by Fawn Bailey
She pinched my cheeks, hard, and I cried out, which made her giggle.
“You need some color in your cheeks,” she said. “You’re so very pale. Like a ghost. Hopefully, you’ll be able to earn the privilege of going outside with the other girls soon.”
“Hopefully,” I repeated, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. This whole examination was ridiculous. If she was trying to make me feel better about my shitty situation, she was failing miserably.
“We are going to get to work now,” Pia continued, clapping her hands together. “We have a lot of work to do.”
She pulled out something that looked like a pager and typed in a message. It beeped a second later and she gave me a bright smile.
“Time for your makeover,” she said happily.
“Makeover?” I raised my eyebrows at her. “I don’t want a makeover.”
“It’s not up for debate.” Her tone was cheerful but firm. “You will love the results, trust me.”
“What are you going to do to me?” I felt violated. I didn’t want her touching me. The fact that someone had dressed me up while I was sleeping was disturbing enough, and it didn’t feel like it had been her, either, which meant another person had seen me naked, and I hated the thought of it. “I don’t want you touching me.”
“It will be a team of experts, not me,” she replied simply. “And they’ll make sure you look your very best. You’ll be pleased, you’ll see.”
She opened my door with her card, and three people filed into the room, chattering excitedly. There was a man and two women, and they started prodding and poking me without saying a single word to my face, just talking to one another about the ‘work that would have to be done’.
One of them, a tall, lanky man in a trendy leather jacket and with a diamond earring, gasped dramatically when he saw my hair.
“But this is awful,” he told Pia. “You didn’t tell me it was this bad.”
“She wore her hair up a lot on the outside,” she giggled apologetically. “She used to be a dancer.”
“We’ll try to fix it,” he said with an exasperated sigh. “Whatever I do, she won’t be able to wear it up for a while.”
“She won’t,” Pia assured him. “I’ll make sure of it.”
“You won’t,” I snapped, jumping to my feet.
They all shut up and looked at me, almost fearfully.
“I am a dancer, I didn’t use to be one,” I told them in a low voice. “And if I want to wear my hair up, I will. In fact, I have to when I’m dancing. So, whatever the hell you think you’re going to do… You have to ask my permission first.”
“Feisty,” one of the women muttered to the guy, and they rolled their eyes in unison.
“They always are,” Pia said, her gaze firmly set on me. “It will be beaten out of her if need be. Now, sit the fuck down and let them work.”
“I won’t,” I snarled at her. “No way.”
She approached me with fast steps and slapped me so hard I fell back on my ass. My cheek hurt, my body blazing with adrenaline as she stood above me.
“Don’t make me call the men,” she told me darkly. “Don’t make me put you in the bad cell.”
I bit back the tears. I would be damned if I’d let her see me cry.
Instead, I picked myself up and sat in front of the vanity mirror. Without saying a word to me, Pia’s team went back to chattering and working on me, and I stewed in my anger, my eyes fixed on my reflection in the mirror as they worked. She may have won the battle, but she would never win the war.
I watched them working. The man seemed to be a hairstylist, and every time he picked a strand of my hair, he sighed dramatically. One of the women, a short redhead, seemed to be his assistant. She put a plastic sheet over the floor and over me, and then the man started cutting my hair.
I told myself not to cry. I’d been growing my hair since I was a little girl, and it reached all the way down to my butt. I loved my hair. Seeing it drop to the ground in long blonde tendrils made me want to sob. It was the only remnant of the girl I’d been, and now they were taking it away from me. I hated it.
The other girl consulted with Pia and took my measurements for clothes. There were some I’d noticed earlier in the closet, but they were mostly leggings and plain tanktops. Now, they were talking about different clothes. Dresses and skirts and blouses, heels and jewelry and lingerie. Things I’d never had before, brands I could have only dreamed of. Whoever was in charge of my new prison was most definitely well off.
They acted as if I wasn’t ever there. Everything they did, they discussed with one another, never asking for my opinion. I quickly learned I didn’t get a say in what was happening to me. The only thing I could do was stare at my reflection in the mirror and watch my face and my body transform.
After they cut my hair, they told me how I was supposed to apply makeup every day. The seamstress reappeared with countless swathes of fabric and clothes, all in my size. They fit perfectly, and they made me try them all on. I paraded around in slinky, tight dresses, too-short skirts, and trousers so tight they dug into my skin. Everything I would own from then on would be sexy in some way. Meant to enhance my features and make the good ones stand out while the ones they deemed undesirable were carefully hidden. The hairstylist gasped when he saw the state of my toes, and I fought the urge to roll my eyes at him.
Of course my toes looked weird. I was a ballerina, they were supposed to look that way. But instead of letting them be, they soaked my feet and manicured my toes to perfection, even though I knew the traces of the polish would disappear when I danced again.
I missed dancing with my whole heart. But since I’d been in that place, I couldn’t have done it. It was like they’d torn it away from me, and I wasn’t sure whether I’d ever be able to dance in their presence. My life was split forever into before and after. Now, the only goal I had was to get away from this madness and dance again, because it was what I lived for.
Time was passing, and my stomach was rumbling impatiently as I waited for them to finish. My nails were repainted, long fake tips added to them and I was sprayed with cloyingly sweet perfume that I hated. Finally, they decided I was done.
“I bet she can’t wait to see what we’ve done!” The hairstylist clapped his hands together, once again choosing not to address me. I hated him even more for that. Slowly, he turned the chair I was sitting on until I was facing the mirror. And what I saw, my own reflection, took my breath away.
I looked like a different person.
My hair was cut to just below my boobs, now with highlights that brought out the freckles on my nose. My makeup was minimal but pretty, and they’d stuck a jeweled headband in my hair. I was wearing a dress, something in white with a black bow around the neck. I looked beautiful. But I wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t me. I hated it.
I turned my eyes away, fighting back the tears. They must have noticed, because they fled the room, murmuring something about how ungrateful I was.
The only person who stayed behind was Pia.
She raised my chin up so I was forced to look into her beautiful, expressive eyes.
And for once, I saw something else there – pain hidden behind layer upon layer of lies, deceit and the love she felt for someone I didn’t know.
“It gets better,” she whispered, leaving a fleeting kiss against my cheek.
And then she was gone too, and there was just me and the girl I didn’t recognize in the mirror.
6
Harlow
It was a couple of hours later that the maid came to collect me, once again not saying a word as she motioned for me to follow her out into the hallway.
I took the opportunity to leave the room greedily, and followed the mute woman down the hallway.
The walls were lined with doors just like mine, and I heard laughter and chatter as we neared the end of the corridor. We walked into a large hall, where double white doors barred the entrance, and a huge marble staircase led downstairs in
to the main area. We weren’t alone any longer. There were men standing in front of the door, passive and stoic, waiting for any sign of trouble and the chance to stop it. And then there were the girls. So many girls, women, most of them my age or a little older than me. They were all gorgeous, some of them in various states of happiness and distress. One of them was on her knees while a guard forced his cock down her throat. She was moaning for him. The rest of the girls paid it no mind.
I couldn’t stop staring at what was happening in front of me. All those women, all dressed up in expensive clothes or lingerie, not even looking my way as the maid led me down the stairs and into their midst. The guards drank me up with their eyes, but nobody said a word to me as she took me through the hall and through several rooms that followed until we reached a breezy living room area. I gasped when I saw the open French doors and windows leading out into what looked like a private beach. It was incredibly beautiful, the ocean, which I’d never seen before, lapping at the sandy shore.
The sight of the sea reminded me that I must have been very far away from home, and I tried to stop myself from crying when I thought about everything I’d left behind, everything that had been torn away from me.
Carina, Amber, Madame. The production of the Nutcracker, my dance as the Sugarplum Fairy. I’d done so well. Surely, I would have gotten a better role in a matter of days – and now it was all lost.
Those open windows seemed to be taunting me, the silk curtains billowing in the breeze and reminding me there was a life outside of the mansion. Yet it was a sharp reminder that I was unable to get away, forbidden from taking a single step off the grounds and without the watchful mute maid’s supervision.
“Hello, little one.”
The hairs on the nape of my neck stood on end, and I looked over my shoulder to find the man from before standing there.
“Let me see you,” he said, his tone dark and holding promises I hoped he wouldn’t keep.
He was hard for me. I could see the outline of his cock when I turned around, thick and hard against his trousers and straining against the fabric. It filled me with fear and wonder, and I hoped I’d never find out what it felt like to have him inside me.
He approached me with slow, measured steps, taking my hand in his. My fingers looked so little compared to his hand, and I watched him twirl me around the room, spinning me around my axis. He looked me up and down, and I felt his heated gaze on every inch of my skin, exposed or hidden. He watched me like I was something he was about to devour, and the dress I was wearing felt tiny, leaving nothing to the imagination. My nipples hardened under his gaze, and he seemed to notice what my lace bralette couldn’t hide, smirking and staring at them without mentioning what was happening.
“My, they’ve done a good job,” he said approvingly. “Do you like your new look, little one?”
I stayed stubbornly quiet, and his hand left mine as he laughed softly.
“No words, hmm?” he asked. “You don’t want to talk to me just yet?”
I didn’t answer. I wasn’t going to talk to him until he explained some things to me first.
“We’ll get them out of you,” he promised me, and I tried to hide the shiver of fear that went down my spine. “I’m very good at getting girls to speak. And moan, and scream, and beg. I wonder what it will take to make you beg, little one.”
“You’ll die trying,” I spat back, unable to hold my words back any longer.
He laughed in response, shaking his head in disbelief.
“So, she speaks,” he said triumphantly. “Kind of hard to take you seriously when you contradict yourself with every word out of that pretty little mouth, don’t you think, little one?”
Once again, I went quiet. I was done talking.
“Alright,” he said. “Why don’t I run you through some things, since you’re so fucking intent on listening instead of speaking. First of all…”
He turned to face me, his arms open in a welcoming gesture and his expression devilish.
“Welcome to the Mansion.”
He looked like the ring master of some sick circus. This was all it was to him, a fucking game, and the girls he’d trapped there were the caged animals. I hated him.
“Who’s in charge?” I asked, and once again, he laughed at me.
“You don’t get to ask that,” he said. “And I’d watch your attitude if you want to stay in one piece.”
“You won’t hurt me,” I smirked. “I bet you wouldn’t even dare to–”
Before I could finish my sentence, his fingers wrapped around my throat and he squeezed the breath out of me, easily walking me over to the wall and pressing my resisting body against it. I struggled and tried to scream but he was holding me so tightly I could barely get the smallest of sounds out.
“Watch your tone with me,” he said pleasantly. “And you only address me as Sir, by the way, as you do the rest of the men in here. You should really be on your knees as well, naked and waiting for me, but since it’s your first time and you haven’t officially started your training yet, I’ll let it slip this time around. So, what do we say?”
He tightened his grip and I coughed and sputtered in his grasp.
“S-Sir,” I spat out, my eyes shooting daggers at him.
He could make me say what he wanted but I would never bend my will to his. I would go down trying to escape, trying to get the fuck out of that hellhole.
“Good girl,” he muttered. “And now, would you like to ask me for something?”
“Let go,” I croaked out, feeling all the blood rushing to my face as he raised me off the floor. My fingers clawed at him, and I broke one of my pretty long nails as I tried to get away from him. But he wasn’t letting go, in fact only squeezing harder as I attempted to break free of his iron-like grip.
“I didn’t hear the magic word,” he growled, and I cried out desperately, unable to fight the pure survival instinct inside my body kicking into high gear.
“Please!” I begged him. “Let go, please!”
“And what do you call me?” he asked easily, as if this was a simple child’s game and I wasn’t barely conscious from lack of oxygen.
“Please let me go, Sir,” I rasped, and he laughed, dropping me to the ground.
I collapsed in a heap on the floor and cried softly as I pulled my knees against my body, averting his gaze. In moments, he’d reduced me from a pretty little plaything into a ruined mess. I knew my makeup was running but I didn’t care, and he didn’t seem to give a shit, either. Instead, he grabbed my hair, gathering the locks in a ponytail, and pulling me up on my shaky feet. If I hadn’t had muscular legs from all the dance training, nothing would’ve kept me standing when he let go.
“You will learn to obey quickly,” he said. “You’ll learn you have to if you want to get some privileges around here.”
“What is this place?” I whispered.
“The Mansion?” He grinned. “Why, it’s your new home, of course. That is until you are sold to a new owner.”
“Sold?” I shivered.
“Sold,” he confirmed. “To the highest bidder. We have an auction for all our girls. I think you’ll bring quite the price.”
Somehow, the idea that my journey wouldn’t end there, that I would be bought and sold to some man who could be even sicker and more twisted than this one, made me cry openly. I didn’t even hide my tears. I was tired of hiding things, exhausted from the fear pumping through my veins in a mixture of adrenaline, pure terror and the need to get away.
The man didn’t say a word, just circled me as he paced the room.
“You don’t have a name anymore,” he went on. “You will receive a new name when you are bought, and that is what you will respond to. But for now, you remain nameless.”
I didn’t dare argue that I had a name. All I needed to do was remember his fingers around my throat, squeezing tightly. I wasn’t about to make him go back to that feral monster who’d thrown me against a wall in an effort to punish me. God
knows what else he was prepared to do to keep me on track, to keep me his obedient little plaything.
“I think we need to begin with your training, don’t you?” he asked me, and I looked at the floor, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. “You won’t be able to be a good little slave until you’ve been fucked into submission. Until you’ve been forced to learn every way you can please a man. Oh, and I’ll think you’ll do a good job with that. Such a pretty young little thing… You’ll do just great, little one.”
He tipped my chin back and stared into my eyes. My own gaze went glassy. I couldn’t bear the thought of his eyes on mine. It felt too intimate, and I didn’t want to let this man close to me. I needed to get as far away from him as possible. But he wasn’t giving me that option. He wanted obedience, and he wanted it then and there.
“I like you on your knees,” he told me. “I think I might just keep you there. I like your pretty heels too. I think you should wear some every day for me, little one.”
His fingers ran through my hair, touching, prying, slipping into my mouth and getting wet from me. I hated him. I hated the way he made me feel. Like I actually wanted his sick perversions. Like I couldn’t wait for his next move. The man had broken something deep inside of me, an integral part that still made me a girl, not a woman. Since the moment I was thrown into that cell, I wasn’t a girl anymore. He’d forcibly taken my innocence, ripped it away and gave me something to crave, with the only way of getting it being so sick and so wrong that I hated myself for wanting it.
“I think it’s time for us to play,” he growled. “Don’t you?”
I didn’t respond.
His slap came out of nowhere, hitting me so hard I fell back on the floor, groaning as I attempted to pick myself up. He was vicious. Savage.
“Don’t you, little one?” he repeated. “Don’t make me ask you again… I’m not a very patient man, as you’ll discover.”
He kneeled next to me, his eyes drinking in my smudged makeup. It made him smile affectionately, as if I was a cute little pet who he’d just taught a new trick.
