Unless they decide toterminateme. If these people think I’ll accept this, they’re insane. Panic claws at my mind, but for now, I hold it off. Mostly. I’m terrified, but I can’t let fear take over. I need to hear the rest of this message from Hell so I know the rules. If I follow the rules and keep my head down, I’ll make it out. And once I’m free, I’m not going back to my parents’ cage. Life is too short for that.
Chapter 3
Mikhail
Watching new Dolls struggle through orientation is always interesting. It’s surprising how different they are, and I can often tell how training will go just by watching them. Some panic, sob and cry, not hearing a single word the computer says. Others go into shock. They listen but remember nothing. A few keep fighting, straining against the restraints as if strength alone could free them. Men usually fall into that last category, but not always. I haven’t had enough of them down here to draw real conclusions. It’s mostly women Anton gets orders for. They’re all beautiful, but this one stands out. Pale skin, dark hair, delicate like a porcelain doll. Dainty, like a real doll.
I don’t have a type. Big, small, fat, slim, muscular, male or female, it doesn’t matter. If I had to specify a type of peopleI’m attracted to, it would be “living, adult humans”. Almost anything that moves turns me on, but this Doll… she’s different. Her body’s perfect, just like the doll I had as a kid—before the incident with my mother. After that, toys were forbidden. Especially dolls. Unfortunately, Uncle Anton shared Mother’s opinion that boys shouldn’t play with dolls. I was too busy learning to kill to have time for toys, anyway. Plus, I was nine years old already when Anton took me in. Too old to be playing with anything other than a knife.
This Doll, though…
I can’t keep my eyes off her. Of course, I’m meant to train her, which means I have to watch her, but this part of the process doesn’t require constant monitoring. The automation was my idea, born from boredom with repeating the same speech to every new Doll. Repeating the rules five times while a Doll screams instead of listening would drive anyone mad. Now I just have the computer read the text as many times as necessary, two being the bare minimum for the orientation part. Even the calm ones, like this one, need repetition to make it stick.
Usually, I go for three or four rounds of orientation until I give them a chance to prove they remember the rules. If they fail, they go in for more, with increased intensity of the electroshocks. Most fail that initial test. They can’t help themselves. The moment I take the gag off, they start screaming for help or begging to be released, even though the rules clearly say a Doll speaks unless spoken to or given permission. What a simple fucking rule to follow.
There aren’t even that many rules. A monkey could memorize them, yet some Dolls take days to get them right.
A glance at the computer screen reveals that my current Doll is just getting to the part where rules are stated. Aside from the initial freakout, she’s been remarkably calm. Probably one of the clever ones who think they can fake obedience and escape. Iheave a sigh. In a way, this type is the worst. The ones who fight me at every step are difficult to break but once they do break, they serve beautifully. The pretenders are the hardest. It takes the most work, the harshest training, the worst punishments to make them understand there’s no escape. That this is their life now.
I do it for them. Really. It might sound strange, but I know what happens to men and women sent to these rich bastards who buy from us. They’re used and disposed of. Dead within a week, usually literally fucked to death. A well-trained Doll, however, can keep their Master happy and entertained for much longer than that. They still die, but I give them skills to last longer, which is all they can hope for.
If I could, I’d keep them all. I love every Doll I train, and it kills me to see them shipped off to Masters who’ll never appreciate them like I do. But this is business. I’m not family, but I’ve worked for the Morozovs since Anton took me in as a teenager. I’m in for life, and I don’t make the rules. Except the ones for the Dolls. I did make those.
The Morozovs appreciate me because I turned their crude trafficking operation into something more refined, more exclusive, more profitable. Our Dolls are known as the best merchandise on the market. What people don’t know is that I’m the one who makes them what they are. I get paid handsomely for my services, but it’s not a job I can quit or complain about.
As much as I’d love to have a Doll for myself, the answer has always been no, both from my uncle who, like me, is just an Orlov, not a Morozov, and from Vasilij Morozov, the boss’ son who’s in charge of the syndicate’s flesh trade. In the end, I’m just a grunt, so I keep quiet and do my job. It’s not like I have anything to complain about. I spend a week with each Doll, learning their bodies, breaking them, shaping them intosomething new, something better, because dolls are better than people. I knew that even as a child, and it’s no different now.
On the screen, I watch as the read-aloud program repeats the rules for my current Doll. She’s completely calm, listening attentively, and I can’t help but wonder what’s going on inside her head. What is she thinking about? That if I think she’s following the rules, I’ll let my guard down and give her a chance to escape? I snort.
Even if she somehow overpowered me and escaped the facility, she’d run straight into the Morozov mansion, guarded by their most violent enforcers. What waits for her beyond that door is worse than anything I could do to her, but she wouldn’t believe me. They never do. They never trust me when I say I’m doing this for them, that I only have their best interests in mind. Fucking ungrateful, if you asked me, but that’s life. Gratitude belongs in fairytales, and not the good ones, like the story where the prince repeatedly rapes the sleeping princess and has a bunch of kids with her until one of the brats wakes her up. I bet the prince was anything but grateful to that little fucker.
You will not speak unless spoken to or given explicit permission.
You will address your superiors as Master/Mistress unless instructed otherwise.
You will keep your gaze lowered.
You will kneel in the presence of your Master.
You will not attempt to escape, deceive, or disobey.
You will obey all commands without hesitation, resistance, or question.
Just a few basic rules. It’s a wonder humans survived this long when most can’t follow basic instructions. Doll’s breath catches as she listens, and I wonder which of the rules caused it. She doesn’t look like a screamer or a fighter. Maybe a beggar. I canalready picture her pleading softly to be released. I bet she will start the moment I remove the gag, just like they always do.
The computer repeats the rules two more times before putting her through another round of the pleasure/pain combination. She’s extremely responsive to pleasure, although I can see her trying to fight it. Her high pain tolerance has me increasing the shock intensity again. Her pain tolerance will serve her later, but right now I need her to feel the pain, not master it
She gets a brief reprieve as the computer repeats the rules again, becausePovtoreniye—mat’ ucheniya.Repetition is the mother of learning. Then she gets a lecture on proper behavior, poses she’s supposed to assume and services she’ll be expected to provide, and how they change based on the situation. Most Dolls don’t retain much of this lecture, which is annoying because I have to beat it into them manually later, but I have a feeling this one will be different. Smart, with a perfect body and a high pain threshold. The perfect Doll, made for me, or so it feels. But she isn’t mine, and I’d do well to remember that. I might be an important money-maker for the Morozovs but no one is above their rule and one wrong step might end up with me being the one screaming in pain.
This Doll might be perfect, but she will never be mine.
Chapter 4
Grace
If the situation wasn’t so terrifying, I’d laugh because, really? Why do the traffickers’ rules sound so much like my parents’? The only thing missing is “always smile,” though I have a feeling that one’s coming later. If it weren’t for the sex stuff, I’d almost assume that this is my parents teaching me another lesson on obedience, and how twisted is that?
As the robotic voice drones on about the proper way to kneel and walk and stand and, yup, there it is, the proper way tosmileand always keep a pleasant disposition, I force my body to relax. After the shocks and relentless vibrations, my muscles are so tight they might snap, and exhaustion presses down on me. I need to rest. Not sleep, since I have to memorize the instructionsfor whatever tests come later, but at least relax enough to recover a little strength. It’s difficult, though.
