Seth’s Doll (Club Alias)

11. Twyla

CHAPTER 11

My heart is racing as we park in the underground garage, then make our way up the cement steps to ground level. Seth takes my hand as we walk along the sidewalk, pulling it up to his lips to kiss my knuckles as we turn the corner of the building, continuing the few yards until we reach the front entrance of Club Alias. We’re here a full hour before the club opens for the night, so we don’t worry about masks or hoods to conceal our identities. Instead, Seth uses his key to unlock the door, and when we’re inside, he spins the lock once again.

Clarice took care of letting whoever is scheduled to open tonight know that Seth and I would be here and in the middle of a scene when they arrived, so we won’t be disturbed inside the private playroom that’s been under a little construction today while I kept him distracted at the museum. All I told Seth once we got in the car after saying our goodbyes at Doc’s was that our last stop for the night would be Club Alias and to head there right then, so we could get inside and have a little alone time before everyone showed up.

He leads me up the tall, narrow staircase until we reach the top, the sprawling club before us—taking up the whole second story of the building that spans the entire block—in total darkness. Depending on where you’re at inside Club Alias, you could be naked and screaming in ecstasy while standing right above the Imperium Security office, Crystal’s former workout studio, a fine arts gallery, or a boba shop, and no one below you would ever know, since the whole second level is a hundred percent soundproof.

My heart gallops behind my ribs as Seth reaches over to the pony wall and flips on just enough switches that the public space glows softly. Visible now is the dance floor, the two bars on either side of it, several platforms used during scenes put on by exhibitionists for anyone who wants to watch, and the DJ booth centered on a stage meant for the occasional live musical performance.

Everything is interspersed with tables and chairs, dark and sexy couches upholstered in a material that is both pleasant on the skin but incredibly easy to sanitize and wipe clean between uses, and what seem like random gymnastics mats. That is, until you look way up in the rafters and spot the glinting metal rings that can be lowered and raised with a remote control, which members are able to scan out. Metal rings a willing human’s body can be leashed to by a Rigger—the person who does the tying during rope bondage—if they’ve passed the skills test given by none other than my husband, known only by his Dom name, Seven, inside this sacred space.

And finally, the club’s newest additions to the main public area, a few alcoves with rows of spanking benches, St. Andrew’s crosses, and what look like pergolas, but instead of being covered in fragrant flowering vines, it’s colorful rope that weaves its way through the sturdy wooden beams each night. They were erected for those rope bunnies—the people on the receiving end of riggers’ skills—who enjoy something more stationary than what being suspended from one of the rings offers.

Personally, I could just sit curled up on one of the couches all night and watch the couples who play on the rings, and I’d be perfectly content. It’s mesmerizing, both the tying of the intricate knots and the interaction between the rigger, also known as a rope top, and their rope bottom. It’s so intimate, and yes, makes my temperature rise with embarrassment… but more so, arousal. Knowing they wouldn’t be doing it in the main area unless they wanted to be watched helps smother the uncomfortable feeling I normally get from seeing something so… sexually charged.

I haven’t taken the step of trying it out myself, even though my husband has offered countless times, catching me so often just staring with my mouth hung open while a rope bunny swings high above our heads and contorts their body into whatever positions their specific tie allows. And the times he’s snuck up on me while I’ve been alone, quietly enjoying the show, when he’s ordered me to not move as he angles his body so no one can see mine between him and the couch. He knows it would ruin the moment for me otherwise. His hand then wandering up my skirt one night or down my leggings another, until his fingers reach the slickness we both knew he’d find between my thighs.

So much praise. So many words and kisses and caresses of his approval that I allowed myself to be a voyeur, giving in to my desire to watch those who crave to be watched.

It’s all so theatrical, awe-inspiring, and I think maybe one of the reasons I haven’t taken him up on it—besides the obvious, that I’m not an exhibitionist, since we could easily try it privately—is because I know I’d never look as cool as them. I’d be too focused on the fact that I might look awkward and stupid, and on top of that, I’d be stuck there, unable to run and hide, even if it were just my beloved Dom observing me.

But I’m on a path of remedying those negative thoughts, and maybe someday I might even have the confidence to be one of those brave souls putting on an arousing show for everyone to see. Until then, I just want to be able to impress one person, one man, the one I belong to, without feeling any sense of hesitation.

And with that thought, the last one of the many that ran through my head in the span of what was a mere glance around the empty club, only seconds after Seth flipped the dim lights on, I reach over and flip one more—the switch to Playroom 2—and he raises an eyebrow at me.

“Okay, so, I need a little time to get ready. So, um… I don’t know. Maybe make yourself a drink at the bar or something and set a timer for… ten minutes. Yeah. Ten minutes should be good. If not, I?—”

“Take a breath, doll,” he interrupts, lifting his hand to stroke along my cheek. I look up into his hazel eyes and do what he instructed. “Whatever you have planned, especially if it takes place here and in Playroom 2, which you know is my favorite, there’s no way I won’t love it. I’m excited for my surprise, so take as long as you need, and flip the switch inside the room whenever you’re ready for me to come in, okay? I’ll see the Occupied light, and I’ll give you another minute just in case. Sound good?”

Even though it’s my surprise for him, I’m grateful he knows exactly when I need him to take the lead and pull me in the right direction, making something I hadn’t thought about run much more smoothly than what my overloaded mind could come up with on the spot. One of the dumbbells of anxiety rolls off my shoulder, making room for enough relief I can think a little clearer. “Sounds perfect,” I whisper, and I close my eyes as he bends down to kiss my forehead.

Then, he spins me around, and I yelp as he slaps my ass to get me moving, making me laugh when he says excitedly, “But hurry up, because I’m dying for my present!”

I shake my head as I make my way around the wall of booths that give the playrooms along the outside of the space a bit of privacy. I tug open one side of the only heavy velvet curtain that’s not tied back like the other playrooms’, since I asked Corbin and Brian to shut it when they were done, just in case Seth would somehow see what they installed for me today before I was ready. When it falls closed behind me after I step inside, I look up, and there it is—a huge part of my surprise.

I walk over to it hesitantly, taking in the fact that the guys did everything I asked… and more. The room has been rearranged so nothing is within several feet of the brand-new, glistening, golden stripper pole, making it safe for someone to stretch in any direction without knocking into anything. I’d only asked them to install it good enough that I could return home safely to my daughter at the end of the night and to please check the floor when they were done so I wouldn’t slip and bust my butt on something.

This, though? The pole looks like it’s now a permanent feature of Playroom 2. And as I round the padded leather play table in the center of the room, I see they even added a thick mat around the bottom. It’s black and blends in with the rest of the floor, not a bright color like the ones at Crystal’s studio.

Just off the round mat is a black leather armless chair with gold rivets along the edges. It’s much nicer than the “metal folding chair or something” I asked them to stick in here for me.

It had been hard enough to request the things I needed, since then they’d know exactly what I’d be doing for their best friend for his birthday. But surprisingly, they didn’t laugh or tease me one single bit. They listened intently with thoughtful expressions, nodding as I fumbled through my plan. They smiled encouragingly, prompting me with excitement in their tone and eyes to tell them everything I needed, and they’d get it all done.

I didn’t know if their women had warned them to be good, or if the Dominants themselves just sensed I’d benefit from them taking this seriously and that it would help me get through my embarrassment issues if they refrained from giving me a hard time, even if it would’ve been purely just playfulness.

With my every stuttered request, they’d clap their big hands together and say, “Got it,” or they’d ask me if something else might work better. Each of their suggestions was brilliant, and by the time I asked my last favor, my voice was clear, and a smile was spread across my face at Corbin and Brian’s enthusiasm. They inserted countless phrases that boosted my confidence, like “He’ll fucking love that,” and “The lucky bastard,” and looking back on the hour I spent with them yesterday, it’s a memory I know I’ll hold onto and cherish for a long time. Because I know our two normally broody and much-more-serious-than-my-husband friends chose to show me a softer and more sensitive, caring side of themselves, all to help me in their own way.

I trail my fingers over the buttery-soft leather of the chair they set up, meant for Seven to sit in and watch the moves I’ve been practicing with Crystal for the past several days. We didn’t have time to come up with anything too crazy or lengthy. Not that I’ll ever master anything more advanced than the simple beginner moves that took me days to conquer, when it only took my sister and girlfriends that one hour we spent together at the beginning of the week. But I’m hoping the fact that I’m putting on any sort of performance at all will have him in such a state of shock he won’t notice the pole is merely a pretty banister, there for me to hold on to so I don’t fall over in the heels I’ll be wearing while I essentially just wiggle around a little.

The thought of those heels snaps me to attention. I still need to change into the outfit Astrid helped me pick out and quickly put on the makeup she taught me how to apply to give just the right effect for what I’m about to do. I glance over at the trunk against the wall near the curtain. There’s one in each playroom, somewhere for the play partners to store their clothes and other personal belongings while they occupy the room. I hurry over to it, open it up, and pull out the bag that was thankfully left inside for me. I couldn’t drop it in there yesterday when I met up with the guys, because someone would most likely use the playroom that night, so I put it behind the bar and asked Dixie, one of our bartenders, to stick it in here after the club shut down.

I close the trunk and set the bag on top of it, carefully removing the makeup pouch and setting it to the side so I can start changing. Quickly, I step out of my flip-flops, shuck my skinny jeans and cotton panties in one move, then tug my shirt over my head as I attempt to yank my feet out of the tight denim around my ankles. In my rush though, I forgot to take off my glasses, and not wanting to break them by forcing the neck of my shirt over them or risking them going flying, I try to reach down to my face buried deep inside the now inside-out material. Unfortunately, my feet just aren’t pulling loose from my skinny jeans, and I’ve basically bound myself with my arms above my head, completely blind, and my equilibrium is being thrown off because my glasses are no longer on my nose, so the world feels like it’s tilting.

I’m twisting and turning, growling and grunting, trying to free my top-half and my feet at the same time, and I’m about to truly send myself into a panic attack, because I will absolutely die if my husband has to come freaking rescue me from my own goshdamn clothes like a toddler who hasn’t learned to dress herself. When, finally, one foot pops free, knocking me off balance with the sudden loss of resistance, my body spins on the one foot still on the floor, before I topple backward. I scrunch my face and close my eyes, even though I still can’t see a darn thing, as I brace for impact.

But a painful crash to the floor never comes. Instead, my butt lands on a soft cushion not even close to the ground. I sit there a moment, assessing the damage to my body in my head, my arms still trapped above me, but other than my heart racing and feeling a little nauseated from not being able to see during all that chaos, everything is fine. Carefully, I reverse the situation with my shirt, setting my glasses down beside me, and then look down at my naked lower half. And I realize I’m sitting on the stack of clothes on top of the trunk—the cushioned seat I landed on instead of the floor.

Thank you, sweet baby Jesus.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, forcing myself to undress the rest of the way calmly and with measured movements so nothing else goes wrong. I stand up, turn to face the trunk once more, and glance up into the huge mirror on the wall behind it. When I reach out and touch the glowing button on the right side of the glass, I blink a few times as my eyes adjust to the bright light that now frames the mirror.

I’m flushed from the exertion, my hair wild, but I don’t have time to pick apart anything else. I don’t want him out there waiting any longer than necessary. I certainly don’t want to take so long he comes looking to make sure I’m all right. I practiced getting ready with my sister several times until I was confident I could do a full wardrobe and personality change within fifteen minutes, hoping to cut that time shorter when my adrenaline would be rushing and I didn’t have her distracting me.

“You can do this,” I whisper to my naked reflection, and with a nod, I look down and grab the cosmetics bag.

First task—contact lenses. I don’t want my glasses getting in the way or hindering any position he might want to put me in.

When that’s done, and I can see clearly once again, I start on the small bundle of clothes. A sexy pink lace thong, a matching bra that’s for absolutely nothing but decoration, a black plaid miniskirt with lines the same pink as my lingerie, a short-sleeved white button-up shirt left unbuttoned but tied in a knot beneath my breasts, and black thigh-high socks with thin pink rings around the tops. An outfit much like the one the intimacy companion was wearing and was conveniently available right at my own store.

Next, my hair. I attempted to learn how to do the French-braided pigtails Astrid first put my hair in when we were deciding on my look, but that was disastrous from the start. I’m just not ambidextrous enough for all that. So instead, we settled for pulling just the top half of my hair back—still in pigtails, but the rest of my hair would hang loose for comfort. When I tried lying down with full pigtails or space buns, it would’ve taken extra time to get the style just right so my head could still lie flat. If the ponytail holder or bun was even a little too far down or toward the middle, it either pulled my hair uncomfortably or made me look off to one side. I didn’t want something as insignificant as a hairstyle to distract me from what really mattered tonight—being the perfect sub.

When my pin-straight dark hair is in perfectly-even half-pigtails, I reach into the cosmetic bag for the style’s final touch—pink, fluffy feather pompoms just like the ones Britney Spears wears in her “Baby, One More Time” video. Except instead of scrunchies, these are a smaller version that are attached to clips I easily snap in my hair to hide the two little rubber bands.

I already have on the basic makeup I wore today, which Astrid added to when we got to her house for dinner. There was no way in the world I’d ever master the art of applying false eyelashes, but according to her, they were a must if I really wanted to pull this costume together. And looking in the mirror, I have to admit she was right, as I take a moment to try out a slow blink while keeping the rest of my face frozen.

“Yep. Pretty but definitely creepy. So just right,” I murmur, then rummage through the little bag to find the red lipstick Astrid spent quite a while choosing.

According to her, it had to not only be the right shade for my skin tone and hair color, but it also couldn’t clash with the light pink throughout my outfit. Even after I reminded her how dim the lighting is in the playrooms, my professional-makeup-artist sister was undeterred. She had to find the perfect red—and red was a must. I agree with her on that part—no other color would do. Red just hits different when it comes to dolling yourself up to… well, pretend you’re a sex doll.

At first, I wanted it to be kiss-proof, because I would most likely do a lot of kissing tonight. But again, Astrid had something different in mind.

“Kiss-proof is good when you’re gonna be out in public and he doesn’t want to be wearing your lipstick on his mouth, talking to people and shit. But for your scene… oh, nay, nay. Nothing will get him harder than watching it smear,” she told me with a wink, and the image that put in my head—of the many ways and places he could smear the perfect shade of red—made my face flush to a similar hue.

Again, my big sister had some good advice.

I throw everything back into the cosmetics bag, close my glasses up in the extra case I tossed into my tote last night, and pull out the last part of my getup. The shoes.

I spin around and sit back down on the trunk, setting the pair of sky-high chunky-heeled Mary Janes on the floor before me. I slip my right foot into its shoe, then bend forward to wrestle with the buckle of the T-strap that makes it possible for me to walk in the darn things. We tried basically all the shoes available at Toys for Twats, but every single one made me feel nothing but anxious. So I left those bad boys to the professionals, and we ended up finding these at the mall. They’re still taller than any heels I’ve ever owned in my life, probably twice the height, in fact, but since they’re solid blocks instead of stilettos or spikes, I feel much stabler.

Carefully, I stand up straight, then take tiptoed steps in a half circle and a few to the side until I can see myself from head to toe in the LED-lit mirror without the trunk being in my way.

And then…

I smile.

I genuinely smile.

The woman staring back at me might not look exactly like the intimacy companion I felt up at my store, but she does look… sexy as hell.

Aside from the hair, makeup, and schoolgirl attire, the shoes do things for my body I’ve never seen before. At the mall, I’d been wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and I just made sure the heels fit comfortably enough I could walk and then would be able to dance in them while holding onto the pole. But looking at my reflection in the over-the-top Mary Janes now, I can’t help but admire the way my legs look a mile long, especially paired with the thigh-high socks that leave a few inches of skin exposed between the top pink stripe and the bottom of my pleated miniskirt.

I take a couple baby steps to turn to the side, and the shoes have somehow changed my posture. My butt seems like it’s been lifted, the hem of the skirt hanging in a way that’s a sexy invitation to reach beneath it and grab a handful. My back is arched, and the scientist in me does a quick calculation to figure out it’s my body’s way of countering the extra height beneath my heels that’s higher than that beneath my toes. There’s a platform, yes, but my heels are still elevated more than the balls of my feet, which causes my body to naturally situate itself to stay upright. Meaning, booty out and lower back swayed.

And it looks damn good.

My waist may not be as tiny around as the doll’s, but the miniskirt’s waistband sits right above my belly button, accentuating the smallest part before the pleated fabric gently flares. The two-inch band is tight but not enough to make anything bulge above it, showing just a hint of skin between it and the knotted shirt. When I look down at my body instead of in the reflection, my small breasts look admittedly pretty inside the unlined lace cups of the bra, and I glance up once more, then dip into one of the moves Crystal taught me.

“Oh yeah. Décolletage on point,” I say softly, then stand up straight again. “But something is missing.” My brow furrows, tilting my head to figure out what the heck I’ve forgotten. And then it hits me. “Oh shit!” I open the zipper of the inner pocket of my bag and pull out my collar for the evening. This one isn’t my official collar, just meant for play, but since the charm from my formal one is on a lobster claw clasp, I was able to attach it the silver ring in the center of this pink-and-black leather choker that buckles at the back of my neck. I adjust it so the circular charm with a numeral 7 in the middle, surrounded by the words Mystical, Wisdom, and Divinity, is centered at my throat.

With a final onceover, I give myself a surprising but confident nod of approval, and then I step back over to the right side of the mirror and touch the glowing button to turn off its bright light.

I turn around and spot the box the intimacy companion was delivered in at my store. It’s been set up in the corner of the room beneath the spotlight that’s normally shining down on a lockable cage with a mattress on top of it, which was removed for tonight’s scene. I’ve seen it in use a few times. The most startling had been a woman and two men engaged in loud, boisterous sex atop the mattress, while a man who had his penis locked in a little cage of its own kneeled on his spread knees, watching what was happening above him in the mirror now behind me.

After seeing that on a trip to the restroom, since they left the curtain wide open—but hooked the velvet rope across the entryway, which meant they wanted to be watched but not joined—and had a small crowd watching outside the playroom, I returned to the booth our group was hanging out in. I definitely had to have Seven explain what was going on in the scene, then immediately had Doc break down the psychology of it for me, because I just couldn’t wrap my head around it. I learned a whole new vocabulary that night, including but not limited to chastity cage, cuckold, hotwife, vixen, and bull.

Instantly understanding that was a kinky path I would never walk in this lifetime.

But I’d never yuck anyone else’s yum, so good for them.

Now though, the spotlight is shining down on my redecorated, life-size box. The addition I made in the backroom of my store that changed SEX DOLL to SETH’S DOLL is still there, now framed in hearts and arrows pointing at it I drew yesterday before I dropped it off at Corbin and Vi’s house. And I see Vi must’ve added silver holographic stickers to make the arrows stand out even more, making them glimmer under the light. It does wonders to draw the eye exactly where I want Seven’s when he walks into the playroom. On the other flap of the box, I had written Happy Birthday in huge letters from bottom to top, which she also outlined in the shiny stickers.

On the very top of the six-foot tall box is an outrageously large hot-pink bow that perfectly matches the packaging tape I left around the edges. From one of its curled ribbons hangs an oversized card I made him, containing a plastic box that I know will add a little something special for the tech nerd who occupies the same body as an ultra-kinky former sadist.

So there’s no way my genius husband will misunderstand the assignment.

Giddy now, still nervous but my excitement surpassing it, I reach back to the switch on the wall that will turn on the red light outside Playroom 2, indicating it’s in use. With the club still mostly dark, I’m positive Seven sees it the second I flip it and starts counting down from sixty. So I hurry as fast but safely as I can in the monstrously high heels over to the cardboard box, opening the flaps, stepping inside, snatching the index card off the interior wall I taped it to, then using the small finger-width holes to pull them closed. Yesterday, I stabbed through the package with scissors when I realized I couldn’t pull the darn flaps all the way shut from the inside while I tested if I’d fit with these shoes on. And in this moment, I’m grateful for the height the holes landed—a happy accident that gives me the perfect view of the second my Master enters the room.

His eyes immediately land on the glistening stripper pole, since that’s what’s straight ahead when one opens the curtain. But seeing I’m not over there, his brow furrows slightly until they come to the corner I’m hidden in. I love that we’re here without having to wear masks, because I can see the sexy smirk on his face before he turns and attaches the velvet curtain to the hook on the wall that will ensure it stays shut.

But when he faces inside once again and starts slowly approaching the giant present, my stomach flips, and I fight the urge to burst out of the box and tell him “never mind!” I suddenly feel like prey caught in a trap, watching as a predator prowls toward me licking its chops, even as Seven’s mouth stays in its sensual smile.

I can’t run. I never fight. So my fear instincts choose what it always does, and I freeze.

But this time, I’m conscious of it. I was counting on it. And I remember this is all part of the plan.

I still sense the fear inside me, the choked feeling petrifying my body in place. Yet with great effort, I take a deep breath and let it out quiet and slow, relaxing just enough to arrange my face into the expression I practiced in my bathroom mirror every chance I got the past few days. With one last glance through the tiny peephole, as my husband—my delicious Dom—comes to stand right in front of the box I’m inside, I then cast my gaze downward, turning myself into the perfectly obedient, respectful submissive I dream to be.