He did. It’s wrong, but I did like what I saw. Why does he have to be handsome? “Yes, Master,” I whisper so quietly he couldn’t hear me if he weren’t standing right in front of me.
He doesn’t berate me for not speaking clearly. With a chuckle, he releases my shoulders. “That’s good to hear. Don’t move.”
After making sure I won’t fall again, he walks away, his bare feet softly tapping on the floor. Realizing I’m completely exposed, I start to cover myself, then remember I’m not allowed to. It’s difficult, but I let my arms fall again. If he wants to look at my too-small breasts and nonexistent curves, I guess that’s his right.
His feet come back into view. They’re nice feet. Clean, with neatly trimmed nails, a small but clear sign he takes care of himself.
He trails his hand down my arm, then weighs my breast in his hand, flicking the nipple. “You remembered the rule,” he states. “Good job.”
The praise settles over me like a warm blanket. I did well. I made him happy. It’s a great feeling.
“You’re allowed to look at me for now,” he says. “I will inform you when that changes.”
“Thank you, Master,” I reply, relieved he’ll let me know if the rules change. I can work with rules when I know what they are, but I’m not a mind reader.
My throat clicks with a dry swallow as I notice the glass in his hands. It’s filled with a thick, frothy, yellowish liquid. A shake? He holds it out in front of me. “Drink it. All of it, but slowly. I willnotbe happy if you throw up on my floor.”
“I won’t. Thank you, Master.” With my hands still shaky, I use both to steady the glass. Tipping it to my mouth, I moan as the sweet liquid hits my tongue. A banana-flavored shake, definitely. Before today, I wouldn’t have called it my favorite, but this one tastes amazing. As I sip from the shake, I steal glances at the trainer. He’s moving around the kitchen, pulling out ingredients. Is he going to cook? What am I supposed to be doing in the meantime?
I try to remember the rules, but they only say I should kneel by his side, which is tricky when he keeps moving. He also told me not to move, so hopefully I’m safe to just sit and sip my shake while he chops vegetables and beats eggs.
I take the chance to look around, my breath catching at the other half of the windowless room. Furniture fills the room, but it’s unlike anything I’ve seen before. Restraints dangle from benches and chairs, even from the ceiling itself. An entire wall is lined with whips and paddles and other spanking instruments, some of which I’m disconcertingly familiar with, like the flexible cane my mother prefers. Satan only knows what terrible implements might be hidden in the cupboards beneath the spanking instruments.
The table I sit on is sturdy, with chains and cuffs hanging from its corners. Next to it, there’s a small rolling table with a box that looks like an old-school radio with several knobs. Wires run from the box, connecting to… Oh. To the vibrators and clamps set on the table beside me. My cheeks flare up with heat as my gaze snags on the toys. I can’t believe I had that inside me. In my ass. God, it’s so small. It felt bigger when it was inside me, like I was stretched to the limit. How can someone’s cock ever fit in there without tearing me apart?
In the far corner, behind all the intimidating furniture, there’s an inconspicuous door. It seems to be the only way out, since there are no windows. Are we underground, or just in a windowless building? Where does that door lead to?
Escape attempts will be harshly punished.
Shuddering, I push that thought away. Later. I’ll think about it when my eyelids don’t feel like they weigh a ton.
“Finished?”
Not noticing the trainer approach, I startle, nearly dropping the glass. I catch it, squeezing it so tightly my knuckles turn white. I don’t want to anger him by breaking anything, especiallynow when he seems so calm and I’m too exhausted to handle punishment. Draining the rest of the shake, I present him with the empty glass. “Yes, Master.”
“Good girl. How’s your stomach? Any nausea? The drugs can sometimes have lingering effects. It isn’t frequent, but you’re tiny, and I doubt the extraction team adjusted the dosage to your weight.”
The extraction team. Like I’d been rescued instead of kidnapped. “No nausea,” I reply truthfully. “I’m just a little dizzy.”
“That is to be expected. Don’t worry, Doll. I’ll wash you, feed you, and put you to bed. Once you’ve had some sleep, we’ll start with the training.”
Wash me? I wouldn’t mind a shower after being wrapped in that plastic, but the way he said it feels unsettling. Like I’m nothing more than a toy he’ll play with before putting it away for the night. Maybe that’s how he sees me. Here, I’m just a Doll. I have no rights, no control over my body.
I need to change that. Isn’t that what they recommend when you’re being held hostage? To make your captor see you as a person? I need to work on that, but not now when I’m exhausted, every muscle sore from the shocks, and I’m distracted by the lingering arousal. Right now, I can’t focus on anything other that keeping my head down and following the rules. Plus, being called a good girl feels nice. I’ve rarely been praised, and even knowing it’s wrong to enjoy praise from the person who hurt me, I can’t help it. It’s as if my body craves those words. His words, his smiles.
Damn. I’m in trouble.
Chapter 8
Mikhail
Doll is a little unsteady on her feet, which is expected after the many rounds of electroshock she endured. She’s also tired, but that’s something she’ll have to get used to. After she eats, I will let her sleep for a few hours but not nearly enough to fully recover. It won’t be full sleep deprivation, but close enough to leave her disoriented and more compliant. As much as I’d love to see her smile after a good night’s sleep, what I want doesn’t matter. Doll’s here to be trained, so that she has a higher chance of survival once we hand her over to Alfredo Franco, an obnoxious Texan cartel boss with a thing for young flesh. I hate the idea of giving her to someone else, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m nobody. The Morozovs will run the trade with orwithout me. I just make it more profitable for them while telling myself I’m helping the Dolls, but am I, really?
Fuck if I know.
Holding Doll’s upper arm, I lead her to the bathroom, pausing in the doorway to let her take it in. It’s nothing special, really. I don’t have a fancy bathtub with massage jets like they have upstairs in the villa.
Like the rest of my place, the bathroom is open-plan. Toilet and sink with a cupboard on one side, and a free space dotted by restraint anchor points under a singular showerhead on the other side. There’s also a handheld shower for when I need to wash someone or spray them with icy water—something I’ve had to do more times than I can count. That’s what the loops embedded in the floor, walls, and ceiling are for. Dolls rarely take cold showers well and tend to do stupid things like run away or even attack me.
