Page 4 of Lonely (Wellard Asylum #4)

I spent too much time thinking about my latest patient. He was on my mind even as I took notes at my desk.

Miss Clarkson was a chatty patient. Always talking. Never shutting up. Not even for a second to give me a break from her grating voice.

Some days, I imagined sewing her lips shut.

Some days, I pictured it in exquisite detail.

Needle piercing skin, thread sliding through, slick with fresh blood.

I shushed her pained cries in those vivid fantasies, watching her beautiful tears sliding down her cheeks.

The fear in her eyes.

I loved the fear.

The fear was my favorite part.

I was painfully hard as those carnal urges plagued my thoughts.

Thoughts of inflicting pain. Thoughts of doing bad, bad things.

Reaching down, I undid my belt and slipped a hand into my pants.

Miss Clarkson kept talking, but her words went in one ear and out the other, like always when she was in my office.

My cock throbbed in my hand, painfully hard and veiny. Stroking it out of sight beneath the table, I pictured her wrists strapped down to the armrests, leather biting into her skin.

I pictured her struggling. Wrists, raw and bleeding. Lips swollen and sewn shut with butterfly stitching.

Sweat beaded on my upper lip. My balls drew up tight as I stroked in long, slow pulls and circled my thumb over the weeping crown.

Miss Clarkson remained oblivious to my dark, dark thoughts.

Thoughts of cutting into her while she was awake, watching her thick blood rush to the surface.

I loved the first cut the most, especially if the patient was still alive and squirming. There was something so thrilling about the way their pupils blew wide as they screamed. The sound was always guttural. Raw.

A knock at the door stopped me cold.

Anna popped her head in, her blonde curls wrangled into a tight bun at the back of her head.

“Miss Clarkson.” She stepped inside before I could answer, heels clicking sharply across the floor. “Your session is over now.”

My cock twitched in my firm grip as my eyes dropped to the ankle bracelet. Anna had shapely calves. Toned. Pale.

She glanced back at me and smiled. “Can I get you anything, Doctor?”

There was that annoying twitch again.

Circling my thumb over the crown, through a pearl of semen, I shook my head.

Anna had a very creamy neck, and I knew from experience she smelled like vanilla and summer meadows.

Without a word, she escorted Miss Clarkson out, and the door clicked shut behind them.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to, young man,” came a voice I knew too well.

I hadn’t realized my eyes were shut until they snapped open, my grip still tight around my hard length.

Mother stepped farther into the room, her gray hair perfectly in place, moss-green blouse crisply pressed, that familiar stern expression settling over her face like a mask.

Her handbag cracked against my head and knocked my glasses askew. Then she hit me again, but that was never the end of it.

Restraint had never been one of her virtues.

“Stop touching yourself, boy. What have I told you about such foul behavior? The Lord will smite you.”

I hurriedly zipped myself away while she inspected my office like it offended her.

A single finger glided over the surfaces, searching for dust. The air reeked of baby powder and lavender oil. Her sickeningly sweet scent clung to everything.

Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance, clapping off the mountains beyond the forest.

She picked up the umbrella she had left by the door and shook it out. Rain droplets flew everywhere as she looked at me like I was dirt beneath her shoe.

“What are you waiting for, boy? It’s Wednesday.”

Trailing her outside, I was hit with the thick scent of lavender. The reek curled into my nose and stuck there. It followed her like a veil, rotting-sweet and persistent as mildew in a coffin.

Anna emerged from one of the rooms with a clipboard in hand and offered a bright smile.

With a huff, Mother brushed past the tempestuous girl and her ever-rebellious ankle bracelet.

As we stepped into the gloomy afternoon, she struck me with the umbrella. “You stick your cock in her, you filthy boy? God shall punish you. Is that what you want? To burn in hell?”

“No, Mother,” I muttered, gravel crunching beneath our feet. I fished the car key from my pocket while she waited by the car, nose tilted skyward like always, because Mother thought she was better than everyone.

The drive to my house was silent. She never looked at me, but her disapproval sucked the oxygen out of the car. I’d always been a disappointment.

Back at the house, Mother cooked a meal and did the dishes, fluttering around like it was her home. She whistled softly, her pressed skirt swishing around her bony ankles.

“Have you said your prayers lately?” she asked as she plated my food. “The Lord is always watching, son. He knows all your devious thoughts.”

“Yes, Mother,” I replied, folding the napkin into my lap.

“So tell me . . .” She set the plate in front of me and sifted her fingers through my hair. “Does the Lord know you’ve fornicated with the whore?”

“I haven’t fornicated?—”

She smacked me. “Lies! The Lord knows you’re a sinner, full of filthy desires where that young lady is concerned. You must not fall for the Devil’s trap. I felt it back there. The Devil resided in that slut.”

Mother sat across from me, smoothing her skirt, and ordered me to thank the Lord for the food.

When it was done, we ate in silence. But Mother’s silence was loud. Maybe louder because she was silent. Her gray eyes cut through every layer of my skin, and when they’d sliced deep enough, she picked at my flesh with her yellowed nails.

“You should invite the girl,” she said around a mouthful of fried potato. “I’ll help you exorcise the Devil.”

The food slid down my throat like a jagged rock. Mother kept eating, her cutlery clanking loudly in the silence.

“We’ll do God’s work and punish her together.” She took another bite and washed it down with a glass of red wine. “Punish her for inviting the Devil.”

I barely touched my food, but Mother didn’t care. She was in a good mood.

Whistling, she gathered the dishes.

Shivers crawled down my spine and spread across my skin like scurrying insects. The scrape of metal against porcelain cut through the quiet as leftovers fell into the trash. Mother straightened, then dropped the knife into the soapy dishwater. More whistling. More clattering.

After she dried her wrinkled hands on the dish towel, she turned to me and held out her palm. Fingers wiggled impatiently.

I stood and unbuckled my belt.

“There’s a good boy,” she said as I handed it to her. “You know you need to repent, son.”

Turning slowly, with a thick lump in my throat, I eased my pants down to my thighs. Mother started whistling again as she waited for me to bend over.

The first smack was always the worst, striking my bottom like a sharp lash.

“Say it,” she commanded, whacking me again, the impact forcing a grunt from my throat.

“I’m a sinner.”

“Again. Louder this time.”

“I’m a sinner!”

“Yes, you are, you filthy boy. You’re a disappointment to the Almighty God.”

Her whistling picked back up, and I braced for the buckle.

My skin screamed, but I knew better than to flinch. Beneath the sting, rage boiled so hot it almost felt good.

My knees nearly gave out when it broke the skin, but Mother wasn’t done.

Mother was only getting started.