by Nikki Chase
Blood rushes in my ears, blocking whatever story my customer is trying to tell me as I tap on the screen.
Holy shit.
It’s a clean bill of health from a doctor.
Sarah’s clean. As I huff a sigh of relief, muscles I didn’t know had been tense suddenly relax.
After hearing her story about bareback sex with a stranger, I’d been worried for her. If Sarah’s the kind of girl who’d go online or even to some park looking for anonymous sex, she’s taking on a lot of risks.
But this message also means she’s seriously looking for some strange. And she doesn’t want a regular one-night stand either. She wants to be dominated and used.
My cock stirs at the thought …
But no, she’s not for me.
One day, she’ll find a good guy, a normal guy, to settle down with. Maybe someone closer to her own age, someone who’ll take her places.
My job is just to keep an eye on her, make sure she’s doing okay, watch her from a distance.
This is clearly the time to intervene, though. What good is keeping watch over her if I don’t act when she’s in danger?
My heart skips a beat when I notice her coming online.
I watch, unblinking, as she types.
When her message shows up, a rush of feel-good chemicals enter my bloodstream, filling me with excitement. I feel like a little boy on Christmas morning.
RealLifeDoll: Does that please you, Sir?
Except there’s only one doll that I want in the entire toy store, and that’s the one I can’t have.
As soon as the girl with the new infinity tattoo leaves, I shut the door and turn off the neon-red “Open” sign.
I grab my phone and pace around the store, dodging the main counter, the wipeable faux-leather chairs, and the cabinet where I store shit. By all accounts, I have a pretty spacious, organized space.
But it feels claustrophobic tonight.
Maybe I should go for a run. Yes. I could even pass by the animal clinic again.
But first … Sarah’s message.
What do I do with it?
I can’t just ghost her, because what would be the point? She’d just go on to find some other guy. A pretty girl like her? Finding my replacement would be as easy as flipping her palm. I’m lucky enough she takes an interest in “PuppetMaster.”
At the same time, replying to her feels wrong. But also … so right.
My thumbs freeze over the little letters on my phone screen. I’m overthinking this. I already know what to do. I just have to go ahead and do it.
PuppetMaster: Good girl
PuppetMaster: What took you so long?
RealLifeDoll: That was the fastest I could get it, Sir
RealLifeDoll: I’m sorry for making you wait
I know it must’ve taken Dr. Norman a few days to give her the test results, which must mean that Sarah probably got tested right away after I told her to.
My pants start to feel tight as my cock stirs.
My last client purposely bent down a lot to give me more than an eyeful of her ass and tits, but nothing happened down there. With just a few words from Sarah, though, I’m raring to go.
She’s so eager to please, so desperate for my approval. She’s not usually like that in person. I never would’ve guessed she had this side to her personality.
She’s normally so strong—no, stubborn. She’d do the thing you told her not to do, just because you told her not to do it. That’s what Peter always said about her.
Hell, even knowing for sure this is Sarah, I still can’t fully picture her saying all those things—and I tried. Believe me, if I could, I already would by now.
So, yes, things will irreversibly change after we meet up, but hey, they say change is the only constant that exists, right?
I take a deep breath. I’m really doing this.
PuppetMaster: Clear your schedule tomorrow afternoon, doll
PuppetMaster: And follow these instructions
Sarah
Love is like pissing in a swimming pool.
At first, it’s good. It’s the best thing in the world. It feels like you can finally stop fighting against nature and just give in. It’s warm, too.
Then, it gradually cools … and cools.
If you stay long enough, you end up exactly the same as you were before, except now you’re also neck-deep in pee-water.
I’ve seen it play out with my parents.
My dad wasn’t perfect by any stretch of the imagination. He died young at thirty-seven, which was tragic … but it was also because he’d drunk so much he’d destroyed his own liver.
That said, he was a decent guy to everybody. He kept to himself, but he was adept enough at social interactions to always have a ton of acquaintances around him.
In fact, the only person he was a dick to was my mom. I can’t say I blame him, though, because my mom’s a dick herself. Until the moment of his death, my dad never managed to completely break free of his personal prison: my mom.
Unfortunately for my dad, he wasn’t very good at managing his finances either. He was too damn nice.
He used to treat sick animals regardless of whether they had insurance, and whether their owners had money. The result was the clinic lost so much money he had no choice but to sell it to his ex-wife and suffer the indignity of having to pay her rent every month.
What I’m trying to say is, at some point, they must’ve liked each other enough to share a bed. Evidently. The hatred came later, when they were already living together, with kids.
It’s crystal clear. Familiarity breeds contempt—see? There’s even a proverb about it. People just don’t learn from the mistakes of others who have come before them, and they end up making the same mistakes over and over again.
But not me. I’ve figured out a way to win at this game.
It’s seems simple. I don’t need a relationship, and I only rarely need sex. So on the occasion that life gets me so down that sex is the only distraction that works, I’ll just find some guy to have a one-night stand with.
My one-time rule is my weapon against a future of mutual hatred and forced co-existence with a partner I can’t dispose of. There’s no time for hatred to grow if you only meet once to bang and part ways right away. It’s the perfect system.
Right now, though, as I dress up to meet the mysterious PuppetMaster, I’m wishing I could make an exception just this time. He just seems to know exactly what to say to get me all hot and bothered … But, I also know that seeing him again after tonight would be a slippery slope that could lead me to ruin.
I scan my living room. Lace and leather strewn everywhere, most of them in black. A structured bustier hangs off the top of the table lamp. A see-through thong lays on the arm of the lone two-seater couch.
It feels weird to stand out here with my unmentionables all over the place. If Dad or Peter were still alive, I never would’ve done this.
My chest fills with rocks, and I have to gulp down air with both my mouth and my nose to fill my lungs as quickly as I can, before grief pulls me down to drown in its inky depths.
I shake my head, letting my hair tickle my bare shoulders and décolletage.
That’s exactly the kind of thing I’m trying not to think about. But it’s like … You know that psychology exercise where someone says “don’t think of a pink elephant,” and your mind automatically conjures up an image of one anyway? Yeah, it’s kind of like that.
I look at my reflection in the full-length mirror and almost laugh. I look like a flasher, with my beige trench coat unbuttoned to reveal glimpses of dark lace and creamy skin.
Except, I’ll only be flashing one guy: PuppetMaster.
Blood rushes through my veins, making my heartbeat as rapid as a scared rabbit’s.
I’m really doing this.
I teeter on my high heels.
I’m not used to wearing these, but they’re what PuppetMaster wants, so that’s what he’s getting. I’m nothing but o
bliging on a special night like this.
The sky is thick with suspense, all dark and serious-looking. My heart hammers so hard in my chest it feels like my whole body is shaking, which doesn’t exactly help with my balance.
I take a few big steps to avoid the puddles of rainwater on the ground as I enter the darkened alley where PuppetMaster says he’ll meet me.
I’ve never felt a dark thrill like this.
Yes, I’ve met strangers on the Internet for anonymous encounters. But the last time I did this was years ago, thanks to my relatively stable life in the city. It’s been so long it feels like my first time again.
On top of that, PuppetMaster seems more dangerous than any other dominant man I’ve ever met. I don’t know what’s going to happen. It makes me nervous, excited, scared, and horny as hell.
The panties I’m wearing underneath my trench coat are more for show than for function, so if it takes PuppetMaster a while to get here, I run the risk of having my arousal drip down my legs for everyone to see. They’d stare at me surreptitiously, pretending they haven’t noticed, even as they peer closer to take a better look.
I wonder if PuppetMaster will make me wait. That could be fun, too, to stand here with a dirty secret underneath my coat as passers-by mill past the opening of the alley, some of them glancing in here as they do. Too bad this place is too deserted. I haven’t seen anyone so far.
But that doesn’t matter. Tonight, it doesn’t matter what I think. From this point on, I’m just a doll, a toy for someone to use.
No feelings, no emotions. Just obedience, and the temporary illusion that as long as I obey, everything will be okay and I’ll be rewarded.
The world of a submissive woman is one of certainty; she knows exactly what to do because her master tells her exactly what to do. Even if only temporarily, I need that solid ground to stand on.
Something cold and wet falls on my forehead. I flick my gaze heavenward, but no more water trickles down. Maybe someone’s window A/C’s dripping.
Suddenly, my world goes dark.
I start to scream, but a large, masculine hand covers my mouth, muffling my voice. A thick arm wraps around my waist and presses on the valley between my breasts.
“I thought you’d be happier to see me … doll,” whispers my captor. His breath falls hot on my ear and spreads as goosebumps all over my skin.
He’s here.
PuppetMaster’s here.
And he’s a big, strong, burly man. I feel like there are hard, solid walls of man surrounding me on all sides. His chest is broad and sturdy against my back; his arms are so strong I can barely move in his steel grip. Yet, he’s careful not to hurt me or put me in discomfort in any way … for now, at least.
I kick and scream, knowing that will irritate PuppetMaster. Maybe I’ll annoy him enough to make him want to hurt me.
PuppetMaster tightens his hold on me, sliding his hand up to my neck and squeezing until I stop struggling. “Remember the safe word, doll?” he asks again in a raspy whisper.
“What safe word?” I ask.
“Exactly.” PuppetMaster continues to speak in a strange, low whisper. “Promise you won’t fight me, doll?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You don’t want people to stare and get us into trouble, do you?”
“No, Sir.”
“Good girl,” he rasps.
My skin prickles with excitement at his voice. PuppetMaster releases me from his embrace, and immediately I miss the heat of his skin. I miss his strength, pushing me to the brink until nothing else matters but obedience.
As PuppetMaster blindfolds me and pulls both my wrists behind my back, I put up zero resistance. He wraps something thin and rough around my wrists—a rope, probably.
I don’t meet many dominant men like him. I can already tell he’ll be rough, and it makes me drip with anticipation.
It’s at times like this I hate my own rule. I can already tell by the way he’s been manhandling me that I’ll want to see him again.
But my rule exists for a reason—a good one. It’s saved me a lot of pain and frustration—not to mention money. When my parents got divorced, I saw how ugly a marriage could turn. It’s true what they say: the opposite of love is not hate; it’s indifference.
Another great thing about my rule? I savor the moment. Knowing this is a once-in-a-lifetime thing, it’s easier for me to push my loud thoughts down and just be present. When a strong, dominant man ties me up, blindfolds me, and gags me, it’s like he’s done the same to the annoying chatter in my head.
Everything goes quiet when I’m under the control of a powerful man, a man who knows how to treat a woman like me—not by giving me sweetness and light, but by depriving me of those things, until every cell in my body becomes one, unified by the same purpose: to please my master.
“Now you’re ready to go, doll.” I hear PuppetMaster—my master for the night—take a step back, probably to admire his own handiwork.
I gasp as he pulls on the rope that’s binding my hands together, the rough fibers cutting into my flesh. I wonder if it’ll leave marks on my skin. I hope it will.
I’m going to have to cover it up when the animal clinic reopens on Monday, but that’s easy enough. I’ll just wear gloves all day. It’ll be sweaty and uncomfortable, but it’ll also remind me of tonight, of PuppetMaster.
“Where are we going?” I ask softly as he nudges me from behind. He’s so close I can feel the heat emanating from his body. I wonder what he looks like.
“Shhh … Dolls don’t make a sound,” he whispers.
As PuppetMaster deposits me in a car, I notice a familiar scent, like berries and musk. And not for the first time, I wonder if I know this guy.
Is he a local? Does he live in Ashbourne, too? Does he know which magazines I subscribe to? Has he been following me? Has he seen me buying apples at the grocery store? Is he a stalker?
With every question, my heart rate grows more frantic. I know I’m playing with fire, but who cares? Life’s too short.
In fact, the more dangerous it is, the stronger my body reacts. As my heart races, my whole body pulses to the same frenzied rhythm. The tingles between my legs grow stronger.
I prick up my ears to listen as the car glides over unseen streets.
PuppetMaster doesn’t make a sound aside from his regular breathing. The stereo is off. The windows must be shut because I don’t sense any wind; only the cooling blast from the air conditioner.
Aside from the soft purr of the car engine, there’s nothing. By the time PuppetMaster stops the car and turns off the ignition, I still have no clue who he is, or where we are.
PuppetMaster wordlessly adjusts the black strip of fabric over my eyes. He drapes something over my shoulders and arranges it so it falls over my back—no doubt to hide my restraints.
Then, he guides me out of the car and into an air-conditioned indoor space.
I’m surprised to hear voices all around us. It seems like he’s taken me to a public place—with my eyes blindfolded. Aren’t we attracting too much attention? Has he taken me to a costume party, maybe? Or some kind of a club?
I hear mechanical doors closing, shutting out the voices. It’s just us here, and there’s carpeting on the floor.
It sounds like we’re alone again, but PuppetMaster still says nothing.
The floor moves.
I instinctively reach out my hand to hold on to something, forgetting that my hands are tied. I lose my balance and almost fall face-first onto the floor of what I realize must be an elevator.
A pair of strong hands grip me by the arms. I expect him to fondle me, grab my breasts, maybe even shove me down onto the floor, or smash the emergency button to stop the elevator and have his way with me. Do something, you know? I’ve given him free reign over my body, after all.
But he simply steadies me until I can stand on my own two feet.
It occurs to me that he could’ve switched places with someone else, pimping me out for
cash. But his musky scent lingers.
This could still be a kidnapping, though, or even sex trafficking.
My pulse thickens as I imagine all the treacherous possibilities. What would it feel like to be treated like a commodity, to be used, lent out, and traded? In the back of my mind, I’ve always wanted to find out for myself.
Luca
“It feels weird to me that you hang out with my brother all the time now,” she said all those years ago, back when Peter and I had just agreed to work on our first collaboration piece.
We had a simple plan involving pure-white canvas, new oil paints, and high-quality weed I’d gotten from a guy. We were going to get baked and make some art.
I’d been clear of all drugs at the time, but I was elated that my new friend was both a painter and a stoner—so I made an exception. I never kept any of that stuff in my house, though. I knew how tempting that would’ve been.
Peter wanted me to keep quiet about the weed. He didn’t want his little sister to find out about his drug use (which at times grazed dangerously closer to drug abuse) because he thought it’d make it more likely for her to follow in his footsteps. The only thing Peter wanted Sarah to emulate was his work with the animals.
I knew Sarah was the most important thing in Peter’s life, and he’d give up anything to provide a happy home for her for as long as she needed it. I thought it was admirable that he’d basically given up his entire adult life to raising his sister after their parents’ divorce and their dad’s untimely death.
“To be honest, it weirded me out, too, in the beginning,” I admitted. “Your brother seriously does great work, though, and I’m really looking forward to our collaboration.” I gave her a small smile. “But if you want us to stop hanging out, I get it.”
“Oh, no,” Sarah said, to my surprise. “Don’t let me stand in the way of your bromance. Peter’s horrible at making friends. I’m happy he’s happy.”
Her skin was so much like porcelain that the frown lines, appearing on her face, looked like they didn’t belong. She had this innocent aura, like she was this sweet, fragile little thing.
On our first encounter, when she’d shed her clothes in my tattoo parlor, along with her inhibitions, I’d been thrilled to find that she wasn’t a fragile little thing after all, that my initial impression of her had been wrong.
