The Dollhouse Society: Isabelle (New Adult BDSM Erotica)

by Eden Myles

  ISABELLE

  The Dollhouse Society

  By

  Eden Myles

  Copyright © 2013 Eden Myles

  Published by Courtesan Press

  http://courtesanpress.wordpress.com/

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be distributed, shared, resold, posted online, or reproduced in any electronic or hard copy form.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities between actual persons or events is entirely coincidental. This book contains adult content and is intended for a mature readership. All sexual scenarios depicted in this book occur between consenting adults over 18 years of age.

  Cover art design by Courtesan Press

  ***

  CONTENTS

  The Rules of Conduct Inside the Dollhouse

  Isabelle by Eden Myles

  Previews & Excerpts

  ***

  THE RULES OF CONDUCT INSIDE THE DOLLHOUSE

  (Failure to comply with these rules shall result in immediate expulsion from the Dollhouse.)

  - No gentleman/lady under the age of thirty shall be permitted to enter the Dollhouse. Gentlemen/Ladies desiring permanent membership within the Society shall be subject to a trial period lasting no less than one year, after which he will be reviewed for possible permanent inclusion in the Society.

  - A gentleman/lady and his/her courtesan/courtier may do anything they wish, so long as it is consensual, tasteful and entertaining. Consensual acts of entertainment within the Dollhouse are hitherto referred to as “plays”.

  - “Plays” between a gentleman/lady and his courtesan/courtier may not be interrupted in any way or for any reason by a third party. “Play” can only be begun or ended by the parties involved.

  - “Plays” shall be conducted only in a designated playroom of the Dollhouse. The only time this rule shall not apply is for a new courtesan’s debutante party, in which “play” shall be conducted in the great room.

  - A gentleman/lady is not permitted to touch, address or otherwise acknowledge another gentleman’s or lady’s courtesan or courtier while in the Dollhouse.

  - Proper decorum must be observed at all times.

  - Courtesans/courtiers shall not be allowed to imbibe any kind of alcoholic beverages while in the Dollhouse.

  - Courtesans/courtiers shall be shown the utmost respect while in the Dollhouse.

  - A new safe word shall be issued at each gathering. When a safe word is used by a gentleman/lady or his/her courtesan/courtier, all “play” shall immediately cease between all the parties involved.

  ***

  ISABELLE

  by Eden Myles

  “Izzy Pop, you still looking for part time work on the weekend?” my best friend Stefan Janovich asked, stopping me in the hallway of my dorm by putting his hand on my arm. I looked at it and he quickly yanked it away.

  “Sorry,” he said sheepishly. He knew how little I liked being touched by anybody, even my gay best guy friend. He ran his hand nervously through his tousled yet stylishly spiked blond hair and grinned, saying, “You said something the other day…”

  “Yeah,” I interrupted. “I did. And yeah, I’m still interested.” I smiled to try and make up for reacting so badly, but it felt fakey. I’d never been a very good liar. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Stefan; touching just set me off, no matter who was doing it. When I went to concerts with my friends, I avoided the mosh pits like the plague. “What do you have for me?”

  He handed me a scrap of paper torn from his notebook. “It’s a housecleaning position. I mean, not glamorous or anything, but it pays really well, and I know…you know, you can use the cash.”

  I gaped as I threaded my way around the students in the corridor, Stefan tagging after. “This is a pretty exclusive neighborhood, Stef.”

  “Yeah, well, the guy’s pretty exclusive.” He gestured up and down his handsome face with a hand as we walked toward my dorm room. “Dr. Michaels is the surgeon who fixed my face pro bono back when.”

  “Oh,” I said, catching on. “Yeah, I think I remember him.”

  I had vague memories of a tall, cold-faced doctor swiftly passing me in the halls when I was going to visit Stefan in the hospital.

  Stef and I had grown up together, but when he was thirteen, he and his mom were in a terrible car crash. They both made it, thankfully, but the windshield shattered and Stefan’s face was cut up pretty badly. It took seven surgeries by Dr. Dorian Michaels, the top plastic surgeon in the city, to restore his natural good looks, but despite all the pain and recovery time, Stefan had been a real trooper through it all.

  “I remember you said you couldn’t stop fantasying about him.”

  He grinned at that. “He’s pretty hot. But I think he’s a little out of my league.”

  “Too old. Too rich,” I guessed.

  Stefan laughed. We were both so poor!

  “He gay?”

  “I wouldn’t send you to him if he wasn’t,” he said.

  “You just want me to fix you up.”

  He laughed again. “Maybe.”

  “Aww, poor Stef, always the bridesmaid, never the bride,” I said as I reached my room. Stefan always had a lot of boyfriends, but his many relationships never seemed to amount to much, mostly because Stefan was a notorious wanderer. As soon as he had a great guy, he started finding flaws and looking for greener pastures.

  “I’m just picky.”

  “Uh-huh.” I keyed open my door and turned. “Wanna hang? I have double fudge ice cream and The Scarlet Pimpernel from Redbox.” The Scarlet Pimpernel was Stefan’s favorite movie. He had a massive crush on Leslie Howard.

  Stefan sort of hmmed and hawed, and I quickly got the feeling he had something hot and well-muscled planned for tonight. Still, I knew he didn’t want to leave me alone. I’d been there for him all through his recovery. He wanted to be here now for mine.

  Get it together, Iz!

  I knew I had to find a way to let him off the hook. I’d decided some time ago I didn’t want to be one of those clingy people who’s afraid to be alone. “On second thought, maybe I’ll turn in early. I had to cram half the night for that killer History exam today.” I made a show of yawning.

  “I can stay,” he said but I held up a hand to stop him.

  “Nah. Gonna shower and turn in.”

  He put his hand on the door. “You sure, Izzy Pop?”

  “Absolutely!” I beamed a smile for him.

  After we said our goodbyes, and I promised to meet him in the student cafeteria for breakfast tomorrow morning, I closed and locked the door, then slid the three latches into place that I’d installed a few months ago. After that, I dropped my books on my desk and went to shower, leaving the bathroom door wide open so I could hear if anyone was trying to get in.

  As I was stepping out of the shower stall, I heard a dull rustling noise at the door. I bundled a big terrycloth towel around my middle and crept out of the bathroom, stopping only to grab up a pair of very sharp scissors from off my desk. I stood very still, barely breathing, dripping water all over the floor.

  Yeah, someone was definitely lurking at my door. I could see a shadow as they toyed with the doorknob. Then more rustling as the unknown person slid a sheet of paper under my door.

  I stood in the shadows, wet, dark tangles of hair clinging in commas to my cheeks, my heart thudding in my ears, breathing in and out, in and out, trying not to hyperventilate. I clutched the scissors close, realizing my hands were shaking.

  “Stop it, Iz,” I told myself in a breathy whisper. “Just stop this shit, all right?”

  I made myself se
t the scissors down before padding quietly to the door. The locks were still in place. No one could breach three deadbolts, I reminded myself.

  Whoever had been standing there was gone now. The room was dimly lit, but I could see the scrawled letters of some funky font announcing a frat party this weekend. The students here were always handing those out. I closed my eyes and breathed out in relief, then padded back over to my highboy to pull out a pair of pajamas.

  A year ago, this cute ivy league guy from uptown named Clark Bennigan asked me to a rave. It was, sad to say, my first real date. I’d never been huge on dating in high school—too shy, too clumsy. But that night I said yes. I’d thought it was time to come out of my shell, to loosen up. I didn’t want to grow old alone because I was afraid to talk to a cute boy.

  Clark picked me up in his Lamborghini and we went driving into the city. The rave was fun and loud and crazy, and a lot of liquor was flowing. I wasn’t a big drinker, so I’d only stuck to one drink I planned to nurse for most of the night. I knew better than to get loaded and let someone take advantage of me.

  But before I knew what was happening, I started feeling sick and needed to throw up. Clark started steering me toward the ladies room, but something happened, and it was like I was in a series of time-lapse photographs. One minute I was stumbling around like some drunken floozy, the next I remembered being carried over his shoulder while he made excuses for me. Then came some sleazy hotel room, a bed with an evil green spread.

  I remembered crying, saying, “I want to go home, Clark. I want to go home!”

  But as my voice steadily rose along with my panic, Clark threw me down and covered my mouth with his hand. He put a small box cutter to my throat and said, “Shut up or I’ll fucking cut your throat, bitch.”

  Most of the night after that was a fuzzy kaleidoscope, but I remember Clark telling me he’d hunt me down and kill me and my family if I told anyone. He’d said he’d killed other girls for having a big mouth and that his dad owned the police. The next morning I woke up sore and bleeding and alone in that dismal little hotel room.

  I only ever told Stefan, who’d had to come pick me up because I had no idea where I was and had no way to get back to campus. On the drive back, he said point-blank in the coldest voice I’d ever heard, “He gave you a roofie and he raped you. That son of a fucking bitch raped you, didn’t he, Iz?”

  “No,” I told him. I was working hard to keep from breaking down into hysterics, and I didn’t want him using that word. Rape was stuff that happened to the loose girls at college. It didn’t happen to girls on their first date, to virgins. It didn’t happen to girls like me. “No, I consented.”

  “Sure you did.”

  “I did.”

  “Let me take you to the ER, Iz, or the police. They can get DNA samples. They can find him.”

  “No. I just want to go home.”

  “You have to report this! You have to turn him in!” He was working himself into a rage.

  “Take me home, Stef, please! Later. Please! I just want to go home.”

  I was shaking, and I desperately wanted a shower. I wanted to pretend the last twenty-four hours was all a dream, that it didn’t happen.

  I didn’t want to get involved in this. It was obvious the guy had money. If I made a fuss, he’d come after me, and then it would be his word against mine. He could probably hurt me. Or worse, he could hurt my grandmother.

  Oh god, I couldn’t let my grandmother learn about this. She was the one who raised me after my parents died in the 9/11 terrorist attacks. She was so proud of my grades, so proud of my common sense. I couldn’t let her see me like this. Like some victim.

  So no, I didn’t tell anyone, even later on. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

  I wasn’t proud of that. You always hear about victim guilt, all that crap, but the reality of it was, when you actually experience it, things looked different. Things aren’t all black and white, right and wrong, like everyone says. It’s hard to be brave. It was too hard for me.

  And besides, my grandma had recently had a serious heart condition. She’d already had two stents put in She didn’t need the extra stress of seeing me this way, not on top of losing her son, my dad, the way she had. If she found out, it might kill her, and she was my only family now.

  With a sigh, I padded back to the bathroom and just stared at myself in the mirror in the dark. I didn’t like putting on bright lights anymore. I’d always hated my body—I was short and stocky, with huge, double-D, basketball-sized boobs, which sounds good in theory but are just plain awful for buying clothes and looked all wrong on me—and not for the first time, I desperately wished I could trade bodies with one of the tall, willowy college girls I passed in the hallways all the time. I wish I had their lives.

  I picked up my lipstick off the vanity and added to the list of imperfections I’d started writing on the mirror. Under Too Short and Too Fat I wrote Mousy Hair. Under that, I added Stretch Marks. I had a lot of them since gaining weight over the last few months. As I set the lipstick down, I saw the scrap of paper that Stefan had given me lying on the floor. I figured it must have fallen out of my things as I was undressing.

  I added Disorganized under Stretch Marks, then went to pick up the paper.

  I didn’t want another job, frankly. After what happened last year, I’d quite the coffee house job I’d been doing so I could put my head back together. But student loans were piling up, and I couldn’t live off Ramen for the rest of my life. On top of that, my grandma was going to need another surgery soon. Poverty and the threat of being thrown out of college was forcing me back into the workforce where I didn’t want to be anymore.

  I looked at the address and the time of the interview that Stefan had gotten me. It was tomorrow, Saturday, at ten in the morning. He’d underlined the word sharp. I thought about what Stefan had said about Dr. Dorian Michaels. What little I remembered of him was a cold and aloof man. But he was gay, so it was obvious I didn’t have to worry about that.

  “This is important, Iz,” I told myself. “This is part of Operation Putting Your Shit Back Together.”

  I nodded. I’d always been very good at talking myself into anything.

  Before I went to bed, I gave my grandma a call and we chatted for a few minutes about everything and nothing. Then I got into bed and pulled the covers up to my chin. And like I had for the past year, I cried myself to sleep.

  ***

  Dr. Michaels, like a lot of folks who worked in New York City, had a house in Westchester County—if you could call it a house. Actually, it was more of a mansion, like that old, rambling stone monolith you see in the Batman movies, the one with multiple levels and turrets and maybe even a Bat Cave underneath it. Like Bruce Wayne, Dr. Michaels was probably quite the player, I marveled.

  I showed the gateman my ID and he buzzed me through the tall black iron gates. I drove my little secondhand Volkswagen up the long, meandering, paved driveway to the front of the house and parked in the circular drive with the stone fountain in the center. I climbed out, craning my neck to get a good look of the highest pinnacle of the old house. Jesus, I would have to clean this place?

  It was only the thought that Dr. Michaels paid so well that encouraged me to walk up to the front door, inlaid with ridiculous amounts of frosted glass, and ring the doorbell. I waited, fidgeting nervously and staring down at myself. I’d dressed down and wore a simple white blouse and tartan skirt, a dark, oversized cardigan sweater, knee socks and penny loafers. After all, I wasn’t applying to be the doctor’s receptionist or anything. I mean, what did a housekeeper look like?

  I flinched as someone opened the door. Maybe I’d expected Alfred to answer in his tuxedo, but the man standing there was anything but a butler. He was tall, well over six foot, and massively built, dressed in a snug white T-shirt and even more snug jeans. Sleeves of intricate tattoos covered both arms up the elbows, and his sandy blond hair was cut spiky and professionally tousled. He had three earrings in eac
h ear and a face that was ruggedly carved and decidedly no-nonsense, with just enough stubble to make my heart kick me in the ribs.

  He frowned down at me and I felt myself inch back a step. I’d had no idea that Dr. Michaels employed a bouncer. “H-hello,” I stuttered “I’m…uh…I’m…”

  “Here for a consultation?” he asked. His voice was deep, but softer than I’d anticipated.

  I nodded dumbly, like some bobblehead, then shook it suddenly. “No…I mean, I’m here to see Dr. Michaels? My friend Stefan sent me? For the housekeeping position?”

  “Ah,” he said, holding the door open for me. “I’m Dr. Michaels. Come in.”

  “You’re…Dr. Michaels?” I said as he ushered me inside.

  “I take it Stefan didn’t warn you, Ms.—?” He looked me up and down as he spoke, obviously enjoying the impression he was making on me.

  “It’s…” I almost said Iz or Izzy or Izzy Pop, which was what my friends always called me, but in the end it felt so ugly and inadequate I blurted out, “…Belle. Belle Starling. Um…no, he just said…” What, Iz, that Dr. Michaels was unbelievably smoking hot? You already knew that, dumbass.

  Yeah, knowing was one thing…but actually seeing… I closed my mouth before I made a fool of myself. “I mean, he didn’t say much.”

  “I see.” He led me across the vast foyer and down a long corridor. “You have a pretty name.”

  “Thanks.”

  I tried not to watch his perfect ass encased in those tight jeans as we turned into a massive office. It was done up in a lot of dark wood, glass and manly leather that would have seemed cold and old fashioned except for the vintage guitars and signed photos of various famous musicians on the walls. In fact, one whole wall was dedicated to the speed metal band Suicide Kings, which had been urber-popular about five years ago, before they went into early retirement. I saw all kinds of memorabilia on the wall—studded leather jackets, band photos, posters, signed photographs. Wow, I thought, my possible future employer was quite the fan.

  I stared at a signed, original Les Paul until Dr. Michaels spoke up. “I used to play, before I turned to medicine. Have a seat.”

  I did a double-take of Dr. Michaels, then looked back at one of the band photos. I wanted to smack my forehead. “You’re Damian, the bass man of Suicide Kings, aren’t you?” Or, that was the name he went by as a musician, anyway.