Page 6 of Atrocity (The Wellard Asylum #5)

“He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster... when you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.”

— Friedrich Nietzsche

" T hat’s it, Gold. Take it deeper. Gag on it like your job depends on it, because it fucking does."

I don’t moan, I laugh. Quiet, breathy, obscene.

The kind of laugh that says I’m not just enjoying this—I’m thriving on it.

Head tilted against the padded wall, burger in one hand, his hair in the other.

My straight jacket is bunched beside us like a corpse.

My ankles are cuffed, but not enough to stop me from rolling my hips and using him like he’s the only thing he’s good for.

And honestly?

It is.

Dr. Gold’s glasses are fogged, sweat beading at his temples as he kneels in front of me, shirt wrinkled, tie loosened, desperation soaking through every inch of him.

He picked up the night shift again. No doubt because without it, he wouldn’t have gotten his weekly fix.

Wouldn’t have been able to sneak down here under the hum of fluorescent lights and CCTV blind spots just to get on his knees for the thing he should be prescribing meds for.

“Couldn’t stay away, could you?” I murmur, dragging my fingers through his thinning hair. “Had a whole week to pretend you’re a respectable little shrink, but here you are, cock straining through your khakis while you drool all over mine.”

He lets out a shaky noise. It’s not a protest. It’s permission.

“You like being used like this,” I whisper, voice low, gravel-thick. “You want everyone upstairs thinking you’re curing people while you’re down here gagging for a psycho’s approval.”

He nods. Pathetic. His fingers twitch like he wants to touch me, but he won’t unless I let him.

“You’re lucky,” I hum, chewing a mouthful of burger like it’s the main event and he’s just dessert. “Anyone else down here? I’d snap their wrist for looking at me the wrong way. But you? You bring me meat. You bring me silence. You bring me that desperate little whimper when I press too deep.”

I shove his head forward just to feel the way he stiffens. Just to hear the muffled gasp he can’t hide.

His hand slips down again. I see it. He’s trembling. Touching himself through his pants like he’s forgotten where we are. Like the locked door and the padded walls give him permission to become something else entirely. The obedient thing he is with me.

“You gonna make a mess in those Dockers again?” I hiss. “Not even out of your slacks and already twitching like a bitch in heat.”

Dr. Gold’s face is red, glasses barely hanging on, a string of spit glistening along his jaw. His hand stills, but his eyes— fuck , his eyes are wild with it. Shame and thrill, the kind that crack open the brain like an overripe melon.

“Look at you,” I coo, sweet and venomous. “Down on your knees in a padded room, slurping my dick like it’s the cure for your midlife crisis.”

“I needed this,” he gasps when I let him breathe for half a second. “Fuck—Johnny—I needed this.”

Another thrust. Wet. Violent. Beautiful.

“You ever suck off any of the other inmates?” I sneer, dragging my burger along the side of his face, smearing grease across his cheekbone as he shakes his head. “No? Just me, huh? Thought so. Guess even your sick little brain knows what the fuck I am.”

He tries to nod, but I’ve got a fist in his hair again, pushing him down until he whines for breath.

“Special.”

His throat tightens around me. I groan and finish the last bite of the burger, chewing slow as his lips stretch red around the base of my cock.

“Can’t blame you,” I add, dragging his head back just enough to see his face. “I’d suck me too.”

“You’re perfect,” he whimpers, lips swollen, eyes glassy as he runs his tongue along my shaft before circling the swollen tip. “Fuck—I’d do anything for this. For you.”

“Go on, then. Finish the fucking job,” I whisper, pressing his face back down. “Swallow my load like a good little cocksleeve.”

And when I come?

I fucking laugh.

Loud, deranged, and full-bodied.

Like the padded walls are echoing it back just to keep up.

My whole body jerks—still sore and wired from the fight, and lockdown, but I don’t care. I ride it out. Every filthy second. Every twitch of his lips, every swallow, every gag. I hold his head there until I’m empty. Until he’s devoured every fucking drop.

Then I let go.

He drops back onto the padded floor with a wet cough, looking like he just survived a drowning. Ruined. Humiliated. His khakis are a disaster, stained and stretched like they’ve been through war. I tilt my head, laughing low in my throat.

"Jesus, Doc," I sneer, licking my thumb clean. "Did you even try not to blow in your pants this time? That’s the third pair this month. Gonna need a new wardrobe if you keep getting off like some back-alley junkie with a therapist kink."

He groans, flushed and trembling, glasses askew and fogged up like a windshield in a storm.

Pathetic little freak. I reach down, thumb catching a slick smear on his chin, and without breaking eye contact, I drag it across the padded wall behind me in a slow arc—an abstract little masterpiece of filth.

“Art therapy,” I mutter. “You idiots always say it helps with processing.”

He just pants in front of me, wrecked and grateful, like this was the best part of his whole week.

It probably was.

I tilt my head, smirking.

“Bring a second burger next time,” I say, licking grease off my thumb. “And maybe— just maybe —I’ll let you slide a finger in my ass.”

His breath stutters. He blinks up at me, still on his knees, panting like a dog waiting for praise.

“Fuck—yes. Yes, please. Anything. I’ll bring whatever you want. Just say it?—”

I wink.

“Then clean yourself up, Gold. I’ve got better things to do.”

Because Gabriel’s out there. Untouched. Unbroken.

And he’s mine.

I’ve had time to think in here. Padded walls, nothing but silence and the sound of my own thoughts chewing through the static. And it hit me, real hard and clear.

If I want Gabriel the way I really want him… if I want to take him apart and keep him that way—chained, raw, and obedient—then this place isn’t gonna cut it.

Sure, maybe I’ll get to fuck him. Maybe I’ll even get to fuck him right. But every time I do, they’ll drag me back in here. Tranq’d, strapped, locked in a box with my cock still hard and no one to bite down on the scream.

That’s not ownership.

That’s punishment for having good taste.

So no. That won’t do.

We need out.

Because I’m not interested in quick hits and padded walls.

I want permanence. Scars. Screams on repeat.

I want to keep him wrecked and ready, always.

And the only way to do that… Is to make sure they never lock me in a cage away from my puppet again.

For the first time in days, I’m out of the padded cell. Showered. Fed. Half-sane if you’re the type to be fooled by soap and silence.

The halls are still dim, staff rotating shifts, but the sun’s coming. That piss-yellow kind of light that makes everything look more normal than it is. I tug my sleeves down, hair still wet against my neck and start toward the common room. Group starts in ten.

Which means he’ll be there.

No need to sniff him out today. No wandering the halls like a wolf hunting a lamb. They’ll hand him to me, leashed and nervous. Good.

Dr. Thompson steps into my path halfway down the corridor—youngish, fresh-faced, all bright smiles and clinical delusion.

One of those do-gooder types who probably still believes people like me come with a cure if you just dig deep enough.

Her red hair’s loud. Her lab coat’s tighter than it should be, especially around the tits—massive things that look like they’re one deep breath from snapping a button and blinding someone.

She’s the kind of woman who talks soft and walks careful, like empathy’s a leash. Like I’ll sit for a treat if she says the magic words.

But I know her type.

And I don’t bite unless I want to.

“Johnny,” She smiles too brightly. “I heard from Dr. Gold. He said you’re… making progress.”

I blink at her. Slow. Tilt my head like I’m studying a bug I might just squash for fun.

“He also said you’ve been more… regulated. We’ve reviewed your file. Adjusting your meds might help with the, ah, mood volatility.”

She’s got the kind of voice that tries not to flinch when she says words like volatile . The kind that thinks softness is safety. It’s not.

I nod once. Smile wide. “You gonna give me a gold star too?”

She laughs, awkward, clearly unsure if I’m joking. She’s got a clipboard in her hand, but I don’t think she’s looked at it once. Eyes keep bouncing between my face and my file like one’s more dangerous than the other.

“I’m headed to group,” I say, voice smooth, friendly, like I didn’t just spend days in solitary getting off to the memory of my little puppet and the way he flinches when I’m near. “Aren’t you proud?”

Her smile softens. “I am, actually. Keep this up, and maybe we’ll get you reassessed for increased privileges.”

Dumb bitch.

I want to say it out loud. But I don’t. I just look at her tits instead—big, round, probably real, and imagine what kind of moans she’d make if I bent her over that nurse’s station and told her all about how progressive I’m feeling.

I tell her what she wants to hear. Nod like I care. She touches my arm like I’m a fucking miracle . And when she finally walks away?

I grin.

Because there’s nothing to fix. No missing screws. No snapped springs. I’m not some busted clock, I just tick louder, faster, wrong. And that scares them. Makes their soft little hands shake when they try to wind me back. But I don’t break. I burn.

The common room’s already half full when I get there. Plastic chairs in a circle, a whiteboard with TRUST IS EARNED scribbled in blue marker, and the same dozen faces pretending they give a shit. The therapist hasn’t started yet.

But he’s here.

Gabriel.