by Alta Hensley
It felt like an eternity before his hand came to rest on the back of my head. He stroked his fingers through my hair and whispered in my ear, “You have the makings of a good doll, Ivy. I’ll be easier on you this time because of your obvious attempt at submission. But from this moment on, I expect you to obey the rules of The Dollhouse. The only way this project will work is by following the strict protocol set in place.”
“I understand.”
Did I? Maybe. It appeared to be working. Drayton’s Dolls were world-renowned and people traveled around the world to see them in the little hidden gems of galleries set up specially for the eccentric, rich, and famous.
“Pose,” he said calmly. “Look into the mirrors and pose.”
I considered asking what type of pose, but decided it best not to. Turning my toes inward so they nearly touched, and cocking my head to the right, I lifted my shoulders and arms like they were connected to the imaginary strings controlled by a twisted and demented puppet master above me. And with the slightest movements and angles of my body, I truly became the creepy doll that had scared the shit out of me as a child in my room.
Without warning, Victor swatted my ruffled-panty-clad ass as I remained motionless as I knew dolls were to never move once in position. The first searing spank shocked me. The second and third weakened my legs, yet I held my morbid position in fear of what would happen if I didn’t. He continued to spank as my face remained emotionless—wide-eyed with my large lashes fluttering as my only sign of discomfort.
“This time, I’ll only use my hand against your dress. But if you remove a plug again, you’ll feel the sting of leather against your bare ass.” He spanked with each syllable of his spoken words. “Have you ever been spanked with a belt?”
“No, sir.”
I cried. Not because of the hurt, but because of the humiliation. Standing there staring at myself as Victor disciplined me was far worse than anything I could have imagined. The spanking didn’t hurt. Not with the ruffles. But the act in itself overwhelmed me with shame. I wanted to be a doll. That was the truth of the matter. I don’t think it was until that very moment standing there—holding my position—that I realized just how badly I did.
The spanking continued, swat after swat, each one growing harder than the one before. “Please… please, sir.” The sniveling wasn’t comely and I knew it. But the position was becoming difficult to hold. My shoulders ached and my lower back spasmed.
And just when I thought I would break my stance, Victor’s stopped the swats and walked away. I could hear him move across the room as he no longer was in the reflection of the mirrors. I started to cry even harder for some bizarre reason, and the weight of his silence only made it worse.
After what felt like an infinity of agonizing time, he finally returned and stood behind me. His body was so close that I could almost feel his heat. I gasped when he took hold of the elastic of my ruffled panties and lowered them over my ass and to my upper thighs. Because of the way I had my feet pointed inward, it forced the cotton fabric to stretch and pull against my legs, making it even harder to stay in my doll pose. He then grabbed my butt and spread my cheeks. He placed a moist finger at my anus and pressed firmly but without entering.
“If I wanted to claim your ass right now, could I?” He pressed his finger past my tight entrance.
I tensed and bit my lip to keep from crying out. The answer was yes. He knew that. I’d signed the contract in the hiring paperwork that gave him the right. I’d waived all hard limits. Victor Drayton had full access to do as he chose.
He thrust his finger deeper. “The purpose of the anal training is to prepare you so you can manipulate your body in any way and with whatever anal device we choose for an exhibit without unnecessary discomfort. We want you to be able to pose for long periods of time without grimacing and breaking the spell of the inanimate doll.”
I nodded, because finding words was impossible in my heated and embarrassed state.
Victor pumped his finger in and out a few more times and then withdrew it completely, replacing it with the cool glass of a butt plug. He inserted it without pause. The stretch to my anus caused me to clench, which only elevated the biting sting. It was much larger than anything I had ever had put inside of me. It hurt. It hurt badly, and no matter how much I tried to relax and adjust to the size, I just couldn’t.
“You are dismissed, Ivy. You need to continue with your training to fully be a Drayton Doll. The ability to submit to the reality of a doll is truly an art. Remember that. Go ahead and return to The Dollhouse.”
His dismissive command stabbed at my heart. Would I get no praise for not breaking my pose once? For not arguing? For not resisting? I’d stood still the entire time, and I didn’t get a single word from him that he was satisfied with my performance.
Lowering my arms and pulling up my panties, I took a cautious step off the doll stand. I wasn’t sure how I was going to walk out of the room with such a large plug inside of me, but I managed to. Just barely. I staggered out and went for the door at a near run, all the while pawing at the loose wisps of my hair and the tears that streaked my face. I didn’t look to see him—but I didn’t want to. It would have hurt entirely too much. His lack of comfort, or a soothing word, was by far the worst punishment I had yet received. I didn’t like disappointing Victor Drayton in the slightest.
Chapter Eleven
Ivy
Days had passed filled with hard work, structure, and discipline unfamiliar to me before arriving at The Dollhouse. Hours upon straight hours of the day were occupied with training, exercise, but also a sense of sisterhood I hadn’t expected when first arriving or accepting the position. When my fellow dolls of The Dollhouse were not engaged in preparing for the upcoming shows, we got some down time, but not much. Though our schedule was damn near back-breaking, I really was enjoying my time preparing for the shows.
The choreographers spent several hours a day teaching us the dance steps for the Japan showing on top of preparing for the other shows that were more about the poses rather than actual dancing. But not Japan. The entire concept around the Japan exhibit was the dolls moving and dancing to the beats of dark, deep, and booming hip-hop music. The music was absolutely gritty, raw and hypnotic. But I sucked at dancing. This was not an exaggeration, but a fact. I could not dance no matter how hard I tried. I was the cliché of a white girl failing miserably at trying to keep a hip-hop beat. If there was a beat, I was always a second or two behind it. I sometimes felt as if I looked like I was having a seizure. Every other doll seemed to be able to find the beat and remember the moves. I, on the other hand, really, really sucked. I dreaded the choreography sessions, awaiting the wrath of Allen Blake or Joseph Crane as their frustration grew with my lack of coordination.
“No, that is not how that dance step goes!” Allen hollered as the private lesson began. He had already excused the rest of the dolls, forcing me to remain and continue on until I got the moves right. “Come on! How many times do we have to practice this before you get it right? Count in your head. Five, six, seven, eight. Count.”
I cringed as he picked up his foot and slammed it down on the marble floor over and over with the cadence of the beats I was supposed to be following, making a slapping sound that echoed in the huge room being used as the practice space. I stiffened my spine and wiped the sweat off my forehead. I wanted to ask what the fuck he meant with counting, but I didn’t want him to grow any angrier or more frustrated than he already was.
I knew that Allen and Joseph were supposed to be some of the best choreographers in the world, and they took Victor Drayton’s art exhibits extremely seriously, but at this point, they seemed to only be bullying me around instead of actually teaching my uncoordinated ass.
I fucking tried. I just had the classic two left feet. All this dancing made balancing a tray full of hundred dollar drinks to impatient wealthy men while wearing stilettos up a staircase seem like child’s play in comparison. How I missed the simplicit
y of Spiked Roses.
Allen paced back and forth in front of me, muttering something under his breath. He wasn’t much older than I was, and his young, smooth skin crinkled as he furrowed his brow with frustration. My dark hair was pulled in a loose braid, some of it falling into my eyes. I knew I looked like anything but a proper and pristine doll. I was like one of those dolls tossed in a toy box and forgotten with matted hair and one eye that won’t open any longer. Nothing but a broken doll—who couldn’t fucking dance!
“I’m sorry,” I said in a quiet voice. I hated knowing Allen was disappointed or angry with me. It was the same with any of the training performed at The Dollhouse. In my mind, The Dollhouse was giving me the opportunity for a real future, and when I didn’t excel at something, I felt ashamed. A complete failure.
Allen whipped around to face me. “You’re sorry? Again, that is not how this works. You don’t apologize in dance. You work your ass off with practice and focus. Dance is a skill that anyone can learn if you try. So, stop with your damn excuses. None of my choreography is so hard that you shouldn’t be able to do it. All the other dolls seem to do just fine. So, stop your useless apologies and take it from the top.”
I broke eye contact with him, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I raised my hands, pointed my toes inward, tilted my head, and posed as a doll as we were expected to begin the dance in. I then waited for Allen to start the music again and launched into the dance, my body moving in time with the beat the best that I could.
And so my seizure to hip-hop music began.
I loved the sound of the music, but my body seemed to disagree. Allen was ruthless, stopping the music and making me begin from the beginning again. Sometimes, he wouldn’t let the music play until I achieved the perfect posture, and because Allen wasn’t satisfied easily, that took attempt after attempt. My body ached, and I wondered if I would die from an actual seizure before I miraculously got this dance down.
“Stop, stop, stop,” Allen shouted, waving his hands.
“What did I do wrong this time?” I asked, surprised at how bold my voice sounded. I’d been doing everything I could since arriving to behave and not push the choreographers, but I was about to tell the asshole off. I was sticky, sweaty, annoyed, and over this damn hip-hop shit.
Allen stared at me with a cold gaze. “First of all, a six-year-old’s posture is better than yours right now. You have got to remain stiff and doll-like even in the dance. It’s key for this art piece. You must remain completely rigid with just moving your shoulders up and down in an isolated move. Think robot if it helps. But you can’t bend. You can’t look like the loose noodle that you do now. Don’t think of this as a dance. Think of it as art. Respect the fucking art!”
I gritted my teeth together to keep from snapping back at him. I felt I was as stiff as I could possibly be and still move. My frustration grew as I struggled to not scream and throw a tantrum right then and there. I expected the world to end before Allen ever gave me somewhat of a compliment, and I almost wanted to storm out of the room and give up.
“Second of all, you missed several steps,” he went on as he began pacing again. His favorite thing to do during the lesson was pace. He hardly, if ever, took a moment to sit down in a chair.
I let my shoulders slump as I listened to Allen list my flaws and mistakes. I needed a quick moment of reprieve from all the stiffness that he didn’t feel I possessed yet my sore and achy body definitely disagreed.
“Now, are you ready to start again?” he asked. “Fingers together, body firm, and stare straight ahead. You are a doll. A porcelain and perfect doll. Not a rag doll.”
I nodded mutely.
“Five, six, seven, eight…” Allen shouted above the music. “Dance like a doll! Stiff. Stiff!”
I brought my shaking hands up to begin the dance as if a puppet master was up above me controlling my body, fumbling through a few steps that I just couldn’t get down. With each beat I missed or step I messed up, I cringed and knew the anger was probably bubbling up under Allen’s skin. How I wished that there really was a puppet master in control of my every move. At least then, he could be the one to blame for my awful dancing.
“Stop,” Allen moaned, grabbing my head with his hands. “What are you doing? Why is your head moving around like a damn bobble doll? Are you even trying at all? I don’t think I have ever seen someone dance as shitty as this before. Are you just fucking with me? Is this a prank?”
I stood there with beads of sweat on my upper lip, a lump lodged in my throat. All I did was look forward. If I looked at him directly, I knew I would end up bursting into tears. I couldn’t help this at all. Maybe it was because I never got to take ballet classes as a little girl. We were too poor and there wasn’t anyone who had the time or energy to invest in a white trash little girl’s extracurricular activities. I don’t know. But I couldn’t fucking dance no matter how hard I tried. This was painfully obvious.
Allen once again demanded that I start dancing, clapping his hands to try to help me get the rhythm right. Doing my best, I jumped back into the music. For the next hour, it was repeat, repeat, repeat. Every time I missed a beat or appeared too sloppy in presentation, Allen snapped at me or forced me to repeat the dance again from the beginning. With each insult he threw at me, I became more and more unstable, the urge to quit dancing and storm out of The Dollhouse forever growing stronger with each one of those damn beats.
“Are you ready to start dancing for real now?” he demanded.
“Are you ready to stop being a short and balding prick?” I stopped the moment the words came from my lips. They had been bubbling on the tip of my tongue and had just come out without me having control over it. My heart stopped… I knew I was in trouble. No way was Allen going to excuse me calling him a name or insulting his appearance.
Even without looking at Allen, I knew that he had stopped pacing and was glaring at me with his hands folded behind his back.
“What did you say?” he asked slowly, making the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
Finally finding the courage, I looked at him and made eye contact, even though I wanted to run straight out of the large room.
“I’m doing the best I can,” I said slowly, my voice shaking a little. “Battering me with all the insults I’ve already heard before won’t make me any better.”
“Allen,” Victor’s voice sliced through the silent air. “What’s going on in here?”
“She’s a hopeless cause. I have tried, but nothing I do is getting through to her. There is no way she can be in the Japan show. I just can’t spend anymore time on just one doll,” Allen said to Victor, acting as if I weren’t even standing there in the room.
Victor looked at me, which I’m sure was an awful sight. I could feel sweat dripping down my spine, which only added to the already sweat-drenched doll dress I wore. “Are you having a hard time learning Japan’s routine?”
“Yes, sir.” I closed my eyes and tried to steady my breathing. I didn’t want him to think I was out of shape.
“Have you been practicing it?”
“Yes, sir.” God, if he only knew how much. Maybe if I removed my shoes and showed Victor my blistered feet hidden inside these damn doll shoes, he would truly understand just how much I had been practicing it.
“Allen,” he said, “please leave me alone with Ivy.”
Allen nodded and walked out of the room without saying a word. I’m sure he was relieved to get the hell out of there and away from my clumsy self.
When the door clicked behind him, Victor walked over to a loveseat and sat down. He patted the seat next to him. “Come here.”
I had to will my body to move toward my impending doom. I had a bad feeling about this. Was this where he would fire me? Step after step, I inched my way toward him. I stood before him and made eye contact.
He patted the couch again. “Sit down.”
I paused for a moment but then did as he commanded, unsure of what was going t
o happen next.
“Why are you struggling so much to learn the dance? I want the truth.”
I took a deep breath. “I can’t dance. I never have been able to.”
“I purposely worked with the choreographers so that high dance skill wouldn’t be required to get the energy and look we want. The others don’t seem to have an issue with learning it.”
“I know. I just can’t seem to make my body do what I want it to do. I really am trying though.”
“Trying hard enough?”
“Yes, but Allen never thinks so,” I muttered. “He makes it even harder with his judgy eyes and shitty remarks.”
Victor nodded. “Allen can be firm. He demands perfection, but that is what I pay him for.”
“That’s just it. I can’t be perfect at this. There’s no way. I’m doing good with the poses for the other shows, but the dance routine is just impossible. Maybe Japan isn’t for me.” My lip began to quiver.
“I want you to dance for me. Do it just like you’ve learned.”
I stood from the couch and made my way to the center of the room. Nodding at Victor to start the music, I got into my doll position and tried to block out the thoughts of failure flooding in.
I could do this. I had to do this. Being a doll was too important for my future. I couldn’t allow one dance to ruin everything.
Without another word, I launched into the dance, my body and mind struggling to remember every step while staying on beat. I continued to dance, never looking at Victor. I just danced, and danced, and danced, letting the music fill my body and tingle the tips of all my senses that I had been focusing so hard on containing.
