Chapter 3 Knight #2
In general, I find kissing unnecessary. As an act, it’s not part of sex, nor in the past has it hastened or added anything to my release.
But kissing Octavia is different. I’ve wanted to discover what she tastes like since I realized she was mine, and I’ve never felt that way before.
I’ve kissed other women and a few men, mainly to see if a member of the opposite sex or one of the same evoked a greater reaction in me.
But now I realize the reason I’ve never felt anything beyond physical release with any of them is because they weren’t her.
Her lips are a little dry and taste faintly of coffee. I don’t know why I expected her to taste sweet, but the coffee flavor surprises me.
“You kissed me,” she gasps when I pull away from her mouth and start scooping water up with a cup and pouring it over her.
“Yes,” I agree.
Her eyebrows draw together, and she purses her lips like she intends to speak, but instead she exhales and sags, like she can’t find the energy to question me. We both fall silent as I continue to bathe her.
An unexpected and arousing desire to explore and examine her vagina with my fingers pushes at me, but I recognize that right now isn’t the time to do it.
So instead, I pick up a washcloth and use that to cleanse between her thighs.
As soon as I get her home, I’ll learn all of her body, inside and out, but I don’t want to touch her here, in this sad apartment, with the memory of whatever has happened here still in her thoughts.
Once her skin is clean, I wash and condition her hair, waving away her weak protests. If she really didn’t want me to help, she’d tell me to stop. Once I rinse the last of the conditioner from her hair, I stand, then lift her out of the tub, setting her on her feet before I wrap her in a towel.
My perfect doll is broken, I can feel it and see it. But that’s okay. I’m going to put her back together until she’s whole and entirely mine, starting by getting her away from Rapid City.
Lifting her into my arms, I carry her out of the bathroom and into the living space.
Sitting her on the small kitchen counter, I claim another soft kiss before I turn away and search the small apartment for her clothes.
Instead of finding her beautiful, elaborate things hung in the closet, her array of dresses and skirts are haphazardly stuffed into a large suitcase that’s been pushed against the wall in the corner of the room.
Turning to look at her, I find her unmoved and watching me from the counter I sat her on.
Her gaze follows my movements as I open her suitcase and start to look through her belongings.
I don’t bother to ask her what she wants to wear.
Instead, I search through the suitcase until I find a black satin bra and panties set that has an embossed bat pattern covering the fabric.
Before this moment, I never considered underwear as anything beyond a means of covering an intimate area, but as I imagine the bra and panties in my hands on my doll, my dick hardens, arousal pulsing through me.
Placing the underwear to one side, I locate a black dress with a skirt made up of layers of netting intended to make it look dramatically full. The dress has small, capped sleeves that are sheer and puffy, and there’s an array of buckles and ribbons that fasten around the waist.
Before identifying Octavia as my mate, women’s clothing held little to no interest for me. Clothes are simply a necessity, and my own closet only holds several pairs of the same types of jeans, workout shorts, and the same style of T-shirt in three different colors.
After meeting Octavia, I started to appreciate how her choice of clothes made her…her, and I did some reconnaissance into her particular style. My doll favors gothic Lolita-style clothes that make her look like the nickname I’ve given her…like a perfect real-life doll.
Closing her suitcase, I carry the clothes I’ve selected for her over to the counter where she’s still sitting and watching me. Peeling the towel from around her, I use it to blot the dampness from her skin and hair, then lift her down and position her standing naked in front of me.
Not bothering to hide my open assessment, I run my eyes over her, memorizing every inch of her porcelain skin.
Neither of us speaks, and she doesn’t bother to try to hide herself from me again.
I don’t attempt to hide my own arousal either, feeling the hardened length of my penis jutting against my pants.
When I’ve looked my fill, I reach for her panties, then crouch down, holding the small, silky fabric out for her.
One foot at a time, she steps into the panties, and I pull them up her legs, covering her vagina and ensuring the waistband is lying flat over her hips.
Picking up her bra next, it takes me a moment to figure out how it fits, but once she slides her arms through the straps, I reach around her to fasten it at her back, covering her tiny breasts and perky nipples.
Stepping back, I run my gaze over her in the underwear I selected for her. My penis pulses, and I wonder if I’m about to ejaculate into my pants, the same way I did when I first felt sexual desire. Reaching down, I grip my length and squeeze, inhaling slowly as I force my body to settle.
Once my penis has calmed a little, I pick up the dress I chose for her and hold it out in front of me.
Lifting it carefully over her wet hair, I wait for her to push her arms through the sleeves, then carefully fasten each tiny button that secures the back, one by one.
When I finish the last one, I pick up the white thigh-high socks I selected and slide the first one over her toes.
Smoothing the fabric up her leg, I run my fingers around the elastic on her thigh to ensure it fits correctly.
I repeat the action with the other sock, and once they’re both in place, I hold out black shiny shoes for her to step into, kneeling down to fasten the straps.
Climbing back to my feet, I take her hand and lead her into the bathroom, positioning her in front of the mirror as I blow-dry her hair, then style it into two pigtails, one high on each side of her head, completing the look by tying ribbons into bows on each bunch.
Instead of the dirty, tired waif who opened the door to me, the woman standing in front of me finally looks like herself. “There you are,” I breathe.
She hasn’t uttered a word since I lifted her from the tub and dressed her.
Her face has shown a myriad of emotions, but as I stand behind her, looking at her reflection in the mirror ahead of us, I watch as tears fill her eyes and spill from beneath her lashes, rolling down her cheeks as her lips tremble.
“My perfect doll,” I say, cupping her cheeks as I slowly turn her to face me.
Shaking her head, she starts to deny my words, but I take her chin between my finger and thumb firmly, but gently, preventing her from moving.
“My perfect doll,” I repeat.
Sucking in a shaky breath, she tries to blink away her tears, but three more escape before she nods, finally accepting my words.
“You’re perfect,” I tell her, succumbing to an alien desire to lean forward and capture her tears with my tongue. The drops are salty against my taste buds, but I swallow them down, unwilling to give anything of her away, even if it is just to the air.
She looks shocked when I pull back, but she doesn’t speak.
“You can teach me to do your makeup,” I tell her.
“Teach you?” she questions.
“So I can do it for you.”
Blinking, she looks up at me, like I’ve just spoken a foreign language. “Why?”
“So I can do it for you,” I tell her again.
My smartwatch buzzes against my wrist, and I let my gaze move from her to look at it. “We need to hurry.”
“Hurry?” she asks, her brow furrowing.
“I’m taking you home,” I remind her, starting to feel concern about how many times I’m having to remind her of what I’ve already said.
“Oh,” she says, blinking confusedly, but instead of arguing or asking any more questions, she turns to the mirror and applies makeup until her skin looks as perfect as the porcelain doll she reminds me of.
She’s beautiful, with or without the makeup, but with the dark liner ringing her eyes, she looks most like the mate I claimed at first sight.
The moment she returns the last tube of makeup to the bag on the bathroom counter, the tension I’d been experiencing since she opened the door starts to recede.
I don’t fully understand—or care—what emotion it is I’ve been feeling for the last hour, but I recognize that seeing her dressed in clothes I’ve selected for her, with her hair done, and her familiar makeup in place has calmed me.
“You’re beautiful,” I tell her, lifting my hand to tug on the end of one of her pigtails.
Tilting her head to the side, her gaze turns quizzical as she stares at herself in the mirror, like she’s not entirely sure what she’s looking at. “Am I?” she asks, more to herself than to me.
“Yes, Doll. Beautiful.”
“Even dressed like this? Like…” She scoffs self-deprecatingly. “Like a whacked-out goth Barbie?”
“Who the fuck said that to you?” I growl, newly recognizable anger mounting inside of me for the second time today.
Her exhale is full of sadness, but instead of answering my question, she says, “Why are you here, Knight? We barely know each other.”
“I already told you. I’m taking you home.”
“Home?” she questions.
“To Rockhead Point.”
“Is that home?” she asks, like she’s begging to know the answer.
“Rapid City was my home. It’s been my home for years.
I agreed to move because Betty needed my help setting up the studio, and so Etta and I could live together.
But Mountain Ink is open, and the studio’s thriving without me.
Etta’s living with Oz. She’s married and pregnant.
So why am I moving? What’s in Rockhead Point for me now? ”
When she looks up at me, I see the desperation in her eyes. Her questions aren’t rhetorical. She needs to know the answer. She needs me to give her a reason. So I do. “Me. I’m in Rockhead Point,” I tell her simply.
Spinning around to face me, her eyes narrow, and her brow furrows, making her look adorably confused. “What does that even mean?”
“It means you’re mine, Doll, and I’m taking you home.”