Page 5 of Exposed
He pulls a small tube from his jacket pocket. It’s as thin as a linguine noodle and as long as my finger, and it’s filled with acid. With the right aim, there’s just enough liquid to blind someone. I’ve been practicing with water on Benji.
I can do this.
I take the tube and double-check the lid is secure, then I stuff it in my sock. The container is awkward and stiff, but it’s small, so I’ll get used to it quickly. Benji has already tested getting it through security before; no one will notice.
I step out of the car, and Benji does the same. The cold air whips around us, a chill racing over my skin. Frost clings to the weeds in the cracked cement leading up to the entrance, and the few trees that surround the facility aresparse, their branches bare. Ice trickles into my bones and chest. I wrap my arms around myself and burrow into my hoodie.
I peer up at the main building and imagine Dr. Ambrose staring down at me with his dark, chilling eyes.
My insides ache. Until I finish this, I’ll always be empty. Cold. Longing for something I don’t understand.
I may end up dead or in a prison cell, but I have to do this.
I have to kill Dr. Ambrose.
As soon as the entrance doors to the Wellard Asylum close behind me, I embrace my resting scowl. Internally, I’m quite pleased with this brief interaction with Violet, though my exterior is always one of cruelty.
I head directly to my ward in the asylum, the Department of Intellectual Training. The asylum is immensely vast; even some staff members are unaware of how to navigate the grounds. In some ways, the Wellard Asylum is much like a haunted house with hallways that lead to nowhere and doors on the higher floors that open to the outside, the perfect cage for a ghost trapped in the world of the living.
Passing through the hallways, everything appears orderly. Patients in hospital gowns wander the hallways, while nurses usher them toward their medicine cups. Deeper inside, a guard knocks the back of his baton into a patient’s head. I acknowledge him with a dip of my chin. The guard is an ex-patient of mine, one of the only graduates of my program. He once had an overwhelming affinity for corpses; I trained him to better hide his secrets so he may live an honest life. Later, I’m sure he’ll enjoy the fruits of his labor with the patient he just knocked unconscious.
There is so much horror within these walls that remains hidden from the outside world.
Once in my ward, I slip past the waiting area and into my office. Pine and oak permeate the air. Withered roses with dull orange centers droop in an empty vase on the desk. I cut them from the neglected garden outside of my house months ago; their transformation from living wonders to dried remains brings me joy. Even now, completely lifeless, they are beautiful, just likeshewill be.
Above my desk, the overhead light is still on; blood pumps to my groin, arousal already dancing under my skin.
My office door clicks closed, and I remove my lab coat, trousers, and boxer briefs. I stand on top of my desk chair and carefully remove the lightbulb from the fixture. Heat sizzles against my skin. The bulb is an older variety, likely to overheat and cause fires, the kind of object that should have been eradicated from the Wellard Asylum a long time ago.
The Wellard Asylum is older, and my particular wing of the asylum has been in need of renovation for years now. While I may have my own judgments about how the facility is managed, I’m grateful for how I’ve moved through the ranks and for the privacy granted to me. I’ve worked with Dr. Halstead, the asylum’s main psychiatric doctor, for many years now. As such, I’ve come to know his secrets, and that knowledge comes with great advantages.
Once I remove the lightbulb, darkness falls over the office. I return to my chair, pull out my phone and click toanother video, this time of Violet touching her clit as the cameraman, her boyfriend, grasps her neck. As he tightens his hold, blood begins to pool in her head and her skin reddens.
More,she grunts.
I press the lightbulb to my cock. My length spasms at the searing heat. The bitch turns purple, and her full lips fall open. Her beaded dark eyes fixate on her pathetic boyfriend. He releases his grip on her neck, and she inhales sharply, then hastily rubs the sensitive bundle of nerves between her legs.
I turn the lightbulb to let different areas of the hot glass burn my cock like the walls of an oven. On the underside of my length, there’s a rough patch of white scar tissue, a callus where I’ve grown accustomed to the burns. On the head, the freshest wound is now a faint green, probably due to the coffin session. The odor of raw, neglected chicken meat floats from my groin and mixes with the scent of disinfectant in the air. My favorite ritual is to burn the skin, and when the blisters start to heal, I pull off the scabs again andagainuntil I’m numb to the sensation.
I’m excited to see exactly what Violet will enjoy. She’ll probably doanything.
After the lightbulb has cooled, I put it on my desk and grab my dick. My fingernails are just long enough to break skin if I desire, and they’re packed with visible filth. There’s no doubt in my mind Violet will notice my lack of hygiene, but a desperate little cunt like her will want to be used regardless.
As I stroke, each nerve reaches from my cock and sews into my spine, throbbing with pain, until the mostexquisite pleasure, like a scalding bath, pulsates through me.
Then it’s pure euphoria.
On the screen, Violet clasps her sopping snatch, grinding on her palm; this is only one exhibiting trait of her sexual deviancy. Her boyfriend—no, hersupposedboyfriend—came to me concerned with her salacious appetite, such that an innocent request to kneel became a need to bathe in his urine. I suspected a case of compulsive sexual behavior, but I kept the potential diagnosis to myself.
Instead, I had him film their exploits.
Violet is the perfect object for my next experiment. As much as I want to cum again, I must wait for her. I redress myself in a fresh lab coat, then replace the lightbulb in the overhead fixture.
The room brightens, illuminating the back wall behind my desk. Curtains cover a floor-to-ceiling double-sided mirror with a view of the exam room next door. The mirror is saddled with two bookcases. For now, I leave the curtains closed. Her supposed boyfriend likely knows about the double-sided mirror from his earlier visits here; however, there’s no reason to flaunt it yet.
I flip through manila folders stacked on my desk. Violet’s file is on one side and a copy of her mother’s is on the other. Though there are many patients who share the same surname, I could never forget Ivy Ward. She was a deviant little cunt whose vile scent of arousal still emanates from the file. The aroma is reminiscent of musty old books and rancid milk.
According to our records, Ivy was undergoing treatment for compulsive sexual behavior, which was calledsexual addiction at the time. During her stay, I used her to explore my own interests in deviancy.
