The Puppetmaster

by Linnea May

  Just like that, I’m right here, in the moment—wanting to please him.

  I don’t think, I don’t question, I don’t object.

  I just do.

  It’s like I switched to autopilot on cue, my mind finally silent, and my hands appear to move on their own. The only thing that makes me hesitate for a split second is the question of where to start. I’m wearing a short dress with a light jacket on top, pantyhose underneath, and a pair of matching heels.

  While my brain is still occupied with wondering how to proceed, I slowly take off my shoes, an obvious first step that buys me just enough time to become really nervous. Taking off one’s shoes in front of another person is no big deal under any other circumstances, but right now it feels like the most intimate thing I’ve ever done.

  And it’s just because of the way he’s looking at me.

  I’ve never been watched like this, and certainly never by a man like him. His onyx black eyes are glued to mine, the expression on his face serious and focused, as if even the slightest mistake could result in severe punishment.

  The thing is, I don’t even know what that mistake could look like. He just told me to undress in front of him, but he didn’t say anything about how I was supposed to do it.

  I mean, could there possibly be a wrong way to get naked?

  My heart is fluttering nervously when my feet touch the white marble tiles. They are surprisingly warm to the touch and don’t send icy shivers up my spine like I expected they would.

  I pause, taking a deep breath as I try to finally find an answer to my weird little dilemma.

  What’s next? What does he expect me to take off next?

  “Go on,” he demands, not moving an inch, which gives his command an insistence that surprises me. “Don’t dawdle. I hate that.”

  I nod, and my hands fly up to slide the jacket off of my shoulders. There’s nothing on his face that would tell me anything about whether he’s happy with what I’m doing or not. There’s no response whatsoever, not even the slightest twitch of an eyebrow. He just sits there, his gaze still locked onto mine with that penetrating intensity and an ominous threat flickering in the black depths of his eyes.

  My next move is the hardest so far. My hands reach beneath the hem, traveling up my thighs and along my hips until I reach the waistband of the pantyhose. Hooking my fingers underneath, I try to pull them down as elegantly as possible, subtly swaying my hips. I wonder if there’s ever been a person on this whole planet who actually managed to peel themselves out of one of these tight-fitting undergarments with such poise as depicted on television.

  I push the thoughts aside and force myself to focus on the task instead. It’s so typical. My overactive brain never fails to annoy me, never willing to shut up, never shy to wander where it shouldn’t go when I need to be present in the moment.

  A sigh of relief leaves my lips when I free myself of the pantyhose, letting them drop right next to the shoes and my jacket on the ground. I lift my eyes, searching for approval in the somber darkness of his, but once again he doesn’t betray any emotion. He just observes with the same earnest concentration he has displayed ever since he spoke his first command.

  I close my eyes as I mentally prepare for the next step, evoking another remark from him.

  “Look at me,” he insists. “Don’t hide before me. Ever. Do you understand?”

  My eyes fly open on command and the nod that follows comes just as natural to me as the very first obedient motion.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Our eyes meet and the contact is only broken for a quick moment when I pull the dress over my head. I’m wearing a simple white set of lingerie underneath, an unpadded bra with a delicate floral lace design and matching string bikini briefs. There’s a butterfly detail at the back of it, and I’m overcome with a sense of disappointment when I realize that he won’t even see it before I pull the fabric off of my body.

  Unless I turn around and present it to him, that is.

  He might like that. Men like him always enjoy a woman who knows how to present herself in front of him.

  A cheeky smile caresses my face when I turn around as my fingers find the tiny hooks at the back of my bra.

  Moving my body in a seductive flowing motion, I unhook my bra and let it drop to the floor, hoping that his eyes will fall on the cute little detail of the lace circling my hips as I arch my back ever so slightly. I have always been an active person, always moving, always doing something to keep my body in motion and find a release for that fueling fire within myself—but I’ve never been a dancer. I don’t know if what I’m doing right now looks as good and alluring as I hope it does, but I’ve never let insecurities stop me from trying.

  He doesn’t make a noise, no hum of approval, no words, nothing. But I feel liberated now that I’m no longer met with his menacing black gaze. It gives me the courage I need to fulfill the task I was given.

  Continuing to sway my hips, I reach for the adorned waistband of my briefs, pulling at the delicate fabric to lift it from my skin, before I slowly roll it down my legs. I make sure to hollow my back as I lean forward, effectively presenting him with my bare center, which sends a hot rush to my cheeks.

  As tiny as it was, the string bikini briefs were the final cloak of protection that shielded me from his hungry eyes, and now that my skin is completely exposed, I have nothing left but the fact that we’re not facing each other. I stand up straight, facing the white, slightly sheer curtains that cover the large windows before me, and take a deep breath to prepare for the finale.

  Lifting my right foot, I get up on toes on my left and swirl around on the spot, hoping to see an appreciative smile on his face.

  But that’s not what I find, not even close. His expression has changed, but instead of suggesting satisfaction at my attempts of pleasing him, it shows only one thing: anger.

  “What did I tell you?” he snaps at me, giving voice to his apparent fury.

  Incapable of coming up with a verbal response, I just stare at him with an open mouth and a heart that speeds out of control, driven by sudden fear. There was a dark threat in his look before, there always was, but he never looked at me with outright anger.

  I start to tremble, instinctively trying to cover my intimate area as if to protect myself from an attack.

  “Didn’t I tell you to look at me?” he storms. “At all times?”

  Oh, shit.

  “Yes, but—”

  “No but, Alena! When I tell you to do something, you do it! Is that so hard to understand?”

  I frown at him. He can’t be serious about this. Of course, I understood what he was saying. But he can’t be this angry about me trying to entertain him?

  “I was only trying to—”

  “I know what you were trying to do,” he cuts me off, snarling. “And I would appreciate the effort if it didn’t come with a violation.”

  Violation? Is he serious right now?

  I curl my hands into fists, glaring at him as I bite my lip to stop myself from saying something I might regret. How can he be such a stubborn hothead? Did he take no joy in what I was doing for him?

  “On your knees,” he barks, pointing to the floor before me. “Now!”

  I want to object. I want to argue that he doesn’t deserve me if he has no appreciation for what I was trying to give him. If this is just going to be about me blindly following whatever order he gives me without ever being allowed to spice it up in my own way, then we have a big problem. Because that’s not who I am. I may be a submissive, but I’m not a mute slave with no opinion of her own.

  Yet I sink obediently to my knees in an instant when he loudly repeats his demand. And despite my anger at his stubbornness, it feels good to follow his command. In this very moment, when my knees meet the warm marble tiles, it feels right and exhilarating.

  I make sure not to break eye contact for even a split second, relishing the warmth that spreads through my center when I finally see him pleased with me.
His face softens, and I even see the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth when he nods at me.

  “Come here, puppet.”

  Even his voice has changed. There’s a benevolent tone lacing his words that wasn’t there before. Triumph fills me when I make a move to comply, placing my carefully manicured fingertips on the ground before me and lifting myself to crawl to him. My eyes remain fixated on his, which helps with the humiliation that threatens to win me over.

  He makes room for me between his legs, beckoning me to sit down right in front of his lap. My heart skips a beat when I brush along the soft fabric of his suit pants as I sit down between his feet like an obedient puppy.

  “Good girl.”

  The words feel like an embrace, a sweet caress that speaks to a craving hidden deep within the darkest depths of my soul.

  And it only gets better when he touches me for the very first time. Other than that sudden grip around my throat at The Velvet Rooms, he has refrained from touching me skin to skin—and as I later learned, even that little choke was more than he intended.

  Now he is actually touching me. It’s a gentle touch, a brush across my left cheek, journeying farther to my jawline before he moves down to my collarbone, all the while never breaking eye contact. My chest is heaving under heavy breaths, but my pulse slows with each inhale, reveling in what can only be the calm before a storm.

  He leans in closer, moving his handsome face down to mine while pinning me in place with his black gaze.

  “Now,” he says in a low voice, his warm breath dancing on my skin. “Let’s begin.”

  Chapter 21

  Raad

  Alena doesn’t make this easy—neither for herself nor for me. I knew she would be different than the others. I know she has a mind of her own and a spirit that’s hard to tame.

  I thought I knew what to expect with her.

  But there was one thing I didn’t consider: my reaction to her.

  When she turned around, disobeying a clear order by turning her back to me as she undressed, I was torn between two rivaling emotions.

  It was a beautiful sight. She looked like a flower dancing in the wind. The allure of her swaying hips in that delicate lace was not lost on me, and I knew her move came with the right intention. She wanted to please me, she wanted to be a good girl for me, and she wanted to prove her worth even after I’ve already chosen her.

  I like that.

  But her efforts were spoiled by the fact that she ignored my direct command in order to enhance a display that needed no improvement. I can’t let that pass, especially this early on. My puppets dance how I want them to, and no other way.

  She kneels before me, hope flickering in her eyes as she leans into my touch. The tip of my finger follows the outline of her feminine jaw, drawing little circles across the sensitive skin on her neck as I move down to her collar bone. Her tits are on the smaller side, her pink rose buds standing slightly erect even now. I wonder how sensitive she is there, how much she might be able to handle. She’s mine now, so there’s nothing stopping me from finding out. I could trail down farther; I could take her little buds between my fingers and squeeze, just to see how she would react.

  But I won’t. Not yet. I want to drink her in, slowly, sip after sip. The wait has been long, but I don’t want to ruin it by consuming Alena like a starving person devouring a long-awaited meal.

  Her chest heaves under heavy breaths when I merely suggest touching her nipples. I caress the soft curve of her left breast, barely touching her when I move my finger toward the heaving peak.

  “You’re beautiful,” I whisper, and she responds with a sigh. “But too cheeky, too daring. Don’t ever try to impress me by ignoring a command. Do you understand?”

  She bites her lower lip and a faint crease appears between her brows.

  “You said you hate liars,” she responds, tension marking her expression.

  “That’s correct.”

  “Then I won’t lie to you. I can’t make that promise.”

  She pauses, sucking in a sharp breath of air when I go on and take her nipple between my thumb and index finger. I’m not squeezing her just yet, but the threat alone causes her breathing to hasten.

  “I like your honesty,” I tell her. “And I never shy away from a challenge. But trust me, you’ll regret defying me just for the heck of it.”

  She smiles now. It’s a coy smile, playing at the corner of her mouth for just a second before she pulls herself together.

  “That’s not what I did just now, was it?” she wants to know. “I didn’t want to disobey—”

  “Yet, you did.”

  “But not ‘for the heck of it,’” she insists.

  To that, I nod. “True.”

  Our eyes lock onto each other, while my finger remains closed around her hard little nub. When I pinch it just the slightest bit, she jerks up, a deep inhale following the motion.

  “Don’t act as if this hurts,” I warn her.

  “I’m not acting. And it doesn’t hurt,” my puppet replies. “It’s just...”

  A fiery red blush blossoms on her cheeks and she lowers her gaze for a split second before meeting my eyes again. Shame is kissing her expression and she quietly begs me to finish what she can’t say.

  “You like it,” I give voice to her thoughts. “You’re sensitive here.”

  I underline my suspicion with another squeeze, adding vigor this time, and her reaction is everything I could hope for. She flinches, trying to evade my grasp for a moment, before she leans back in. Agony fleets across her face, but it soon develops into something else, a sweet little daze that is the first harbinger of arousal.

  “I told you there won’t be any safe words,” I say, easing my grip on her.

  Fright scurries across her entire stance now as she looks up at me.

  “But that doesn’t mean I’d never stop,” I assure her. “I will have a guide to lead me.”

  She narrows her eyes in question. “And what would that be, sir?”

  I respond with a sinister chuckle. It’s cute of her to ask, even though we both know what the answer should be.

  “Your cunt,” I say nonchalantly, relishing the way the red color on her cheeks darkens even further.

  She wants to lower her eyes again. I can tell by the way her lashes flutter nervously, shielding her gaze to mine only for a split second, but she manages to keep her head held high.

  “If you ask me, the body always prevails over the mind when it comes to revealing our true desires,” I elaborate. “You may say no, you may even think no, but as long as your cunt tells me yes, we will continue whatever it is we’re doing. Do you understand?”

  She nods. “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you know what she would tell me right now?”

  Her eyes widen. “I... I...no—”

  “You know I can just find out myself,” I say, and let go of her nipple. “Spread your knees.”

  She sighs as if under the greatest effort and her eyes wander down to my hand, watching as I slowly move down her belly, stopping right above her mound as I wait for her to follow my order. Another moment passes before she finally parts her legs, exposing her bare pussy to my touch.

  “You know, you could just tell me,” I say as I lean forward, now placing my other hand at the back of her head, my fingers closing around her hair to pull her head back and make sure she won’t break eye contact again.

  She gasps but spreads her legs even further, my face so close to hers that I can take in her intoxicating smell.

  “You can either tell me or I’ll find out for myself,” I offer in a whisper. “Are you wet for me?”

  She moans as if in pain, squirming beneath me and trying to free herself of my controlling grip, but to no avail.

  “No answer?” I prod, and she closes her eyes shut. “Fine, I’ll just see for myself.”

  She almost looks relieved, as if the thought of admitting to her arousal by speaking would pain her more than being tou
ched by me.

  I lean down, caressing the soft skin of her mound, using two fingers in preparation for my intrusion. I want to spread her open. I don’t want to carefully dip a single finger between her soft lips. If I’m doing this, I’m doing it right, and I’ll revel in the response her humiliation will have on her—and me.

  She sucks in another sharp breath of air when I reach her core and don’t hesitate to part her lips. As slowly and cautiously as I’ve approached her so far, this motion is anything but that. It’s intrusive, demanding, almost violent. I’m using my index finger and my ring finger to spread her lips apart as far as possible, feeling the heat of her arousal even without touching her sensitive center. My middle finger hovers close to her open core.

  She heaves under my touch, gasping for air as her thighs tremble, threatening to close her legs and stop me from doing this to her.

  But she doesn’t follow her instinct. She fights it like a good girl, withstanding the urge to protect herself from this shameful experience.

  “Don’t you dare drip on my floor,” I warn her—and the hurried nod with which she responds amuses me just as much as her agitated jerk when I move my middle finger up to her entrance.

  She groans as the slick sound of my finger circling her swollen clit reveals her agitation. I greet it with a triumphant smile.

  Chapter 22

  Alena

  His name is Michael Raad Brower. I know that now. I don’t know why this knowledge pops back into my head now that I have his hand between my legs, but it does.

  Michael Raad.

  That is such an unusual name, a name I’ve never heard before. Raad. Where does this come from? It suggests an exotic background that I can’t place.

  I only found out this information by accident. It wasn’t written on the mailbox or anything, but on a letter that I saw in the driver’s hand as he opened the door for me to get out of the car. He stood there, his left hand right at eye level, standing motionless just long enough for me to read the address on it.