by Stacia Stone
“I-is that it…Are we done?” I swallowed hard. “Sir?”
“Were you expecting something else?” He reached into the inner jacket pocket and pulled out a roll of bills before setting them on the dresser. “For you.”
“I just thought that you paid…” My voice trailed off.
“For sex?” He smiled then, and my heart stopped at the beauty of it. “No. Sex is a simple thing to get for free, even with someone as lovely as you are. I paid for the privilege of spending time with a gorgeous woman who would not say no, regardless of what was asked of her.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t confuse this with what it’s not.” He crossed to me and stopped with only inches separating us. His hand came up and stroked my cheek, so lightly that I could have imagined it. “I paid for your submission. And you were flawless.”
He was at the door before I could gather my thoughts enough to speak again.
“Will we do this again, sir?”
He turned back slightly and raised a jet-black eyebrow. “Would you like that?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
The devastating smile returned, weakening my knees.
“I suppose anything is possible.”
Predawn light barely crept over the horizon as the black sedan wove easily through early-morning traffic. I sprawled against the leather seat, my head leaning on the window, glass cool against my cheek. Physically I felt too exhausted to move, but my mind raced.
I had never experienced anything like that before. I had felt terrified and exhilarated. Pleasure and pain co-mingled in a way that I had never known could be possible.
The thought of undergoing that pain again petrified me, but not nearly as much as the idea of never again having the chance.
I stole into the apartment, matching my footsteps to Momma’s unsteady breathing until I reached the safety of the bedroom I shared with Lucy. My little sister still slept like a toddler, arms and legs spread wide so she took up more space on the bed than seemed like a physical possibility.
Gently rolling her sleeping form into a more anatomical position, I slipped in beside her and closed my eyes.
I desperately needed to sleep, but it proved elusive. The memory of my patron’s hands on my skin played behind my eyes on a constant loop. My mind recalled the shuddering orgasm that had ripped through my senses and I pushed off the bed, unable to keep still as aftershocks sparkled down nerves that were already over-sensitized.
Abandoning the idea of sleep, I reached for the battered laptop that my father helped fall off a truck for Christmas when I was fifteen. The last Christmas that we ever had.
The computer was slow to boot up and I gritted my teeth in frustration. When I was finally able to open up the browser, I clicked into the search bar and typed two words:
Sexual submission.
The results list that popped up was like falling down a rabbit hole. Some of it was titillating, and the rest nearly impossible to contemplate. I quickly learned that my patron was something called a Dominant and that what we had done was only the tip of the iceberg when it came to play.
Sex didn’t even have to be part of it, though a shameless part of me could admit I wanted more of that than I had received. The play could be sensual or sexual, or simply about the delicate balance of power.
Curious, I clicked on a link for something called “figging”, thinking it sounded fairly pleasant. I slammed the laptop shut before the first image could load completely. Certain things were better left to the imagination.
My mind whirled with the possibilities. Wondering, almost desperately, if I would see him again, and what he would want to do to me if I did. I knew to the very core of my being that my memory — and my dreams –—wouldn’t be enough.
I desperately wanted more.
3
My hands were bound high above my head, the muscles at my shoulders screaming in protest. But he wouldn’t release me — no matter how much I begged.
The blindfold that covered my eyes robbed me of sight which only served to heighten my other senses. From the creak of the floorboard as he moved around my naked form — just barely not touching — to the heady scent of my own arousal that hung in the air. I was acutely aware of it all.
I pulled at the silken ties that entwined my wrists and ankles, but they did not loosen even a scant distance. My legs were spread wide. I pressed back against a tall, wooden post that was unyielding against my back.
My body ached from his attentions. Dozens of hurts coalesced into the most intense pleasure that I had ever experienced.
The potent mixture of terror and exhilaration mingled in me at the thought that I no longer had any control over my own body. I was open to him, and waiting only for his pleasure.
He touched me then. Searching fingers stroked gently down my chest and the edge of his nail dragged sharply across the tip of one nipple which had tightened to a hard point in the cool air. I nearly fainted with the overwhelming pleasure of it, letting out a sharp cry.
His fingers moved lower and my breath held in anticipation until I felt lightheaded. The pressure of his touch was so light that it was almost as if I had imagined it.
An eternity passed — seconds morphing into a lifetime — as I waited for him to finally let me have what I had been begging for.
“Tell me what you want.”
I didn’t have words for what I wanted, what I needed. “Please…please touch me, sir.”
“Such a good little slut.”
Thick fingers plunged inside of me and I screamed. His palm covered me completely, as his fingers pumped in and out in a hard rhythm.
“Do you want to come?”
I was barely capable of coherent thought as fire consumed my senses. Every nerve-ending was consumed in flame and need.
With an effort, I found a few stuttering words. “Y-yes, sir!”
His thumb found the tight ball of my clitoris and made small, hard circles. Shivers wracked my entire body and the world shattered around me. My desperate cries rang out as everything around me dissolved into sheer bliss.
I jerked awake in a cold sweat, aftershocks still wracking my body. My fingers bunched in the comforter as I willed my frantic heartbeat to slow into a normal rhythm.
The dreams had come each and every time that I slept since my night in the Dollhouse. Over a week had passed and instead of diminishing with time, the dreams had only grown more intense and practically indistinguishable from reality.
Thankfully, I was alone in the bed. Lucy always got up early on Saturday mornings to take advantage of our stolen cable before it was inevitably canceled.
The thought of having sex dreams while sleeping next to my four-year-old sister was more than a little discomforting.
As I rolled over in the bed, the oversized t-shirt that I wore to sleep rucked up and caught around my waist and thighs. My reflection in the mirror that hung on the door stared back at me, wide-eyed and enflamed.
I moved to inspect my backside where the bruises had faded to a handful of dark-purple patches on my skin. A pang shot through my heart at the thought of the marks fading completely. I would miss the physical reminder of that night and the pleasurable pain of his hands on my body.
The Dollhouse had not contacted me since that first night and I couldn’t decide whether to be disappointed or relieved. I desperately wanted to see my patron again and feel his hands on my body, to be swept away by the overwhelming waves of pleasure and pain.
I didn’t have to think or worry at the Dollhouse. His hands and the sensations they invoked in my body could be my whole world — at least for a little while.
But there was real danger there as well. My feelings already bordered on near obsession. What little more would it take for that obsession to turn on me, until I was compelled to give up everything for it?
I forced myself out of bed and to start getting dressed for work. The sooner the memory of the Dollhouse and my patron faded into something distant
and difficult to recall, the better.
Lucy and Momma were on the couch when I entered the living room, watching cartoons just like I thought they would be. A shiny new CPAP machine sat on its metal pole next to Momma.
It had only been a few days of her wearing it at night and Momma was already sleeping better. The device had sucked up a good portion of my Dollhouse money, but it was worth it to see her more comfortable.
Another reminder of what the Dollhouse could do for my family.
When Momma asked, I’d told her that the health insurance payment had finally come through. Whether she believed it or not, Momma hadn’t asked anymore questions.
“Good morning,” I said, my voice hoarse. I prayed that my crying out had been only in my dreams, or at least soft enough that they hadn’t heard. There were only so many things that I could explain away.
“Mowning!” Lucy’s nearly toothless grin flashed at me, before her gaze returned to the bouncing animated characters on the screen.
I walked around the back of the couch to kiss Momma on the cheek. “I’m going to pick up your medications before I go to work. Do you need anything else?”
Momma shook her head slowly, the movement so weak that I felt a sharp pang of sadness.
“Too expensive,” she rasped. “Don’t fill them until next week.”
“It’s fine, Momma.” I turned away because I couldn’t face her. I knew she’d be able to see the lie in my eyes. “I’ve been picking up extra shifts at the diner so we can afford it. You need them.”
Luis was in the kitchen rummaging through the fridge when I entered. He saw me come in and slammed the door shut.
“Why is there never any damn food in here?” he asked, tone hostile.
“Good morning to you, too.”
He rolled his eyes and moved to the cabinets, ignoring my greeting.
I was determined not to pick a fight with him. It was just so much easier to let it be. “I think there’s some cereal in the cupboard.”
“Yeah, but no milk to go with it.”
I sighed. “Sorry.”
My fifteen-year-old brother was going through the phase of puberty that left him in a perpetually bad mood.
If he wasn’t locked up in his room playing rap music loudly enough to shake the rafters and piss off our neighbors, then he was stalking around the apartment and making sarcastic commentary about how everything in our life sucked.
But a big part of me felt bad for him so I tried to let everything but the most egregious stuff slide. It wasn’t fair that there were always more mouths to feed than food to go around. It wasn’t fair that Momma was sick and couldn’t work. And it definitely wasn’t fair that a boy was expected to step up and be man of the house.
My sympathy over how hard things had been for him was the reason I hadn’t made him take the job washing dishes at the diner that I knew I could get for him. Even if the extra income would really help out around the house. I wanted him to stay a kid for the little bit of time he had left, regardless of what it cost me.
Luis slammed another cabinet closed. “You’re going grocery shopping today, right?”
“I’m not going to have time.” I said, hoping that would placate him. “I’ll bring something home from the diner tonight.”
“I don’t want to eat that nasty shit.” He kicked one of the chairs out from under the kitchen table and slumped into it. “Give me some money and I’ll go to the store.”
I knew that anything I gave Luis would be solely for his own benefit. He was as likely to use the money for grocery shopping as he was to drop it in the collection plate at the Episcopal church down the street. Meaning: not at all.
But at least it would get him out of the house so Momma wouldn’t have to spend the day dealing with his sour attitude. And if I gave him the cash, he’d be less likely to go out and steal the things he wanted with that group of degenerates he called his friends.
I rubbed my eyes, trying to soothe a sudden headache. “Twenty dollars, but just for food.”
“Whatever.”
I pulled a crumpled bill out of the pocket of my pants and handed it to him. Luis grabbed it without bothering to thank me, stomped back to his room and slammed the door closed behind him.
Ignore it, I told myself. Starting a fight wouldn’t make things easier for any of us. I was about to be late for work anyway.
One night, in exchange $1000.
I firmly pushed thoughts of the Dollhouse away. This was my life and nothing was going to change it. They clearly didn’t want me back and, in the long run, I was probably better off. There was no room in my life for obsessive desire. The sooner I could forget about it completely, the better.
It was a slow day at the diner.
I stood behind the counter, topping off ketchup bottles and surveying the expanse of empty tables. I had a woman taking up one of my booths so she could read the newspaper and sip on free refills of coffee without ordering food and a man at the counter who’d spent more time looking at my ass than he had at the menu. Otherwise, my section was crickets.
“Why you look so down, baby girl?”
Miranda, an older woman who’d been working at the diner almost as long as I’d been alive and one of my favorite people to work with, slid up next to me.
“No reason, just ruminating on the joys of working for free.” I said, giving her a weak smile.
“Thems the breaks when you work for tips.” She picked up a rag and started wiping down the bottles that I had already filled so I could cap them. “It’ll pick up for dinner.”
“I hope so.” I glanced up at her as I slid a filled bottle over. “Did you get your hair done?”
“Sure did, sugar.” Miranda’s thin hair was teased up in a beehive, the same way she’d worn it since that style was actually in vogue. Yesterday it had been a pale yellow like buttercream frosting and she’d clearly been back to the salon, because today it was the color of pink cotton candy. She got it colored a different outrageous shade every month.
“I like it, reminds me of spring.”
“It sure makes me feel good.” She patted the side of her hair gently as if it wasn’t held firmly in place with a hundred pins and a gallon of super-hold hairspray. “You should find something to cheer yourself up, too. You’re too young and pretty for frown lines.”
I laughed at that. “I’ll work on it.”
“How’s your mom?”
“Hanging in there.” I turned away to busy myself with lining up the ketchup bottles neatly on a shelf under the register. “We go back to see the oncologist at the end of the month.”
Miranda patted me gently on the back. “Well, I hope its good news, sweetheart.”
“Me, too. She has an appointment with the lady from the disability office next week. I’m hoping they’ll put her back on benefits because she hasn’t been able to work in weeks.”
Miranda’s face was sympathetic. “It will all work out. You let me know if you need anything.”
“Always.” I scanned behind the counter for any other side-work that needed to be done. Busying myself was the only way to keep agonizing thoughts of the future at bay.
I bent down below the counter to tidy the stacks of menus that were heaped on top of each other in a precarious pile.
The bell above the door dinged, announcing the arrival of another customer.
“You take this one,” I heard Miranda say to me. “I’ll get the next.”
“Thanks,” I said and hastily finished pushing the menus into place. I brushed my hands off on my apron as I stood, simultaneously pasting my patented customer service smile onto my face.
And then I came face to face with the Procurer.
I froze, mouth working uselessly as I tried to no avail to produce something coherent.
“Table for one,” he said with an amused smile, obviously enjoying my discomfiture.
I swallowed hard. “Right this way.”
Grabbing a menu, I moved around the counter and led
the way to a booth in the back of the diner, far away from the handful of other customers and outside of Miranda’s hearing.
It was a struggle to maintain my composure, caught as I was at the epicenter of two colliding worlds. Who did the Procurer think he was, just showing up like this without warning? And at my job, of all places.
I waited for the Procurer to seat himself, inwardly seething.
He pulled a handkerchief out of the pocket of his suit jacket and wiped at the battered tabletop, a look of disdain twisting his aquiline features.
“What a charming little place, my dear.”
I slammed the menu down in front of him. “This is not okay.”
“You’re looking well, my dear Dalea,” he said, obviously unfazed by my outburst. “I suppose it’s too much to ask for a glass of water that hasn’t come directly out of the river.”
“Sorry, we just ran all out of Evian.”
“Pity,” he said, ignoring the sarcasm — if he heard it all. “I believe I’d like a bowl of soup, sans flies please. And do you have any specials?”
I glared at him. “You can’t be serious.”
“No specials, then?”
“The catfish is pretty special — if by that you mean it’s a day from turning and needs to be offloaded.”
“I’ll pass, thank you.” He surveyed me quietly for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Might I suggest that you fetch me a cup of hot tea and take a moment to soothe your ruffled feathers? Then, perhaps, we can speak like civilized adults.”
The warning in his voice was clear as a bell. As much I wanted to continue snarking at him, it was clear there’d be consequences if I kept going.
“Fine,” I said through gritted teeth.
Miranda followed me when I slammed through the plastic saloon doors and into the kitchen.
“Dalea, is everything okay?” Her thin face was pinched with concern. “Do you know that man?”
“No,” I said, too quickly. “I’ve just been on edge today. That’s all.”
She didn’t look convinced. “Are you sure there’s nothing wrong.”
“Everything’s fine.” I forced my lips to contort into as convincing a smile as I could muster. “I just need a minute to get it together.”