Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 96065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Think of something better…
Immediately, my mind goes to her. Romy. Her sweet, plump lips. The cute way she laughs. How soft her hair feels between my fingers. I wasn’t supposed to get wrapped up in that girl, but I did. Now I don’t know how to untangle myself. It’s impossible.
I want to see her.
If I can get out of this bed, I can find her.
Get. Up.
My body remains sprawled out, my fingers barely twitching in response.
Where have they put her? What are they doing to her?
Pain claws at my chest. I fucking miss her. I wish I woke up with her ass pressed against my cock, sleeping soundly, safe in my arms.
Someone softly knocks on the door and then enters. It’s the same nurse as before. She darts her gaze over my body and chuckles.
“Someone’s been having a nice dream,” she says, playfully patting my shoulder. “Behave. You’re supposed to be relaxing, hon.”
It’s then I realize I’m hard.
Just thinking about Romy sends my cock into a frenzy.
“Don’t worry,” the nurse assures me. “I’m going to help you get back to those good dreams.”
No.
I manage to slur out a word of protest. It falls on deaf ears. Seconds later, heat rushes into my vein, and blissful darkness chases reality away.
Romy
How long have I been here?
Long enough for Seth to shove a bed pan under my butt a few times to let me relieve myself. I’m unnerved by the fact he hasn’t just put in a catheter. Not that I want that. It’s just stressful that he won’t unstrap me to use the bathroom but also won’t make it easy on himself and everyone involved by catheterizing me.
Each time the door opens, Seth, with his auburn hair and trimmed beard, comes in to check vitals or run tests. Now that he’s not violating me, I’m growing used to his visits.
The door opens again, but this time, it’s a different man.
Doc Junior.
A tidal wave of nerves washes over me, making me shudder, tugging at my restraints. My skin burns from the tight leather cutting into my flesh. Sores are beginning to form.
“Hello, Miss Langston,” Doc Junior says cheerfully. “Long time, no see.”
I’m able to flip him off, which only makes him laugh. He’s not put off by the gesture whatsoever.
“Ready for some therapy?” he asks, eyebrow arching. “Or shall I help you pee first?”
“Let me out of this bed,” I whisper, voice brittle and dry. “Please.”
“Not happening.” He comes to stand beside me and studies me as though I’m a moth under a microscope. “Do you know what day it is?”
“Where is Kaitlyn?” I demand. “Take me to her.”
He sighs heavily. “We’ll get nothing accomplished if you answer my questions with questions.”
“I guess we’re at an impasse then,” I hiss, pinning him with a furious glare.
He’s quiet for a beat and then nods. “Fine. Kaitlyn is undergoing some of our more formal therapies to prime her for something new and advanced we’ve been working on.”
I don’t like the sound of that at all.
“Just let her go,” I plead. “You can do whatever you want to me, but send her back to Caius.”
He shakes his head, giving me a pitying look. “Oh, see, that can’t happen, unfortunately.”
I scream and spit and twist in my restraints until I’m out of breath, spent of all energy. Doc Junior is unmoved by my tantrum. He leaves the room and returns with a syringe. I don’t have the strength to fight against this anymore.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
My eyes snap open, an eerie clarity instantly making every nerve in my mind come alive.
I’m no longer in the bed.
This time, I sit in a chair with wires attached to places on my head, neck, face, and chest. For a split second, I wonder if I’m in an electric chair about to be zapped to death.
There is buzzing coming from the wires but not enough to fry my brain.
What is happening?
I am facing a blank wall and unable to move my head. It appears to be cradled in some sort of brace mechanism. When I start trying to shake my head, a strong pulse of electricity gets me on the side of my neck, causing everything to go hot and white for a moment.
It’s like I’m in a dog’s shock collar, except there are leads all over my upper half. They could shock me into oblivion. The threat is real.
“Welcome to the beginning of your transformation, Romy,” Doc Junior says, voice sadistically joyful. “You’re going to be blown away with how far things have come along since you first started receiving psychiatric treatment.”
“You’re going to shock me into submission?” I demand, fighting the ball of emotion clogging my throat. “Been there. Done that. It didn’t work.”
The therapies that were forced upon me at just six years old are something I try to block out of my mind for my own sanity, but they’re always there lurking and reminding me of that terrible time.