Page 7 of Exposed (The Wellard Asylum #1)

A s I stare at the decaying ceiling, I console myself. I chose to be here, I think. The acid is right under us. Follow the rules. Get close to him. Then kill the motherfucker.

“Do I need to repeat myself?” Dr. Ambrose grunts. “Move. Your. Hips. Down.”

Follow the rules. Get close to him. Then kill.

I quickly force myself down to the edge of the table, not giving myself a chance to question why Dr. Ambrose wants to see my pussy up close.

The assistant removes an attached flashlight from the side of the exam table, and a spotlight shines between my legs right as Dr. Ambrose’s icy fingers pull my lower lips apart.

I gasp. Don’t most gynecologists warm their hands before an exam like this?

“You’re freezing!” I shriek and jerk up. “Dr. Ambrose?—”

“Hush now,” he says.

His filthy nails dig into my hips and push me down on the table. He’s not even wearing gloves! The pressure of his grip on me increases. I flinch. It’s like he has violent talons; one wrong move, and he could shred me .

“Lie down and be quiet, or you will face consequences,” he says.

Be quiet?

Seething, I lift my head. We scrutinize each other, each of us daring the other to back down. I will “face consequences,” huh? Does he think I’m a damn child? I’ll show him the consequence of getting acid in his eyes and a fucking stool lodged into the back of his skull!

Sharp tendons angle in his jaw, and my lips part. Everything about him is sinewy and strong, an appearance of indestructibility. Like he’ll make me do this whether I like it or not.

My mouth goes dry. I look away. My body is on fire, and I have no idea why. What is going on?

“Be good for me,” Dr. Ambrose murmurs. “Lie down, sweet one.”

A grimace shakes through me, but I flatten myself against the bed.

The paper lining crunches under my back.

Heat pounces my thighs, which I do my best to ignore.

On the ceiling, there are patches of rot, like a pipe has been leaking for years, and that’s what my brain feels like: Dr. Ambrose is breaking something inside of me, and I’m beginning to rot.

I’m following orders because I have to obey him, I tell myself. This has nothing to do with me and everything to do with killing him. It only feels like I’m on fire because ? —

Because I ? —

He picks through my folds, moving my lower lips in each direction, his inspection warming my insides. His acidic odor crowds me. I want to gag, and at the same time, my pussy scorches with need.

He spreads my pussy lips again like petals being plucked from a rose. His fingers are the same temperature as me now, or maybe I’m the same as him. I don’t know. I’m an animal in a testing lab, a prisoner restrained in a cage. I hate that he’s doing this to me. I hate that I’m?—

“Growing moist already,” Dr. Ambrose says, his voice full of gravel. Chills worm down my back. He nods to his assistant. “This may be the quickest duration from standard moisture to lubricated arousal we’ve seen in decades. Take note of the time, Oliver.”

“Yes, Dr. Ambrose,” the assistant says.

Did he say “decades”? Does that mean he’s talking about my mother? And arousal?

I’m not aroused. Dr. Ambrose is lying. Even if I am technically wet, it’s not about him. Attention like this probably turns most people on, and for fuck’s sake, he has nothing to compare my current moisture level to; he’s just making random observations. He’s not even a real doctor!

According to my research, the asylum records claim he attended certain universities to get his degrees, but those schools don’t have any evidence of his attendance. I even bribed one of the university clerks; nothing came up. No Alicks. No Ambroses.

I don’t know how Dr. Ambrose got his position as head of the Department of Intellectual Training, but he’s not a doctor. He’s using the title to increase his power over people. Over his patients.

Over me.

Dr. Ambrose leans closer, his head between my knees as he examines me like a beetle pinned to a board. Pressure increases in my pussy muscles. My mound is raw. Sweat beads my forehead, and my thighs grow clammy. He’s a heat lamp, and I’m going to burn .

The flashlight beaming on me is hot. That’s what this is. I’m not aroused.

“Fragrant,” the doctor says.

The assistant scribbles a note on the clipboard. I touch the back of my neck. What is he talking about?

Dr. Ambrose clears his throat. “Very odorous, indeed.”

“I noticed as well, Doctor,” the assistant says.

Odorous? I grit my teeth. Is he talking about the way my pussy smells?

I clench my jaw, but I keep myself on the exam table. Scents are natural. It’s a normal fucking vagina, you assholes, I seethe internally.

Follow the rules. Get close. Then he’ll be gone.

“Her musk is ten times stronger than average, which is potentially indicative of her atypical tendencies,” the doctor adds.

My entire body flames red. I admit sometimes, when I’m aroused, I do have a strong scent, and sometimes, it does embarrass me. I’ve had it checked out before, and the gynecologist reassured me it was normal. It usually only happens when I’m alone, pleasuring myself. Never with Benji or my ex.

So why is it happening now?

I press my knees together. This isn’t about Dr. Ambrose, his assistant, or what I want. This is about killing him. My body is just playing along.

“Clipboard down. Hold her legs apart,” Dr. Ambrose says.

Knives stab my insides. He’s going to hold me down?

“Wait.” I sit up. “I’ll keep them open. Don’t?—”

The assistant slams my knees open. My tendons and muscles strain, stretched to their limits. I pant, and the pain ignites in my stomach.

Dr. Ambrose traces a finger between my folds, his fingertip sliding on my slickness. It tickles. I bite my lip, refusing to experience any sort of pleasure.

Pain bites between my legs. I squirm and see his fingers around my clit. Is he pinching me?

I snarl. “Pinching my pussy is not part of a real exam.”

“And you are the professional here?” Dr. Ambrose asks coolly.

Unease rolls in my chest. His gaze roams over me. My skin dampens. How does a sheer look from him make me sweat?

He rolls my clit between his fingers. Energy incinerates me. My hips rotate closer to him.

“Do you want me to stop?” Dr. Ambrose asks, grinning with apparent sarcasm. “Perhaps we can complete this examination on another day.”

My insides tingle. We can’t stop now. Not with how much I’ve done to be here.

Obey. The vial is under the exam table. Get close to him. And then ? —

“Do you see this?” Dr. Ambrose muses as he studies between my legs. “Arousal is dripping out of her, and all it took was a brief squeeze of the clitoris. It is quite sensitive.”

The two men chuckle. My breathing is rapid, my cheeks heavy. It is quite sensitive? I know he’s talking about my body being sensitive, but it feels like he’s talking about me. Like I’m not even here. Like I’m not a person with thoughts, feelings, and desires, but a thing they’re analyzing .

It feels good to be useful though.

The thought blasts me like a cannon, and I bite my tongue as hard as I can to get rid of it. It doesn’t disappear though.

I’m under stress right now, I tell myself. My mind is conjuring pleasure so I can get through this.

I stare at the decaying acoustical panels above me, but my mind fills with images of Dr. Ambrose’s stained hands manipulating me.

His nails dig into my clit.

“Ouch!” I yelp.

“Still mouthy,” the doctor says. “We’ll have to remedy that. However, it appears the patient likes pain, so we’ll have to adjust the punishments.”

He pinches my clit again, and the pain zaps through me.

I shout: “You fucking ass?—”

“It is quite reactive,” the doctor murmurs.

It. There’s that word again.

An object. A toy. A thing.

An unmistakable drip travels down my pussy lips to my ass. I close my eyes, willing the sensations to dissolve. I’m reacting to physical touch; it has nothing to do with being objectified or with him.

“Look at the natural lubrication,” Dr. Ambrose says. “She’s leaking like a broken faucet.”

“Perhaps she is broken, sir,” the assistant says.

They break into laughter. Flames demolish every part of me, and need oozes out of my pussy. I’m not broken. My mother wasn’t broken either. If anyone is “broken,” it’s the fake doctor who uses his status to take advantage of patients .

The vial. The acid is underneath us.

If I split the acid between two people, there’s no promise it will blind both of them enough for me to kill them with an accessible makeshift weapon. But maybe, with some luck, I can do it.

The sink. The filing cabinet. No…the stool. I’ll probably have to use the stool to attack them. Will I have enough time to kill both of them?

Metal glints at the corner of my vision. The assistant hands Dr. Ambrose a vaginal speculum the size of a large forearm.

Every thought evaporates from my brain. My vision tunnels.

“That’s way too big!” I kick my feet, knocking straight into the assistant’s hand. The metal instrument clangs to the floor. I leer at Dr. Ambrose. “You are not putting that in me.”

I scramble off of the table and reach toward the floor. The vial is there. My hands frantically sweep the tile. Where is it? It has to be here!

Dr. Ambrose picks me up and shoves me down flat on the exam table.

“Steady the hips,” he says. The assistant seizes my shoulders and lies across me, using his body weight to keep me down. His lab coat scratches against my skin. Dr. Ambrose steps back and grabs the speculum off of the floor. “Keep her steady now. We don’t want to damage her any further.”

“Fuck you,” I yell as I flail, but with the assistant lying on top of me, it’s impossible to do anything. “Fuck you both?—”

The metal pries my pussy apart, like a knife cutting my sides open. With a punch to the back of the device, Dr. Ambrose crams the metal inside me. Convulsions wreak havoc through my abdomen, my body instantly cramping.

I heave. He is literally prying me apart.