Page 31 of Exposed
The daughter will be governed by the Smiths.
Year twenty-two, the daughter will be expelled from the Smith’s care.
Year twenty-five, the daughter will reach maturation and return to me.
Expelled.
Twenty-five.
Maturation.
Return towhom?
I recognize Dr. Ambrose’s handwriting from other sections of the file, and he’s the only one who worked with my mother.
I’m twenty-five right now.
My brain scrambles, my head filled with fuzzy dots darting on a static screen. If this note is real, then Dr. Ambroseplannedthis. He gave me awaywith the full intention of taking me back once I was twenty-five, as if he always knew this day would come.
Has he been watching me this entire time then?
From a distance? Or closely?
And why do I feel safer now?
Pleasure rolls between my thighs, and my hips thrust forward. I glance down; I’m rubbing my clamped clit. I dig my fingers into my flesh and groan. I don’t know why I keep rubbing myself. I start concentrating on the file to figure out why this note is there, and I end up playing with myself.
I finally remove the clamp. Hot-blooded relief washes through me. I could’ve taken it off a while ago, but for some reason, I wanted to keep it on.
I steel myself. I have to focus.
Logically, I know the new note is creepyandmessed up. Dr. Ambrose rejected me, giving me—his probable daughter—to strangers. Heabandonedme.
But if he always planned to scoop me up again, then did he really abandon me?
What if he didn’t write the note? What if someone else did?
What if my father is another staff member, and I can still find him?
What if my father is the assistant, Oliver?
No… It can’t be Oliver. I mean, itcouldtechnically be him; Oliver could have been an intern at the time, or even another patient who took advantage of the situation, like Dr. Ambrose did. Then again, Oliver is probably too young to be my father.
I rub the note with my thumb; the ink smudges, a blacksmear marking the page. My shoulders sink, and my lungs flatten, each breath harder than the last.
It could be the arousal on my fingers smearing the ink.
Or there’s a chance Benji stole an older copy of the file, and twenty-five years later, thisnewerfile has enough wet ink to smear.
Or…it could be a new note.
If it’s a note Dr. Ambrose wrote recently, then he may be using it to manipulate me. Tapping into my need for belonging.
Why would he do that? Why would he go through all of this effortjustto manipulate me?
As I pant, I realize my fingers are in my pussy again. Damn it. Why does this turn me on?
The file is in front of me, but I’m not reading it. His jagged letters transform into images of him: his M-shaped hairline; the ponytail at the back of his neck; the dirt under his fingernails; the calluses on his palms; the scars on his long, brutal cock; his sallow skin; his full, hungry eyes staring down at me like I’m the only thing that will satisfy him.
