Chapter Text
The girl sat perfectly still in the oversized leather chair. Her knuckles were white where they gripped the armrests. Bandages wrapped her left wrist, disappearing under the sleeve of her faded yellow sweater. Another patch covered her right cheekbone, stark white against her pale skin and fiery hair.
Dr. Evans cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses as he leaned forward. "You mentioned last week that these injuries came from your father?" His pen hovered over the notepad, but his eyes kept drifting down to her legs where her tights had snagged at the knee. The rhythmic shift of his shoulders suggested movement below desk level. "Tell me more about that night."
The girl's gaze remained fixed on the dusty bookshelf behind him. "He said I shouldn't wear pajamas to bed anymore." Her voice was flat, like worn pavement. "That the fabric irritated his skin when he..." She pulled her sweater sleeve down over the bandaged wrist. A faint tremor traveled up her arm. "Mom held my ankles so I wouldn't kick the lamp over again."
Below the polished oak desk, Dr. Evans' left hand moved with practiced stealth beneath his tweed jacket. His thumb rubbed slow, insistent circles against the growing bulge in his trousers. Sweat beaded along his hairline as he leaned closer. "And the bruise on your face? How did that happen?" The rasp in his voice betrayed the rhythmic clench of his jaw.
The girl’s fingers traced the edge of the bandage on her cheek. "My brother," she whispered. Her eyes stayed locked on the bookshelf, its medical journals blurring into brown smudges. "After dinner. He said I wasn’t cleaning the dishes fast enough." A pause. The air conditioner hummed. "He pushed my face onto the kitchen table. The wood was cold. It smelled like lemon cleaner." Her knuckles whitened again. "He pulled my shorts down. Just yanked them to my ankles."
Dr. Evans shifted, his chair groaning under his weight. His breathing hitched as he imagined it—the girl bent over, freckled shoulders trembling, her small hands splayed against laminated pine. Below the desk, his fingers worked faster. "Did he... use protection?" The question slithered out, thick with false concern. His thumb pressed hard against the damp fabric, circling the swollen head beneath.
The girl flinched. Her eyes flickered to the window where rain streaked the glass like tears. "He doesn’t like condoms. Says they make him feel... distant." She tugged her sweater sleeve again, the bandage peeking out like a dirty secret. "It hurt. Worse than when Dad does it. He kept saying... *open wider, bitch*." Her voice fractured on the last word. A drop of sweat trailed down Dr. Evans’ temple as he pictured it—the brother’s hips slamming forward, the girl’s mouth forced open, her choked gags.
Below the desk, the zipper gave way with a hushed rasp. Dr. Evans’ fingers slipped beneath his waistband, freeing his erection into the stifling air of the office. It stood thick and flushed against his palm. His thumb swiped over the leaking slit, spreading wetness as he began slow, deliberate strokes. The rhythm matched the girl’s shallow breaths. "And your mother?" he prompted, his voice tight. "Does she... intervene?" He leaned further forward, the edge of the desk digging into his stomach as his hand moved faster, knuckles brushing the underside of the wood.
The girl’s eyes remained fixed on the bookshelf, unblinking. "She watches," she murmured. Her fingers plucked at a loose thread on her sweater cuff. "Sometimes she holds the camera. The flash is bright. It makes spots dance in my eyes after." She shifted slightly, the leather chair creaking beneath her slight weight. "Last time, she told Dad my skin looked prettier when it was red. Like... like strawberries." A tremor ran through her, visible in the slight quiver of her bandaged wrist. "He used his belt buckle after that. The metal part was cold at first. Then it burned."
Beneath the desk, Dr. Evans’ breath hitched. His palm was slick, sliding up and down his rigid length with wet, rhythmic sounds muffled by the oak barrier. He pictured the belt buckle—cold steel digging into tender flesh, leaving angry welts. His thumb pressed hard against the swollen head, smearing precum as his hips lifted minutely off the chair with each upward stroke. "Do you... cry?" he rasped, his voice strained. Sweat darkened the collar of his shirt. "When they do these things?"
The girl’s gaze drifted to a framed diploma on the wall. "Not anymore." Her voice was hollow, detached. "Mom says tears make my face puffy. Ruin the photos." She tugged her sleeve down, but the bandage slipped, revealing mottled purple bruises circling her wrist like a grotesque bracelet. "Last week, my brother wanted... something new." Her throat worked. "He made me kneel in the bathtub. The porcelain was cold. He turned the shower on. Ice water. I couldn’t breathe." Her fingers trembled against the armrest. "He held my head under until I stopped struggling. Then he... pushed inside. From behind. Said my ass was tighter when I was choking."
Dr. Evans’ breath caught. Below the desk, his hand moved faster, slick strokes echoing the girl’s shallow gasps. Precum glistened on his knuckles. "Did it..." he swallowed thickly, "...hurt more than usual?"
The girl’s fingers tightened on the armrest. "The water made it sting." Her voice was a frayed thread. "Like salt in a cut." She shifted, wincing as the leather chair pressed against her back. "He kept going even when I threw up. Said it made me tighter." Her gaze dropped to her lap, where her tights bunched at the knees.
Dr. Evans leaned forward, his knuckles pale as his grip tightened beneath the desk. "Show me," he rasped, sweat glistening on his upper lip. "The bruises. Can I see how bad?" The words hung thick in the air, his thumb circling faster over his slick, swollen head. Precum dripped onto his trousers, darkening the wool.
The girl hesitated, her gaze drifting to the rain-streaked window. Slowly, she stood up. The leather chair sighed as she lifted her faded yellow sweater, revealing a constellation of fingerprint bruises along her narrow waist. Her fingers trembled as they hooked into the waistband of her skirt. With a soft rustle, she pushed them down past her hips, letting them pool around her ankles. Underneath, her tights were ripped at the knee, exposing purple splotches. She turned, bending slightly at the waist.
"Pull those down too, sweetie," Dr. Evans whispered, his voice thick. His knuckles whitened beneath the desk, slick strokes accelerating against his straining erection.
The girl hooked trembling thumbs into the waistband of her tights. The elastic snapped against bruised hips as she peeled them down, revealing mottled purple fingerprints circling her thighs like violent bracelets. She bent forward, resting her bandaged hands on the leather chair back. Her exposed buttocks were a canvas of abuse—deep, overlapping welts from the belt buckle formed angry ridges across pale skin, while fresh bruises bloomed like storm clouds along her inner thighs.
Dr. Evans surged forward, chair screeching backward. His belt buckle clattered to the floorboards. Before the girl could straighten, before her breath could catch—his damp palm slammed between her shoulder blades, shoving her face-first onto her chair.
Her bandaged wrists scraped leather as his other hand clamped around her throat from behind. Not playful. Not testing. Thumb digging into the pulse point below her jaw. A choked gasp tore from her—thin, desperate. He used the grip to yank her hips back, impaling her on his cock.
No preamble. No lube except the slick smear of his own precum. The brutal stretch was immediate, agonizing. Her small body arched, a silent scream trapped against the chair leather where her face was pressed. He drove deep, burying himself to the hilt in one punishing thrust. Her inner walls clenched in reflexive agony around the intrusion, slick only with the thin fluid of terror and the remnants of his earlier excitement.
"Thank your brother," Dr. Evans hissed, his breath hot and ragged against her ear. His hands still squeezed around her throat, keeping her from air. The pressure was deliberate, measured – not enough to kill, just enough to drown her in panic, to make every ragged gasp impossible. "He is right about your ass when choked." His hips pistoned, a relentless rhythm that slammed her bruised pelvis against the unforgiving chair back. Each impact jolted her frame, sending fresh waves of pain radiating from the welts on her buttocks. Below, his balls slapped wetly against her tender skin.
Then, abruptly, his grip vanished from her throat. Air flooded her lungs in a desperate, shuddering inhale that scraped raw. She coughed, tears blurring the green leather pressed against her cheek. The brutal thrusts didn't stop. Instead, his hands clamped onto her braids, using them as leverage to yank her back onto his cock with even more force. Sweat dripped from his chin onto her exposed spine.
"Tell me," Dr. Evans growled, his voice thick with exertion and something darker. He slammed deep, grinding his pelvis against the bruised swell of her buttocks. "Your *first* time. Who took it?" His fingers tightened in her hair, pulling her head back sharply, exposing the vulnerable line of her throat. "Was it Daddy? Or did Mommy hold you down for him?" He punctuated each question with a vicious snap of his hips, the wet slap echoing obscenely in the quiet office. "Details, little whore. Now."
The girl choked, her body arching against the leather chair. The scent of stale sweat, old leather, and the sharp tang of her own terror filled her nostrils. Her bandaged wrists scrabbled uselessly against the chair back. "Dad," she gasped, the word ripped from her. "The... the basement." Her voice was thin, shredded. "After Mom's... birthday party." She flinched as his thumb dug into the tender bruise beneath her jaw. "He... he smelled like whiskey. And cigars." Her eyes squeezed shut, tears carving paths through the dust on her cheeks. "He used... Vaseline. From the toolbox." The memory seemed to fracture her composure further. "It stung... cold." Her breath hitched as he drove deeper still, stretching her impossibly wide.
Dr. Evans groaned, a low, guttural sound vibrating against her spine. His fingers tightened in her braids, pulling her head back further. "How old?" he demanded, his hips pistoning relentlessly. The wet slap of flesh against flesh echoed off the bookshelves. Sweat dripped from his nose onto the exposed curve of her shoulder blade. "How old were you when Daddy fucked his little girl?"
The girl’s breath hitched. Her bandaged wrists pressed harder into the leather chair back. Her voice was a ghost, thin and fractured. "I... I don't remember." Her eyes squeezed shut tighter. "I was still in diapers." The admission hung in the humid air, stark and raw. "Still in diapers?" His thrusts slowed, grinding deep, savoring the choked gasp it tore from her. "So tiny," he breathed, his voice thick with perverse awe. His free hand slid down her trembling flank, fingers digging into the constellation of bruises on her hip. "Did he have to hold you open? Did Mommy have to spread your legs?" He punctuated each question with a sharp snap of his hips, forcing a whimper from her throat. "Did he use his fingers first? Tell me!" His fingers released her hair, instead clamping onto her hips, lifting her slightly to impale her deeper. "Tell me how it felt!"
The girl flinched as if struck. Her voice scraped out, barely audible. "Mom... held my ankles. High." Her fingers clawed at the leather. "Dad... he... spit." She shuddered violently. "He didn't... use fingers." Her head dropped forward. "Just... pushed." The word dissolved into a ragged sob. "It burned... so much." Her small frame trembled violently against his bruising grip. "I screamed... but... the music... was loud upstairs."
"Four," he hissed against the damp skin of her neck, his breath scalding. "You were four. I know." His thrusts turned jagged, uncontrolled. "Because I've seen the video."
The girl froze beneath him. Her choked gasp echoed off the tile walls. Below, his cock pulsed violently inside her, thick and relentless. He slammed home one final time, burying himself to the hilt. A guttural groan tore from his throat. Heat flooded her—thick, viscous jets pumping deep into her core. She could feel it, the scalding spill filling her, the impossible stretch as he emptied himself. It pulsed in time with the frantic hammering of her own heart against her ribs. The sensation was invasive, overwhelming—a violation deeper than the thrusts. Warmth spread through her lower belly, heavy and claiming. He held her hips tight against his own, grinding, milking every last drop into her trembling body.
Then, abruptly, he withdrew. The sudden emptiness was almost as shocking as the intrusion had been. A slick trail of his release dribbled down her inner thigh, stark against her pale skin. He didn't look at her. Didn't speak. He simply turned his back, his own breathing ragged as he tucked his softening cock back into his trousers. The zipper rasped shut. He snatched a wad of coarse paper towels from the dispenser, wiping his hands with brisk, efficient strokes. The used towels were crumpled and tossed into the overflowing bin with a flick of disgust. He straightened his tweed jacket, smoothed his hairline, adjusted his glasses. The transformation was chilling—the predator replaced by the professional in seconds. His gaze finally flickered over her shoulder, taking in her trembling form, the bruises stark against her hips, the semen leaking onto her thigh. His expression remained impassive, detached. A faint sheen of sweat still glistened on his temple, the only lingering trace.
"Same time next week?" Dr. Evans asked, his voice unnervingly calm, almost conversational. He didn't wait for an answer. He moved past her, his polished loafers clicking on the tile floor, heading for the door. His hand paused on the knob. "And Amy?" He glanced back, his green eyes sharp behind the lenses. "Wear something easier to remove." The door clicked shut behind him, leaving her alone with the smell of sweat, sex, and disinfectant.