The Dollhouse

by Stacia Stone

  “If you say so. I can take that table over if you need me to.”

  “No, no. I got it.” I busied myself at the drink station, filling a pot with hot water and lining a holder with tea bags. “I’m good, really.”

  The concerned look remained on her face, but she let me slip past her and back into the dining room.

  Desperately trying to maintain my composure, I silently sat the pot and teabag carousel down in front of the Procurer. I felt his gaze on me, watching my careful movements, but I very deliberately avoided looking at him.

  I pulled the order pad and a pen out of my apron and held them up. “Are you ready to order, sir?”

  The Procurer laughed and the sound was like ice running down my spine. “Poor little darling, so confused about what she wants.”

  My fingers clenched on the order pad and I had to force myself to relax. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “You do.” Elegant fingers carefully poured hot water into the cup before setting down the pot, picking up a spoon and twirling it delicately. “And you know why I’m here.”

  “Is there anything else that I need to know about me?”

  “Stop it.” He set the spoon down with a hard click. “This offer can be the last, if that is what you prefer.”

  “No!” I answered before I could stop myself and cursed my weakness. I was supposed to be stronger than this. It should have been easier to resist.

  “Then I suggest you abandon this insubordinate attitude.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, defeated. There was no use trying to pretend that they didn’t have a hold on me.

  “He wants you back, for reasons I cannot fathom at the moment.” The Procurer brought the cup of tea to his lips and took a small sip. He grimaced and set it down again. “Your payment has increased to $1500. All other contract terms remain in force.”

  My patron’s face swam in my vision and I couldn’t stop my body’s instantaneous response. It was useless to pretend that I wouldn’t go wherever he wanted and do whatever he asked. Regardless of what it would do to me.

  “When?” I asked, my voice soft.

  “Tonight, of course.”

  I closed my eyes as a thousand butterflies suddenly took flight inside of my heart. “You can’t do this to me.”

  “I am afraid it is simply the nature of the beast, my dear.” He rose smoothly from the chair. Standing, he regarded me thoughtfully. “To accept or refuse is your only prerogative.”

  “That’s not much of a choice.”

  “Alas, not a one of us is ever completely unfettered.” He pulled out a money clip, removed a twenty-dollar bill and placed it on the table. “For that abysmal tea.”

  I swallowed hard. “And I have to decide now, of course.”

  “You do.” His head cocked to the side and he examined me clinically, like a particularly interesting laboratory specimen. “Shall we expect you?”

  Every rational part of me screamed No! This will destroy you. I had to be strong. I had to ignore the fire that threatened to burn me up from the inside out. I had to be greater than my darkest desires.

  “Yes.” My voice was small, but firm. “Yes, I’ll be there.”

  4

  This time, my patron was waiting for me. The burly guards who flanked me up the stairs of the Dollhouse pushed me through the door and shut it hard behind me.

  I had not milled in the living room with the other Dolls like before. Instead, they brought me straight to him, not even waiting for me to change out of the simple, blue dress that I had never returned to my mother’s closet.

  The room was dark, just like before, but this time lit candles lined one wall creating a warm glow. A small table arranged with a light buffet of fruits, cheese and sliced meats had been set up near the bed, along with two chairs.

  It was at the table where he sat. He didn’t look at me as he raised a glass of wine to his lips, as if he had failed to notice I was there.

  I hesitated near the door, unsure of how to proceed without explicit instruction. A draft of cold air blew over my bare legs, my skin dimpling with gooseflesh in response.

  I knew not to break the silence, every instinct telling me to allow him to have control even over something as simple as how we were to begin. Every cell of my body felt alert and primed, waiting for him to tell me what he wanted.

  With an effort, I willed my breathing to steady and my heartbeat to slow.

  “Take off your panties.”

  The sound of his voice, so sudden in the silence, was a shock to my senses. So much so that I almost forgot to comply with his command.

  I hooked the thumb of each hand into the waistband of my panties and pushed them down to my ankles before kicking them away.

  My patron rose from the table and walked slowly towards me. He was so large, well over six feet tall and with broad shoulders. I was struck anew by the power of him. He could do anything he wanted to me and I would be completely powerless to stop him, even if I wanted to.

  He circled me slowly as I stared straight ahead, frozen in place.

  “Use your hands to spread the lips of your labia, wide so I can see that pretty little cunt.”

  I made a gasping sound, shocked at the demand. The thought of being so open and exposed, of doing it to myself for a stranger, was humiliating. I felt the rush of blood to my face as I blushed in embarrassment.

  “Do not make me repeat myself.”

  My shaking hands moved between my legs to do what he asked. Fingers trembling, I spread the heavy folds. When one of my knuckles just barely brushed my already aching clitoris, I couldn’t hold back a moan.

  My patron walked all the way around until he faced me, eyes locked firmly on my exposed center. He knelt down in a fluid movement, nostrils flaring as he inhaled deeply.

  Need quaked through me. My knees trembled underneath me until I was barely able to remain standing. I was desperate for his touch. It was the only thing in life that I wanted.

  When he spoke, I could feel the whisper of his breath on my sensitive skin. It was almost too much to bear.

  “Have you thought about when we were last together and touched yourself?”

  “Yes,” I said on a choked whisper. “I dream about you, sir.”

  “Indeed.” He moved an infinitesimal distance closer, the smallest possible distance separating him from my exposed skin. “Show me how you touch yourself. Show me what you want me to do to you.”

  With a sob, I placed the index finger of my right hand over the tiny nub, moving over it in slow, tiny circles until I was gasping. I moved two fingers of the other hand down to dip inside of myself, pumping in and out gently. Need arced through me like the sharp slice of a knife, the sensation harsh and almost painful. I was so close, a moment more of this would send me over the edge.

  “That’s enough.”

  My hands stilled, the sexual frustration so keen that I felt the burning in the corners of my eyes that precipitated tears.

  He stood and took a step back. I did cry then — taking harsh sobbing breaths — the lack of release more than I could bear.

  Moving to the table, he roughly swept the plates and silverware off its surface and sent it all crashing to the floor. The violence of it was so unexpected that I took an involuntary step back, my hands falling from my body.

  “Come here. Now.”

  I walked towards him on unsteady legs, but not quickly enough. He grabbed my arm and wrenched me towards him. Propelling me forward, he pushed me down on the table. My breasts pressed painfully into the hard surface and my backside was exposed.

  Coming to one side of my shivering body, he took my wrists and pulled them over my head, stretching my arms up until my muscles strained in protest. He pressed the palms of my hands flat on the table for a moment.

  “Do not move your hands or I will tie them.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said on a gasp.

  His fingers gently traced the outlines of the darkened bruises on my bottom from our last
encounter that had not quite healed. I shuddered at the gentle caress, innately knowing what was to come.

  He walked back around behind me, but my neck could not crane enough to follow his movements. I turned my head to the other side and caught his reflection in the mirror hanging over the dresser.

  I watched as his hands moved to the waist of his dress pants and he began to remove his belt.

  A belt! I made a move to crane back so I could see him more completely, my hands sliding a small distance on the table.

  “Be still,” he said sharply.

  I froze in place, heart pounding as terror and desire warred for dominance inside of me. My fingers dug into the wooden tabletop. “P-please, sir!”

  “Please what?” My patron lowered himself to kneel beside me. When I turned my head to face him, our eyes were level. He had the belt looped with both ends held in one hand and resting at his side. “Are you afraid?”

  The tears fell down my cheeks. I nearly choked on the words. “Yes, sir.”

  “Your fear is part of your desire.” He raised the belt and stroked the looped end over my body, tracing a fiery trail down my skin. “Tell me how much you want this. Beg me to do it.”

  I couldn’t – wouldn’t! – do it. Every cell of my being balked at the idea of begging for my own debasement. But words spilled from my lips unbidden, no part of me under my conscious control.

  “Spank me! Please spank me, sir!”

  “As you wish.”

  He abruptly stood. At nearly the same moment the belt came down, whistling sharply through the air. The first blow struck my skin with the same force as the hardest of the ones from his hand.

  I screamed – from shock, pain and the fire at my core that only burned with a greater intensity.

  Strikes streamed down with the steady rhythm of a metronome. His aim was unerring, never hitting the exact spot twice, until my entire backside was consumed in flame.

  My tears turned to sobs as my cheek drove into the table with each strike. He whipped me without mercy. I lost count after the tenth one, my awareness receding into an ocean of sharp pleasure and sparkling pain. Wetness gathered between my legs, moistening my upper thighs, as I endured one blow after another.

  His rhythm slowed and finally stopped. Seconds passed, the only sound his harsh breathing and my heavy sobs.

  A large hand insinuated itself between my legs, his searching fingers sparking my desire even further. I cried out, rocking back against him, desperate for friction and his touch.

  “Tell me what you want, Dalea.” His voice was harsh and strained, a product of his exertions. “Tell me what you need.”

  “I want you to fuck me.” I no longer had a hold on my own consciousness. The words came out of my throat unbidden, as if he was speaking to the very heart of me. “Please fuck me, sir!”

  He pulled away and I moaned at the loss, wanton in my desperation.

  Then his face was buried between my thighs and the world exploded.

  He sucked the little bead of my clitoris into his mouth, drawing hard on it as if he wanted to pull the very life from me. Flattening his tongue against me, he licked up the length of me to my perineum, just barely brushing the puckered skin of my rear entrance.

  I reacted as if I’d been shocked with electricity, bucking and grinding against his face. A high-pitched keening sound filled the room and I distantly realized it came from me, but I was too far gone for embarrassment.

  His tongue moved lower, dipping into me before moving on. He pushed thick fingers inside of me just as his lips closed over my clitoris, sucking hard.

  With that, I dissolved. Keening moans transformed into inarticulate cries of pleasure. The orgasm rolled over me like a steaming train and I melted like candy into the heat of his mouth.

  I woke some time later, cradled in his arms. He reclined on the bed, propped up against the headboard, and had taken the comforter from the bed and settled it around me. The top of my head was tucked underneath his chin as I rested against his chest.

  He must have felt me stir because his chest rumbled against my cheek as he spoke.

  “Welcome back.”

  I was terrified to do or say something that would break the spell, so instead I burrowed deeper against him. My cheek rested against the small patch of bare skin where the top of his shirt was unbuttoned.

  “It might be a little late for the vapors, pet.”

  He gripped my chin and tilted my face up so I was forced to meet his eyes. His face was heartbreakingly beautiful in a way that was almost too much to bear. Forest green eyes, so deep that it felt like I would fall into them, stared back at me.

  “Tell me about your dreams.”

  A fiery blush crept up my cheeks and he chuckled darkly.

  “Tell me, Dalea.”

  “You had me b-bound at my arms and legs.” I swallowed hard. “Sir.”

  He rolled me off his lap and moved over my unresisting body in a quick moment. Taking both my wrists in one large hand, he raised them over my head and pressed them against the headboard. One of his legs moved up to cover both of mine, immobilizing them. I was effectively trapped between the vice-like grip and the weight of his body.

  “Like this?”

  I took a stuttering breath. “Yes, sir.”

  “Was that all?”

  His face hovered over mine, our noses barely touching. The heaviness of his body crushed me down into the mattress and made it difficult to take more than the most shallow of gasps.

  I felt his breath — hot and wet against my skin — as he turned to brush his lips against my cheek. The touch was so light that I hesitated to even call it a kiss.

  The hard length of his erection pressed against my thigh. Shifting slightly, I rubbed against it in a lithe movement and heard his answering groan.

  “Answer me, Dalea.”

  It was a struggle to remember what question he had asked. The lines of our bodies molded together, each curve and valley perfectly matched as if we were made to fit together. The way it felt to have him pressed against me overwhelmed my senses and robbed me of coherent thought.

  The confusion must have shown on my face. He laughed and the sound was rich and deep.

  “Describe the rest of your dream.”

  I didn’t want to say it, embarrassed by my own imagination. “You blindfolded me, sir.”

  “Did I?” His hand, the one that did not have my wrists trapped against the headboard, skimmed down the side of my body. It caught in the fabric of my dress before skimming over my bare hip. “Did you like that?”

  I gasped as his wandering fingers glided over the hot skin of my inner thigh. “Y-yes, sir.”

  “And when you awoke from your dream — dripping wet and unsatisfied — did you touch yourself?”

  “Y-yes.” My voice came on a choking sob. “Yes, sir.”

  His hand moved to the thin triangles of fabric that barely covered my breasts. The searching fingers slipped easily inside and found the hardened peak of one nipple, stroking over it in a touch so gentle that I could have imagined it.

  “Who else did you let touch you?”

  Shocks of pleasure sparkled over my senses and coalesced into a ball of heat at the center of my thighs, as his hand moved from one tight peak to another.

  “No one, sir.”

  “I’m not sure I believe you, little slut that you are.”

  Ruthless fingers pinched hard on my nipple, dragging an unwilling moan from my lips.

  “No one else has had their hands on your body?” He mercilessly twisted the delicate peak of flesh and stars exploded in my vision. His hand moved down my body, fingers scratching at my skin, hard enough that I gasped at the pain of it. Questing fingers slipped easily between the slick folds at my center and teased at the entrance. “No one else has tasted this wet little cunt?”

  “No one!” I was sobbing now, both from the pain and from what hearing the filthy words on his lips did to me. “No one else, sir.”

  His h
and moved back up to my breasts and I nearly cried at the loss of his touch on my most sensitive place.

  “Arch your back,” he commanded.

  My body bowed up as I complied without hesitation. His arm slipped under my back, raising me even higher until my breasts were presented to him like some sort of pagan offering.

  I stared down the line of my body into eyes that had turned dark as a jungle canopy. Our gazes met and held. I waited, not even daring to breathe. My wrists pressed hard against the wood of the headboard as I willed my arms to stop trembling. If he was pleased with my obedience there was nothing in the fathomless gaze to indicate it.

  There is nothing more erotic than when a woman offers her breasts to me, Dalea.” He blew gently over the sensitive skin. My nipples puckered and hardened in reaction. “Beg me to do what I want with them.”

  My voice came in a breathy sigh. “Please do what you want with my breasts, sir.”

  He clearly needed no further inducement. I saw his mouth descend before I felt the broad, raspy surface of his tongue flatten against my flesh.

  His head moved to the side, laving the other nipple in turn with wicked strokes of his tongue. The hand holding my wrists pressed down hard, grinding the delicate bones together until I made a small sound of pain. Instead of balking, the sound seemed to excite him more. His lips closed over one nipple, sucking it in earnest.

  The sensation, sharp and unrelenting, was so close to pain that I instinctively bucked against the iron grip he had on me, even as I knew my struggles were to no avail. His hand tightened around my wrists, unmoved by my struggles I might as well have been the wind trying to move a mountain.

  He watched me as his lips bared, still pressed against the skin of my areola. He wouldn’t, came the desperate thought. I felt a flash of fear as his mouth closed over the sensitive flesh of one nipple.

  That was when he bit down, teeth digging sharply into my skin.

  The jolt of pain ran like live wire from the aching flesh of my nipple and straight to my molten core. His head moved to the other side, repeating the harsh attention.