For another week, I wait. This time, once I’m sure she’s deep in a REM cycle, I open the top of the crib cage and stand at her bedside.
I push a strand of hair off of her forehead. Her closed eyelids flicker, and her nostrils flare. She’s completely vulnerable, and she has no idea I’m within arm’s reach.
Power floods my veins.
The week after that, I begin a new nightly routine. I open the cage lid and plunge a syringe full of a sedative into her neck. Those rapid eye movements stop.
I check her pulse through the bars of the crib cage; her heart is steady, but her mind is gone.
I remove my cock from my trousers and rub the tip against her puckered lips. Pain shoots down my spine, causing a full-body shudder. The head of my cock is sore and raw from my incessant picking at the infected wound.
But I’ve been waiting so long to use her again.
I angle my hips forward, pushing my length down her throat. She gags slightly; the sedation is too strong for her to do much else. Her warm flesh and sharp teeth encase my cock; a satisfied grin stretches across my lips. This is a preview of our future together when she transforms into my human doll.
“You feel so good right now,” I moan. “And you’ll feel even better once I change you completely.”
Cum spurts down her throat; she chokes; her esophagus squeezes me.
I exhale deeply, then remove my length from her mouth. I likely bruised the back of her throat, but the dumb cunt will never know I was inside of her. She’ll continue her isolated punishment, and I’ll keep fucking the unconscious slut’s throat every night until she learns her lesson the hard way, until she learns how to truly please me by accepting her new role as my freak.
I stand in the doorway. In the locked crib cage, her chest rises and falls. Even while I supposedly “teach” her how to please me, the truth is the freak does please me.
She has no idea how much I enjoy doing this to her.
Chapter 25
Violet
Time passes. I don’t know how much. Every morning, I wake up with a sore throat as if I’ve been crying in my sleep. Is it possible to sob while sleeping and not wake up? My dreams draw images of Dr. Ambrose in the room with me, his long cock like a funnel in my mouth, feeding me his cum. The nightly visions are a cruel joke of his caress.
One day, a spider crawls in the corner of the room. It spins a web, careful with each thread, weaving its trap, its home.
I remember reading somewhere female spiders are more likely to make webs. This one is probably a female, then.
She becomes my entertainment. It’s the only relief I get from being lost in my own thoughts, in my obsession with Dr. Ambrose.
“You need a name,” I say to the spider. It stays still, waiting for its next meal. “How about Violet?”
I sigh. “Violet” isn’t the right name for a creature building a home and setting a trap. Not when every chance to kill the enemy slips through the threads.
“Alick?” I ask.
The spider shifts.
“Yes.” I smile. “Alick is more fitting.”
Hours become days. Days become weeks. Weeks become months. Time seems to melt, a mix of liquids without any distinct layers. I honestly don’t know how much time has passed. Every once in a while, I see a blue sky through the window, hinting at the changing seasons, or during a shower, I sometimes catch a glimpse of my growing hair in a murky reflection.
A fly lands on the spider’s web. She dances over to her prey. The fly wriggles, but it’s stuck. Soon, the white threads wrap around the meal, securing it in place. The meal stops moving. It had an instinct, a will to survive. Now, it’s food.
That night, the spider crawls across the web to eat its meal, sucking the blood out of the food. The predator consumed the object. Maybe the fly feels better now. It served a purpose.
The next morning, Dr. Ambrose—no, Daddy—returns.
My chest inflates, my lips fluttering.
“Now, tell me,” he says. “Who am I speaking to?”
