Page 22 of No Asylum Here

They’d made me into a monster, and when that part of me surfaced—looking for a victim—there was no holding it back.

“It’s not rape if we’re both dreaming, is it, Doc?” I snickered in a hushed growl against the back of her neck as I gripped my cock, holding it with all the resolve of a killer with a loaded gun.

The slit at the top was already leaking absurd amounts of pre-cum. It wasn’t just an embellishment of the sleep state. I couldn’t remember the last time I had an orgasm. Not when my restraints denied me basic human necessities.

Most of the time, I couldn’t even get up and take a piss on my own. Had to go in a bedpan, if they even bothered giving me one.

They usually didn’t. Why would they?

I was every bit the animal they’d made me into.

Denied the touch of a woman for how long, I wasn’t sure. My dick seemed to remember, though, with the way it wept for her, aching to fill her to her limit and more.

It didn’t matter that she wasn’t wet. I was slick enough to slip inside her pussy, stretching her walls to take my girth.

With a whimper, her walls fluttered around me, her soft insides hot and throbbing around my shaft.

Fucking hell. There weren’t words to describe how damn good she felt. A dream had no right feeling this visceral. Even the women I’d fucked back in my old life hadn’t been like this.

“I need you.” The words dropped from my lips, each syllable slurred and drunk with feral lust.

It only took a couple of pumps until she was soaking. The cocktail of our juices slicked over the juncture where we were joined, the slap of wet flesh on flesh ringing through my brain like my new favorite song.

“Oh—Mal… I’m–I’m going to come.”

She was awake.

I didn’t care anymore if she saw what I was.

“I’m c–close, too,” I growled as I chased my release with abandon. “Turn around and look at me. I want to see your face as you come around my cock.”

Her body convulsed, and her pussy twitched, clamping tight around my dick, as if she wasn’t ready to let me go.

Tuesday’s heated scream pushed me over the edge, and as I came undone, she finally twisted to look at me.

Everything shifted in an instant.

Next thing I knew, I was the one screaming.

It wasn’t Tuesday’s face that looked back at me. It was the face of my father, smacking me with that evil grin, all while Tuesday’s feminine cry dropped from his lips.

The Freudian horror of it all was only enhanced by his noseless face. That gaping hole mocked me—a nose. That’s all I’ve ever managed to take from him.

Meanwhile, he’d taken everything from me.

I woke with a jerk, my bed creaking and the leather restraints groaning, covered in cold sweat and shivering so violently, my mattress springs groaned a hellish hymn from below.

After a nightmare like that, I needed something to ground me. So I looked to my cell wall, expecting to see the portrait of Tuesday I’d painted.

It had been a mistake. It was futile attempting to keep anything close to the heart in Saint Bart’s. Even if it was something from your own brain. Shit, especially then. Rook would just figure out a way to crack your skull open and steal it.

Staring back at me from my wall was a portrait of my father, exactly over the place I’d painted Tuesday. It was like hers had never existed.

His noseless visage gloated at me from the wall, and as each brush stroke oozed, I realized the blood was still wet.

My veins glowed hot with loathing, strangling my vision with a poisonous haze. My left eye began to twitch as screaming from somewhere in the isolation ward filled my skull. It wasn’t until my cell door swung open and an orderly charged in with an electric cattle prod that I realized the screaming was my own.

Several other orderlies filed into the room—at least a half dozen. When they circled my bed, my screams turned to wild laughter. “Sorry, fellas, one at a time. If you want me to take all of you at once, it’s gonna be extra. And let’s be honest, Rook doesn’t pay you that kind of dough—arrrk, bastards!”