Chapter 7
Grace
My grip on the edge of the table tightens as light stabs at my eyes. I squeeze them shut, then open them more carefully, squinting against the light.
The space around me is large. I don’t see any windows or doors.
Maybe they’re behind me? What I see is a small kitchen connected to an open-plan living room.
Behind it, a doorway leads to a tiled room that must be the bathroom.
A bathroom with no door? Then I remember.
Dolls have no right to privacy. But what about him?
Does the trainer not have the right to privacy, either?
He’s close. Not touching me, but I can feel his presence. When I turn my head, I’m met with a black T-shirt stretched across a muscular chest. Black sweatpants and bare feet. As my eyes adjust, I tilt my head to look up at his face and nearly fall off the table when a wave of vertigo hits.
The trainer grabs my shoulders, saving me from falling off the table. A broken face would probably make me a poor investment. I’m not sure why I find that funny. Maybe it’s the exhaustion.
Tattoos coil up the trainer’s arms, vanishing beneath his sleeves.
Climbing roses circle his right arm, beautifully and vividly rendered.
Blood drips from their thorns, rivulets running down his arm to gather in a scarlet pool on the inside of his wrist. His left forearm bears Cyrillic writing I can’t read, and on his upper arm…
a doll? At first, I thought it was a child, but it’s a vintage porcelain doll with long black hair, a red dress, and a straw hat.
A crack runs across her face, and a single tear rolls down her damaged cheek.
It’s a true work of art, if a little creepy.
I draw a shaky breath and let my gaze travel over his broad shoulder and strong neck.
His beard is short, black, and natural, not one of those overly groomed ones.
One corner of his mouth is curled up into a smirk.
His nose is slightly crooked, as if it was broken and never set right.
His black hair is messy in that effortlessly sexy way women seem to like.
It’s short, with a few stray strands falling to his brows. And his eyes…
Black. So deep it feels like I could fall into them and never stop. His stare sends shivers up my spine. It’s predatory, charged with primal hunger. I freeze, forgetting I’m supposed to keep my head down.
His smirk grows. “Like what you see, Doll?”
“Oh.” Hastily, I lower my head, which isn’t much better because now I’m looking at his crotch and the definite bulge in his sweatpants I missed earlier. Oh god. “I’m sorry, Master.”
“I asked you a question.”
He did. It’s wrong, but I did like what I saw. Why does he have to be handsome? “Yes, Master,” I whisper so quietly he couldn’t hear me if he weren’t standing right in front of me.
He doesn’t berate me for not speaking clearly. With a chuckle, he releases my shoulders. “That’s good to hear. Don’t move.”
After making sure I won’t fall again, he walks away, his bare feet softly tapping on the floor.
Realizing I’m completely exposed, I start to cover myself, then remember I’m not allowed to.
It’s difficult, but I let my arms fall again.
If he wants to look at my too-small breasts and nonexistent curves, I guess that’s his right.
His feet come back into view. They’re nice feet. Clean, with neatly trimmed nails, a small but clear sign he takes care of himself.
He trails his hand down my arm, then weighs my breast in his hand, flicking the nipple. “You remembered the rule,” he states. “Good job.”
The praise settles over me like a warm blanket. I did well. I made him happy. It’s a great feeling.
“You’re allowed to look at me for now,” he says. “I will inform you when that changes.”
“Thank you, Master,” I reply, relieved he’ll let me know if the rules change. I can work with rules when I know what they are, but I’m not a mind reader.
My throat clicks with a dry swallow as I notice the glass in his hands. It’s filled with a thick, frothy, yellowish liquid. A shake? He holds it out in front of me. “Drink it. All of it, but slowly. I will not be happy if you throw up on my floor.”
“I won’t. Thank you, Master.” With my hands still shaky, I use both to steady the glass.
Tipping it to my mouth, I moan as the sweet liquid hits my tongue.
A banana-flavored shake, definitely. Before today, I wouldn’t have called it my favorite, but this one tastes amazing.
As I sip from the shake, I steal glances at the trainer.
He’s moving around the kitchen, pulling out ingredients.
Is he going to cook? What am I supposed to be doing in the meantime?
I try to remember the rules, but they only say I should kneel by his side, which is tricky when he keeps moving. He also told me not to move, so hopefully I’m safe to just sit and sip my shake while he chops vegetables and beats eggs.
I take the chance to look around, my breath catching at the other half of the windowless room.
Furniture fills the room, but it’s unlike anything I’ve seen before.
Restraints dangle from benches and chairs, even from the ceiling itself.
An entire wall is lined with whips and paddles and other spanking instruments, some of which I’m disconcertingly familiar with, like the flexible cane my mother prefers.
Satan only knows what terrible implements might be hidden in the cupboards beneath the spanking instruments.
The table I sit on is sturdy, with chains and cuffs hanging from its corners.
Next to it, there’s a small rolling table with a box that looks like an old-school radio with several knobs.
Wires run from the box, connecting to… Oh.
To the vibrators and clamps set on the table beside me.
My cheeks flare up with heat as my gaze snags on the toys.
I can’t believe I had that inside me. In my ass.
God, it’s so small. It felt bigger when it was inside me, like I was stretched to the limit.
How can someone’s cock ever fit in there without tearing me apart?
In the far corner, behind all the intimidating furniture, there’s an inconspicuous door. It seems to be the only way out, since there are no windows. Are we underground, or just in a windowless building? Where does that door lead to?
Escape attempts will be harshly punished.
Shuddering, I push that thought away. Later. I’ll think about it when my eyelids don’t feel like they weigh a ton.
“Finished?”
Not noticing the trainer approach, I startle, nearly dropping the glass.
I catch it, squeezing it so tightly my knuckles turn white.
I don’t want to anger him by breaking anything, especially now when he seems so calm and I’m too exhausted to handle punishment.
Draining the rest of the shake, I present him with the empty glass. “Yes, Master.”
“Good girl. How’s your stomach? Any nausea? The drugs can sometimes have lingering effects. It isn’t frequent, but you’re tiny, and I doubt the extraction team adjusted the dosage to your weight.”
The extraction team. Like I’d been rescued instead of kidnapped. “No nausea,” I reply truthfully. “I’m just a little dizzy.”
“That is to be expected. Don’t worry, Doll. I’ll wash you, feed you, and put you to bed. Once you’ve had some sleep, we’ll start with the training.”
Wash me? I wouldn’t mind a shower after being wrapped in that plastic, but the way he said it feels unsettling. Like I’m nothing more than a toy he’ll play with before putting it away for the night. Maybe that’s how he sees me. Here, I’m just a Doll. I have no rights, no control over my body.
I need to change that. Isn’t that what they recommend when you’re being held hostage?
To make your captor see you as a person?
I need to work on that, but not now when I’m exhausted, every muscle sore from the shocks, and I’m distracted by the lingering arousal.
Right now, I can’t focus on anything other that keeping my head down and following the rules.
Plus, being called a good girl feels nice.
I’ve rarely been praised, and even knowing it’s wrong to enjoy praise from the person who hurt me, I can’t help it.
It’s as if my body craves those words. His words, his smiles.
Damn. I’m in trouble.