by Quin Zayne
His distant manner unnerved her. She no longer doubted the man was crazy. Probably dangerous, too. Still, in her years on the planet, no one had presented her with a better opportunity to change the course of her life.
Nothing in life was ideal, and she made the commitment to go for this wild shot the moment she answered the ad. She’d confirmed it in his mansion in San Francisco, when she signed the contract—complete with its disclaimers and clauses about the risks.
Every breath she took, she had to remind herself she signed herself over to this mad man.
Play the game, Mandy, play it well. It’s a million-dollar shot.
Rose. This is all Rose’s game now.
Shifting under the spray, she took it right on her tender ass and hissed. She wasn’t sure if she was glad or disappointed that he hadn’t so much as slapped her ass last night. No doubt he knew she still felt what he did to her the time before. He played her so well. Whatever his his kinky game was, he was a master.
One thing bolstered her, she had his attention. Damon was riveted on her when they were alone together. She had him hooked. All she had to do was hang tough.
She was stronger than she looked. You had to be, when you lost everything and decided to go on living. She made that decision when the young doctor finally answered her questions and admitted in a gentle voice that Becky, Mom, and Dad were dead. They’d want her to survive, as much as it sucked to be without them.
Her eyes stung. She stayed in the shower until after the tears stopped. It was easier when she didn’t have to feel them hot on her face.
She endured a cold rinse and toweled off hard, buffing her skin to a shine. Perfection. She’d get as close to his idea of being perfect as humanly possible. Could anything ever be good enough for Damon Karl?
***
The knock came as she finished drying her hair. She slipped on an airy gauze robe and opened the door.
Finding Damon there wasn’t a surprise. His appearance reinforced her belief that he watched her on camera. She blushed and stepped aside, gesturing to welcome him into the room.
He strode into the suite, at ease in his lithe body. Linen slacks and a white shirt fit him to perfection.
He gave her a blatant once-over. “You’re well-proportioned. You mustn’t take the corset as any kind of criticism. It’s a tool, no more. The use of corsets to enhance the figure has been in practice for generations, and it has powerful effects. Many find it erotic, not only visually, but also the sensations of wearing one.” He raised an eyebrow. “This lovely garment has a specific use.”
“Yes?”
He waved a hand at her torso. “I consider removing the lower ribs rather drastic. Your corset-trainer, Lucinda, thinks we’ll get delightful results the old-fashioned way.”
Mandy raised her brows and focused on keeping her breathing even, so she’d sound calm. “Old-fashioned way?”
“Corset training.” His heavy brows gave the slightest downward twitch, suggesting he practiced face rules, too. “What did you think we were discussing?” A dirty smile flickered over his face. He waved his hand again. “You wear the corset several hours a day. Your corset trainer will adjust it tighter over time. Your body will conform to the hourglass shape, with a smaller waist accentuating the delicious flare of your hips.” His gaze traveled over her, head to toe. He licked his lips, catching the tips of his incisors. “You look delectable.”
She smiled, preening. From Damon Karl, that was a major compliment. “I see.” She didn’t see, entirely. It seemed arcane and bizarre, but she wasn’t about to say so.
“Good. I realize it’s an adjustment, and uncomfortable at first. You’ll become used to it.”
She nodded and left her head down, chin tucked, in a posture of submission to his will.
Clever man. By introducing the topic with the prospect of rib-removal, he guaranteed her full cooperation, even if he didn’t already have it via the contract. She’d heard of women who elected to have all kinds of cosmetic procedures in pursuit of changing their bodies. Rumors followed certain supermodels, alleging they’d had ribs removed before landing their coveted lingerie contracts.
Did the Karl empire extend into lingerie and televised fashion shows? That seemed likely, given their broad base. She pressed her hand to her throat and shut her eyes. From a casual detail he mentioned, she understood he held the power to manipulate media distribution, hand-pick top-sellers, create specialized lines of movies and novels.
Damon Karl could form the tastes, entertainment, and imaginations of an entire generation the same way as he would mold her shape. She gripped the wall.
“Rose, your color looks bad. You aren’t pregnant are you?” He laughed and strode out of the room. “Five hours in the corset today. That will give you a taste of it. Not too tight this first time, Lucinda,” he instructed the attendant who stepped forward in the doorway.
Cruel man. She brew out her breath and shook her hair out to cover her expression. Of course she wasn’t pregnant. Her body remained as virgin as the day she met him. She bit her lip and dug her nails into her palms.
Not a word escaped her mouth.
He shut the door with a thud, leaving her alone in the suite with the woman tasked with lacing her into the—figure-training device.
Annalise approached her briskly and took up the corset. She busied herself opening it with the laces in place. The jaws of the device widened in her slender hands.
Lucinda’s pale pink uniform reminded Mandy of something hospital volunteers wore in 1950s USA. If she’d been surrounded by centerfold women in skimpy fantasy outfits, it would have been cloying, icky. The fact that Damon could create any atmosphere he wanted on an island he owned, far from US laws, and chose wholesome attire for a female staff member seemed mature. Maybe it was a ploy, and he was messing with her mind. Maybe he was—. She shook her head. She could spend every waking moment trying to analyze his psychology, and it was nothing but speculation.
Lucinda cleared her throat and held out the corset, the laces trailing from one hand.
Breaking out of her funk, she extended her hand. “I’m Mandy.”
The woman ignored her hand. “You can undress, or I’ll undress you. I’m sorry, we aren’t going to be friends.” Her crisp words carried a faint Swedish accent.
Mandy turned her back, counting to ten to stuff down the sting of rejection. She shut her eyes and took off her clothes.
“Everything,” the stranger prompted.
Maybe this was how a chicken keeper treated chickens. No naming them, no bonding. Do the job. She pulled off her bra and panties, her face going warm, regressing to her first locker-room experience. When she modeled it was different, here, undressing felt vulnerable.
“Your name is Rose,” she whispered, leaning over Mandy’s shoulder to hand her black satin panties.
Her breath warmed Mandy’s ear.
She nodded, to let Lucinda know she understood. “Thank you.” Damn, that was stupid. He named her Rose, he demanded her obedience, and she introduced herself as Mandy.
The attendant’s discreet behavior confirmed the presence of surveillance cameras. Based on her whisper in her ear, it was wired for sound, too.
She had to be more careful. All her resolve to play the game wouldn’t count for shit if she kept making blatant blunders. A man with such an enormous ego as Damon would be offended if she didn’t stick to his plan.
Forcing a laugh, she slipped into the panties as gracefully as possible, considering she was shaking all over.
“I need more coffee!” She kept her tone light, shrugging off her mistake. Hoping for forgiveness from her implacable, powerful host, in case he caught her mistake.
She couldn’t shake the fear that he might have other applicants waiting in the wings, eager for her to fail. She must not fail.
“Pleased to meet you, Rose,” Lucinda said smoothly.
Lucinda might not want to be girlfriends, but Mandy owed her. In her state of nerves, no telli
ng what she might have babbled if the corset-trainer hadn’t as good as slapped her.
The lace trim and tiny satin bows on the panties matched the corset. Lucinda marched to the dresser and opened a drawer. It was stocked with many more pairs.
Apparently, this was to be her uniform. Please, let there be more to the outfit.
The woman picked up the corset again with clear intent.
Blushing, Mandy stepped into the contraption, and Lucinda raised it into position.
The corset trainer fastened the hardware in the front. The rigid device exposed the tops of her breasts, making them appear larger. The stark black turned her pale as vampire. She averted her eyes.
Lucinda stepped behind her and tightened the laces.
That wasn’t so bad.
She tightened them more.
“Oh, hold on. I need to breathe,” she forced a laugh. Aside from a few experiments with control-top pantyhose and shaper garments, she’d opted for comfort. This thing went way beyond shape-wear. She felt heady. The closest thing she’d ever felt was Dad’s bear hugs. Tears sprang to her eyes.
“Well, you are a beginner.” Lucinda eased up, allowing her to sip air without being crushed.
Damon Karl’s concept of what felt erotic and hers didn’t quite match.
In what universe did being compressed tighter than a bear hug though out your entire torso for hours each day feel sexy? Maybe the same universe that considered the iron maiden, the anal pear, public flogging, impalement, and being stretched on the rack reasonable punishments.
Lucinda tied the laces and circled her at a distance, surveying the effect.
The woman’s pale blonde hair gleamed with sparkling highlights.
Mandy turned slowly, checking the mirror.
Oh. Oh. That was erotic.
Even without being extremely tight, the corset whittled her body into the classic hourglass shape.
Damn. With men being sensitive to visual triggers, she supposed the flaring hips, bulging ass and offered breast mounds had to be more enticing to Damon than they were to her. They were damned enticing, though. This corset thing could cause narcissism.
She made another slow turn, checking it from all angles. Wow. Va va voom, as guys said in old Hollywood movies. Bombshell.
If she could whistle at her new pin-up perfection shape, she would.
“Okay, I’m all-in with the corset training.”
Lucinda smiled. “See. It looks wonderful on you. The effects will be worth it. In time, your waist will stay smaller whether you’re wearing it or not. That’s the payoff for figure-training.”
Mandy fought not to let anything crinkle on her face as a smile lit her up. Permanent figure enhancement to go with her improved face. Another big win that would help her in life after damned Damon Karl. “Thank you for your help.”
It struck her as she examined their reflections. Lucinda resembled her. Her fine features were as even as Analise’s. Maybe all the women working in the villa were enhanced.
Did failed dolls become members of the household staff?
Mandy’s situation had been far worse before he chose her, but the thought of becoming his employee chilled her.
"Are you all right?" Lucinda whispered.
"Yes, of course." Her voice was too bright. She squeezed her thighs. "Daydreaming, that's all."
"Sure. Just stop frowning." There was no mistaking the warning in the cool attendant's voice. “We’ll do corset training every day. It’s best to be consistent when you’re starting out. See you tomorrow morning.”
She sashayed out of the room and Mandy stepped into the doorway to watch her walk. Part of her mind relived walking for Damon at the Sky Lounge. At a distance, the attendant’s tiny waist and heart-shaped ass registered. The old-fashioned dress with its form-fitting bodice and flared skirt accentuated the effect.
The corset assistant was a practitioner of figure-training herself. With that body, she could wear any kind of dress, any kind of clothes at all, and incite arousal.
Damon’s living doll vision was becoming clearer. She’d spend the rest of her life built like that.
She sat down at the desk—carefully.
Feeling light-headed, she took measured sips of air. This was why olden-days heroines fainted. They couldn’t freaking breathe.
Maybe she should check under all those panties for smelling salts.
A million dollars. A million dollars. A million dollars.
She rose and walked to the desk. Her breasts jiggled. Everything else stayed locked in place. Surreal.
On to French.
She turned on the computer and opened the next lesson. Bon jour. Her plush lips shaped the word. She licked them. He might be watching. He probably was.
Keeping her face down, she stopped fighting a triumphant smile. He’d given her another weapon in her battle to solve his mystery. The corseting was a key. In his gambits to control her, he revealed himself. She didn’t know yet what it meant. It was like trying to solve codes in the first mystery books she’d read years ago. Picturing cyphers on yellowed pages, the scent of her mother’s books came back to her.
She shook her head, marveling at her erect posture, spine stretched, shoulders open, buttocks flared. Sitting in this thing was pornographic.
Taking great care to retrain her breathing, she repeated each phrase in French, attempting to get the pronunciation right.
She replayed most of the phrases. Her mind kept straying. More than anything else—as she sat there creaming in the new satin panties with her body conforming to the shape he desired—she wanted to know what Damon had in mind for her next.
Damon, Damon, Damon. She felt deliciously wicked and rocked on the seat.
Lion Eyes
Damon
In my den, I settled into my wonderful space chair and rocked, savoring the excitement of having my Rose here in my villa, learning her role.
I wanted to take complete control over her. Not for a night or a weekend, but for as long as I desired. She wasn’t an ordinary woman, she was a woman perfect for me. The woman, the one whose helplessness first entranced me. I wanted to not only own her and command her submission, I wanted to change her. Customize her to my specifications, turn her into my living doll.
I’d had minor procedures to restore a more youthful appearance. Laszlo’s skillful work gave me insight into the possibilities of body modification.
My Rose gave me an involved project, a project idealized for my pleasure.
She’d be obedient, pleasing, and tight. Hard to get into, that tight. Sometimes she’d even fight me because it turned me on to fuck her into submission, make it hurt until she lost control and came in gushing surrender on my cock. If she wasn’t already a G-spot girl, she would be by the time I finished training her.
She’d come to depend on me for everything, and give her life into my hands. I tilted back in my chair and watched a ship far out to sea. Willingly, she must give herself to me out of desire and love, outside the contract. Hell, I want her forever.
I touched the control panel. The walls slid back, revealing the screens. I activated the ones that would show my Rose.
I watched her, my fingers toying with an unlit Cuban cigar. She either deliberately tantalized me, or she chose to practice her wiles alone. The fact of surveillance was explicit in the contract, and she was bright. No one except me had access to the feeds from her rooms. Her loveliness was for no one else. Whether she thought about me watching or not, she gave quite a show.
Sprawling in my chair in front of the bank of monitors—computers and security feeds—I gave my cock more room. It stiffened as she caressed her recently enhanced breasts. In a minimally invasive procedure, Laszlo injected fat from her thighs into her lovely cones. The added volume made them fuller and firmer. He’d given her a serum to tighten the skin. A brilliant innovator, he used his new laser technique to cause swelling in the muscles under the breasts to make them higher and more prominent. The effect: alluring, an
d entirely without scarring or loss of sensation. They would feel and look entirely natural.
After a couple of days, the injection sites were invisible. No one else would know she had work done. Making the modifications while she was so young boded well for a body that would defy gravity throughout her lifespan. A healthy diet and ongoing physical conditioning would aid her longevity and youthful appearance. She might well pass as a twenty year-old for more than a decade.
Among other things, Laszlo was perfecting an elixir to slow—and perhaps one day stall—aging. I was a willing guinea pig. Based on the shocked looks from rapidly deteriorating colleagues, we were succeeding.
The brilliant doctor photographed me often under controlled conditions and took minute measurements to track skin elasticity, muscle tone, body composition, metabolic rate, and other more arcane aspects of my physical apparatus. I left the details to him. What I found gratifying was the shock and envy on faces aging at a normal rate—a rate that was faster among the privileged toxic garbage-eaters of the US than among people who ate traditional diets in the few parts of the world not yet destroyed by processed foods.
I moaned at the sight before me.
Rose pumped cocoa butter onto her hands and massaged it into her breasts. I unzipped, and freed my cock. Matching her pace, I stroked, my breath paced to hers.
What would she make of me if she realized I was much older than I appeared? Some women preferred older men. Others were repelled. I had no idea about my Rose’s true tastes.
Most of the time, I thought of her as mercenary. She had, after all, responded to an ad offering a million dollars for undergoing body modification. She hadn’t balked at anything else, although she’d been canny enough to ask immediately what the entire process would entail—exactly. That charmed me, but I didn’t want to be charmed.
I wanted to help her, that was my secret part of this. It wasn’t all for my gratification, although there was that.