Page 78 of No Asylum Here

It was a familiar scene, similar to the last time we were in this position. Only this time, she was wearing fewer clothes, dripping with my cum, and doing a far worse job of hiding how much pleasure she was deriving from this.

The problem with this position was that her pussy wasn’t spread enough for my preference. I wanted it gaping, to see her walls twitch and flutter as she heated with embarrassment, while she leaked cum all over her couch.

"Take the speculum, the part that will be inserted inside you, and cup it in your hands."

She cocked an inquisitive blonde brow but did as told, wrapping her hands around the steel duckbills. "Wait. Are you having me warm this for myself?"

"No one likes cold metal shoved inside them," I said with a kind of certainty that only came from personal experience. "Despite what you might think, I want you to enjoy this."

"I am," she whispered.

"Good. Is it warm enough for you now, Doc?"

"I think so..."

My lips spread with a salacious smile, and my cock, which was still out of my pants and present for the show, thickened in appreciation. "Slip it in and see. Slowly, now. I want a show.”

Turning the instrument in her hand so the bills were pointed toward her, she carefully inserted it inside herself with all the confidence of a skilled physician, and the uncertainty of a woman exposing herself to a monster such as myself.

Fucking beautiful.

“That’s it, Doc. Just like that,” I praised. “You’re doing such a good job for me.”

A low, desperate growl rumbled from my chest as I watched the tool penetrate her—wishing like hell that it was my own rock-hard steel parting her folds. My gaze flicked up her body, and fuck me, the slutty little face she wore was nearly enough to make me come a third time.

“Part that cum-filled pussy for me, Dr. Beckett."

She squeezed the handle, the steel duckbills parting her heated flesh. Just as I hoped, the moment she was wide-open, a fresh torrent of milk-white ropes oozed onto the sofa upholstery, thick and fragrant. I could scent her from where I was chained.

It occurred to me that my masculine aroma wouldn't fade from her anytime soon. There would be select staff members demonized by the Treatment with senses sharp enough to detect that I'd fucked her. My father wasn't among them. While he endured the mutation brought on by his drug, it hadn't given him any useful abilities other than slightly increased strength.

Like him, I had a monster inside me. At least that monster was good for something. Killing. I didn't need to have a team of test subjects doing my dirty work for me.

“Let them scent us on her,” the mad thing hissed in my ear. “They won't touch her. Anyone with two brain cells to push together will know better.” The voice in my head didn't reassure me in the slightest. It wasn't the other staff that worried me—except for Fredrick. But Tuesday knew better than to willingly enter the same room as that creepy fuck.

“All this, just to watch your jizz dribble out of me?”

My attention dropped back to her pussy. Fuck. Her patch of blonde pubic hair, all gunked up with my cum while it slowly drizzled over her exposed clit was a sight I’d never forget.

“Just?” I scoffed. “I have a front row seat to the best show in this corner of Hell.”

“Coming from a guy whose only form of entertainment for the last decade has been watching paint peel.”

“I paint,” I retorted, feigning offense.

“You mean like what I saw last night on your cell walls? Do you always use blood as your medium?”

I shrugged both shoulders as much as I was able in my restrictive straitjacket. “Don’t have many other options.”

“So, you cut yourself open just so you can paint?”

“No. I usually use rat blood. And when I can get it, an orderly or nurse’s blood. Most of them know to keep their distance, though, so that’s rare. Last night was the first time I used my own.”

She stared at me with stooped brows. “What was so special about that number?”

My mouth flattened at her question. I hated that I didn’t know the answer. It was that other part of me that had painted it, and even then, I got the vague sense it didn’t know either.

“The number was a mistake. A knee-jerk reaction during a manic episode. Before that, I was painting you. Just you. Before, I had nothing worth painting to bother using my own blood. Rat blood, nurse blood… None of it was good enough for the angel in my nightmares.”