Right. The hair conditioner. I guess now that there aren’t fingers in my ass, I’m back to being at a hair salon. Not that I mind. Right now, confusion feels too complicated, so I just let it go and relax into the trainer’s ministrations, pleased by his approving hum. Once my hair and the rest of my body is rinsed, an activity that included another very thorough wash of my privates, the trainer turns off the water. He sets a stack of fluffy towels on the counter. My fingers itch to grab one, but I know better than to try.
As expected, the trainer insists on doing everything himself, wrapping one towel around my wet hair and using another to dry every inch of my body while I stand there like the life-sized doll he sees me as. I can’t help but smile. He might be a terrible person, but it’s still pleasant to be cared for like this.
Once I’m sufficiently dry, he lathers me with a body lotion and a regenerative facial night cream. All the products are top brands, and I wonder if he uses them to keep me pretty for my buyer or because he’s compelled to pamper his personal doll while I’m here. Given the quiet praise he murmurs as he works, I’d say it’s the latter.
At this point, I’m too tired to stand on my own, so he has me sit on a stool in front of a large vanity in his “living room”. It’s hard to call the sections of his place rooms since it’s really one open space, divided by furniture and flooring changes. Mysterious torture equipment fills more than half the space, but I avoid looking at it, not wanting to ruin the calm the orgasm and spa-like treatment left me with. The darkness in that part of the apartment helps, too.
All lights are off except the dim one right above the door. It’s the only door in the apartment, and it must lead outside. A keypad beside it taunts me, reminding me that even if Isomehow overpowered the trainer, a man foot taller and over a hundred pounds heavier, I still couldn’t get out without the code.
I’m not thinking about escaping, anyway. I might think about it later, but right now I’m safe, sated, and being pampered, and the idea of shattering this peace only to be brutally punished for a doomed attempt feels sacrilegious. Is that stupid? Maybe, but it’s what my body and mind agree on for now.
As the trainer rubs a sweet-scented product into my damp hair, he hums to himself. The tune is simple and repetitive, like a child’s song I don’t recognize. I doubt he realizes he’s doing it, though, he’s too absorbed in his task.
“Can’t go to bed with wet hair,” he murmurs as he plugs in a blow dryer. Once my hair is dry, he weaves it into a loose braid, neat and practical for sleeping. His fingers move quickly, making me wonder how many women sat on this stool before me, cared for so gently before being sent to terrible places. It’s a sobering thought that clashes with my decision to stay in denial, so I push it aside.
“Beautiful Doll,” the trainer says as I stand before the mirror, his eyes sweeping over my body with open appreciation.
I try to see what he sees, but my eyes catch only on my flaws. My short height, my nonexistent breasts, my flat but untoned belly, my bony hips and ass, just as lacking as my chest. I know women often complain about their ample curves and how easily they gain weight, but I’ve always had the opposite problem. A small appetite and my body’s refusal to store fat have left me looking like a skin-covered skeleton. The few times I complained, women scoffed or turned hostile, snapping that I should be grateful I don’t gain two pounds just by walking past a bakery, so I stopped. I didn’t start loving my body, though.
It’s startling to realize someone found my body type attractive enough to have me kidnapped and trained as a sex slave. Whilethe thought itself might be empowering, I’d gladly skip that realization if it meant not being kidnapped and trafficked.
“Thank you, Master,” I say, partly because he expects it and partly because I truly am grateful for his gentle care.
“You are very welcome, Doll.” His eyes follow the curve of my smile in the mirror. “I like it when you smile at me, but I also like it when you cry and scream.” As he steps around me, his broad chest fills my view, intricate tattoos vying for attention. Hooking a finger under my chin, he makes me look into his face. “Once you’ve had some sleep, I will hurt you, little Doll. I will hurt you, and you will cry for me before smiling again. I will take all of you. Your body and mind, your smiles and tears. Every single part of you will be mine.” He jerks his hand back as if burned, stepping away so abruptly that the products on the vanity rattle when his thighs hit it. “Mine—and your future Master’s, of course,” he adds roughly. “I will prepare you for his attention and teach you how to please him. He will enjoy your tears, too.”
I have no idea what to say to that, so I settle for a stammered, “Y-yes, Master.” His words echo in my mind as he directs me to kneel on a soft mat in the kitchen corner.
I will hurt you.
He said it so casually, as if discussing the weather or his lunch plans, not hurting another person. What kind of person is capable of that? A psychopath? If he is, convincing him to see me as human will be nearly impossible, but what else can I do?
Tomorrow. I’ll think about it once I’ve rested and can think straight. Right now, still reeling from the orgasm and the trainer’s gentleness clashing with his cruel words, I can’t think clearly enough to make sense of anything.
Since the trainer prepared the ingredients before our shower, it doesn’t take him long to plate two large omelets. I expect him to make me eat on the floor, so I’m surprised when he beckons me to the table. Sitting naked at a dinner table feels strange,but it’s better than the alternatives, so I don’t argue. Except the trainer doesn’t slide either of the plates in front of me. Sitting catty-corner from me, he digs into one omelette, chopping it into smaller pieces.
I’m wondering whether he’s just tormenting me with the sight and delicious smell of the food or if he expects me to beg for it when he scoops up a bite and holds it in front of my mouth. “Open up, Doll.”
Starving, I open my mouth without hesitation, rewarded by a burst of flavor on my tongue. It might be a simple omelet, but it tastes like the best meal I’ve ever had. It’s probably the mix of fear, exhaustion, and hunger, but instead of analyzing it, I just eat, opening my mouth whenever he holds out the fork. He seems content, focused on feeding me while absentmindedly eating his own meal whenever I’m chewing.
My plate is still half full when my stomach starts protesting. The whole omelet is more than I usually eat in a day. It’s a wonder I managed this much, and there’s no way I can finish the rest. “Um, Master?” I start carefully, pulling away from the fork he offers.
His smile vanishes. “Yes, Doll?”
A lump forms in my throat, and I nervously swallow around it. He’ll be angry if I tell him I can’t eat more, but even angrier if I force it and throw up later. “I apologize, Master, but I’m full. If I eat more, I will be sick, and you said… Well, uh…”
“That I won’t be happy if you vomit on my floor?” He watches me so intently it feels like he wants to open my skull and crawl inside to hear my thoughts. “You really can’t eat more, or is this just some silly display of resistance? Because make no mistake, hunger strikes won’t work here. I have no problem tying you down, shoving a tube down your throat and pushing the food straight into your stomach. It might even be fun. For me, not for you, naturally.”
Oh god. The glint in his eyes says he’s done it before, and enjoyed it. Damn it. Giving him new ideas for torture is the last thing I wanted. “No, Master! I promise I can’t eat any more. A few more bites, perhaps, but if I eat everything, I will get sick and—”
“Okay,” he interrupts my increasingly desperate words. “Finish this,” he waggles the fork in front of my mouth again, “and then you have ten minutes in the bathroom to take care of whatever business you need before bed. I set a toothbrush for you on the sink.”
“Thank you!” I blurt out, immensely relieved that he’s giving me at least a tiny bit of privacy. Although, with the bathroom having no door, privacy is relative. Still, the way he’s been treating me like a child had me worrying he might try to “help” with other bathroom tasks, or worse, make me wear a diaper. As I brush my teeth with a brand new pink toothbrush, I find myself thanking all the gods mankind has ever believed in that even my creepy captor has certain boundaries.
Chapter 11
Mikhail
Watching the little Doll sleep is oddly entertaining. She doesn’t rest peacefully, shifting from side to side and making the chain on her ankle rattle. Her murmured words are garbled, but I catch enough to know she’s not dreaming about me, which irritates me. In her dream, she keeps apologizing to her parents, and her whimpered, “Mother, please, no,” tugs at what’s left of my heart. I know I’m not the only one who had an abusive parent, but I still feel a connection to others hurt by those meant to protect them.
