Dr. Ambrose
After we finish the freak’s final test, I attach a metal leash to her collar. She crawls beside me, finding her place at my feet.
It’s quite astonishing how well the freak takes to her new life. It must be comforting to embrace a lack of agency, to simply exist.
We travel up the stairs to my bedroom. I clip her leash to an o-ring installed on the floor beside my bed; I had it prepared for her about a year ago.
Then, I retire for the night. I sleep on the side of the bed closest to the freak. She doesn’t ask for a pillow or a blanket; she folds her hands under her head and tucks her feet underneath her, her naked body positioned against the hard floors.
Collared and chained like this, she’s one step closer to becoming my perfect doll, and that brings me peace.
I sleep well.
In the morning, I stand and stretch. The windows are shuttered from the inside, the smallest hints of light breaking through the wooden slats.
The freak perches on her feet, positioned like a dog waiting for my command. The collar fits her neck tightly, her small tits hang, and a slight bruise darkens her mons.
My dick twitches at the sight of her. I should feed us first, but I’m eager to begin the next phase of her transformation.
“Good morning, freak,” I say. She wiggles on her haunches. I pat the top of her head. “I have a new task for you to demonstrate your dedication to me.”
Her eyes widen, her pupils dilating. Then she settles back on her ankles, demonstrating her confidence in me. She’s killed her own mother; how much worse can my demands get?
I stifle a laugh. It can always, always get worse.
I unlock the chain leash from the floor, then tug the freak to her feet. Using the leash, I lead her down the hallway to the stairs. At the top of the steps, I stop and link the chain around my knuckles, like bandages around a boxer’s fists. Then I offer her my hand. She blinks, the only sign of her internal processing.
She takes my hand.
“We must be careful with these steps now,” I explain. “After living for such a long time in the crib cage, you must be quite sore after yesterday’s acclimation. Your muscles could give out at any moment, and we don’t want my favorite toy to get ruined now.”
She smiles. Perhaps she’s grateful I’m caring for her…
If you can call it that.
As we descend, my brows raise. Perhaps I am caring for her. I am deeply invested in her more than any other specimen I’ve experimented on.
I lead us down the same first floor hallway as the night before until finally, we reach the door leading to my personal laboratory. Inside, there are seven diapered women, each sitting naked on medical chairs, similar to the ones used in a phlebotomist’s clinic to draw blood. However, my furniture includes locking mechanisms and belts to keep the bodies upright and nutrient IVs administered in the women’s bodies.
Can they truly be called women, though? Perhaps it would be more accurate to call them human females. I’m sure reputable doctors and civilians would prefer respect given to those in an unresponsive wakeful state; I’ve always been prone to thinking of my failed experiments as lower than that though. Once they entered my care, they were no longer humans who deserved respect; they were raw materials for my experiments. And eventually, they became failed experiments.
The freak is my best experiment yet.
She’s lucky she’s my obsession.
The freak’s grip on my hand pulses, and her eyes wash over the white-tiled room, the same one she was in the evening before. Her mother lies limp on the table in the center. The warm, ripe scent of molding fruit mixes with the clinical staleness in the air.
Cleanliness isn’t usually a priority of mine. However, a few months prior to the freak’s arrival at the asylum, I began a tireless cleaning regimen in this laboratory in preparation for her final transformation.
Now isn’t the time for that though.
I pull the freak by the chain to the nearest failure; a female in its early forties with black hair and pale skin. Though the specimen is a stark contrast from the freak’s dyed blonde hair and tanned skin, the failure wasn’t always like this. It had a similar complexion to the freak, and I even once dyed the hair blonde to force it to resemble her more.
Of course, the failure could never get close to being the freak. I despised the specimen for its inaccuracy and thus shaved its head.
That was years ago. Now, I fully accept the failure as it is. No one can come close to resembling my disgusting freak. I know that now.
“I selected this one shortly after your twentieth birthday,” I explain.
