by Stacia Stone
Someone called his name but he didn’t halt his inexorable progress forward, merely inclined his head at the greeting. I hurried to keep pace. It was as if I had tunnel vision and everything around me, save the shape of his back as he moved, had ceased to exist.
A girl that I didn’t recognize, but a Fantasy Doll I quickly realized, reached out to brush my arm.
“Good luck.”
He stopped at a raised dais in the center of the room. It looked like a large letter X made out of dark wood that was at least a foot taller than me. Restraints made of thick nylon with Velcro straps were attached at each point. A spotlight shown on it, deliberately highlighting the apparatus of my degradation so that it was clear for everyone to see.
I halted at the edge of the platform, terror preventing me from taking another step forward. I wasn’t able to do this. I couldn’t let him humiliate me like this in front of all of these people.
Julian mounted the stage, his movements lithe like a cat’s. He turned back to face me.
“Step up,” he ordered.
I just stared at him, unable to move or speak. The dark expression in his face softened slightly until I could see something in it that was almost akin to tenderness.
“Please, Dalea.”
Julian took my hand in his much larger one and pulled me onto the raised platform. The movement was hard enough that I fell into him and his arms came around me automatically to keep me from falling, almost like an embrace.
Too quickly, he released me. I stood alone next to the cross, slightly unsteady on the spiky heels.
“Look at me,” he commanded. When I looked up at him, his dark green eyes were consuming and so deep it felt like I could fall into them. “Do you understand what is about to happen.”
I mutely shook my head, barely able to think.
“I am going to strap you to the St. Andrews Cross until your wrists are bound above your head and your ankles are spread.” His words burned through me, lighting a fiery trail of desire that settled at my core. I could see the reflection in his eyes was also aflame and I realized then how much he wanted to do this to me. “Then, I’m going to whip you.”
I let out an involuntary gasp.
“Do you agree to submit to this?”
He was giving me an out, one last chance to walk away. Despite the uncertainty and the terror, I couldn’t walk away — not from him.
“Yes, sir,” I said on a strongly expelled breath.
“Face the cross.”
When I turned, he positioned me so the wood pressed hard against my chest. Holes had been cut into the bottom and my feet slipped into them so my entire body met the cross in an unbroken line.
“Lift your arms.”
My arms were brought up one-by-one to match the angle of the upper planks. He wrapped the straps around each wrist, tight enough that I could feel the hard pressure on my skin but not quite enough to hurt.
He repeated the procedure with my legs, spreading them far enough apart that my thighs burned. He paid careful attention to the straps, working two fingers in between my skin and the nylon, ensuring that none were tight enough to cause damage.
Once he ensured that I was secured to the cross, his hands moved up my hips, to my back and then around to the front until they rested on my belly. Then his fingers worked at the corset, undoing the hooks that held the thick fabric together. I felt a moment of relief as the constricting garment was loosened then a rush of cold air as it was removed.
Prickles moved up my skin as it was exposed. I was thankful that I faced the cross which afforded me some small amount of modesty.
Searching fingers dipped into the waistband of my panties but did not move to remove them. I felt the heat of his breath against my ear as he whispered into it.
“We’ll leave these,” he said, loud enough for only me to hear. “Since it is your first time in public exhibition. But next time, I’ll take them as well.”
I shuddered hard at the thought of next time, whether in fear or desire I couldn’t say.
“Thank you, sir,” I said, speaking for the first time since he had brought me out into the hall. I had almost relaxed into the idea of it, my mind focusing only on the feel of his hands gliding over my skin.
I felt him move away and my body tensed, but his face appeared in front of mine on the other side of the cross. We were so close that had I been able to lean forward even a scant distance, our lips would have touched.
His hands moved into my hair, smoothing it up into a bun and securing it at the top of my head.
“Are you ready to begin?”
I nodded wordlessly, lost in the depth of his gaze. The room fell away, all of the people watching us and waiting, faded to the edges of my vision until they no longer existed.
This time when he disappeared, I knew that it was time.
I stared into the crowd. Most of them had gone silent. My vision blurred until their faces were indistinguishable from one another. I had moved past embarrassment to an emotion that I didn’t have a name for. I wanted the ground to open underneath me and swallow me whole, but I also waited for the crack of the whip with something more than fear. I wanted the pain of it.
The whip stroked gently down the surface of my back like a lover’s caress. I closed my eyes as an uncontrollable tremor overtook me, fear and anticipation mingling in a way that caused a physical reaction.
“I want you to count.”
The piercing whistle of the whip cutting through the air hit my ears almost at the same moment as a flash of pain streaked across my back.
I screamed. The pain was hotter and deeper than anything I had felt when he used his hand or a belt. An answering heat bloomed between my legs.
“Count.” His voice was stern.
“One!” I cried. The word came in a barely audible, croaking gasp.
A second blow came down as hard as the first, wrapping around my right thigh which immediately blossomed in sharp pain. The whip left an aching soreness that I knew would last for days after this was done.
“Two!”
The whip fell on the top of my other leg. The pain was greater than I had imagined it to be, but that didn’t stop the shiver of pleasure that surged through the center of me.
“Three!”
This strike came full across my buttocks. The thin fabric of my panties did nothing to soften the force of the impact. I sobbed, tears wetting the wood that pressed into my face.
“Four!”
The blows halted and the room was silent save for the harshness of his breathing. I sensed the movement before he appeared at my side. One of his hands slid up my thigh and underneath the fabric of my panties. A searching finger slipped between my folds and gently teased the tight ball of my clitoris. A wave of pleasure rode over me and I shuddered against him.
His lips pressed against my ear. “How very wet you are.”
I whimpered, unable to form a logical thought, much less words to speak.
“There’s no need to count for the rest.”
The rest!? It was my last thought before the blows began to rain down, harder and faster than they had before. It was more pain than I had ever experienced before, either from his hand or anyone else’s.
The whip was everywhere at once until the entirety of my backside felt like it was on fire. A stray braid struck between my legs, barely grazing my aching center, and the world exploded around me.
My vision swam before my eyes as the room receded into a blur. It was as if I was outside of my own body as everything – the pain and the pleasure – faded into nothingness. I felt myself sag against the cross, only the restraints binding my wrists and ankles kept me upright.
Distantly, I realized that the blows had ceased. Air moved as he came up behind me. I moaned when the fabric of his suit jacket brushed against the aching skin of my back.
His hands stroked gently over my sides where the skin had not been touched by the whip. He lips pressed against my hair before moving down to my
ear.
“I’m very pleased,” he murmured, the sound just loud enough for me to hear. “Would you like to choose a reward?”
I nodded weakly and my voice came in a croaking whisper. “Yes, sir.”
His hand moved over my back, drawing a moan from me. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want you to kiss me.” My answer was immediate and without hesitation. I craned my neck so I could see his face – a face so beautiful that it nearly broke my heart. “And I want you to fuck me, sir.”
I had lost my virginity at fifteen, but I had never used that word before meeting him. It felt sharp and satisfying against my tongue.
The tip of his tongue touched the shell of my ear, making me shiver. “Pick one.”
“Please kiss me, sir.”
It didn’t matter that I was nearly naked and bound to a post, surrounded by people. The entire world existed solely of him and the feel of him against my skin.
His mouth caught mine in a kiss that was deep and all-consuming. The tongue that plundered my mouth met no resistance and I sucked on it greedily. He pulled back and I whimpered at the loss, until his teeth closed none too gently on my lower lip. I pitched forward and moaned into his mouth, hearing an answering growl.
I didn’t realize that his hand had moved lower on my body until I felt two thick fingers push inside of me. His thumb teased over my clitoris, mimicking the movements of his lips. His tongue plunged in and out of my mouth just as his fingers moved inside of me.
His voice rumbled against my mouth. “Come for me, Dalea.”
I had no choice but to obey his command. Even so, the climax hit me unexpectedly, like a lightning strike that raced over me until I was a shaking, quivering mess. I rocked against the cross, caught between his hand and the unmoving wood, as uncontrollable tremors wracked my body.
I floated outside of myself, weightless and unfettered, as the world disappeared around me.
7
I came to myself wrapped in a blanket and curled up in Julian’s lap as he lounged on a small sofa. The side of my face pressed against his chest, rising and falling with each breath that he took. The room had cleared and we were alone. I had no conception of how much time had passed.
His hands smoothed over me, rubbing in circles that were both soothing and stimulating. When he spoke, his voice rumbled against my cheek.
“Welcome back.”
I hesitated to speak, unwilling to break the spell of our time together, but I couldn’t stop myself. “I’ve never felt anything like that before.”
“I’m sure that’s true.”
“Do you know what it was?”
“Did you feel sort of disconnected from your body, almost like a high?” I nodded and his dark chuckle reverberated through me, making me shiver. “It’s called subspace, when a submissive gets so much adrenaline pumped in their brain its like being high. It can happen when feelings of pain or pleasure become particularly overwhelming.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that. Overwhelmed didn’t even begin to cover the depth of what I had experienced. I had felt completely out of my body and mind. He could have done anything to me and I would have let him.
“I understand, I think.”
“You’ve taken to this better than I ever could have imagined.” His voice was grave and I got the immediate impression that he was not prone to handing out compliments. “I’m very pleased with you.”
I basked in the warmth of his regard, like a lizard stretched out and sunning itself on a rock. A languid stillness settled over me as I relaxed against him. It felt as if, for the first time, I had found a place that I actually belonged.
All of my problems — Luis’s legal trouble, Momma’s cancer and all of the various slights that life had thrown my way — no longer existed when I was in his arms.
I distantly realized that I hadn’t called him sir since he took me down from the dais. He hadn’t yet chastised or corrected me and I relished the informal familiarity, speaking to him as if we were friends — or lovers. I wondered if he also hesitated to break the spell that we were under.
The hand that wasn’t holding me against him moved to the front of my unresisting body to stroke down my thigh. Separated as we were by the thick blanket, the gesture was more comforting than it was seductive.
Long-tapered fingers rested against me and I inspected them curiously. A glint that reflected against the dark fabric of the blanket caught my eye. Had I noticed it before and chosen to ignore it? Or had he, in his haste to drag me out and tie me to the cross, forgotten to remove it like he normally would?
Regardless, the silver band that wrapped around his left ring finger was impossible to miss now, where it pressed against my belly.
He wore a wedding ring.
The Procurer regarded me steadily across the shiny expanse of his desk, in a position the exact replica of the one that had started this all.
“You understand that a decision like this, once done, cannot be undone?”
“He’s married.” My voice was steady.
The Procurer’s brow knit in confusion as if the words that I was using didn’t make sense when put together. “And what does that have to do with you?”
Everything! “Nothing, I guess, but I can’t do this anymore.”
I couldn’t quite put into words the way that I felt, but my emotions were in turmoil. Did he tell his wife about us? While he was whipping me until I nearly passed out and then fingering me into oblivion, was she waiting at home for him none the wiser? Was she meek and unchallenging, a housewife waiting docilely at home? Or was she a dominant career woman that had put her own needs first and pushed him into the Dollhouse?
There were too many questions without answers, but I couldn’t fight the feeling that I was culpable in some sort of deceit. I wasn’t a cheater and I had never been the other woman. The thought of it made me feel dirty and used.
And there was some foolish part of me that had hoped for more — that perhaps he would eventually give me something of himself. Those hopes had been shattered like broken glass, and I refused to wallow in the broken pieces.
I wished that I could be cold about it and think only about the money that I desperately needed. But I wasn’t built to be a mercenary and my heart refused to stay behind the wall I had tried to build around it.
“If you’re sure.” The Procurer looked at me oddly, like he was seeing something he never had before. I couldn’t be the first Doll to have had enough.
“I am.”
“This is your contract.” He placed a stack of papers on the desk.
“Thank you.” It was bigger than I remembered. I wondered what I must have been thinking in the beginning, to sign myself away so easily and without even taking the time to read the fine print. Not that any of that mattered now.
The Procurer indicated a shredder in the corner of the room. “Would you like to do the honors, or shall I?”
Without a word, I picked up the stack and carried it across the room. I flicked the on switch and fed the papers into the rapidly-spinning metal teeth, watching in satisfaction as my Dollhouse contract turned to confetti.
I ignored the pang of regret that ran through me when the machine stopped. I was really done — no more black sedans pulling up to my house in the middle of the night and no more Procurer turning up at the most inopportune moments.
No more Julian, whose hands were capable of bringing the most intense pain and amazing pleasure.
I turned back to face the Procurer, who watched me closely. “Is that all?”
He steepled his hands underneath his chin. “From this point forward, your association with the Dollhouse is officially terminated. You are forbidden from seeking any contact with any of our members, nor are they with you. You will not transmit information related to the Dollhouse or its membership in any form, written or verbal. Any attempt to violate these terms will result in immediate legal action. Do you understand and agree to comply with this agreement?”
I wondered what he would do if I refused, lock me up and throw away the key. “Fine.”
“I wish you well, Ms. Moreno,” he said, voice neutral. “We won’t meet again.”
I walked out of his office, relief and despair warring for dominance inside of me. I was proud of being strong enough to walk away from something that would only destroy me in the end.
But walking away meant never seeing him again. I had burned the field of our passion to the ground and salted the earth when I was done for good measure. There was no way to take this decision back.
What is done cannot be undone.
My back still burned from the force of the whip and I knew I would carry the bruises for weeks as a reminder of his hands on my skin. But I was stronger than my regret.
Julian was out of my life forever.
My life had taken on a dim and detached quality that I wasn’t able to explain to anyone. I spent most of my time in bed, curled up in the covers and dreaming of things that could never be.
I was like a zombie at work, going through the motions with no real concern for what was going on around me.
“I’m just a little sick,” was my standard response to Miranda when she asked me for the tenth — hundredth! — time, what was wrong with me.
“You’re not pregnant, are you?” she asked once, only half-joking.
“No.” It wasn’t possible, obviously, but part of me almost wished that it could have been. At least then he would have left something of himself with me and I wouldn’t be so alone.
Julian.
For what was probably the thousandth time, his face swam in front of my eyes. Features so perfect that they could have been sculpted in marble. Green eyes so sharp and clear, it was like they could see right through me.
I desperately wanted to forget that face and the feel of his hands on my skin. I wanted to forget the pain and pleasure so sharp that I couldn’t breathe for the depth of it.
Someone knocked on the door of my bedroom. Instead of answering, I burrowed deeper under the covers and wished that the whole world would go away.
“Are you getting up, today?”