by Eden Myles
THE DOLLHOUSE SOCIETY
Volume I
EVELYN
By
Eden Myles
Copyright © 2012 Eden Myles
Published by Courtesan Press
http://courtesanpress.wordpress.com/
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be distributed, shared, resold, posted online, or reproduced in any electronic or hard copy form.
This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities between actual persons or events is entirely coincidental. This book contains adult content and is intended for a mature readership. All sexual scenarios depicted in this book occur between consenting adults over 18 years of age.
Cover art design by Courtesan Press
***
CONTENTS
The Rules of Conduct Inside the Dollhouse
Indecent Proposal
Dreams in Black & White
Playing House
Freeze Frame
Bonus Story: Ten Years Later
***
THE RULES OF CONDUCT INSIDE THE DOLLHOUSE
(Failure to comply with these rules shall result in immediate expulsion from the Dollhouse.)
- No gentleman under the age of thirty shall be permitted to enter the Dollhouse. Gentlemen desiring permanent membership within the Society shall be subject to a trial period lasting no less than one year, after which he will be reviewed for possible permanent inclusion in the Society.
- A gentleman and his courtesan may do anything they wish, so long as it is consensual, tasteful and entertaining. Consensual acts of entertainment within the Dollhouse are hitherto referred to as “plays”.
- “Plays” between a gentleman and his courtesan may not be interrupted in any way or for any reason by a third party. “Play” can only be begun or ended by the parties involved.
- “Plays” shall be conducted only in a designated playroom of the Dollhouse. The only time this rule shall not apply is for a new courtesan’s debutante party, in which “play” shall be conducted in the great room.
- A gentleman is not permitted to touch, address or otherwise acknowledge another gentleman’s courtesan while in the Dollhouse.
- Proper decorum must be observed at all times.
- Courtesans shall not be allowed to imbibe any kind of alcoholic beverages while in the Dollhouse.
- Courtesans shall be shown the utmost respect while in the Dollhouse.
- A new safe word shall be issued at each gathering. When a safe word is used by a gentleman or his courtesan, all “play” shall immediately cease between all the parties involved.
***
INDECENT PROPOSAL
I had just gotten into work that morning when I found an appointment note glued to the edge of my computer monitor. It read MEETING: IAN STERLING, and under it a date and time. The day was today. The time was two hours from now. I ripped the note off and looked at it in horror, then glanced over at Clarissa, the temp that worked directly across from me.
Clarissa is four inches shorter than me and thirty pounds lighter. She wears a size zero. Suffice to say, I do not. My dress size is in the low double digits. For most of my high school years I’d been surrounded by her type—girls who were slim and petite, with boyish hips and gravity-defying boobs, able to wear anything they wanted right off the department store rack. Their hair was always perfectly blonde, their skin perfectly flawless. When I finally got to college, I found that nothing much had changed. The girls there were perfect too, whereas I remained a giant at six feet even. I wasn’t too surprised to find the secretarial pool was the same way, full to brimming with blonde, perky Clarissas. But Clarissa was also nice. Beautiful and nice. I couldn’t even hate her in good conscience.
I looked down at the note, then back up at Clarissa. “I think I’m about to be let go,” I said, sounding sadder than I wanted to. As jobs went, working for Sterling Cosmetics (“All natural, organic, animal-cruelty-free ingredients.”) was the best job I’d ever had.
“No way,” Clarissa said, running around the edge of our shared workstation and snatching up the note. There’s nothing like gossip to get the pool jumping on a dreary, rainy Monday morning. “Evie, you’re the best worker here.”
“I have to see Mr. Sterling in two hours. I just know he’s going to can me.”
I was never big on self-confidence, sue me. In grade school I’d been taller than all of the girls and most of the boys. Things just went downhill from there. The other kids used to call me Evie the Beanstalk, or sometimes Lurch because of how big and pale I was. Even the Goths wouldn’t have anything to do with me. I never got angry fast enough, and I was always too afraid to smoke weed with the other “bad kids” in the bathroom. My mom had worked hard to support my brother and I after my dad left us, so I had no reason to rebel. Besides, I was too busy curling up with a good book or a mystery movie on PBS to do those things.
I looked out the rain-lashed windows of the Sterling Building and wished I wasn’t here. I’d rather have been home today, wrapped in my favorite plush, worn-out robe with Betty Boop all over it, hemmed in by my cats and reading Agatha Christie. The thought made me feel immediately guilty. Getting the job at Sterling had been more of a lucky accident than anything else. The temp agency had sent me over for just one day to fill in for a secretary who’d come down with a case of food poisoning. That day a worm got into the computer mainframe and there was a massive crash. Part-time geek that I was, I was able to recover a lot of lost data, and the head of my department, Mr. Wilkins, recommended Mr. Sterling take me on as a regular.
I didn’t even have to do an interview, which was good. I hated doing interviews.
“You like working here, Evie, don’t you?” Clarissa said. She still looked concerned, but as she shuffled the huge stack of files we needed to tackle this morning, I could see the wheels turning in her head. She was wondering if she was next.
“It’s okay. I’ll get another job,” I answered to cover up my feelings as I sat down at my station, adjusted the picture of my brother and me on the desk in front of me, pushed away last Friday’s clutter, and booted up my computer.
Mr. Sterling paid better than the temp agency, so of course I liked the job. It was better than seeing a long procession of dingy, dark, unfamiliar offices on the Lower East Side all the time. And I liked working what we girls called “the pool”. My job was to make certain our client files were up to date and make and confirm appointments for Mr. Sterling’s junior staff. That meant I was on the phone a lot, but that was all right because I didn’t mind talking to people on the phone all day. No one can see you on the phone. You can pretend to be pretty and glamorous and a size zero, and who would know?
“Maybe he’s making you permanent,” Clarissa suggested happily from the seat opposite me. “Maybe you’re worrying for nothing.” Clarissa is a natural optimist just like she’s a natural blonde.
“Yeah,” I agreed, glancing down at the note again. “Maybe you’re right.”
But I doubted it.
***
A few minutes before my interview with Mr. Sterling, I excused myself from my workstation and retreated to the ladies room. I made certain my heavy dark hair was still pinned up in a semblance of a corporate chignon—it had a terrible habit of slipping free every chance i
t got—and freshened up my lipstick. I wore Tangerine Dreamer, one of Mr. Sterling’s more understated colors. I checked to make certain I hadn’t broken out in hives in the little triangle of bare skin above my blouse. I decided I looked human—pale, dark-haired and dark-eyed, and, of course, absolutely huge, the mutant result of Greek and German genes that had no business mixing together. I didn’t look beautiful, but then, I never did. I hoped I didn’t make a fool of myself. I’d learned to school my face so you couldn’t see what I was thinking most of the time, but the hives always gave me away.
I exited the room and walked down the icy white hallway to the big bank of elevators at the end. I had never been anywhere but on the ground floor of the Sterling Building. Only senior staff members were allowed upstairs. The walls of the Sterling Building are all sterile marble and decorated with black glass plaques with the names and pictures of people I didn’t know on them. I stepped into the elevator and was shushed silently upward to the penthouse suite. A place of privilege, I thought.
Mr. Sterling was one of the richest and most successful indie businessmen in the world, regularly grabbing the attention of Time, Newsweek and the WSJ. He had taken the little boutique business that he and his wife had started ten years ago and carried it into the new world arena even in the face of the Great Depression 2.0. These days, Sterling Cosmetics were carried all over the world. I knew most people preferred them over other brands because they were so hypo-allergenic, perfect for folks like myself, sensitive to damn near everything. I’d also heard he had added tinctures to his formulas so they were actually good for your skin, and his products had never been tested on animals. The animal thing had won me over more than anything.
Jesus, I’d promised myself I wouldn’t get so nervous, but as the lighted numbers climbed on the panel of the elevator, heading toward the P, I started thinking about how much this reminded me of my last dinner date with Shawn, the guy I’d known in college.
He’d taken me out to a very nice Indian restaurant on the outskirts of campus, even bought me flowers—tiger lilies, my favorites. I’d foolishly hoped that meant something. He was my first serious boyfriend, and even though we’d only been dating for three months, I’d been convinced he was the one. I imagined him asking me to marry him, and I imagined myself saying yes. I imagined myself not turning into The 40-Year-Old Virgin. Well, that night he’d told me about Brie, a girl he knew at work. They’d been seeing each other on and off for the past six months, but of course I hadn’t been bright enough to figure that out. He’d wanted to make Brie jealous, that’s all, but he really liked me, he said, and he wanted us to be friends. I didn’t even have the guts to get angry right then and there. I was too afraid of making a fool of myself in front of everyone in the restaurant. I never got angry until it was too late, and by then, of course, there was nothing I could do about things.
The elevator let me out into a posh white corridor. The walls here had a lot more interesting things than plaques. A series of black-and-white photographs dominated them. I thought at first that they must be pictures of popular celebrities and professional models wearing Sterling Cosmetics, but when I looked closer, I realized the subjects in the photographs didn’t have that “look” that professional models have. A lot of them were of ethnic young women—Chinese, African American, Indian—some nude or mostly nude and wrapped in strips of silken ribbons or clutching huge flowers to their breasts and groins. They looked thoughtful, staring at their feet or out of frame. Not glam shots. Not professional spreads. I’d never seen any of these pictures in the popular magazines.
It was a shame they hadn’t made the final cut. They were beautiful, full of plain-faced but attractive women whose natural feminine allure had been accentuated by Mrs. Sterling’s cosmetics rather than painted over to look like something else. The women looked shy, innocent, and very, very real, unlike so many traditional models.
I was getting more and more nervous as I headed down the long, polished white marble corridor to the glass doors with the etching that read IAN STERLING, CEO, STERLING OF NEW YORK. My hand was slicked with sweat when I finally grasped the brass handle of the door and let myself in. At least I’d gotten a look of the penthouse before I was canned, I thought. It was almost worth it. I knew I wouldn’t forget the photographs for a long time to come. It was very inspiring for a girl like me, like the photographs were telling me I could be pretty without being a different person.
A young, blonde receptionist sat at a huge glass desk, talking into her cell phone. I looked her over, noting that she was one of those girls. Slim, petite, almost ludicrously beautiful. She looked like a former model, or someone you might see on reality TV. I wasn’t surprised. Mr. Sterling was a very unattached widower, from what I understood. I bet he’s all over that, I thought. It wasn’t a kind thought, but at least my time with Shawn had taught me something of the world. I wasn’t the naïve little college co-ed anymore.
The receptionist looked up as I approached, a strange, almost hostile look beaming across her face. It surprised me because I was used to women, and most men, looking right through me like I was a ghost, just not that interesting. Her look had a strange effect on me, and as I came to a halt before the big glass desk that looked more like a piece of art than anything functional, I realized I was spoiling for a fight. I was about to lose the best job I’d ever had. I wasn’t in the mood for her shit. “Can I help you?” she asked, somehow looking both bemused and contemptuous at the same time. She was probably using the same expression she normally reserved for the janitor.
“Mr. Sterling called me up?” I said, automatically making it sound like a question so I didn’t come off as too confrontational. It would be so easy to fight now. I showed her the appointment card.
She looked at it blankly like she couldn’t read at all, then flipped open a leather-bound date planner to look for a corresponding entry. I was surprised to find Mr. Sterling had penciled me into his schedule like that. I reflected on how dismal my life had become when the idea of someone entering my name in a real life leather-bound ledger made me feel special. “It says ten o’clock,” she said.
“Yes, I’m aware of that. Hence the reason I’m here now,” I answered, glancing up at the sunburst clock on the wall behind her. It was five to ten.
She looked me over like she didn’t approve. “I guess you can go in,” she said, almost sniffing like she smelled something bad in the room with her.
Gee, thanks.
I moved past her and walked down another corridor with more of those photographs decorating the walls. Ahead loomed a huge pair of oaken doors that looked like they belonged to an English study in a manor house by the sea somewhere with flappers and a murderer on the loose. Yes, I know. I read too many British cozies. I knocked, perhaps too softly. I thought about knocking on the door again, but a terse voice from the other side said, “Come.”
I let myself into a vast suite done in arctic white and proceeded to gape like the Brooklyn-born cretin that I was. There were white walls and white Italian marble floors. There were Greek-inspired statues of Roman generals and gods, arms reaching, spears upraised. Almost all the furniture was glass. It was a little like stepping into an icy palace in the Himalayas, or maybe a hidden cavern in the Greek isles where some ancient creature dwelled, turning everyone to stone with its lurid gaze. I shook my head to clear the morbid image away.
The only color came from the almost hypnotically beautiful, lovingly framed photographs on the walls. These were different from the ones I’d seen in the corridors. These, unlike the photos of Sterling girls, were antiques. I saw Rubenesque women in bodice-fitted gowns and men in waistcoats and top hats engaged in all manner of undress and carnal knowledge. Bold young women with big peacock hats sat on gentlemen’s laps, kissing and fondling them for the camera. Men with mustachioed faces suckled at the breasts and loins of young debutantes on fainting couches. I had never seen anything like it before and I tried not
to blush too furiously. The word pornographic came to mind, but I immediately dismissed it. The photographs were far too old and expensive to be categorized so easily. I looked away and saw the entire far wall was constructed of tinted Plexiglas, offering a panoramic view of Central Park West. The sight of it gave me a sickening sense of vertigo.
Mr. Ian Sterling sat at another of those vast, crouching, glass monstrosities that passed for a desk here. He wasn’t what I expected, not that I knew what to expect. I knew he’d been married, that his wife and son had died in a plane crash three years ago. All that money, and his wife and child had still died. The story had left me with the impression that he must be older, fifties or early sixties. Older people lost their families, not younger ones.
But the man behind the desk was youngish, early forties. He was tall like me, but slim and polished in his dark Italian pinstripe suit. He was much paler than the spray-tanned executives I saw all day, and he sported a lot of dark hair that was longer than was strictly au courant among the upper class. He had combed it carefully back over his ears, and that, combined with the round, wire-rimmed glasses he wore, lent him the look of someone who had stepped out of one of the photographs on the walls. He was clean-shaven, but his chin and throat were shadowed by what I suspected was a strong beard if he didn’t shave twice a day. He looked up from the file he was working over, and the strangest expression passed over his face.
I was shocked by the piercing blue of his eyes and the sudden, unwavering attention he focused on me. His look was like a physical weight, pushing against me, stopping me dead in my tracks. Normally I solicited blank looks. Mr. Wilkins usually looked right through me in the morning. The other girls in the pool hardly remembered I worked there.
“Ms. Christopoulos,” he said, looking me over from head to toe. “Thank you for visiting me this morning.” His voice was deep and resonating. He spoke with long vowels and a vaguely European inflection. I knew he’d been born in London, that his parents had moved here to New York City when he was still a young boy. I knew from the records I handled that he kept flats in all the major cities throughout Europe. All very luxurious, all very exclusive. He was friends with some of the most powerful men in the world, yet no one seemed to really know Ian Sterling.
