by Quin Zayne
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” She raised her chin.
He chuckled. “You’re so refreshing, Rose. Your transformation is going to go beautifully. Get some rest. Dr. Laszlo will begin enhancing you in the morning.”
A lump formed in her throat. She couldn’t speak, only nodded as he gave her a slow smile and closed the door, leaving her alone.
She glanced at the endless sea, took a slow turn around the suite, and sank onto the luxurious bed. Everything was cream or pale sea foam green.
Gulls called in the distance, the one familiar thing in her new world.
Enhancing. In the morning.
Holding herself, she shook so hard her teeth chattered.
This was Rose’s suite, Rose’s life.
Not even curiosity about the lessons could get her off the bed. She pushed off her heels, curled up, and pulled the silky coverlet over her.
What was he going to do to her—to his doll?
My Island
Damon
Alone in my den, away from her intoxicating scent and seductive eyes, I propped my elbows on my desk and rested my head on my palms.
What do you do when you need control above all else, and at last you have control over the woman you crave—the woman you want above all other women?
I didn’t know whether to cherish her or destroy her.
I wanted both.
Over her living face, I saw her as I first glimpsed her, pale, lying in a jumble in the dirt, her hair a mess over her face, apparently dead.
In that moment, she relied on me for everything.
My choices gave her life.
That day imprinted on me and remained deep in my heart, a defining moment, but one I didn’t know how to comprehend. Most of all, I wanted to reclaim it, extend it, take that power again.
I needed to breathe and consume that heady elixir of knowing I had complete power over her.
I’d waited a long time to bring my desires to fruition. Now, she was mine. Without fully understanding her position or her danger, she lay collapsed and jumbled, a mess, in my hands—to do with as I willed.
My cock strained at my fly.
Gripping my desk, I pushed back from it, inhaling hard, nostrils flaring, battling the urge to storm into her room and ravage her. I’d make her shriek and cling to me.
First, I’d make her beg.
The excitement of possession raced through my veins, juicing me like a speed rush. It was all I could do to leave her be. For now.
Panting, I leaned back in my chair, its contours forming to my body—a prototype for seats that would serve astronauts, upgraded to suit me in every particular.
I inhaled the aroma of the fine grain leather and imagined the scent of her arousal.
I’d drive her close to madness before I touched her. Her dilated pupils, rapid breathing, hard nipples, and sexy scent wafting to me in the Sky Lounge told me she wanted me to take her.
I’d be her first man. And her last.
My true smile wasn’t a friendly one. My true smile exposed the bared teeth of a predator.
I’d make her wait. I’d savor breaking her down, making her crazed and drenched with desire. Making her ache as I ached, preparing for the culmination of my plans for her.
For years, fresh pine gave me a painful hard-on. Winters were a challenge, Christmas tore at me. Because she wasn’t mine yet. Now, I was close. Now, I had her on my island.
She consented to submit.
Points to me. The first hurdle cleared.
I surveyed the swath of jungle and white beach framed in my panoramic one-way window. My den topped a tower, giving me a one-hundred-eighty degree view of my domain.
When I first bought my island, I collected rare moths from the jungle and mounted them with pins against black velvet. The slightest touch on their wings smudged them, ruined them. I hated that. I required perfection.
Only the excellent specimens remained, hanging in glass cases in my gem vault amid far more rare, secret prizes. The treasures I acquired during my bad boy rebellious years—things that would shock my family if I died suddenly and my treasures came to light. That might be why I kept such incriminating things. Part of me thrilled still to the thought of their faces. All those complacent people who think they know me, who think they can apply reins to me: All of them are wrong.
I’d prefer not to care. The opposite of love isn’t hatred, it’s indifference. I didn’t need to travel to Tibet to figure that out, although I enjoyed the journey. That was the least sexually-driven year of my life.
I aspired to be indifferent to my lineage and their superficial preoccupations. Until I reached such maturity that shocking them no longer mattered, I’d keep trophies with the power to wipe their complacent superiority off their faces.
Kicking my feet onto my desk, I rested all my weight on the exquisite chair that reformed to cradle my head, shoulders, back, buttocks, and thighs. One day, I’d die, exposing myself to all of them, leaving them with the truth of my contempt for all that they stood for, their false masks and pretentious bullshit. I enjoyed the thought of it too much to let it go.
During occasional pangs of conscience, I considered leaving instructions with Armand to clear the treasure rooms when I died.
Or I could set an alarm, warning everyone to vacate the house, and blow it to bits. It was high enough up the mountain and far enough from the village that I could destroy it to its foundation without harming anyone.
Those were thoughts for another time, and for another man, a man I might become if I cared more about life.
In the meantime, nothing mattered more than enjoying my prize. My lovely, willing prisoner. My living Doll.
The craving for an island might have its root in Treasure Island and other pirate adventures of my boyhood. To this day, seafaring adventures starred among my favorite diversions. Augmented these days with sailing the latest prototype vessels designed for speed and pleasure.
Going out in my yachts paled once I bought a company capable of designing and producing sailing craft like nothing else yet on the seas. The superior crafting and technology, the exclusivity—that thrilled me. Watching other sailors, other billionaires salivating as they interrogated me. I refused to tell them anything. That was a greater power than feeding their curiosity. Why allow them any hint of how to replicate what I had? The advances in sailing craft were mine, all mine.
So was Rose. Of her own free will.
My virgin prize.
The contract she signed rested over my heart.
I drank coffee from my organic plantation, relishing my island’s self-sufficiency. We produced our own power, solar, hydroelectric, and continued to make advances in solar cell energy storage. Cutting-edge green fuels from corn and palm powered our machinery and engines. Most of what I needed could be produced here, or I’d stockpiled it. I kept bunkers of raw materials and disaster relief supplies underground to provide for every adult and child in residence, as well as supplies and replacement parts for all my projects for the foreseeable future. We had abundant medical supplies and an underground storeroom of herbs, including the medicines and lore of indigenous healers. Our clinic included practitioners of many kinds, local and international, from acupuncture and EFT to curanderos, osteopaths, midwives, and specialist surgeons.
Nature—and idiotic human beings—were unpredictable. The egos and small, flaccid penises of certain men in power could cause massive devastation in my lifetime. I took the stewardship of my island seriously. I wanted everyone here to survive anything that might happen.
Doll Face
Damon orchestrated her world.
The first days passed in a blur, meeting the few people in the house, being ushered into surgery. As promised, the doctor was a genius with a futuristic clinic. The first modifications were painless. She roused from the anesthesia well-rested. It was anti-climactic after all the anxiety that she might die under the knife. The only bad part: having to wait to see the results. She spent a coup
le of days sipping delicious tropical fruit smoothies through a straw and avoiding the big mirrors in her suite. Mummy movies had left an indelible impression on her, and she didn’t relish looking like the bandaged walking dead.
On the bright side, Damon Karl left her alone, so she didn’t have to endure those see-everything eyes in her healing state.
Finally the morning for the revelation arrived. In the basement clinic, surrounded by polished stone wall and discreet cabinets holding medical supplies, her heart made the loudest sound.
She sat on the exam table, clutching the edge.
“Relax. You’re young and healthy. The results will be beautiful,” Dr. Laszlo’s soothing voice reminded her to breathe.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Rose, I’m Rose, she reminded herself, trembling as she waited for the dapper doctor to snip away the bandages to show her his handiwork.
She couldn’t escape the creeping fear that she’d face a monster in the mirror. It all went wrong and she’d look like Frankenstein, or one of those women with such an extreme face-lift they could never smile right again. She prepared herself to look into a mask, a stranger’s face.
Good thing Dr. Laszlo held the mirror for her.
Her hands fell nerveless to her lap.
She didn’t expect…this.
She looked like herself, only—enhanced. The effect reminded her of her modeling years. The artfully arched brows, careful eyeliner, ruby lips with greater fullness. Back then, highlight made her lips appear more plump for the shoot. Now they were fuller full-time. But not in the overdone way common in Hollywood that created a baboon’s-butt effect. Hers appeared natural, as though she’d been blessed with a sumptuous kisser.
Her eyes were the startling feature. She hadn’t known he’d done them. The way the bandages kept them in shadow, the change wasn’t visible.
They shone like amethyst crystals, an amazing shade of violet with a deep blue ring around the iris. The whites of her eyes were as white as—yes, she bared her teeth and found them as gleaming white as she expected. She was ready for her closeup, indeed. Ken would crow to see her, and go snap happy with his camera.
Dr. Laszlo cleared his throat. “You see, it isn’t so drastic. I think you’ll become used to it rapidly. Damon is wise beyond his years. It was his idea that we begin with the cosmetic changes to your face. This way, you’ll approach the body modifications with greater confidence. Darlene, Dr. Warner, would like to meet with you next.”
“Oh. This is—beautiful work, doctor. I don’t think I need a shrink—I mean, psychiatrist, for this.”
He nodded, almost smiling. “I understand how you feel. Damon insists, and as you know, his word is law. He wants to reduce the risk of disassociation. He wants you to enjoy and accept yourself, with all of your changes. Cosmetic surgery is more psychologically loaded than most people realize. Unrealistic hopes and fears are common, not that there’s anything wrong with those feelings, but they heighten stress. Even positive changes cause stress. His goal is for you to be fully functional. In my view, that includes being happy. Nothing wrong with seeing a shrink. I’ve done it myself.”
“Have you had work done?” she whispered, realizing it was a gauche questions.
His eyes twinkled. “Around the eyes, the jawline.” He patted the area under his chin with the back of his hand, demonstrating the lack of wattles. “And ahem, a series of procedures to add girth to my equipment.” He winked.
She blushed. Well, she had asked a personal question. “Alright then, it seems I’m outvoted.”
“Don’t feel bad, I take orders here, too. Don’t let Damon get to you. He comes across as cold. He has an exacting intellect, lives in action-mode, and focuses on results. His nature is strongly skewed to traditional masculinity. He lacks balance, the yin yang flow that gives people greater approachability and flexibility. Go easy on him. He hasn’t ever faced a woman like you.”
She stared at him, unable to speak. Sensation returned to her face, an awareness of air touching her skin. It didn’t hurt, but it distracted her, all the sensitization where she’d felt numb.
“The thing to realize, is he’s often more appreciative than he lets on. He has at time surprised me with gestures that show he notices my work and even my life in ways I wouldn’t have imagined he could. Don’t give up on him. He needs you.”
She still had no words. She nodded. A smile wavered on her new lips. Everything felt new.
The mirror hung from the distracted surgeon’s hand like a forgotten gun.
She took it from him. Her cheekbones appeared more prominent, her face more sculpted, more beautiful. A rush of pleasure surged through her.
“Oh. This is amazing!” The prospect of not needing to rush to put on makeup, to be able to swim, hike, dance, shower, have sex, sleep, and never look smeared—it was wonderful. On close examination, her eyelashes appeared darker and fuller. Like the rest of the effects, they looked like a natural gift, not false. The whole face was magazine cover perfect. Still her, only better.
The icepick retreated from her heart. Damon hadn’t hated how I looked. He’d used some of his wealth to make me look like me, only more glamorous.
She couldn’t regret a bit of it. This face would open doors. If he tired of her, or after she played her part and departed from him, she wouldn’t be out in the cold. She could leverage beauty the way the most savvy models did, build an empire that would outlast the aging process. Damon could have a treatment for aging, too. It wouldn’t surprise her.
“No more physical changes for you this month, Rose. Rest, relax, avoid over-exertion and emotional strain. No extreme grimacing.”
“I wouldn’t want my face to freeze like that,” she echoed one of her mom’s jokes. At least Mom would recognize me if I died. I wasn’t turning into a total stranger.
“Exactly,” he said, and strode out.
She wished she knew when men were joking.
Finally, she slid carefully off the examination table. She shrugged out of the medical gown and got into the clean clothes awaiting her on a chair. Everything in her size, as always. Similar to things she’d choose herself, only many grades better in quality, from the classy lingerie to the slacks, blouse and surprisingly comfortable sandals. At least he didn’t expect her to parade around on 5-inch spike heels.
She’d worried she’d have to do weird things here, like become a pony girl, or crouch down and serve as a coffee table for hours.
It was an odd let-down to find the billionaire’s tastes so normal. He’d made her model-beautiful. By agency assessments, she’d already been marketable. That may be why he chose her. Or maybe he liked the virginity selling point. If so, he was in no hurry to try the merchandise. In a way, that was disappointing, though she didn’t like to admit it.
Fuck it, a billionaire had me in his total power and hadn’t made a move.
Maybe he was a voyeur. Perhaps she ought to put on a show in her suite.
From what she remembered of the disclosures, surveillance was part of the contract. He must have cameras in the suite. Maybe he needed a little inspirations to make a move. She was no shrinking virgin, nor a passive heroine in a BDSM novel. If he wanted a doll with no will, he made the wrong pick.
A vibrating noise drew her to a door that stood ajar. She nudged it open. A phone sat on the desk. She tiptoed in and stared down at it, tantalized.
The image of a man filled the screen, a man so similar to Damon, she took a step back. The name of the incoming caller was Fabian.
She forced herself to get out of there and position the door the way she found it. My fingers itched to go back in there and call Ken.
Surveillance. Security probably saw her go in there. It could be a trap, testing her obedience. It didn’t matter what it was, she couldn’t touch that phone. She hated it that she couldn’t show Ken her doll face. Fuck.
Swallowing hard, she got dressed. She wanted to torment Damon as much as he tormented her. She slipped out of
the clinic and took the stairs back to her suite. The sandals made lonely slaps on the tiles.
Closing the door behind her, she did a double-take at her reflection in the window.
Rose.
I had the face he wanted. Maybe he could stand to look at me again soon.
Lunch with the Master
A knock startled her. The sound was too soft to be Damon. She rushed to open it, eager for something to do. She'd spent the morning exploring the lessons on the computer. Her head swam from it. Multiple languages, deportment, etiquette, body language, diplomacy. The man didn’t want a mere doll, he wanted a robotic prodigy.
She flung the door open and the slender woman in white tilted her chin up.
One of the attendants, Annalise. They’d met in the whirl of her first days.
“Oh, hello.”
“Hello. Damon wants you for lunch.” Her smile gave the phrase a wicked meaning and her heart skipped.
Annalise stepped inside and walked briskly to the closet, plucking clothes with great efficiency.
“Okay…” She trailed after Annalise like a novice about to endure an all-day photo shoot. Her feet dragged. She was not ready to face him. The double meaning of face forced her to smile. It must be done. He’d invested a great deal of money in her already. Naturally, he wanted to check the progress. She drew herself up to her full height.
Annalise dressed her, her hands deft, doing everything from arranging her breasts in a lilac lace bra to zipping the form-fitting matching afternoon dress that set off her new eyes.
Mandy sat, and Annalise laced her into spike-heeled sandals with narrow straps that tied below her knees. The outfit showed no skin above the knee, yet the demure lines were erotically charged. The straight, high neckline made her throat look long and vulnerable.
“Excellent.” Annalise mussed the hair, giving ‘Rose,’ a sexy bed-head. “You don’t need a thing else. Leave your purse here. You’re only going as far as the sea-side balcony near his rooms.”
