The Puppetmaster

by Linnea May

  The sight of it fills me with pride, and I make a mental note to fuck her from behind one more time today before the marks are gone for good.

  If I’m lucky, she’ll give me a reason to leave new ones.

  “Something on your mind?” I ask as I attach the string to her cuffs.

  She looks up at me but I don’t react to her expression, avoiding eye contact with her on purpose.

  “Why are you asking?”

  Oh, how I hate that fucking question.

  I close the second clip and yank at her strings, beckoning her to follow me downstairs.

  “Is there?” I growl as I pull her harshly along the corridor.

  I can hear her padding behind me, almost stumbling over her own feet to keep up with me.

  “No,” she insists as we walk down the stairs. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “No, I’m n—”

  “Shut up, Alena, I know something is bothering you. But if you don’t want to tell me, fine,” I interrupt her, adding another strong yank as we reach the kitchen, causing her to stumble next to me.

  We’re standing next to the counter that separates the open kitchen from the dining area where we usually have our breakfast together.

  Not today, though.

  “On the floor,” I command her, grabbing the strings a little closer to her wrists and yanking them down so she’s forced to bend over.

  She mewls and manages just in time to catch her fall, tumbling down on all fours, just as I wanted her to.

  “If you don’t want to talk to me, you’ll have your breakfast on the floor today,” I snarl.

  She tries to gather herself up, protest written all over her pretty face when she looks up at me, but I shove her back down. I kneel next to her, attaching the ends of the strings to a high chair that’s standing close by. Just like the knots I used on her first day, these are not strong enough to stop her from getting away, but this is not about physical restraint; it is a mental one.

  I tie the strings so close to the chair that she’s forced to remain bent over, resting on her elbows so her hands are placed right next to the chair, her ass sticking up in the air. I increase her humiliation by pulling down her cute little thong and exposing her center to the room.

  She’s breathing heavily, and while I know the noises she’s making right now are meant to be in protest, they sound like horny little moans to me.

  “Stay.”

  I get up on my feet and stand next to her for a few moments, watching her half-naked body bent down in submission before me. My cock grew hard the moment she stumbled down to the floor and made that sexy mewling sound. It’s pushing against the denim of my pants with such force that it’s almost painful.

  “You still don’t want to tell me?”

  She ignores my question and lowers her head to the floor.

  “Fine,” I say, turning on the spot and making my way into the kitchen to get her breakfast. I expect her to call after me, to plead for mercy or ask me to come to my senses. But she does nothing of the sort and just stays on the floor, bent over and motionless, resting on her elbows, her eyes glued to the white tiles.

  I throw one last look at her, a part of me hoping that she will give in because I would much rather have a proper breakfast with her seated by me at the table.

  That thought haunts me as I prepare two dry slices of toast for her to eat. I consider adding at least a little bit of butter, but that would ruin the whole idea of punishment. It has to hurt if I really want her to learn—and keeping secrets from me is the last thing I’m willing to tolerate. Something is going on in that pretty little head of hers and I will find out what it is, no matter what.

  I place the plate with the two dry slices of toast right below her nose, and she still doesn’t move or speak. She just perseveres in that subdued position, her bare ass pointed up in the air, her head bowed low in defeat.

  She doesn’t move when I prepare my own breakfast–scrambled eggs and buttered toast—and she doesn’t move when I make coffee, even though I know how much she craves that stuff in the morning. She doesn’t even look up when I sit down at one of the high chairs close to her.

  She also doesn’t touch the toast in front of her, but I try to enjoy my breakfast all the same. I’m not enjoying it, really, and that annoys the hell out of me.

  Because I shouldn’t care this much. I shouldn’t care about this at all. If anything, it should satisfy me to see her like this, so demure, so defeated, fighting herself, because she knows I’m on to something, but she’s too stubborn to admit it. I should enjoy watching her break under the punishment and relish the way she will give in to me any moment now.

  But I’m not. Instead, I’m sitting here like a fucking idiot, wishing we would share a meal like normal people.

  “This isn’t fair.”

  I freeze in place, my hand idly hovering in the air as I was just about to reach for my coffee mug.

  “Excuse me?” I turn to her.

  She doesn’t move an inch and doesn’t even look up to me, but she repeats her words.

  “This isn’t fair,” she says. “You said you hate liars, so why would I ever lie to you?”

  “You tell me, Alena, because you are obviously lying to me!”

  “No, Michael, I’m not!” she insists—and upon hearing her words, I feel like the blood has just frozen in my veins.

  “What did you just call me?”

  Chapter 34

  Alena

  Shit. One week. One entire week I made it without making this mistake.

  I don’t know why, but I’m aware that he wanted his name to remain a secret between us. A secret revealed to me before I even stepped foot inside this house.

  “Get up!” he snaps at me venomously. “I want you to look me in the eyes when you tell me where the hell you heard that name!”

  I flinch under his loud voice, but do as I am told. He doesn’t make a move to untie me from the chair, so I do it myself, always glancing up at him in fear this could be a breach despite the order he gave me.

  I take the plate with the ridiculously dry toast with me when I rise up to my feet. I’m not going to eat a punishment breakfast when I don’t deserve the punishment. I’d rather eat nothing at all.

  I place the plate on the counter and pointedly pull up the thong, too, all the while keeping my eyes locked on his. He raises an eyebrow at me, but doesn’t say a word.

  “I saw it on a letter that your driver was holding when he brought me here,” I explain, standing as tall as possible while he stays seated on the high chair, the half-eaten breakfast still in front of him. My stomach growls with hunger at the sight of it, but I ignore it and hope to God he didn’t hear it.

  “By accident?” he pries.

  “What do you mean by accident?” I retort. “It’s not like he waved it around in my face or anything, it just... happened.”

  “Because you were nosy,” he assumes. “You were peeking at things that don’t concern you.”

  I huff. “Well, according to you, nothing that has to do with you concerns me, apparently.”

  His face hardens and he pins me down with an angry stare.

  “You knew what you were getting into, puppet,” he reminds me. “We’re not dating. This is not about a boyfriend and girlfriend getting to know each other.”

  “Yes, I know that!” I insist, sounding like a stubborn little girl.

  I do know that. I just... refuse to accept it.

  “Still... I don’t think it’s fair that you know so much about me and I get to know nothing about you, not even your name...”

  “You don’t need to know anything about me,” he says. His voice has changed, sounding more somber than furious now. “In fact, the less you know, the better.”

  That makes me prick up my ears.

  “Because you’re such a bad guy?”

  He averts his eyes, shaking his head.

  “I don’t go by Michael these days,” he says wit
hout looking at me. “If you need to know a name, call me Raad. But never do it to my face. You know what you’re supposed to say then.”

  I nod, relief kissing me in cautious pecks. I’m not sure what to make of this. Is he no longer angry at me for allegedly lying to him? Was my punishment enough?

  Does he agree with me?

  “These days?” I prompt, knowing that I might be stepping into dangerous territory. “You mean you changed your name?”

  He shrugs. “It was easier to go by the name my father gave me when I was younger. But I really like the other one better.”

  “The one you got from your mother,” I assume.

  He tenses instantly, still refusing to look at me and reaching for his coffee mug instead. I watch him take a big swig from it, standing idly while fiddling with the leather strings that hang down from my wrists. I’ve gotten so used to them that I don’t even want to think of the day I will have to give them back. The day I’m no longer his puppet.

  He nods. “That’s correct.”

  “Is she...”

  “She died when I was very young,” he answers my unfinished question. “I hardly remember her.”

  “And your father?”

  He gives me a stern look from the side, his eyebrows furrowed in question. “Why are you asking about him?”

  “I was just wondering... you said you feel closer to the name your mother chose—”

  “I said I like it better.”

  I can’t suppress a sigh. “Yes. But why? Is it because you and your father don’t get along?”

  He responds with an indignant huff and turns away from me.

  “No one gets along with their father,” he points out. “At least not anyone I know.”

  “I never really knew my father,” I interject. “He left us when my sister was still a baby and was never heard or seen again.”

  Pausing for a sinister laugh, I shrug when I add, “So, yeah, I guess you could say I didn’t have the greatest relationship with that jerk, either.”

  Raad looks at me with a pitiful expression, but he doesn’t seem surprised at all. He couldn’t possibly have known this about me as well?

  Something touches my leg and causes me to jump up in surprise. I look down to find the cat nuzzling up to my calf. Like always, she appears on cue when I’m feeling down and in need of consolation.

  “That thing really likes you,” he remarks, regarding her with a cold look.

  “That thing,” I mock him. “I don’t know why you hate her so much.”

  “I don’t hate her. I just don’t care much for her.”

  “Then why do you let her live here?”

  “Because I wanted to do my housemaid a favor. She brought it in.”

  “And she never gave the cat a name, either?” Alena asks surprised, going down on her knees to pick the cat up in her arms, which the animal allows willingly. That’s yet another thing I’ve never witnessed before. Even Dorota is only allowed to pick it up when the cat feels like it.

  “I never asked.”

  Alena rolls her eyes at me. “Of course you didn’t.”

  “I thought you wanted to come up with a name,” he says now. “It’s been a week since you got here. Can’t be that hard.”

  “Well, it is,” I insist. “I want to name her something meaningful, something that fits.”

  “Meaningful, huh?” he growls. “Well, what does it mean to you?”

  I widen my eyes in question. “What do you mean?”

  “What does the cat mean to you?” he asks again, jutting his chin forward as his eyes lay on the feline in my arms.

  I squeeze her lovingly while she wriggles in my arms, signaling that she’s done with accepting my affection—but I’m not done giving it to her.

  “Solace,” I admit. “She gives me comfort when I most need it, almost like we’ve been friends for a long time.”

  He nods as I speak, his expression tense as he seems to ponder the question at hand.

  “How about Salwa?” he suggests eventually.

  “Salwa?”

  “It’s an Arabic name, and it means exactly that: solace.”

  “Salwa,” I repeat the name again, looking into the cat’s blue eyes, as if asking her whether she likes that name. It doesn’t matter in the end because I like it. I love it, actually.

  But I’m too stubborn to let him know that.

  “That could work,” I say nonchalantly. “I’ll give it a try and see if she listens to it.”

  “That cat doesn’t listen to anything,” he argues.

  “Maybe not if you say it,” I tease him.

  He meets my mocking with a sinister smile on his face, clearly making a note to punish me for it later. That’s fine with me, because I know it will be a sweet punishment. Or so I hope.

  “Get yourself a coffee,” he says as he eases himself down from the chair. “I’ll make you some eggs.”

  Chapter 35

  Raad

  I gave in too quickly. I was weak.

  She made me weak.

  I don’t want to let these thoughts get to me, but fuck they do, because I know it’s true. Alena is hiding something from me, she’s lying and she clams up while simultaneously asking me to open up to her. Neither of which I can or should tolerate, but for some reason I do. For some reason, I let her sassy remarks go by, I let her guide the conversation up until deliberating a name for that stupid cat that likes her so much.

  Little Miss Solace rests on the window shelf, basking in a ray of autumn sun while Alena follows my order to clean up the kitchen. I’m still sitting on the high chair, watching her slave away for me.

  I don’t enjoy turning my puppets into housemaids and usually refrain from issuing such kinds of demands, because watching them fulfill these tasks doesn’t give me any pleasure. If anything, it reminds me of Dorota doing her job, which is the least sexy thing I could imagine. I’ve never indulged in the fantasy of having a wife or even a girlfriend perform these tasks for or with me. That idea is just too detached from my own reality.

  But I wanted to keep Alena busy. I know she becomes restless easily and needs something to focus her energy on. I’ve talked to her former boss on occasion and he always said the same thing about her: Alena tries very hard. She tries to please, she tries to achieve something. She thrives for recognition. I would lie if I said I didn’t feel guilty about taking that away from her, but I also know that Mr. Hammond’s firm was not the place for her to flourish. It was only meant to be a stepping stone, and while I was the one who took it away from her, I’m also the reason she got the job in the first place.

  I wonder how much she would hate me if she knew all of this.

  She’s wiping the counter clean, standing with her back to me, her perky ass exposed under the see-through kimono, her brown hair raining down her athletic back.

  I want her so much that it hurts, physically and mentally. And it doesn’t help that I know I will have her, later today and then again tomorrow, and the day after that. Again and again. She’s my puppet and I can do whatever I want with her—but for how long?

  For how long will she want to be here? I’ve never had to ask myself that question before, because all my former puppets wanted me more than I wanted them. I could see the fear in their eyes every time they thought I was done with them, and I was confronted with their desperate cries when the day finally came. Most, not all, pleaded for me to keep them, to marry them, to be mine forever. They didn’t want to leave even after spending more than a month with me.

  Alena, on the other hand, speaks of needing solace and comfort after just being with me for a week.

  Does she not want to be my puppet anymore?

  Why do I fucking worry about this? Why does she make me worry about this?

  “You said that cat gives you comfort,” I say, deciding to confront her with my anguish. “Comfort for what? Do I make you suffer that much?”

  She freezes in place for a second, but doesn’t turn around to me when
she responds.

  “That cat’s name is Salwa,” she simply says.

  “Don’t change the subject again,” I warn her. “Answer the goddamn question.”

  Alena sighs and puts down the cloth with which she cleaned the countertop. There’s nothing more for her to do, the kitchen is as clean as it can be and she stands there indecisively, her fingers idly tapping on the spotless surface in front of her.

  “It’s like you said,” she utters, finally turning around to me. “No one said this was going to be easy.”

  I nod. “Yes, but I’ve never had a puppet doubt me this early on.”

  “Doubt you?” she repeats, her eyes widening as she looks at me. “Who said I doubt you?”

  “Why else would you seek comfort from a cat? You obviously don’t want to be here anymore, but you’re too afraid to say it.”

  She looks hurt now, slowly shaking her head as she approaches me and leans against the counter opposite where I’m sitting.

  “That’s not it,” she whispers shyly, lowering her gaze.

  “Look at me when you speak to me,” I reprimand her. “Only liars feel the urge to shy away from eye contact when holding a conversation.”

  Her eyelashes are fluttering nervously when she looks back up at me. She bites her lower lip, seemingly fighting to keep the truth in while trying to find other words to satisfy me. She had better not be doing that.

  “What is it then?” I urge. “Do I need to whip the truth out of you?”

  She smiles coyly and shakes her head. “I don’t think that would work.”

  “Oh, trust me, it always does.”

  Blood rushes to her cheeks and her eyes shy away for a split second before she remembers my command and returns to looking at me.

  “Did you never...” she begins, biting her lips again as if to stop herself from speaking.

  “Did I never what?”

  “The thing is,” she starts again, “I’m not seeking solace because I want to leave or because I don’t enjoy what... what’s going on between us.”