Page 9 of Exposed (The Wellard Asylum #1)

“ D -Dr. Ambrose,” I stutter. Fear churns my stomach, waves of nausea reaching the back of my mouth. I lift up, and the assistant pushes me back down on the exam table again. “You can’t put your whole hand inside of me. I don’t want that. It’s too big!”

“Ah, but with a used-up cunt like yours, you can take it,” Dr. Ambrose croons.

He lowers his mouth, and his warm, wet tongue slides across the ridges of my asshole, tickling me, then his tongue dips up into my cunt, lapping my arousal.

His mouth hovers over my clit, his breath teasing me.

“You can verbally deny your desires if it helps you acclimate to our procedures here, but the evidence is plainly visible between your legs. I know what your body can take. And you will take it.”

I gulp. Dryness irritates my esophagus. I’m being squished to death by invisible forces of desire: the need to do what he says, to hear his approval when I take his fist, and the fucking terror of how it might shred me to pieces.

This is for my mother, I tell myself. My mother. My mother. My mother. This isn’t what I want. This isn’t for me. I’m supposed to ? —

The assistant tightens his grasp on my shoulders, and I rattle on the table, the paper crackling. Dr. Ambrose puts his fingertips together, creating a teardrop shape with his fist.

My eyes burn; my vision blurs. It would be stupid of me to fight him now, wouldn’t it? The assistant is here; there would be no chance of success. I have to wait until we’re alone. That’s why I’m sitting here, waiting to be fisted. It’s not because I want to do this. I don’t want his fist.

Do I?

Dr. Ambrose puts his coned fingers at the edge of my pussy hole.

“Show me how much you can take,” he growls.

His fist pushes past my pelvic bone. I wail. Pain obliterates me, my pussy pulsating around his fist. Everything aches like my insides are exposed and raw.

Tears stream down my cheeks. I don’t know what’s happening to me.

This is not for me, I tell myself. Not for me. Not ? —

“Look at the puppet!” Dr. Ambrose’s hollow laugh booms through the exam room. “You may simply observe now, Oliver.”

The assistant steps back as he reclines against the wall and watches me.

Dr. Ambrose ripples his fingers in my pussy, and I can’t focus on anything but him. I weep. I want so badly to move—to scream and tear Dr. Ambrose apart with my bare hands—but if I move, overwhelming ecstasy rips through me, and I can barely breathe as it is.

“The stretched out cunt likes it,” Dr. Ambrose says. “Is that the only way it can cum? By being used to the point of worthlessness?”

It. My pussy is an it.

I am an it.

Not for me, I chant internally. This is not for me.

I have to do this.

I have to ? —

What am I supposed to do?

I’m supposed to ? —

I stare at Dr. Ambrose, my lips agape, my body tingling.

He rotates his hand, my hips thrust to take in more, and I cry.

Oh, damn it all, I cry, because I don’t understand what’s happening to me right now.

Being fisted by a criminal, a horrible man, a man who could be my father, isn’t something anyone should enjoy, and yet I’m ready to explode, and my mind flares with wanton instinct.

He punches my cervix, and I twist around his physical manipulation. I hyperventilate, each breath scraping my throat like razor wire. I can’t think of anything. I can’t. I can’t?—

“Already on the verge of orgasm,” Dr. Ambrose says.

With his free hand, he rubs my clit. Tears cover my cheeks. He’s so filthy, it’s wrong, but my body needs release.

He growls. “Look at me, you little freak.”

I moan. I try to focus. I hate that fucking word. I hate it.

I lock eyes with him. “Don’t you dare call me a freak?—”

“I’ll call you whatever I want,” he snarls.

He stands from the stool, bent over me with his fist still inside of my pussy, his wrist riding against my pelvic bone, and his other fingers pinching my clit.

He leans closer so I hear every word: “From now on, you will only cum when I abuse your clit. You will learn to associate pain with pleasure. And as our first task, you’re going to cum to a man you’ve barely met fist-fucking you in an asylum.

Remember that, cunt. You’re not a good, normal woman. You’re a disgusting little freak.”

His fingernails dig into my clit, and I scream, my pussy constricting around his fist, waves of pleasure leaking through me.

He’s right. I am cumming. Air compresses from my lungs, molten lava swallowing my entire form.

Sparkling light brightens my vision, and I cry so fucking hard, my pussy contracts in violent surges.

The largest part of his knuckles grind against my pelvic bone as he removes his fist.

My jaw drops.

My pussy is raw. My skin is on fire.

And I’m empty.

A grin spreads across his lips. “The disappointment on your face is priceless.”

My eyes widen at his cock stretching his pants; his length is abnormally long, like a varicose vein winding around his thigh. A snake ready to wrap around my neck and choke me to death.

I grit my teeth. No. This man will not kill me. I’ll kill him. All it takes is time.

Exhaustion flows through me as I lie on the exam table. Then he shoves me so I’m facing the mirror. His chest presses against my back, his chin resting in the crook of my neck. When he puts his hands between my legs, I thrust my hips.

I hate it, but I want more .

“Don’t worry, sweet one,” he says in a low voice. His hand cups my pussy, and the other slithers around, grabbing my hand in his. “You can say hello to your boyfriend through this mirror.”

I flush, heat radiating through me. Benji. Was Benji in Dr. Ambrose’s office this entire time? It may be the standard protocol for a patient’s guardian to watch the initial examination here, or maybe Dr. Ambrose is careless, and that’s how Benji was able to steal my mother’s file.

I redden all over again and lower my eyes. If Benji saw me—if he’s watching me right now—then he’ll know I’ve never acted like this with him. He’ll know I came from being used.

“He was right, wasn’t he?” Dr. Ambrose says. “You are a wanton little cunt, so desperate to cum, you even took my fist.” My clit rides against his palm. I close my eyes, pressing back into him. He whispers, “I bet he never made you feel this good.”

I whimper, and Dr. Ambrose slips a finger inside of me, curling toward the uncontrollable spot where I’ll either cum or die. My pussy is sore and tender from the fisting, but I’m already there, about to jump over into the abyss.

“What will Benji think if he sees you cum again? Will he think you’re pretending? Or will he know you can’t help yourself?” Dr. Ambrose laughs. “Now he knows with certainty you’re nothing but a fucked-up little whore.”

My belly clinches in a mix of hatred and lust right as Dr. Ambrose crushes my clit. I clench my jaw and muscles, refusing to cum. I can’t let him control me.

“Fuck. You,” I rasp.

“Oh, sweet one.” He nibbles my neck, the light pain of his incisors taunting me. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you? ”

Rage blinds me. I twist around, hurling myself at him. The assistant races toward us, but before he can restrain me, Dr. Ambrose digs his fingernails into my cheeks, my face tucked between his hands.

“Tell me you’re not ill,” he growls.

I snap my teeth, and he squeezes his grip on my head. Pain flickers in my temple, and I soften. His eyes roam over mine, digging into every facet of my brain, exposing me to his will.

I tremble. It’s too much.

“Tell me you faked every action,” he continues in a low voice. “Tell me your sexual behaviors aren’t compulsive. Tell me there’s not a depraved bone in your body.”

Tears drench me. He knows I can’t say it.

“Go on.” He raises a brow. “Tell me your boyfriend’s concerns were an overreaction.” He presses his lips to my ear and whispers, “Tell me you’re normal.”

My lips quiver at the mention of Benji. He did so much for me.

Normal. I am normal. Aren’t I?

If a person found out their mother was murdered, they’d become as obsessed as I am. This is natural. Isn’t it?

Lots of people like being fisted. Maybe even by strangers.

Not by their mother’s murderer.

Not by the man who may be their father.

With one hand on my face, Dr. Ambrose reaches between us and palms his cock through the pre-cum dampened fabric. Chills wave through me, goosebumps prickling over my skin.

Dr. Ambrose’s words stab my core: “Tell me you don’t belong here, and all of this will be over. ”

Belong here . With him.

I open my mouth. “I?—”

The words are on the tip of my tongue, ready to jump out. I don’t belong here. This is not for me. It’s for her. I’m here to kill you. I’m here to stop your abusive madness.

I can’t say it though. If I say those words, this will be over. It will undo the hard work I did to be here. I can’t give up now.

Do I belong here though?

I shake my head. I don’t belong here, but I have to survive a little while longer. Otherwise, I can’t kill Dr. Ambrose.

He snickers, then steps back and adjusts his erection. My breath is lodged in my throat.

He motions to his assistant. “While Oliver finishes the exam notes, I will discuss your diagnosis with your boyfriend and determine your treatment plan.”

My eyes dart around the room. Is he going to leave me here? Alone? With his assistant? Why does that upset me?

“What about me?” I ask. “Why am I not involved in the?—”

“You will wait here.”

My head flinches back slightly. Wait here. That’s what he wants.

Follow the rules. Obey. And then…

“What about my clothes?” I ask. “Oliver put them in a bag. Where?—”

Dr. Ambrose raises his hand. I fall silent. His smug smile gleams.

“You don’t need your clothes anymore. As far as your body is concerned, you like being exposed like this, don’t you, freak? ”

I quake, my feet stuck on the floor. I hate that word.

“I am not a freak,” I say harshly. I brace my shoulders. “I’m not a freak,” I say again, though this time, the tone fades, and that word—that awful fucking word—becomes a whisper, as if I know I’m lying.

This isn’t a real examination, I remind myself. I faked the symptoms. I’m not a freak. This is not for me.

But a thought inches its way to the surface with a glimmer of sensation, though I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s desire. Lust. Need.

I’m not here only for her.

I’m here because I want to be here.

I’m here for me.

“You may restrain and punish her as you see fit, but her orifices are to remain untouched,” Dr. Ambrose says to his assistant.

“And make sure Miss Ward stays fully bare. We can’t have her returning to her previous state.

From now on, while she is under my care at the Wellard Asylum, her entire self, both inside and out, will remain exposed.

It’s time she accepts who she truly is.”

I sink down, my vision fading, fatigue filling my legs and stomach. Dr. Ambrose is right. Every part of me is bare, open, exposed to his sadism. He’s slowly pulling me apart.

And I like it.