This room was built for people who lost their grip on reality. Padded walls to catch them when they fell. Soft surfaces to absorb their screaming. A white womb wheresanity could vanish safely, where madness could bloom without consequence.
And here I was.
A psychologist who had spent her career studying broken minds, now lying naked on a bed of straitjackets, spreading her thighs for a man who had dismembered tons of people with the same hands now gripping my hips.
I am exactly where I belong.
The realization should have horrified me.
Instead, I knew, it was surrender.
He settled between my thighs, his broad shoulders pushing them apart, and his breath ghosted across my soaked center. The sensation made my hips jerk, my wrists yanking against the velvet cuffs in a reflexive bid for control I no longer possessed.
"So wet, Beloved. So ready for me." His hands slid up my inner thighs, spreading me open wider with agonizing slowness, and I felt the cool air hit my swollen, aching flesh. The slick was dripping from me—a steady stream coating my folds, my inner thighs, pooling further on the straitjackets beneath me.
These hands have killed.
The thought pierced through the fog.
These fingers have arranged corpses. These palms have been slick with blood. This man is a monster.
And yet my body arched toward him, straining against the restraints, begging for his touch.
"Beautiful." He traced one finger along my outer lips, feather-light, barely there. "Look at this pretty pussy, so swollen and dripping for me."
I whimpered. The sound hit the padded walls and vanished.
Swallowed.
Erased.
Made secret.
He used his thumbs to spread my swollen lips open wider, exposing my throbbing clit, my clenching entrance, the obscene wetness that coated my most intimate flesh. The cool air made me shiver, made my inner walls shudder, made me crave his cock.
"I've imagined your pussy so many times, Beloved." His thumbs stroked along my outer lips, maddeningly close to where I needed him but never quite touching. "Wondered if you would taste as sweet as I imagined you would smell."
“Oh.” My wrists twisted in the cuffs. The velvet lining was soft, but the restraints held firm, keeping me spread, helpless, and exposed.
He murdered people. He carved them up like meat. He left their pieces arranged in patterns that still haunt crime scene photographers. . .and I want his mouth on me so badly I could scream.
Then his tongue touched my clit.
The first contact was electric—a live wire pressed directly to my most sensitive nerve endings. I cried out, my back bowing off the bed, my arms straining so hard against the restraints that the bed frame creaked.
“Mmmm.” He licked my clit again.
Slow.
Thorough.
His long tongue flat, wet, and scorching hot, dragging from my pussy’s entrance all the way up to my clit in one long, devastating stroke.
"Oh God!" The padded walls ate my cry.
Consumed it.
Made my pleasure a secret that existed only in this room.
