by K. Webster
Across from the kitchen and dining room on the other side of the marbled entryway is an enormous den with dark, hardwood floors, leather furniture and a massive fireplace. The salon and my office are at the other end, with my office having the lake view.
“You can poke around tomorrow while I work. Tonight, I’ll show you to your room so you can get some sleep. Cartier wants to see you first thing in the morning and tomorrow evening we’ll be entertaining guests,” I tell her as I press the button that goes up on the elevator between the den and salon.
She nods, still greedily drinking in all the details of my home. We enter the simple elevator and I press the button with a four on it.
“Top floor is yours. You can play all you want. It’s also where I’ll play with you,” I explain as we ride.
“What’s in the basement?”
“The pool and sauna.”
She nods and a small smile plays on her lips. “Where’s your room?”
“Second floor is the staff quarters. You don’t have access there. There’s a special code to access that and the third floor which is my master suite.”
“When are you going to show me your room?”
I scan her face and frown at seeing her shitty dye job. Cartier can’t fix her soon enough. “You’ll see my room if I feel like showing it to you. Don’t hold your breath though. Everything we need is on the fourth floor.”
Her frown is immediate. “Can I leave?”
I chuckle. “Bunny, you can roam around this house all you want. There’s a code to get outdoors without the alarm going off but you won’t have access to that just yet. If you desire to explore outside until then, you’ll need either Dubois or myself to escort you. But you’re not a prisoner. You’re a paid employee, just like the rest of the staff. Do your job correctly and you’ll be paid handsomely.”
“I see. Who else besides Dubois lives here?”
“Cartier sees to my personal grooming needs and those needs of my toys. Once he measures you and meets you, he’ll shop and make sure your closet is stocked with what’ll suit you best. Most days, I’ll let you dress yourself, but on days we have company or days I want to play, he’ll be the one to dress you to my specifications. You aren’t to balk at what he chooses for you or argue. Just do as you’re told. You’ll be rewarded.”
Tomorrow is one of my favorite days with my new toy. It’s the day that Cartier works his magic and transforms them into something beautiful and elegant. I like seeing my investment evolve into something of value.
“Dubois and Cartier are your only employees?”
I shake my head as the doors open on the fourth floor. “Christine is the housemaid. She does all of the cleaning, cooking, and laundry. I’ve employed her for nearly as long as Dubois and she’s one of the best. I think you’ll like her. All of my toys take to Christine. She sleeps in the third guestroom on the second floor. Occasionally she’s allowed time off and I hire from an agency. They’re the only three who live here with me—the gardeners and pool cleaners come from the agency as well.”
I quickly show her the Theater and Fun Room before guiding her to the Princess Room. Before we enter, she points to the simple black door that stands out from the other white ones that are warm and inviting.
“What’s in there?” she questions.
I pat her bottom and chuckle. “You’ll soon find out what’s in the Hole, Bunny. And I can’t wait to show you. Tonight, I’m tired though so it’ll have to wait. Besides, I’m not showing you until Cartier does something with that hideous hair of yours.”
Her shoulders slouch at my cruel comment and I smile. This is my favorite part. The part when I show my toys the beauty of my home and how I plan to spoil them. The part when I dangle all these pretty things in front of them only to follow that action up with my cruel, fucked up words geared to hurt them. Shit that cuts them off at the knees. I break their spirit one tiny chink at a time so that by the time the six months are over, they’re nothing more than a whittled away piece of shiny shit that belongs to me. And only then do they recall their blissful beginnings. The part when they started out as my mere possession to be toyed with.
And then they are nothing to me.
The thought of saying goodbye to Bunny in less than six months gets my dick hard.
She will cry and beg like the rest of them.
She will love me and plead for a life with me.
Too bad it will be easy to push her away and search for a new toy.
I twist the knob and push into the pretty room. As soon as she steps inside, though, her reaction is not the one I expect. She’s not in awe of the decadent luxury that is this room. Her face doesn’t light up at the sight of the plush four-poster canopy. And perhaps her greatest distinction of all from the other toys who precede her is that she is hardly squealing like a little girl.
“No,” she hisses, “I’m not sleeping in here.”
Snapping my head to glare at her, I’m shocked to see tears in her eyes. She seems afraid of the room I worked so hard to make beautiful. Why is this toy acting like it’s a suite in hell?
“You are sleeping here. This is your room,” I snap. “Don’t be an ungrateful bitch.”
She shakes her head and makes a mad dash for the door. I’m quicker than my toy, and yank a handful of her ugly hair. A sob chokes from her as she struggles to get out of my grasp. Wrestling her away from the doorway, I manage to make it over to the bed with her and toss her onto it. She screeches and scrambles back off. With a grunt, I attack her again. I like the terror in her sobs—whatever is making her upset—and I feed from it. My cock thickens with need and before I can stop myself, I’m yanking her sweatshirt off.
“Get off of me!” she howls. Tears stream down her cheeks and her eyes are wild.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I snarl. “You’re staying here. Don’t make me drug your ass.”
She doesn’t stop squirming but I manage to remove her clothes piece by piece until she’s stark naked on the white carpet. I crave to fuck her right here on the floor—to hurt her—to make her bleed all over the pure, soft carpet.
“Please drug me,” she begs through her tears. “Please. I can’t do this.”
The drug addicted whore stares up at me, begging for me to understand. I don’t fucking understand. I never fucking understand. No longer turned on because she reminds me of my goddamned, sorry-ass mother, I jerk away from her.
Her naked body quivers and she clenches her eyes closed. Fucking pathetic. With a frustrated growl, I snatch up all of her clothes and storm toward the door.
“Shower. Sleep. And I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say through clenched teeth. “I’m sorry but until I can trust you, I have to do this.”
She pops her eyes open and her mouth forms a tiny “O.” As I close the bedroom door, the last thing I see isn’t fear on her face like I expected. Not horror at being locked away in the tower of some monster’s castle. No.
I see absolute devastation.
Sadness beyond anything I’ve ever seen.
Sorrow that threatens to rip her soul apart right in front of me.
I hate the look.
Slamming the door shut and locking it from the outside, I heave with irritated breaths. This toy has been nothing but trouble. She’s broken and unfixable I’m afraid. I had to go off and get a defective toy.
I’m too goddamned rich to be bothered with this shit.
I deserve the best.
Not broken, sad, messed up shit that doesn’t make sense in my head.
And yet . . .
I don’t want to return her. I don’t want to get rid of her yet. I don’t want to give up on her.
I want to restore her.
I want to fix my sad little toy.
Then a dark thought enters my head—one that has never even entered my mind in all the years I’ve been collecting and playing with my toys.
I want to know why she’s broken.
“Oh Lord all mighty.”
He’s gorgeous.
Absolutely beautiful.
Not in a dangerous, sexy way like Braxton but more like a perfect GQ model kind of way. He wears nice, dark jeans that hug his muscular thighs and a tight, sky blue shirt stretches over his contoured chest. His biceps are huge and I want to touch them to see how hard they are.
“Never found one in the closet before. And that hair,” he whines, “Oh my God. That’s going to take some serious work. I don’t get paid enough for this. Well, I do, but you know what I mean. You’re lucky this is my passion.”
He outstretches a long arm toward me and I reach for it. He’s not all serious business like Dubois and Braxton. This man has kind, chocolate eyes and perfect dark curls all over his head. I find myself smiling at him even though he’s staring at me like I’m a science project gone wrong.
Once I’m on my feet, holding the towel precariously around me, I stare up at him. He’s as tall as Braxton, and despite being fit, he’s not nearly as broad. His scent is heavenly and expensive.
“I need clothes,” I say with a pout. “I’m Jessica by the way.”
He purses his dark pink lips together and I want to touch them too. It’s like he fell from heaven and I’m completely intrigued by him.
“Honey,” he says with a sigh, “I haven’t bought you any clothes yet. We’re going to measure you first. Then, we’ll exfoliate the shit out of that rough complexion.” He fingers my cheeks with his slender fingers and instead of shrinking away from this stranger, I close my eyes and let him touch me. I like his gentle nature.
“So I have to walk around naked?”
He laughs, the sound is rich and almost feminine in nature. “Nobody wants to see that, honey. Well, except for Mr. Kennedy. I brought you a robe to wear until I get you some clothes. The name’s Cartier. I’m your personal stylist.”
“I’m surprised Braxton hired you. You’re hot,” I blurt out. “Won’t he get jealous or some shit?”
His eyes widen and I’m not sure what offended him. “You’re quite a spitfire, aren’t you? I sure hope he doesn’t catch you using his name. He’s more pleasant when his toys don’t provoke him. Let me make you gorgeous and give you some pointers. I’ve been around long enough to know what he likes.”
He guides me out of the closet and I close my eyes once we enter the room. I hate this room. The color. The theme. The memories it incites.
Sucking in a calming breath, I open my eyes and instead train my focus on the good-looking man.
“Why were you sleeping in the closet?” he questions and points to the robe on the bed before placing both hands on his hips.
I swallow down my emotion and meet his gaze. Dropping the towel, I hope to rouse some sort of reaction from him that will distract him from his probing question. His eyes drag over my body but not in a lustful, appreciative way.
No.
He’s analyzing every curve and swell of my body. I can see him calculating sizes, patterns, and colors that would look best on me. I’m frustrated that he doesn’t find me attractive. It would be fun to make Brax jealous if I could. He pissed me off royally on the plane and I’m eager to get him back.
“Size four dress, thirty-four B, twenty-seven inch inseam, and size six shoe?” he questions, tapping his supple lip in a thoughtful way with his pointer finger.
I nod in amazement. It’s been awhile but those were my measurements when I could afford to buy clothes for myself.
He reaches forward with both hands and I gasp when his smooth palms graze over my breasts and along my belly. It’s far from sexual but to an onlooker, it would appear otherwise.
“You’re familiar with US sizes? Most of the girls don’t understand those sizes and I have a helluva time trying to convert their UK measurements,” he narrows his eyes at me when his palms reach my hips.
Dubois’ warning rings loudly in my ears and I bite my tongue from telling him I’m really from Georgia. “I’m familiar.”
Cartier’s thumbs run over faint ridges on my hipbones and he frowns at me. “How old are you?”
I push his hands away from my hips and cross my arms over my bare breasts. “Twenty-eight.”
He nods as if he guessed this correctly too. “Your hips are wide. Does he know?”
The room spins and I snatch the robe up. Shouldering past him, I rush toward the now open bedroom door. Once my feet are on the chilled marble, I suck in cold breaths of air. He comes behind me and takes the robe from me. Gently, he helps me put it on. After he’s tied it tightly at my waist, he comes to stand in front of me.
Kind, brown eyes meet mine and he swipes away a rogue tear that I hadn’t realized had even escaped. He smiles and presses a chaste kiss on my forehead before whispering words I need to hear.
“I won’t tell him and I won’t bring it up again.”
I swallow and nod my thanks.
“Now let’s go have fun, girlfriend!”
I spent most of the morning after Cartier visually measured me, in the sauna and pool. Christine, an adorable older lady, brought me a tray of fruits and pastries, as well as, cup after cup of hot tea. Brax was right, I took to her right away. Something about her greying dark hair reminded me of my mother and the need to connect was strong. She told me cute, funny jokes and stories about Lake Sammamish. By the time Cartier came to fetch me after his shopping excursion, I was in love with her and didn’t want to leave.
She’d promised to bring us something for lunch in the salon and that was the only reason I left without argument. Cartier seemed pleased with his purchases—clothes I had yet to see—and he babbled on and on about the sexy salesman that helped him. Discovering he was gay wasn’t a surprise but my heart did ache a little for all the women in the world. Cartier is hot and I’m jealous of whichever man gets to touch the angelic body at night.
“What does he do for a living?” I ask once he’s settled me in a leather stylist chair in the sleek, tiny, yet modern salon.
We’d passed his office door but it was locked—I’d tried to open it despite Cartier’s swatting. Braxton’s dark, delicious voice rumbled on the other side and I wasn’t sure if he had a client or he was on the phone.
“Honey, my place isn’t to educate you on what Mr. Kennedy does. My place is to mold you into what he wants—something that will please him,” he says, blowing me off.
Despite Brax’s abusive and bizarre nature, I am still attracted to him. He riled up my body so easily in the airplane and I craved his touch. If I can learn to keep my mouth shut and go along with his weird antics, I think I could enjoy my six months here. It might seem more like a vacation rather than work.
As Cartier cleverly changes the subject and rambles on about how he and “Sven” flirted and how “at least someone isn’t afraid to openly show how much he likes him”, I stare out the window that overlooks the lake. I’d spent so long in Bolton and the other surrounding towns outside of London, selling my body to the dirty side of the population that lived there, that I’d gotten used to the shitty side of life. It’d been a long time since I appreciated gorgeous architecture or picturesque views.
“I’m going to get some color on this hair first and then we’ll work on those hands and feet,” he tells me.
For the next several hours, Cartier returns my hair to a dark, mahogany color that only serves to brighten my green eyes. He softens my hands and feet with paraffin wax treatments and treats me to a foot massage that nearly gives me an orgasm. His slender fingers work expertly to file and buff my nails smooth and paints on a nude color that I find myself in love with. I hadn’t been pleased when he announced he was going to wax me “everywhere” but having the gorgeous man touch my pussy, even in a non-sexual way, was worth the pain of letting him strip me bare of hair there. Once my hair was blown out, he then worked on givin
g me a wavy style. My makeup was last and he frowned the whole time in concentration as he worked on my face.
I find myself laughing, truly laughing, for the first time in a long time. Cartier is flamboyant and hilarious. He has stories that’ll make a prostitute blush and I can tell that his heart is as pure as the heaven I still claim he was dropped from.
“Voila!”
Pride shines in his eyes as he swivels the chair around to the mirror. A familiar woman, a woman I long tried to forget, peers back at me. She no longer looks hopeful or happy. Her green eyes are harder. Wiser. This woman has seen things. Endured a terrible past. She has no future.
“You did a great job,” I praise and award him with a smile that doesn’t touch my eyes.
Thankfully, Cartier doesn’t notice and glides over to one of the sacks he brought in from his shopping excursion. While I took a break for lunch and chatted some more with Christine, he said he stocked the empty closet upstairs with my new clothes. It felt kind of nice to get pampered and spoiled. I sure hope I don’t grow accustomed to this treatment. It won’t last forever.
He fishes out a pair of sleek, black peep-toed Louboutin’s from a box inside the large sack and places them on the floor. I watch with interest as he places a lacey pair of black panties and matching strapless bra on the chair.
“Mr. Kennedy will love that,” he tells me with a wicked grin as if we’re girlfriends and this sort of thing is normal.
I can’t help but smile back because Cartier draws out happy emotions from me despite my situation. “I bet he will,” I groan playfully.
He pulls out a dress and the old me claps with glee inside my head. I most certainly approve of the stunning dress, and for a moment, I forget who I am now. For one second, I’m the woman from before. The woman who wore things like this dress easily and with pride.
