Page 8 of Atrocity (The Wellard Asylum #5)

"Obedience is the gateway drug to power."

— Timothy Leary

G abriel’s obedience the other day stuck to me like blood under fingernails—impossible to ignore and fucking impossible to clean.

I’ve been watching him since that day in group. Not lurking, or stalking, but cataloging.

Every twitch and tremble. Every time he ducks his head like he’s ashamed of the way I , Johny Cutter, Wellard's number one monster, made him feel.

Good.

I want him that way. I fucking love him like this.

Shamed. Shaking, and so deliciously soft.

I’ve spent the last few days circling him like a starving dog with a bone between its teeth, just watching.

Waiting. Salivating for the twitch. The limp.

The give. At first, I thought maybe I fucked him too soft.

Maybe the cracks didn’t sink deep enough.

Maybe my sweet little marionette still had some string left to pull himself upright.

But this morning? Oh, this morning he looked at me.

Not long or loud. Just a flicker, eyes darting like he thought I wouldn’t notice. But I did. I always do. That trembling little glance like a deer catching scent of the wolf that already has its teeth buried in its ribs.

And fuck if it doesn’t have my dick hard.

He's breaking just right.

My eyes are steady, yet his are wide and trembling. I smirk, bringing two fingers to my mouth and let out a low, slow whistle. Just for him. Then I mouth it:

Walk.

A single word. Followed by a tilt of my chin to the left. Toward the corridor between the rec room and the old staff showers. The ones nobody uses anymore. Nothing but damp tiles, and flickering light. No cameras. Just the stink of mildew and ghosts of steam.

He hesitates for a couple of seconds, then obeys.

Smart mutt.

Doesn’t look back. Doesn’t ask questions.

Just scurries down the corridor like a twitchy little rabbit with a knife at its back.

Shoulders hunched, pace brisk, but not quite a sprint.

That’s right. Let him walk into the jaws.

Let him play brave, just long enough to forget I’m the monster waiting to bite.

I trail behind him like a shadow with teeth. Grinning. Breathing. Pulsing with every step he takes toward his own undoing.

He reaches the old rusted door to the staff showers and pauses, like maybe his instincts are screaming. They should be. But he pulls it open anyway. Good boy.

I slip in after him, slow and quiet like rot in the walls, and slam it shut. The metal screams like a slit throat. I throw the bolt, hard. He flinches.

God, I love that sound.

The air in here is thick, wet, sticky like tongues in the dark. Steam clings to the tile like breath from something that should’ve died already. The lights overhead sputter and buzz like brain flies, chewing through the soft, screaming parts of your skull.

Perfect little hellhole. Just for us.

“Strip,” I say, my voice low, steady.

He startles, just a twitch, but his eyes stay locked on mine. We’re only a few feet apart now. Close enough I can see the pulse jumping at his throat. Close enough he knows running isn’t an option.

His fingers move to his waistband. Fumble. Pause. His breath hitches like he might speak, like he might beg, then doesn’t.

“You can cry while you do it, sweetheart,” I coo, sugar-laced venom curling off my tongue. “But those pants? They’re still coming off.”

And they do.

The shirt hits the floor first—limp, defeated, like maybe his spine’s thinking of following it down. I watch him like a wolf watches a twitchy little lamb, eyes sharp, hungry, and damn near foaming. His chest rises too fast, too shallow, like he’s hoping if he doesn’t breathe, he’ll disappear.

But magic tricks don’t work in hell, sweetheart. Only monsters do.

His fingers twitch at the waistband like they’re praying for a miracle. But miracles? Those are for the sane. The innocent. The ones who haven’t already spread their legs for the devil.

No miracle comes.

Ribs like cage bars peek through when he sucks in a breath. Pale skin painted in old bruises—some mine, some not. Doesn’t matter. I’ll paint over all of them soon enough. And he’s shaking now. Delicious. Ripe.

Then come the pants.

And oh… fuck me running. There it is.

His cock hangs low, flushed and twitching, caught somewhere between fear and filthy want. He’s trying so fucking hard not to be hard, like he can tuck it away, like shame will save him.

But it won’t. I will. In my own special way.

“Oh, sweetheart…” I croon, voice like honey poured over broken glass. “You’re not even pretending anymore, are you?”

I step closer, slow enough to make him ache for the distance he’s losing. Let him feel it—my shadow swallowing his, my heat curling up his spine, the weight of my stare peeling back his skin like wrapping paper.

His lips part, but he still doesn’t speak—smart boy. He just stands there, red-faced, trembling, humiliated and half-hard like the filthy little mutt he’s become.

But my cock?

Rock. Fucking. Hard.

Because broken toys always shine brightest right before they snap… and this one’s already creaking.

Right now, he’s mine.

I grab him hard by the arm and shove him face first into the furthest stall. Slam him up against the cold tile. He gasps, mouth parted, eyes wide like he’s already in pain.

“Hands on the wall,” I growl.

He flinches but he listens. Good mutt. Trembling all the way, he spreads his palms against the cracked ceramic like he’s bracing for execution. Chest heaving. Spine stiff.

Perfect fucking picture.

I don’t bother undressing. Don’t need to. This ain’t romance, and I ain’t here to make it pretty.

I shove my pants down just far enough and step in close, flush against him, and fuck, I feel it.

His breath catches. His whole body tenses.

But his cock?

Hard. Hot. Leaking.

Pressed tight between his thighs, twitching like it’s got a mind of its own.

He’s dripping. For me.

And the shame? Oh, it’s rolling off him like perfume. That desperate little tremble in his legs, the flush crawling up his neck, he’s drowning in it.

I grip his hips and yank him back into me, grinding slow, deliberate, mean. Letting him feel every inch of me pressed against his ass. My cock sliding along the cleft, teasing, promising.

He gasps—sharp and sinful.

“Look at you,” I rasp into his ear, my breath hot and wicked. “Dripping hard from just the threat of it. You want it, don’t you?”

He shakes his head.

Lying little thing.

I chuckle, low and feral, lips grazing the shell of his ear. “You do.”

My hand snakes around, grabs his cock, and fuck, he’s soaked. Precum slicks my palm as I fist him, once, twice—slow and cruel. He jolts, hips bucking forward like he didn’t mean to, chasing the contact even while he whimpers like it hurts to admit it.

“That’s it,” I coo. “Cry all you want, baby doll. But your cock doesn’t lie.”

And neither do I.

“Admit it.”

“N-no?—”

Wrong answer.

I press in harder—not inside—just the weight of my cock dragging up the crack of his ass like a promise dipped in gasoline. I let him feel what he’ll never get anywhere else.

“Say it, mutt. Say you want it.”

He gasps, knuckles white against the cracked tile. The breath stutters out of him like he’s trying to smother it before it turns into a moan.

“I-I want it,” he breathes, voice raw. “Please—fuck—just don’t stop—please?—”

Oh, that’s better. That’s so much better.

“That’s it.”

I fist his cock, slow and cruel, and the little bastard bucks into my hand like an animal, leaking all over my palm. Desperate. Starving. Humiliated.

He’s fucking shaking.

“Look at you. You’ll say anything if I just keep jerking your pathetic cock, won’t you?”

“Yes—fuck—yes, I will, I swear—don’t stop—please don’t stop?—”

The words fall out of him like prayers from a false prophet’s lips. He’d promise me his soul if I asked for it right now.

I press harder against him, cock grinding up the curve of his ass, one hand jerking him while the other yanks his head back by the hair.

“This what you need, sweetheart? Huh? My hand on your cock, my voice in your ear, my cock on your skin?”

He nods frantically, hips twitching, moaning, falling apart. I squeeze the base of his cock, stopping him just before he tips over the edge.

“Please—” he sobs. “Please let me—let me cum, Johnny—please, please, I’ll do anything—anything?—”

I chuckle, filthy and low.

“Anything?”

“Yes—yes—fuck, just—please—I need it?—”

He’s mine. All the way to the marrow. Wrecked. Crying. Shuddering. And so fucking hard it’s obscene.

I stroke him faster now. Cruel. Brutal. Relentless. His body bows, legs shaking as he chokes on a sob, and then?—

He cums with a scream, spilling across the tiles like he’s been gutted. I don’t stop touching him. Not yet. I milk it out of him, every twitch, every spurt, until he’s slumping, gasping, dazed.

Then I grab his hair and yank him around, dragging him to his knees.

He barely resists. Of course he doesn’t.

“Mouth open. Now.”

His lips part instantly, tears still running down his cheeks. Eyes unfocused.

“Such a good little cum puppet,” I purr, gripping my cock and slapping it against his tongue. “Is that what you are now? Huh? My little cum puppet?”

He whimpers. Nods. His hands grip my thighs like they’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

I thrust into his mouth without mercy. Not slow. Not careful. Just raw, punishing rhythm, his lips stretched, spit slicking his chin, eyes wide and glassy. He gags but doesn’t pull back.

I fuck his throat like I’m punishing it. Like I’m staking my claim all over again. He takes it. Chokes on it. And I fucking love it.

“That’s it. That’s it, baby. Take it. Take it all. Show me who you belong to.”

He gags again. Still doesn’t stop. I grip the back of his head, forcing him down harder. Deeper.

“You love this.” My voice is a snarl. “You love choking on my cock like the broken little freak you are.”

His tears say no.

But his mouth?

His mouth says yes.

I shove deeper, and he takes it like he was made for it. His throat spasms, struggling, but he doesn’t pull away. Can’t. I’ve got a fist tangled in his hair and the other braced on the wall, holding him there, forcing him to breathe around me.

“Look at you,” I snarl, hips snapping forward. “So fucking desperate. You’d let me break your ribs if it meant I didn’t stop, wouldn’t you?”

He moans around me—a wet, choked sound—and that’s all the answer I need.

My body coils tight, breath ragged as the heat builds like a pressure cooker behind my ribs. I’m snarling curses, praises, and filth. Just a mess of words that melt into one manic chant as I use his mouth like it’s mine.

My orgasm hits. Sharp, hot, all-consuming. I jerk his head down hard, my hips stuttering, burying myself to the hilt as I shake through it. The world goes white behind my eyes. My knees damn near buckle.

I stay there a second, breathing like an animal, watching the way his throat works. Watching him swallow. Watching him take it all.

When I finally let go, he slumps backward like a puppet with cut strings. His mouth is swollen, slick. His eyes don’t meet mine.

I crouch down, still high on the chaos between us, and run my thumb across his wet, flushed cheek like I’m smearing the afterglow into his skin.

“That’s my boy,” I murmur, low and cold and too fond in a way that makes it worse. “Such a good little cum puppet.”

He flinches, but he doesn’t run.

He never does. Just stares at the floor like it might swallow him whole, and maybe it will.

But not today.

Today, he’s mine.

And I’m not done with him yet.