Page 18 of Exposed
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 amnota 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 Iwantto 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,exposedto his sadism. He’s slowly pulling me apart.
And I like it.
As I stomp through the short hallway back to my office, I consider my actions. Distance will give Violet time to process her desires and make her yearn for my return. Typically, I’d let Oliver have exploration time with my patients while he finishes the notes; however, that protocol felt incorrect with this one. I want to control every aspect of her. Thus, I instructed himnotto touch the patient’s pussy, mouth, or ass. Her orifices are off limits. They belong to me now.
Oliver will never disobey me. I can snap my fingers, and he will literally bow before me like a peasant. Even a man like him can be conditioned to my liking.
As I enter my office, Benji rises from his chair next to my desk. I take my own seat. Though it isn’t standard to leave a guardian in a doctor’s office, I knew Violet would benefit from an audience and Benji’s docile behavior. While I was gone, a surveillance camera in the corner of my office recorded his reactions. I’m always watching. He may enjoy stealing files from me, but he’ll never outmatch me.
Benji’s breathing is loud and heavy. The pathetic fool must be distressed already. A woodsy, slightlyacidic scent fills my nostrils as the two of us observe Violet and Oliver beyond the mirrored wall.
Violet crosses her arms over her chest, hiding her breasts. Oliver tilts his head, then moves his lips.
Pleasure bubbles in my chest. Covering herself like that simply won’t do. I have no doubt Oliver will correct her actions.
Benji’s lips tremor, his pallor weaker than usual. This final act of bringing in the patient—his supposed girlfriend—has obviously caused him alarm. I jot down a note about Benji’s demeanor, then straighten myself.
“As you can see,” I begin. “The patient is quite volatile.”
At that moment, Violet swats at Oliver, and he yanks her wrist toward a restraint on the side of the exam table. Violet bashes his back with her other hand, but Oliver has been trained for cases like this. Once her first wrist is bound, he quickly works on the other. She flails her shoulders, desperately trying to free herself from the confinement. But soon, both of her wrists are restrained to the exam table.
It’s a shame she didn’t find her mother’s file with my new note in it first. I’ll have to bring it to the next step of her treatment.
Oliver touches her breasts, cupping them in his palms, then he tweaks her nipples. Violet flinches.
A subtle tension blooms in my chest. A nipple isn’t an orifice. Oliver is technically obeying me. Still, my jaw ticks.
Perhaps Benji isn’t the only one distressed. I’m not usually a possessive man. I’ve watched Oliver tinker with my patients plenty of times, and in the past, it was amusing.
As I stare at the mirror, I imagine Oliver locked in a cage, waiting for his next meal. Once he’s begging for food and water, I’ll give him a fork to eat himself or stab his own throat.
I can’t get rid of Oliver yet though. He’s too valuable to me. He’s been working on a brain microchip for a separate project I’m working on, and I need his expertise.
For now.
