Chapter 21
Violet
An object scrapes my throat; it’s sharp.
Is it plastic? Some sort of tool?
I open my eyes, and the fluorescent lights sear my pupils. I squint. It’s so damn bright.
Is it morning?
Glasses come into focus. Then black hair.
The assistant.
A thin funneled neck dips between the bars of the cage, then penetrates my lips. I gag on the tip, and the assistant adjusts the angle.
Dr. Ambrose sent his assistant.
Am I disappointed?
I am. I hate it, but I am.
“The results for your paternity test was 99.99997 percent,” the assistant says. “Dr. Ambrose is definitely your father. Swallow quickly now.”
Over ninety-nine percent?
The assistant shoves the funnel deeper. The plastic opening scratches my throat, which is still sore from Dr. Ambrose’s cock. The assistant rubs his lips together as he studies the large opening of the funnel.
“The doctor won’t like it if you waste your nutrition,” he says.
Sludge gloops out of the tube and clogs my throat. It’s bland and vaguely sweet, like powdered milk and blended oatmeal mixed with dirty dishwater. I choke, and the funnel drops to the floor, the contents splattering the bars of the cage.
My eyes sting. I don’t know if it’s from fear, the confirmation of my paternity, or the fact that I’m being force-fed by my father’s assistant and not my father.
I’m lost.
The assistant sighs, then picks up the funnel. It stabs my cheek, and the assistant grins down at me, an erection tenting his pants.
“The doctor has forbidden me from using you, but trust me, your feeding can become very painful,” he warns.
I don’t want him to feed or hurt me. I just want to get this over with.
I close my eyes and open my mouth. The funnel snakes between my teeth again, then the shake fills me.
I swallow the sludge; I try not to think of what I’m eating.
Instead, I imagine myself in another place.
I’m not here, being forced to drink some sort of nutritional shake.
I’m back in my apartment with Benji, watching a crappy sitcom.
Then the vision changes: Dr. Ambrose’s hand cups my chin as he pisses in my mouth.
The assistant smacks the side of the funnel, letting the last drop fall onto my tongue. I gulp it down.
“Good,” he says.
I grimace, and my pussy contracts at the small word of approval. I huff through my nostrils; I wish it came from Dr. Ambrose.
The assistant removes the funnel then stares at me. His vacant gaze causes my skin to itch.
I shrink inside of myself. Whatever the shake is, part of it is drying on my cheek, creating a plaster-like layer. There’s also spit, tears, and sweat matted to my face from last night. I must look awful.
“The first week or so will be revolting and painful,” he says. “After your body becomes accustomed to it, it won’t be as bad.”
“Accustomed to what?” I ask. “Are you talking about my training here?”
The assistant exits the room.
“Hey!” I shout. I attempt to sit upright; my forehead knocks into the bars of the cage. My head rings, causing an ear-splitting headache. “Come back!”
No one answers my call.
A few minutes pass. I twist my head to see my surroundings; I’m fenced in by patchy white walls. When I finally get a good angled view out the window, all I can see is the gray, cloud-covered sky.
Fists against skin echo down the hallway. A guard yells. In the distance, there’s the faint bell of someone crying. My flesh pimples; I’m not the only one being tortured here.
The Ambrose Asylum is a living nightmare.
A sharp pain curls in my lower stomach. My gut convulses.
I’m going to shit myself.
The pressure intensifies in my intestines, my muscles throbbing. I bite my cheek. What in the world did the assistant feed me? They’ll have to let me out of this cage for the bathroom.
Won’t they?
“Hey,” I shout. “I need to go to the bathroom. Could someone tell a guard?”
A twist of pain cuts through me. I clamp my teeth, sweat forming on my brow. I clench my butt cheeks together; the pressure mounts, growing in my intestines. My asshole puckers, and my stomach gurgles.
“Please!” I scream.
I’m drenched in sweat. Did the assistant want me to shit myself?
“Guards!” I shout. “I need to use the bathroom!”
The throbbing pain pulps my insides. My asshole pulsates; I need relief. I thrust my hips forward, trying to keep it inside.
“I have to pee,” I yell. Everyone has bowel movements, but I can’t shout that. It’s too embarrassing. “Please!”
An older patient in a thin hospital gown appears in my periphery.
“They’re not coming,” she says.
“Please, help me,” I beg. I want to see her, but I don’t want to put any more pressure on my body, so I stay frozen in place. “Could you get someone for me?”
“They won’t help you. Not for anything.”
I bite my lip. My intestines churn, pushing the feces toward my rectum. I can’t let it go. Not here. Not now. Not when my ankles and wrists are bound inside of a cage, not when I can’t sit up straight. Not when I can’t even wipe myself.
If I shit right here, it’ll drip through the bars and leave a mess on the floor.
Why would Dr. Ambrose do this to me?
I want to scream, to kill the assistant for not even giving me the decency to shit in a toilet, and to punch Dr. Ambrose for telling his assistant to feed me that stupid shake. My nerves twist, and sweat drips off of my face. My guts cramp; pain wrenches inside of me.
But I can’t hold it back anymore.
Liquid shit sloshes between my ass cheeks and sprays the floor in a steady stream. It keeps going. There’s so much shit, I’m convinced I’ve somehow shit out my organs too.
The stench of rotting food envelops me in its claustrophobic aroma. It reminds me of vomit after a night of drinking or the city dump on a summer day. It’s suffocating.
I retch, my entire torso convulsing, my forehead smacking into the cage bars. Vomit erupts from my mouth and dribbles over my cheeks and neck. It hurts so bad, but I can’t stop it. I keep vomiting until each convulsion is dry.
My stomach and intestines are completely empty now.
The urge to pee tingles my lower abdomen. This time, I don’t even try to stop it. I’m naked, cold, and there’s semen, spit, shit, and vomit caked to different parts of my body; urine doesn’t seem that bad.
My piss is warm and almost comforting. I cross my fingers it washes away some of the shit.
Tears burn my eyes; I don’t let them fall.
It’s embarrassing to be humiliated like this, but it’s not like I had a choice.
I was force-fed some sort of nutritional shake that was probably laced with a laxative and a hydration boost. There’s nothing I could have done to stop myself from having an accident.
You could have run away, my brain reminds me. You could have gone with Benji. You could have—
I stop the thoughts before they become too much.
The first week or so will be revolting and painful, the assistant had said. Maybe he meant the odor? After your body becomes accustomed to it, it won’t be as bad. I guess he meant once the rest of my normal diet is out of my system, my shit won’t smell as bad?
“Great. Something to look forward to,” I mutter. Is this an anal sex thing to clear out my ass for Dr. Ambrose?
My instincts tell me it’s more than that. It must have to do with controlling everything about me, even my nutrition.
I shiver; it’s like my toes and fingers are made of ice. I don’t care if I’m naked, but I hate being cold. I want him.
His heat.
Tears soak my face. Snot fills my nose. I hate admitting it, but it’s true. I want his heat.
Is this what he did to my mother? Force her to eat laxative-dosed nutritional shakes and wake her up in the middle of the night to eat his ass? If I had known this would happen, would I still want to come here?
I’m tired, so fucking tired of these thoughts, of fighting with myself. Even if I had known everything about Dr. Ambrose before all of this, I know I still would have come here. I had to do this for myself.
Footsteps tap the floor. My forehead bumps the metal bars. I open my eyes.
The overhead lights are dimmer now. I must’ve briefly fallen asleep.
Dr. Ambrose steps forward. He looks down his curved nose.
“I see you’ve taken to your new confinement,” he says.
Every hair on my neck and arms stands. His scrutiny washes over me, his cock stretching his black pants.
I want so badly for him to touch me, my body aches.
“I-I couldn’t—” I stammer. I’m a child again, begging my foster parents not to lock me in my bedroom for making a mess. “I couldn’t—”
“Shhh,” Dr. Ambrose murmurs, hushing me as he sits on top of the cage.
The metal creaks. He reaches between the bars and brushes my nipple with his thumb.
“You couldn’t help it; I made sure of that.
Once you’ve accepted yourself, I will give you back the privilege of relieving yourself with dignity. Perhaps a diaper will do.”
I shudder. A diaper?
“I’m an adult,” I whisper.
“Oh, sweetness, plenty of adults use diapers. You may be an adult legally and biologically, but you’re not a true adult, are you?
You can’t be when you’re such a filthy cunt.
” His knuckles stroke my teary cheeks. “Soon, your only worry will be whether or not you can make me cum. All of your anxieties, all of your worries, even relieving your bowels, won’t matter. Won’t that be nice?”
He lifts from the cage, and that’s when I notice the lamp in his other hand. A long cord dangles behind it; it must be plugged into an outlet outside of the room.
Why is he carrying a lamp with him?
“Are you ready for your next lesson, love?” he asks.
My heart stops. I pull against the restraints, soreness biting my muscles. I’ve physically exerted myself harder than I ever have since entering the asylum, and it’s only going to get worse.
Dr. Ambrose unlocks the cage, then sets the lamp on the floor next to him, seemingly unconcerned with the mess on the floor.
He smiles. “Now, sweet one, let me clean you with my tongue.”