The Dollhouse (2 page)

* * *

“
I
s
that a nightgown that you’re wearing?”

The amusement on the Procurer’s face as he surveyed me at the door made me feel equal parts self-conscious and angry. I’d already reached my limits with the ridiculous nature of this whole charade. I didn’t need to be insulted.

My nerves could barely tolerate the silent, hour-long ride in a darkened car with two men who never turned around to face me and never spoke. All of that, just to arrive at a suburban McMansion that looked like it should be hosting a PTA meeting and not an underground whorehouse for the super rich.

His condescending attitude was the dog crap icing on my shit cake.

“Should I go back for the fuzzy bunny slippers?” I snapped the question.

“Careful, my dear.” The smile faded from his lips. “While some may consider intransigence a refreshing challenge, most will want to beat it out of you.”

A shock ran through me at his words. I was really here and really doing this, about to sell myself off to God knew who for God knew what.

The Procurer must have noticed the stricken look on my face because he came immediately to my side.

“May I?”

I nodded, unable to speak. He put a supporting arm around my shoulder and led me to a small sofa. The tastefully decorated foyer was spinning around me and I had to focus on the tiled floor to keep from puking.

“It’s only nerves, you know.” He gently rubbed my back in a gesture that was strangely soothing. A woman dressed head-to-toe in black walked up to us with a tray of champagne flutes held perfectly steady in one hand. I had the ridiculous thought that she’d probably make a good waitress.

The Procurer whisked one of the glasses off the tray and held it to my lips in one smooth movement. “Drink.”

I did. Tiny bubbles of carbonation tickled down my throat making me want to sneeze. He kept tilting the stem until the flute was completely empty. A ball of warmth uncoiled in the pit of my belly and spread slowly outward until my head felt slightly fuzzy and too big for my shoulders.

I almost never drank alcohol, but I knew it didn’t normally feel like this. “What was in that?”

“A bit of relaxation.” The Procurer rose and pulled me up with him. “Let’s get you out of that monstrosity of an outfit and into something more pleasing to the eye. Then you can meet the others.”

Twenty minutes later, I stood in the two-story living room of the house with a little more than a dozen other people, mostly young women. Picture windows that rose from floor to ceiling looked out on a lake with a densely wooded tree-line beyond.

I fingered the lacy hem of the violet babydoll lingerie that the Procurer had chosen for me. It moved gently around my thighs, shorter than anything I’d ever worn in public before. I could see through the cutaway waist that the skin of my stomach was reddened with embarrassment, which meant my face was likely an unflattering shade of strawberry.

The Procurer had left me moments before with the admonishment to “Relax!” I hugged my arms around myself as I stared out at the impossibly dark sky, wondering if what was to come could possibly be worse than this excruciating wait.

“First time?”

I turned to meet the cheerful blue eyes of a blonde-haired girl around my age with a face like a cherub. “Um…yeah.”

“I can totally tell because you look super nervous.”

Her manner was so open and friendly that I couldn’t take offense. “I really am.”

“That’s pretty normal. The new ones always stick out like sore thumbs.”

“If you say so.”

“I’m Cassie, by the way.”

Her open smile was so infectious that I felt an answering pull in the corners of my mouth. “Dalea.”

“Pretty name.” Cassie picked a cherry tomato off of the appetizer plate in her hand and popped it into her mouth. “At least you haven’t thrown up yet, that’s a good sign.”

I couldn’t quite believe she could be so casual about it. “How many times have you…have you done something like this?”

“Maybe a dozen.” She did a little twirl so the pink skirt of her nightie flared coquettishly around her slim legs. “Might as well get paid while I still have something to sell, right?”

I hesitated, not sure how to ask. “How do things get started, exactly?”

Cassie laughed, deep and free like the ringing of church bells. “It’s already started, silly.”

I followed where she pointed to the closed-circuit camera on the ceiling that panned back and forth in a small arc. A little red light blinked on the side, steady and hypnotizing. I stared as the camera turned to face me, wondering who was on the other side and what they might want from me.

“They’re all over the house, except for the bedrooms of course.” Cassie’s voice was casual, as if the thought of strangers viewing our every move didn’t faze her in the slightest. “The patrons watch us for awhile. If someone likes the look of you, you’re taken upstairs to wait for them.”

It wasn’t until she pointed them out that I noticed the two burly men in black shirts standing in front of the staircase with their arms crossed over their chests. Not at all worrisome.

My eyes scanned the room. A group was gathered near the buffet table, milling and chatting in hushed voices, broken only by the occasional laugh or giggle. A gorgeous man with soft features and liquid eyes played the piano, his fingers whispering over the keys in mimicry of how they would move over a woman’s body.

Two girls sat on a love-seat near the window. Their heads were close enough together that I thought they were whispering to each other. Until one of the girls slipped her hand under the other’s skirt and their lips closed the already scant distance between them for a passionate kiss.

“Playing to their audience. Fantasy Dolls, you know.”

I turned back to Cassie, confused. “What?”

“Every patron has their type. Those are Fantasy Dolls.” Cassie waved her hand in the kissing girls direction, dismissing them. “As in,
every man’s fantasy
— if he has no imagination.”

“What about you?”

“I’m a Baby Doll.” She twisted the end of one of her blonde pigtails between her fingers. “For the kind of guy that wants to be a
Daddy
.”

There was no hint of revulsion in Cassie’s sunny expression.

“That doesn’t ever feel a little gross?” I asked.

“Not really.” She shrugged. “Everyone has their kink — Baby, Fantasy, Mommy, Exotic, Fetish, you name it. And we’re all consenting adults, here.”

It took effort not to say what I was thinking:
there’s a thin line between consent and coercion when money is involved.

I didn’t want to ask but my curiosity finally won out over the discomfort. “And what kind of a doll am I?”

“It’s not always obvious at first, you know.” Cassie’s voice turned hesitant and she looked everywhere but my face, her sudden uneasiness obvious. “And if you haven’t figured it out yourself, I’m not sure it’s really my place to tell you. I could be wrong.”

The bundle of raw nerves that used to be my heart squeezed tight enough to steal my breath. “What does that mean?”

Before she could answer, a male voice spoke over my shoulder. “It’s time, my dear.”

I turned to see the Procurer standing in front of me, flanked by the two bouncers who were even larger up close, their expressions like stone. They each took me by an arm and moved towards the stairs, their grips firm enough that I had the choice to be escorted or dragged.

I turned and spoke to Cassie over my shoulder. “Please, just tell me.”

She didn’t speak until I was halfway up the stairs, far enough away that her voice could have been my imagination.

“You’re the kind of doll that wants to be broken.”

T
hey left
me alone in a darkened bedroom, lit by a lone lamp on the bedside table. Silence descended, as the talking and music from downstairs receded to nothingness, save for the loud beating of my heart.

I cursed the nerves that made my teeth chatter and my hands shake. I wanted to be like Cassie, happy and casual, content with what she had to offer. But I wasn’t a Baby, or even a Fantasy for that matter. I was something else entirely.

You’re the kind of doll that wants to be broken.

I didn’t even know exactly what it meant, but I was still terrified.

An uncorked bottle of champagne sat in a bucket of ice next to two glasses. I filled one and sipped at it, my hand shaking so badly that I could barely bring it to my lips without spilling.

So lost in my own thoughts, I didn’t realize the door had opened until I heard it slam closed. The sound startled me enough that I jumped, making champagne slosh out of the glass and splash the back of my hand.

It was too dark too see him clearly, just a large silhouette in the closed doorway. I froze in place, waiting for him to make a move forward or in some way indicate his intentions.

The silence lengthened, excruciatingly so. I could feel the heat of his gaze on me even though I couldn’t see it, which made his silent presence that much more difficult to endure.

My legs trembled, unable to bear the weight of his scrutiny any longer. I sank to the floor on my knees, the glass of champagne barely hanging from my limp fingers.

I didn’t know what I was asking for or what I wanted, but my voice came in a breathy whisper.

“Please, sir.”

“Good girl.”

His voice was unexpected — smooth and hard like steel dipped in chocolate — but flat, unemotional even. A shock went through me at the sound of it. He came forward then, stepping completely into the small circle of light.

His was a face from a Roman statue — chiseled features, full lips rounded into the slightest pout and eyes colored the deep green of forest trees, bordered by black lashes thick as butterfly wings. I’d never seen a man like this before. Looking at him, words like
handsome
or
gorgeous
seemed paltry and cheap, insufficiently descriptive.

Perfection
, maybe.

“You are here of your own free will?” His voice made it a query.

I hesitated, the question not what I had expected.

“Yes.”

He bent towards me and my heart thudded hard against the wall of my chest. But he only reached forward and removed the half-full champagne flute from my unresisting grasp.

“No more of this.”

I only stared at him, unable to move and barely able to breathe. Waiting.

His fingers touched my face, turning it from side to side, almost clinical in his movements. His thumb traced the curve of my bottom lip. My mouth fell open, almost as a reflex, and his thumb dipped ever so slightly inside. The intensity of his regard was like basking under the summer sun.

Quite lovely.” His emerald eyes rose to meet mine. I had not imagined the fire in them, but his voice was clipped and cold. “You will follow instructions without question or hesitation. Is that understood?”

“Yes.” I could think of nothing else to say. He watched me silently and I reflexively licked my lips, so scared I could barely breathe. “Yes, sir.”

He rose smoothly and then moved past me to sit on the edge of the bed. “Take off your clothes.”

I struggled to my feet, embarrassed by the coltishness of my movements and feeling more exposed than I ever had before. The full sleeves of my negligee jacket were already falling off my shoulders and it was easy to let them just slip completely off my arms and to the floor.

Faltering, I risked a glance up and found my patron staring at me, his eyes hard and unwavering. I immediately dropped my gaze, able to feel the furious blush blooming on my cheeks.

The straps of the babydoll dress were so thin that a hard pull would snap them in half. I pushed one off my shoulder, contorting my arm in an awkward position to get the strap off completely while keeping the bodice from falling and revealing my bare chest.

I repeated the movement on the other side and the negligee slid down my body to the floor. I hesitated there, with my arms crossed over my chest in parody of modesty, lace pooled around my feet.

“Do not stop!”

Abandoning the pretense of virtue, realizing it would do me no good now, I dropped my hands to the waist of my panties and quickly shoved them down my legs before kicking them away.

He did not speak as I stood there, naked and exposed. I could hear his breathing — slow, steady and perfectly controlled. I watched as he shrugged out of his suit jacket, folded it neatly in half and laid it on the bed beside him.

“Come here.”

I walked forward on unsteady legs, wondering what he would do if I collapsed to the floor in a dead faint. He didn’t seem like the type to get off on an unconscious body, but who knew at this point.

Coming to a stop close enough that our legs just barely touched, I towered over him in the stiletto heels that had been provided with the lingerie. His gaze moved over the shape of my form and up again in a slow examination. If I blushed any harder, my body would spontaneously combust from the heat of it, and nothing but ashes would be left of me.

His hand came up to trace the outline of my skin, close enough that the stirring of air from his movements felt like a caress, but not quite making contact.

“You will end every sentence with the word ‘sir’. You will call me nothing else.”

He waited, obviously wanting a response.

“Yes, sir.”

“In this room you will not speak unless spoken to.”

“Yes, sir.”

“In this room you will do exactly as you are told, precisely when you are told to do it.”

My voice came on a shaky, hitching breath. “Yes, sir.”

His hand stopped to rest on my stomach, lightly stroking over my belly button. The shock of his touch was like a lightning bolt striking my heart and blazing a trail downward.

“What kind of a girl are you?”

I swallowed hard, barely mustering enough breath to speak. “I don’t know, sir.”

“Well, there are only two types of girls — good girls and bad girls.” His hand moved lower and traced just above the little V of hair that covered my most secretive of places. “And in my experience, one will often pretend to be the other.”

I didn’t respond, at a loss for words. None of this was what I expected to be.

“What kind of girl is it — do you imagine — that would sell her body to a stranger?”

I swallowed hard against the lump forming in my throat. “A bad one…sir.”

“And bad girls need
discipline
above all else, wouldn’t you say?”

A flaming pool of need settled at the core of my body, lapping gently at my senses. I wanted to scream and cry for him to do something —
anything!
— to finally put the waiting to an end.

“I don’t know.”

I realized as the look in his eyes sharpened that I had forgotten to say
sir.
He spoke again before I had a chance to rectify the mistake.

“You’ll pay for that as well, I think.”

* * *

I
n a movement
that was quicker than I could react, he seized me around the waist and pulled me into his lap. My arms and legs hung freely on either side of him but he held me securely with an iron grip, even as I struggled.

“I am going to spank you,” he said casually, as if discussing something as commonplace as the weather. “The more you resist, the more discipline you will receive.”

He can’t mean it
, was my frantic thought. I wasn’t a misbehaving little girl. This couldn’t be real. Panicked, I squeezed my thighs together and pushed hard against the arm at my waist that may as well have been a steel vise.

The first strike on my bare bottom was more shocking than it was painful, but I cried out nonetheless. My legs flailed and he slapped each thigh punishingly hard — enough that I knew it would leave a mark — until they stilled.

He leaned further over me, pinning me hard to his thighs with the weight of his body. I could feel the stiff length of his erection pressing painfully into the soft flesh of my belly.

My last coherent thought was that
no one
had ever spanked me before, not even Momma when I was a child. I had expected sex, even to feel humiliated, but not this. Then the blows began to rain down, sharp and unrelenting, and I was no longer able to think at all.

I cried out with each crack of his hand against my skin. Perhaps I begged him to stop, choking out the words through my tears. If he heard me, he took no notice of it. Alternating flanks, he covered every inch of my backside in slapping shocks with a tempo that never faltered.

He whispered in my ear, lips moving against the delicate shell, as his hand never ceased its punishing rhythm. “You want this, you just don’t know it yet.”

And then he was hitting me even harder. I could no longer feel the individual blows but the whole of my body was consumed in fire, from the skin under his hand to the molten center at my core.

I was sobbing, without inhibition or restraint, tears and snot soaking the bedspread against my face and no longer able to struggle against him. His hand finally slowed, the severity of the spanking morphing into a sort of caress. He rubbed my skin — over my buttocks and down to my thighs — just hard enough that the stoked fire could not completely abate.

The tears slowed until I was taking only small, hiccuping breaths.

“That was very good. I think you deserve a reward.”

The circle he made with his hand slowly moved towards the center, his touch growing feather light as he barely skimmed the aching spot between my thighs. The burning that had once been pain had become something else entirely.

I moaned loudly when one thick finger dipped inside of me.

“What’s this, then?”

“I d-don’t kn-know…sir,” I said on a stuttering breath, overwhelmed with shame and desire.

“How very wet you are.” He removed his hand and I had to bite my tongue to keep from begging for more. “They can probably smell you all the way downstairs.”

I sobbed at that, unable to respond.

He gripped my chin hard between his thumb and index finger, wrenching my head back in a painful contortion until our noses nearly touched. “Do you know what kind of a girl gets wet when a man spanks her bare ass?”

“A b-bad girl, sir.”

“Not just a bad girl.”

He caught my lip between his teeth and bit down hard until I tasted the copper tang of blood. He pulled away enough to whisper against my mouth.

“A
slut
.”

“No!”

He slapped my bottom hard and I screamed.

“Say it, Dalea.” His hand stroked down my back and over the curve of one buttock, teasing me. “Say what you are and I’ll reward you.”

The ache and wanting was more than I could take. I tried to shift beneath him, to bring his hand closer to where I needed it, but he held me immobile.

“A slut.” I cried as I said it, ashamed and aroused both. “
I’m a slut, sir
!”

“Such a good girl.”

The fingers of one hand plunged between my slick folds, while the other found the little bead at the center of my need and stroked it over and over again. I pushed back against his hand, my feet in the heels sliding against the floor as I tried to find purchase.

My legs spread wide to allow him better access and I felt no shame at the wanton display. I moved frantically and without rhythm, completely overcome and unable to think about anything except how desperately I needed relief.

His fingers pumped in and out of me, matching the same speed of the punishing strokes his hand had delivered only minutes before.

The orgasm hit me hard enough that I nearly passed out from the force of it. I arched against him, screaming with the release. He reacted to the movement, matching it with his hips and making a low sound in his throat, so soft that I almost missed it.

Tremors wracked my body even as his fingers slipped away to rub gentle circles on my back. The room spun lazily around me as I slowly came back to myself.

My patron shifted and his arms came around me, lifting my limp body until he held me curled in his arms like a child. I began to shiver, my teeth chattering, but I wasn’t cold.

He picked up the suit jacket that had been laid on the bed and gently wrapped it around me, still stroking me gently like a lap kitten that needed petting.

It was a slow realization that I had stripped naked, been severely spanked on my bare bottom and then expertly fingered until I came harder than I ever had in my life. And all the while, he had done little more to expose himself than remove the suit of his jacket. Except for the lock of dark hair that fell messily over his forehead, he could have just stepped out of an executive boardroom.

When I looked up, cold green eyes were watching me.

“Are you alright?”

I nodded, unable to speak.

“Can you stand?”

“Yes, sir.”