Page 12 of Atrocity (The Wellard Asylum #5)

"The lust for power is not rooted in strength, but in the need to control what terrifies us."

— Carl Jung

T he tile floor is still slick from the last group’s rinse. Mildew clings to the grout in black webs, and the overhead light flickers like it’s got something to hide.

Gabriel’s bent over, his breath fogging the mirror, lips red and parted, his eyes glassy like he’s not really here. I’ve got one hand in his hair, the other holding his hip steady while I fuck into him, raw and brutal, pelvis slapping flesh with every thrust.

I don’t talk much. Not when I’m focused like this. Not when I’m deep inside the only good thing in this hellhole.

But he’s whining again. A soft, pathetic sound, more of a mewl than a moan.

“You’re lucky I don’t gag you,” I mutter, fingers tightening in his curls until he yelps. “But I like the sounds you make. I like knowing how full you feel when I’m buried this deep.”

He doesn’t respond, can’t. His jaw’s loose, chest slick with sweat, cock twitching against the wall where he’s braced himself.

This isn’t the first time I’ve taken him here. Won’t be the last. These back showers are ours now. Mine. No cameras. No staff with clipboards.

Just me and my toy.

The slap of skin echoes like gunfire in the tiled chamber. Gabriel’s breath fogs the cracked mirror, his hands braced, legs trembling, every inch of him pliant and obedient—just the way I trained him.

I don’t slow down when the door creaks open.

I don’t stop.

Because why the fuck would I?

He’s mine.

And I’m going to make damn sure everyone knows it.

Footsteps pause just inside the threshold. Cigarette smoke coils into the humid air like a ghost.

“Shit,” comes a voice, casual as hell. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Gabriel flinches like he’s been shot.

I laugh. Not because I’m surprised, but because it’s fucking pathetic how fast he breaks. His body might be trained, but that little brain of his still thinks it gets a say.

It doesn’t.

Behind us, Ziggy leans against the rusted frame, black hair matted from sweat, a fresh bruise under one eye like he got in a fight with a sink and lost. The cigarette dangles from his lip, smoke curling past a lazy smirk.

“Don’t stop on my account,” he drawls, eyes flicking down to where Gabriel’s trembling. “Looks like he’s enjoying himself.”

“Oh, he is,” I sneer, yanking Gabriel’s head back by the hair until his flushed face reflects in the mirror. “He just gets shy when there’s an audience.”

I glance back at Ziggy. “Show him how good you take it, pup. Be a good little fuckdoll.”

“Yeah,” I say, “but he’s quieter than that bitch Marla.”

Ziggy snorts. “Fucking Marla.”

“Mm-hmm. Night nurse with the tits and the shriek? Every new inmate gets a turn, and she makes it sound like she’s being murdered.”

“Railed her last night,” Ziggy mutters, lighting a smoke and leaning against the shower wall, unbothered. “Had to smother her with her own uniform just to nut.”

I bark a laugh and grab Gabriel’s jaw, twisting his face toward me just enough to see the tears glittering in his lashes. “See? That’s the difference. I like the sounds this one makes. They’re raw. Real.”

Ziggy watches Gabriel moan again and exhales smoke through his teeth. “Yeah, and they’re coming from a real pretty throat. Bet it’d feel nice around my cock.”

I raise a brow. “Give it a shot.”

Gabriel flinches, but I don’t let up. I slide a hand up his spine, press between his shoulders like I’m staking him to the tile. “Go on, Zig. Grab his hair. He’ll swallow you like the good little puppet he is.”

Ziggy steps forward, casual as if he’s picking up a drink off a bar. “Damn, Cutter. From what I hear, sharing is so unlike you.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Happy,” I growl. “He’s not a person. He’s a needy little cumrag with two holes and no fucking soul.”

Ziggy chuckles. “Shit, Cutter. Alright. If he’s just a cumdump with a pulse, slide over. I’ll happily use his throat while you wreck the rest. Let’s see how much he can take before he breaks.”

I don’t slide over. I don’t need to. Gabriel’s already halfway gone, pliant, broken, trembling between us like a good little chew toy.

Ziggy shoves the waistband of his sweats down with one hand, still puffing on his smoke, then drags his cock out, already half-hard and mean-looking.

He slaps it against Gabriel’s cheek once. Then again.

Gabriel whimpers.

“Oh, yeah,” Ziggy mutters. “He’s ready.”

He fists Gabriel’s hair and yanks him forward. No warning. No fucking prep. Just shoves his cock between those pretty lips, grinding forward until Gabriel’s choking, and drooling around him, knuckles white on the sink.

I never stop moving. Just rut into him harder, matching Ziggy’s pace. Gabriel’s stuck between us, taking every brutal thrust with something like reverence in his eyes, like this is the closest he’s ever come to god.

Ziggy groans. “Fuck, he’s tight .”

“Right?” I huff. “That throat was built to be used.”

Gabriel’s making these helpless little noises now, desperate, hungry, like he can’t get enough even as he’s falling apart.

Ziggy grips the back of his head and mutters something filthy under his breath. I shove Gabriel forward, forcing him to take more. I watch his knees buckle. His hands slip on the wet ceramic. He doesn’t even try to fight it.

We use him.

We fucking own him.

Gabriel starts to reach for himself, pathetic little fingers trembling, already slick with spit and sweat. I see it in the mirror. That desperate tilt of his chin, the way his hips twitch like he can’t stand not being touched there.

“Ah-ah,” I mutter, grabbing the rusted shelf in front of me as I slam forward again. “You don’t get to do that.”

My knuckles brush against something.

A bar of soap. Cracked. Misshapen. Someone’s carved a hole through it, probably for laughs. Or loneliness.

I grin.

Fucking perfect.

I curl my fingers around it, feel the weight, the grit of it. And then I lean forward, chest to Gabriel’s back, breath hot against his ear as I shove his hand away.

“You don’t touch what’s mine,” I growl. “If you wanna cum, it’s gonna be on my terms.”

He whimpers. Nods.

Good boy.

I slide the soap between his legs and wrap my hand around it, line it up with that aching little cock of his. He gasps, full-body flinch, as I start to work it, guiding him through the crude hole, forcing him to fuck it while I fuck him.

“Look at that,” I murmur, voice low and sharp like broken glass. “Perfect fit. Like your pretty little dick was made for this. Soft. Slippery. Empty. Just like you.”

He moans again, mouth stretched around Ziggy’s cock, throat raw with sound and need. Ziggy mutters something about how tight he is, how good that whimpering mouth feels wrapped around him.

And me?

I don’t stop.

I keep pounding into him, jerking him with the soap like he’s a toy I’ve rigged up for my own sick amusement.

“You feel that?” I hiss. “That’s not love. That’s ownership. That’s what it means to be mine.”

Gabriel trembles. Loses himself. And when he breaks—when he comes, body seizing like a puppet with its strings yanked too tight—I don’t stop.

Not until I’ve left him wrecked, leaking, and marked.

Because this? This is exactly what he was made for.

Gabriel’s body convulses, another moan catching hard in his throat.

He cums like he’s been waiting his whole life for permission, body locking up, hand a blur between his thighs, a sharp cry torn from his throat. His whole frame trembles as he spills across the floor, like every nerve in his body is short-circuiting from the overload.

Ziggy’s not far behind.

He snarls through clenched teeth, pumping himself fast and brutal.

His breaths stutter, sharp and filthy, and then he’s coming—thick ribbons streaking across Gabriel’s flushed cheeks, splattering his lips, his lashes.

Each surge hits with purpose, like a signature scrawled in sweat and sin.

Gabriel doesn’t flinch. Just sticks his tongue out like a dog begging for scraps, eyes glassy, ruined, reverent.

Ziggy laughs low, mean. “Fuck. He’s proud of it.”

My grin cuts like a blade. “He should be.”

I follow a breath after, yanking Gabriel back onto me with a feral snarl, grinding so deep my pelvis bruises his ass. I sink into him like I’m driving a knife home—sharp, final, claiming. My cock pulses inside his wrecked hole, and I laugh—low, breathless, unhinged—right against his ear.

“Feel that?” I hiss. “That’s me filling up what’s mine. Carving my name in you with every fucking drop.”

His body tightens, and his hole milks me like it’s desperate to keep it. Keep me.

“Fuck yes,” I groan, biting down hard on his shoulder, just to feel him jolt. “Drink it up, you filthy little vessel.”

When I’m spent, I let him fall. He crumples like a marionette with its strings cut—shaking, slick, and soaked in everything we gave him. Mouth slack. Chest heaving. Blank eyes shining like a doll left in the rain.

Ziggy tucks his cock back into his pants, watching the mess we made. He steps in front of Gabriel and taps the side of his cheek with two fingers—mocking and fond, like he’s patting a dog that learned a new trick.

“Damn, puppet,” he mutters. “Took it like a champ.”

I lean back against the wall, still catching my breath, grinning wide and wild like the fucking lunatic I am.

“You’re welcome,” I rasp. “Hope you left satisfied, Happy.”

He flicks his cigarette to the drain, the cherry hissing out in a curl of smoke.

Ziggy smirks. “That was fun.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it,” I sneer. “That wasn’t an invite. That was charity.”

He laughs, teeth flashing under the fluorescent flicker. “No complaints here. This place is crawling with holes. Yours just comes with a view.”

“Touché,” I mutter, lips curling.

Then he’s gone, whistling down the corridor like none of this ever happened.

And I’m left standing over my prize.

My broken little doll.

I crouch beside him, run two fingers through the spit and seed smeared across his cheek, then pop them into his mouth like a test.

“Look at you,” I whisper, voice laced with wicked delight. “Wrecked and glowing. Pretty little trash heap full of sin.”

He moans softly, dazed, licking my fingers like it’s instinct.

I grin wider.

“You’re mine,” I remind him, petting his sweat-matted curls. “And I decide who plays with my toys. Tonight? You earned it. Consider it a reward for fetching Daddy that keycard.”

My laugh echoes off the tile—loud, jagged, deranged.

Then I stand and leave him on the floor.

Used. Leaking. Loved.

Just the way I like him.