Page 14 of Exposed (The Wellard Asylum #1)

He reaches down, grabs my hands, and yanks me to my feet.

His body is so close that his heat grazes me.

I’m panting hard as he inspects me, and it sends chills down my back.

I’m naked, but he’s still completely clothed, and standing next to each other like this, it’s painfully obvious.

His cock twitches, brushing against the fabric of his pants and skimming me.

His hand reaches between my thighs, his coarse, scarred palm cupping me. My folds spread as he teases my opening. My tongue flickers over my bottom lip, and Dr. Ambrose’s eyes rove over my mouth, a smirk dancing across his face.

“As I suspected,” he murmurs. “Evidence of your arousal.”

I don’t know what takes hold of me. I press my hips forward, sandwiching his hard, monstrous cock between us.

“So are you,” I whisper.

He bellows with laughter. Goosebumps fleck my skin. Then he shoves me so hard, I fall backward, catching myself on my ass and palms.

“What an assumptive, dumb little bitch,” he growls.

“You know what excites me the most?” He bends closer and enunciates each word: “You don’t know who I am.

You don’t know what I’m capable of. You don’t know how wrong it is to want me.

On the other hand, I know exactly who you are, where you’re from, and what you’re capable of.

I could tell you everything you need to know.

Instead, I will keep you here, right under my thumb, ready to do anything I say.

” His voice lowers: “I bet if you learned the truth, you’d still want me.

You’re such a wanton, desperate little bitch, you’ll do anything I ask. ”

My shoulders hunch as I curl into myself. It’s not true. I’m not doing this for myself. I’m doing this for my mother. For justice. To kill him. I will find the vial, blind him, and use the shower head to crush his skull.

So, why haven’t I done it yet ?

He unclips a small metal clamp from the bathtub’s tarp. I squint. The edges of the clip are jagged with small triangular teeth. My heart pounds. He’s not going to put that on me. Is he?

He whips the tarp from the tub, and the plastic sheet flutters to the floor. He pulls me by my hair, moving me to sit in the tub.

The ceramic is stained, and the drain is open, missing its plug.

He bends down, then attaches the metal clamp to my clit. The teeth pierce my skin, stabbing my bundle of nerves, tendrils of pain bursting in my neck and ears. As he lets go, the clamp expresses its full power, and the pressure is unbearable. I cry and whack at it with my hands.

“If you take it off before you cum, I will remove your clit,” he growls.

I choke on my spit. Remove my clit?

I believe him. He would cut off my clit if he wanted to.

Tears drench my face, and my clit throbs. He puts the tarp back on the tub, strapping the other clamps back down to the ceramic. The top half circles my neck like a collar. This is a hydrotherapy tub, isn’t it? The kind of tarp meant to keep a patient inside the water.

My pussy is hidden from his view; I could remove the clamp. But I’m too scared of the pain of losing my clit and too eager to do what he says. To be good. To be enough. I just have to cum, and then I can get rid of the clamp.

He unzips his pants, his erect cock springing into view. My pain and fear vanish.

His cock is pale and bright, visible in the dim lighting, with dark veins darting around his shaft, resembling angry bolts of lightning. His shaft is long and thin, a rope ready to wrap around my neck and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze until my head pops off.

And I want him to choke me.

I bite my lip, pleading for relief. For his cock. For him.

He takes his length in his hand. “Now, for the final test.”

My body trembles, my clit throbs, and my legs spread as wide as they’ll go. My knees hit the sides of the tub, and I wait for whatever comes next.

His face pinches, his cock softens, and I open my mouth, leaning as far forward as I can without moving the tarp, desperate to lick his shaft with my tongue.

He doesn’t move.

A few seconds pass.

Hot liquid streams from his tip and splashes on my chin and neck. It drips under the tarp, tracing my tits, going between my legs. I scoot out of the way. He slaps me and grips my chin.

“Drink it,” he growls.

My mouth opens. His piss fills me. It’s tangy. Hot. A mild broth with hints of apples and citrus.

He rips the tarp off, exposing me. My hands are cupped between my legs, my pussy riding my palm, rubbing the clamp. My core churns with pain and pleasure. Why am I doing this?

He chuckles. “You didn’t realize you were humping your hand, did you?”

My cheeks flush. “I?—”

“Finger-fuck yourself.”

My hands are wet with his piss, and my body is so ready for him that my brain overrides my soreness.

I insert three fingers instantly, and I stare at him with an open mouth as he strokes his cock.

He appraises my piss-covered body, his cock harder than before, and I thrust my hips forward, wanting his penetration.

A part of me knows I’ll never be able to cum again without thinking of him. Taking his fist. Licking his boot. Drinking his piss.

“You’re worse than your mother,” he says with a grin. “You’re a true gutter whore, willing to take any trash I give you.”

Benji told him about my mother during the consultations. I know that. But why do I like being worse than my mother?

Chills rake my skin, pins and needles spiking over me. Still, I push closer to the abyss where I’ll never be able to recover my sense of self.

“No. My—” I try. “My mo?—”

It’s no use. I try to remember why I’m here, why I can’t let him say things like that to me, and yet my head is vacuous, a feather carried into the sky. My tears flow as I fight my own arousal.

I’m here for my family. I’m here for my family, aren’t I?

Dr. Ambrose is my family.

“I may have to keep you here for a long time. It’s for your safety, you know,” he says. “Now, be a good whore and cum for me.”

The pain bites through my clit as I grind on the clamp; at the same time, my entire body bolts with pleasure, and those sensations bulldoze me.

You don’t know who I am, he had said. You don’t know how wrong it is to want me.

A spasm surges through me and I wail right as another thought worms its way into my brain.

It should be sobering. It should make me stop.

But the intense need to get off controls me, and I can’t stop myself.

I finger-fuck myself so hard, the toothed clamp rocks back and forth against my clit, causing pain to pummel me until pleasure throws me into a black hole where I’m spinning out of control.

I sob. I shouldn’t want to make him cum.

I shouldn’t want anything to do with him, and yet the desire is rooted at the base of my spine, lingering at the edges of my awareness.

At least I’m being good, doing what he says—what he wants —and that justification cuts a new fear inside of me and forces me to face myself.

Dr. Ambrose is the reason I’m alive. The reason I’m here. I have no doubt in my mind he’s my father and my mother’s murderer.

What if I still want him?