by Eden Myles
He stopped and waited to see if I would use our personal safe word, if I would end our play then. All I had to do was spit the pearls out and say it and everything would stop. But when I only groaned deep in my throat, he inserted a second finger. He pushed hard. He’d never put this much of himself into me there. I knew he was training me, teaching me to acclimate myself to new sensations, but this was so sudden and unexpected, I thrashed and felt myself coming.
“Hold, Evelyn, hold. You’ll come when I tell you to, my courtesan. You’ll afford your gentleman the respect of coming after he has come.”
It took every ounce of my strength to keep from convulsing around his fingers. My French manicure penetrated the pleather cushions of the sofa, and I couldn’t help but wonder what the owner would think in the morning.
Finally, he withdrew his fingers, spread my cunny wide, and started pounding into me hard. I was tight, and each upward thrust made me want to convulse around him. I anchored myself against the sofa and concentrated on not coming, not coming.
We had made the decision early on in our relationship that I would start using the pill, that we would be monogamous. That way, we could dispense with the use of condoms. He’d even sent me a copy of his medical records, as if I doubted his intentions. I discovered that the only thing of concern on them was, ironically enough, a rather persistent case of hives that he took medication for. So far, it had worked out well for us. I found I loved feeling the heat of him moving deep inside me like this, driving his seed into me. I loved knowing a small bit of him remained with me afterward.
Usually, he took his time with me, coaxing me to climax after climax first, preparing me. But tonight he was in a kind of frenzy. Tonight he was greedy and selfish. He grabbed my hair and yanked my head back and just pounded relentlessly into me, high up in me, almost bumping my cervix so I cried out at the impacts. It wasn’t pain, more of an uncomfortable fullness, but his power and subdued fury frightened me tonight. “Hold,” he commanded with a quick yank of my hair to prove his point. He held me down like some captured animal and continued to buck inside me like a male in heat, forcing me to take all of his cock at once.
I nearly sobbed in relief when he finally came fast and hard inside me. He shuddered and filled me, then shuddered again, locked deep inside my body. He finally let me come, and so sensitive was he to the little convulsions within me that it made him come a third time. When he finally withdrew, I could feel his warmth trickling down the insides of my thighs and staining the sofa beneath us further.
It was all over in minutes.
He pulled me back into his lap and grabbed me by the jaw and held my face as he kissed me both gently and fiercely, sliding his tongue over my teeth. He moved his tongue around my mouth, over the pearls. He licked me thoroughly as the violence slowly went out of his body, replaced by a more gentle playfulness. “Such a pretty girl,” he said, breathing hoarsely against my lips as he pushed me down against the sofa and climbed atop me, pinning my wrists over my head. “Such a very pretty girl. I wonder what would be prettier, my dove—the pearls in your mouth or stuffed up your sweet cunny.”
So we tried both.
***
Mr. Sterling was in good spirits when we finally arrived at the old, rambling stone colonial on Staten Island that the Society called the Dollhouse. The anteroom was brightly lit by candles, but otherwise almost empty. We’d arrived fashionably late, but not by design. Our excursion in the shop had simply taken longer than we’d expected. Only a few gentlemen mingled there tonight, mostly the new ones, those without courtesans yet. Mr. Sterling greeted them and shook their hands briefly. He got the safe word from them for the night. Mostly, he made a point of showing me off, and I could tell he was enjoying the looks of envy in the other gentlemen’s eyes.
He kept his hand clamped over my hip at all times to keep me in line and to warn me to stop squirming around too much, which was difficult with the pearls still inside me, itching and mingling with his wetness and my own. “Would you like to see the Dollhouse tonight, Evelyn?” he asked after he’d availed himself of the open bar. “You didn’t get much of a tour last time.”
I groaned out an answer.
He walked me into the great room where I had met the other courtesans last time. It was still all black and white—black and white furnishings, black and white checked floor, with lovingly framed black and white antique and modern erotica covering the walls. There was no bed occupying the main room this time. The night of my debutante ball, we had made love for the enjoyment of the others. The room was practically empty tonight, the other dolls off somewhere else, except for Mr. Sterling’s friend Malcolm, who was busily photographing his courtier Devon in various states of undress on a divan covered in white animal furs near the lighted hearth.
We stopped to watch them together. Devon had a beautiful body, the kind of tight, smooth, blond body that men envy and women covet. And he knew how to use it. He seemed very much used to these sessions. He smiled at me in greeting, naked and ridiculously perfect in the firelight. But I couldn’t hate him. He was as much a doll as I was. Malcolm, as always, ignored me, as was house rules. Gentlemen were not permitted to commune with or touch other men’s courtesans inside the Dollhouse.
“You’re late as usual, old thing,” Malcolm said, snapping off another careful shot.
“Yes, of course,” Mr. Sterling answered. I did not know Mr. Sterling to run on anyone’s clock but his own. He studied Devon, but not with the eye of a man taking sexual interest. It was more like someone admiring a fantastic piece of art—which, of course, Devon was.
“And now everyone has gone off scouting playrooms, and you’ll be left with the remains of the day.” Malcolm turned and photographed us with what seemed a very old-fashioned camera. He lowered the camera and smiled. “I dare say, she is quite lovely tonight, Ian,” he said, looking me over. “How is her training coming along?”
“Magnificently. She’s become a very obedient little courtesan. Though I must admit there are times she shows her impetuous streak.”
Malcolm tutted with disapproval over my impetuous streak. “Might I impose upon you sometime? I should like to borrow her some evening.”
I felt a chill. I did not know that the gentlemen “borrowed” each other’s courtesans.
Mr. Sterling’s hand tightened on my hip to reassure me. “Malcolm means a shoot, for the wall.” But I almost didn’t hear his voice. His grip had had the inadvertent affected of moving the pearls around inside me. They rubbed against my clit and the sensation almost brought me to my knees.
Malcolm was very interested in what Mr. Sterling had done to me. Mr. Sterling explained about the pearls in great and loving detail. I felt the burn of my much-hated blush. Devon, though, seemed fascinated, and he and his gentleman soon began discussing the many potential uses of pearls. Once Mr. Sterling realized how preoccupied they’d become, he walked me out into a corridor. “I don’t want to keep Malcolm from his courtier,” he explained. “It’s extremely rude to interrupt playtime between partners.”
I thought about Devon, who was almost like a big brother to the rest of us dolls. “Is Devon the only courtier here?”
“So far, yes. We’ve been somewhat old-fashioned in our attitudes toward same-sex partners, admittedly, but that’s changing now.” He kept his hand on my hip, squeezing occasionally to push the pearls around so my walk turned into more of a shuffling, staccato trot in my big platforms.
“Each of these is a playroom,” Mr. Sterling explained, pointing out a series of doorless, Turkish-style archways. “The Dollhouse has twenty in all.”
I didn’t know what to expect, of course. I thought perhaps they were like garish private rooms in casinos and strip bars, places where you could get a lapdance in private. Clarissa and the girls had dragged me to a horrifyingly embarrassing bachelorette party a few months back, and I had watched her go off to one such room with a giant, oiled stud not her boyfriend.
But the spacious room
s were nothing like that. They each seemed to have a motif of some kind—one looked like a library, complete with shelves and fainting couches and rolling ladders, and another an old fashioned schoolroom with a teacher’s desk, blackboard and spanking bench. But in each case, the furniture was polished and exquisite, the carpets Oriental imports, the accents antiques. I could smell the good oils used to preserve the woodworking. Nothing in the Dollhouse was a prop in the normal sense of the word. Instead, they were antiques being used as props. More erotica covered the walls in every room and trailed down the long hallway.
Gentlemen and their courtesans admired the photographs, or moved freely in and out of the rooms, whispering intimately to each other as if trying to make some monumental decision. I watched them brush past us, hands and arms entwined. “What are they doing, sir?” I asked.
“Deciding on their rooms for the night.” His hand moved to the juncture of my legs and pressed so I nearly came right then and there, in the hallway.
When I had recovered, I said, “They’re going to sleep here tonight?”
Mr. Sterling quirked a brief smile. “We don’t sleep here, my love. We make art.”
I was wondering if he’d misspoken when he’d said my love. I was almost ready to ask him when I saw him glancing in one of the rooms. “A gentleman and his courtesan may do anything they wish, so long as it is consensual, tasteful and entertaining.” He piloted me into the room. It was dressed up like an executive office suite, all shining leather and brass. A gentleman sat in a power chair, while his trained courtesan crawled across the floor, picking up a series of buttons with her teeth and carrying them back to him. She was very beautiful, very graceful, her body toned to near-perfection, like some white swan in human form. I wished I could be like that. The others watched the game avidly, with the same silent attention they had afforded Mr. Sterling and me on the night of my coming out. The thought still made me blush, even two weeks later.
After some time, he guided me into a new room that resembled a Chinese palace, where a gentleman had successfully suspended his courtesan from a giant ceiling mobile with dozens of colored silk ribbons tied to various parts of her body. He kept fixing and re-fixing the ribbons, adjusting his courtesan so different parts of her gleaming anatomy were on display. Onlookers came and went, observing them or commenting on their skill.
“Do you have to play?” I asked Mr. Sterling. “Or can you only watch?”
“A gentleman can either watch or play, if he has a courtesan. I’ve spent three years watching.”
He sounded bitter about that.
I looked again at the pretty, talented couple. “Do you want to play with me?”
He turned and palmed my cheek. His ran his rough thumb over my lips. His expression didn’t change, but I could see the excitement in his electric blue eyes.
We went back out into the hall and started exploring the rooms together.
We agreed on the boudoir. It was very French and very unoccupied. It sported a vast canopy bed with sweet-smelling pink linen sheets, a huge wardrobe full of hundreds of dresses and costumes, and a vanity full of toiletries. The walls were flocked with white, pink and gold roses. Mr. Sterling explored the room very thoroughly before pulling out the vanity chair for me. “Come,” he said, holding out a hand for me, and I went to him and let him guide me down into the chair before the lighted vanity mirror.
His earlier makeover displeased him now. He used a gentle astringent to wipe all my cosmetics away and started over. There were dozens of antique pots of cosmetics available to him. He examined them all before setting to work repainting my face. He chose softer shades this time, blushing shades of rose and violet and tawny sunset. He painted my face all over, the colors so expertly melded together that after a while my face looked like it had the natural blush of ancient porcelain.
The vanity annoyed him, restricting his work, so he transferred the chair, and me, to the center of the suite and simply spread the cosmetics out on the floor around the chair. He spent the next hour on his knees, working carefully over every inch of my face, perfecting his work while I wriggled uncomfortably in my seat. The fullness of the pearls was annoying me again.
Onlookers came and went, many staying to watch Mr. Sterling work with his little brushes and wands. He had to tell me to stop moving around so much. “Please,” I told him, straining to leave my seat. I wanted him to fuck me on the bed, or fuck me in the chair, or on the floor, anything to stop this terrible, endless ache inside me.
“Soon, my dove,” he said. He sounded like he was in a reverie. “You’re so beautiful. I want everyone to see how beautiful you are. I want everyone to see how beautiful women are.”
I didn’t care anymore about beauty. I almost slid to my knees on the floor. The onlookers murmured quietly among themselves, but I didn’t know what they were saying, if they approved. I no longer cared about much of anything.
Next he took an antique silver brush to my hair. He said my hair reminded him of shorn Oriental silk. Then he slid the little red slip of a dress off me so I sat in only my black silk stockings, garters and platforms in the chair. I pressed my knees together to keep from giving the audience too intimate a show. I tried to fold myself up, gather my warmth around me.
Mr. Sterling had found a number of white satin scarves in the wardrobe. I dreaded the scarves, because I knew what he had planned. He started with my arms. The vanity chair was one of those eighteenth century skirted affairs with a tall back but no arms. He tied my arms loosely behind the chair, binding my wrists together just tight enough so I couldn’t move them but not so tightly that it hurt. He asked me if it hurt. I thought about telling him a lie so he’d free my arms and I could cover myself up, but when I glanced up to search his face, I saw how much he was enjoying this. Mr. Sterling had waited three years to play in the Dollhouse. And when he had finally chosen a courtesan to play with, he had chosen me, a bit, fat, Greek nobody. I told him the truth. I told him it didn’t hurt.
After he had finished with my arms, he went to work on my ankles, carefully hooking the toes of my shoes behind the legs of the chair and then securing them with more scarves. The chair was wide by today’s standards, and the motion opened me up fully to the audience, my legs spread just as wide as they could go. I closed my eyes so as not to see. I felt the strain in my inner thigh muscles as my body worked to accept this new challenge. My mind worked at accepting my new vulnerability.
“Evelyn.”
I realized that I was bound naked, wrists and ankles, in an antique vanity chair, the coolness of the room hardening my nipples, and my cunt wide open to the inspection of anyone who cared to look. I could feel the pearls sliding around in my wetness. I wondered what the audience thought. If someone, anyone, had ever told me this would happen to me someday, I wouldn’t have believed them.
“Evelyn. Look at me.”
I opened my eyes, finally.
“You’re beautiful,” he said. Mr. Sterling’s voice had that purring uplift to it that I sometimes heard, as if this now were his life’s work, the greatest thing he had ever accomplished. He sounded very pleased with himself. And then he frowned. “Almost perfect.”
He touched up my makeup—he seemed never completely satisfied with that—then arranged my hair so it fell in loops across my shoulders but didn’t deliberately obscure the view of my nipples from anyone. He was less happy with my nipples. They’d been hard and dark in the beginning, like stiff little pebbles, but my body was growing accustomed to the coolness of the room. “In centuries past, French courtesans would rouge their nipples with blush in order to appease their masters,” he told me. “It made them look darker and more fully aroused.”
I had been researching the history of courtesans for two weeks. I had read all about the things they’d done to make themselves more beautiful.
“You knew that already,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Intelligent and beautiful,” he said, his voice soft, rumbling and int
imate as he ran a hand down the front of my body. He dropped to his knees before me, thankfully obscuring the view of the audience for the moment. He was able to fit his entire body between my spread legs. He picked up the rouge pot, dipped his finger in it, and considered my nipples. Then he seemed to have a much better idea. He leaned between my legs, cupped the side of my body to keep me steady, and attached himself to me. Like before, the suction of his mouth was unbelievably ruthless on my tender, oversensitive tips. In mere seconds, my back was arching and I was bucking wildly against my bonds and groaning deliriously as shocks of pleasure and near-pain flashed through my body. A little orgasm fluttered through my belly, and the warmth and power of it loosened a bit more of the pearls.
Mr. Sterling touched me at my core while his mouth sucked and sucked at my other nipple. “That’s become a problem, yes?” he asked me when he’d finally released me. His lips trailed a wet, snail’s trail of saliva across my chest and down over my belly as he bent to the most suffering and intimate part of me. His mouth found me and he used his teeth and tongue to tease the pearls loose. I cried out at the sensation as he used his teeth to withdraw them slowly. They came and came. I was so wet, there was no pain at all.
The chair was wet, his mouth, the pearls.
He dangled the pearls over my face and had me suck the wetness off each little saltwater sphere. He slid the tiny hard balls across my lips. I tasted myself, but I also tasted him. He was still inside me, that bit of him. I sucked some of the pearls into my mouth and he kissed me fiercely, the pearls between us, tangled over our tongues. A murmur of approval passed like a ripple over our audience. They were pleased with Mr. Sterling’s creativity.