, but I kept the potential diagnosis to myself.
Instead, I had him film their exploits.
Violet is the perfect object for my next experiment. As much as I want to cum again, I must wait for her. I redress myself in a fresh lab coat, then replace the lightbulb in the overhead fixture.
The room brightens, illuminating the back wall behind my desk. Curtains cover a floor-to-ceiling double-sided mirror with a view of the exam room next door. The mirror is saddled with two bookcases. For now, I leave the curtains closed. Her supposed boyfriend likely knows about the double-sided mirror from his earlier visits here; however, there’s no reason to flaunt it yet.
I flip through manila folders stacked on my desk. Violet’s file is on one side and a copy of her mother’s is on the other. Though there are many patients who share the same surname, I could never forget Ivy Ward. She was a deviant little cunt whose vile scent of arousal still emanates from the file. The aroma is reminiscent of musty old books and rancid milk.
According to our records, Ivy was undergoing treatment for compulsive sexual behavior, which was called sexual addiction at the time. During her stay, I used her to explore my own interests in deviancy.
Since I stepped into the asylum many years ago, it has been my goal to discover whether perversions are inherited or nurtured. Once I determine the answer with each of my patients, I use them to learn how to control women. When a woman denies her own bodily functions, her desperation becomes the perfect energy to fuel my experiments. It’s amusing; if they embraced who they are, they wouldn’t have such energetic troubles.
It will be interesting to investigate firsthand whether Violet’s traits are similar to her mother’s. Violet has never known her biological mother and father; therefore, any perversions she may have are not nurtured by her parents, but are instead completely rooted in her natural core.
I may have had other specimens to experiment on before, but Violet is the first one to truly captivate me. Her desperate need for degradation is deeper than any other patient I’ve encountered.
A knock rattles the office door. I close the files and adjust myself. “Come in.”
My assistant enters. His glasses fall down his nose. “Benji and the…girl are here, sir.”
The girl.
It’s such an innocent description of Violet. In my assistant’s eyes, her supposed boyfriend, Benji, deserves a name, but she is no longer a woman. She’s an inferior girl, undeserving of a name. In some cases, he prefers to call my patients “specimens,” giving them no agency at all.
A name is such a useful tool. For now, it will give Violet dignity and identity. Eventually, I’ll use it to fully transform her. Even a smart, vicious woman can fall victim to a manipulative tool.
In the end, Violet will be nothing more than a pathetic doll.
I nod curtly to my assistant. He closes my office door, leaving me alone for a few moments. I inspect my office a final time, ensuring the double-sided mirror is still hidden behind the curtains.
A young woman like Violet would enjoy someone watching over her from afar, wouldn’t she?
With that in mind, I scribble a note inside of her mother’s file to encourage those instincts, then I push a panel in one of the bookcases, revealing a small passage to the exam room. I place her mother’s file in a worn cabinet, letting the edge of the folder hang out, ensuring it will draw Violet’s attention later.
I return to my office, close the bookcase door, and slowly open the door to the waiting area. Finally, I’ll get to see my sweet one in the flesh, and soon, I’ll test her vaginal decency.
I’ll fuck her with my fist.
Chapter 4
Dr. Ambrose
The couple stirs in their sunken chairs. I meet Violet’s eyes, and a rush of adrenaline courses through me. She peeks up through her thick eyelashes, her deep brown, almost black irises like poisonous frogs hiding at the bottom of a well. The subtle scent of her anticipation floats through the air: ripe cherries dipped in sugar. Her dark roots stripe her blonde hair like a path marking her skull.
A pleasant shudder runs through me. Her grown-out hair roots are a reminder of the staples I’ll eventually use to put her skull back together again.
For now, she remains whole.
I turn to her supposed boyfriend. “Benji.”
“Dr. Ambrose,” he murmurs. He keeps his eyes lowered.
