The pain fades quickly, but the unfulfilled need the vibrators stirred makes my body clench around them, as if that could somehow make me come. It’s pathetic. I’ve never been interested in sex that much. The thing with Terry Matthews was more about rebellion and curiosity than anything else. It wasn’t even good. A quick teenage tumble under the bleachers when one of our afternoon classes got cancelled. I wasn’t even near an orgasm when Terry rolled off me with a grunt.
For the longest time after that, I wondered why people are so obsessed with sex if it feels like that. Eventually, I realized sex probably doesn’t feel like that when done right, although I had no way to confirm it. I would touch myself sometimes, in absolute silence in the middle of the night, but not even that felt any good because I was terrified that my parents would catch and punish me. Ironically, the vibrators have made me more aroused than I’ve ever been.
Like I said. I’m pathetic.
Finally, the voice ends flatly: “Thank you for your attention. Welcome to your new life.” However, before I can enjoy the relief washing over me or worry about what comes next, the voice continues, “The orientation will now be played again to ensure you understood all instructions correctly. Please pay attention.”
What?! No! I cry hoarsely through the tube, trying to tell whoever’s listening that I already understand, but either no one’s there or they just don’t care. It’s brainwashing, I realize. Pain and pleasure paired with instructions repeated over and over until they’re all I know. The thought of being forced to listen to the recording again and again makes sweat pool under the plastic, sticky against my skin.
They won’t break me. I can take the pain. I’ll keep my mind intact. But the pain is worse this time, so bad all I can dois writhe and scream until my voice gives out. All thoughts of resistance are forgotten as agony stabs through my nipples and my overly sensitive pussy and ass. At this point, I’d do anything to make it stop, but I’m not given the option. I can’t move, trapped in agony while the voice drones on about obedience and punishment.
More punishment? What could possibly be worse than this pain? I don’t want to think about it, so once the pain is over, I retreat into my mind, hoping to find solace in my memories. I don’t have many happy ones but there are a few, and I try to lose myself in them. But the voice in my ears is persistent, breaking through my feeble walls, destroying my concentration until there’s nothing but the rules, and I repeat them to myself as the computer says them, which is probably exactly what my captors want, but it’s also all I can do to stop myself from spiraling into a panic attack.
Keep your gaze lowered.I can do that. I’ve been doing that for most of my life.Address your superiors as Master or Mistress.Not a big deal, either. I’ve been calling my father “sir” since I could talk.Kneel, obey, keep quiet.I can do all that, and I’d prove it if they just let me. If the pain just stopped. It comes and goes but it never stops completely, and I’m no longer able to control it. The pleasure is just as bad, leaving me teetering on the edge before the brutal pain stabs into the sensitised spots.
Between the bouts of pain, I focus on the words in my ears.Smile. Keep your head down. Obey. I try to keep the thought of escape safely tucked away in the back of my mind, but it starts slipping away.Severe punishment.Worse than this? I can’t take worse, but I can’t stay here, either. I need to get away. Don’t I?Compliance will be rewarded.No, I can’t let them get to me. I will get away. I will.
I’m not sure how many times the recording plays through. Three at least. Four? Maybe even five? I think I pass out hereand there but the pain always brings me back, never letting me rest, slowly chipping away at my sanity until I feel like I’ve spent eternity in agonizing darkness.
Finally, silence. I can’t muster the energy to be afraid of what comes next. It can’t be worse than what I’ve just endured. Can it?
Something tugs on the tube in my mouth, jolting my head as it’s pulled out. My jaw clicks when I close it, my tongue sticking to the dry roof of my mouth. It takes my foggy mind too long to realize my mouth is free. I can cry for help, I can beg, I can…
Think, Grace. If screaming could actually help, would they let you do it?
No, they wouldn’t.You will not speak unless spoken to or given explicit permission.The rule resonates in my mind, clearer than the rest of my confused thoughts, but I’m coherent enough to realize this is a test. They’re trying to see if I remember the rules and if I say something… Will they shove that tube back into my mouth and put me through more rounds of orientation? I can’t go through that again. I can’t. Even if everything inside of me is demanding I scream and beg, I stay quiet.Compliance will be rewarded.Please, all I want is not to go through that pain again.
Silence stretches, heavy and suffocating. With the headphones still on, I can’t hear, nor can I see or smell anything. There could be people all around me and I wouldn’t know, but I doubt it. The recording spoke of a trainer, someone to teach me how to be a Doll. One person, but even one person would overpower me easily, so I need to stay smart. Follow the rules. Make him see me as human, not just a thing to be sold. And then? Escape—
Severe punishment.Again and again, the word hammers through my head. Unable to even finish the thought, I whimper at the phantom memory of the pain.Escape is impossible.No, it can’t be. It can’t be, I just can’t think about it now. I’ll think about it later, when I’ve had some rest. They have to let mesleep at some point, don’t they? I shudder at the thought of sleep deprivation being used as torture.
I don’t realize I’ve been biting my lip to stop myself from screaming until something touches it. A finger? I should be terrified someone’s standing over me, watching me suffer, but right now, I’m grateful for the touch. A contact with a real human, a proof that I’m not all alone in this oppressive darkness filled with pain and suffering.
Tugging on my lip to rescue it from the tight clench of my teeth, the finger slides over my lips before disappearing. I already miss that touch, which is sick, considering he’s the one hurting me.
Something else touches my mouth. A straw! I catch it between my lips and suck greedily, not caring what might be on the other end. It might be water, it might be urine or something even worse, but I’m so thirsty I’d even take that piss. To my relief, the liquid flowing from the straw does taste like water. Faintly sweet even, as if there was syrup or some powder mixed in it. I don’t care, it tastes heavenly.
Since I’m unable to turn my head, swallowing is a little difficult, but I continue until nothing more comes through the straw no matter how hard I suck. When it’s moved away from my mouth, I barely stop myself from begging for more.You will not speak unless spoken to.Only the thought of potential punishment holds me back.
The finger returns, brushing my lips in a soft caress. Pressure on my chin makes me imagine the trainer holding it as his thumb slides over my mouth, but I can’t be sure. My mouth’s the only part not trapped in the shrink-wrap prison.
I focus on that contact and not on the way my pussy still throbs with need, or on the clamps on my nipples and the vibrators in my pussy and ass, ready to give me pain or pleasure at amoment’s notice. There’s an actual human being here with me, touching me. I’m not alone.
Another finger joins in, rubbing something over the sore corners of my mouth. Lip balm? That’s… sweet, actually. I know this person is the reason I’m in pain in the first place, but I expected yelling and slaps, not this oddly gentle care.
“Thank you.” The words slip out before I can stop them. “Master,” I add quickly, hoping to save my blunder. Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut? My mother was right. I am stupid and incompetent, and now I’m going to suffer for it.
Chapter 5
Mikhail
My fingers pause where I'm rubbing the healing balm on Doll’s mouth. Did she just thank me? That’s new. They all thank me eventually, for every strike of the cane and every scrap of pleasure I allow, but that’s after I’ve drilled it into them during training. I’ve never had a Doll thank me straight after orientation. They either cry or beg—earning themselves more rounds of orientation—or stay completely silent. Not once has any of them thanked me.
Is she faking it? Thinking she can get on my good side, cozy up to me so I’d be more lenient? Technically, she broke a rule, so punishment should follow, not whatever she hoped for. However, what if her words were genuine? It’s unlikely, but if she’s in that right spot where she’s grateful for my presence andreceptive to the training, I don’t want to hinder her progress by pushing her too hard. I’ve already given her more rounds of orientation than usual because I don’t want to waste my time with her on punishments.
She’s quiet now, holding her breath, no doubt expecting punishment for speaking out of turn. She’d have to be one hell of an actress to pretend all this to manipulate me, especially after the pain she’s already been through. Her words must be genuine, stirring odd warmth in the spot where normal people keep a heart. Not me, although the warm feeling is disconcerting. I can’t feel anything for the Doll. She will never be mine, and I have to keep that in mind. However, she has earned a reprieve, so I grab a large pair of scissors and carefully cut the shrink wrap covering her face.
Her dark hair clings to her neck and shoulder, the braid I made damp with sweat. Keeping the blindfold on, I remove the headset and nose plugs. She wouldn’t have been able to smell anything through the layers of plastic, but I’m nothing if not meticulous. Sensory deprivation has to be done right to work, and I’ve perfected it over the years.
