15. Seven
CHAPTER 15
Taking hold of the remote, I slide the card back inside the envelope and walk over to the trunk to set it next to my doll’s things. I use the time it takes to close the distance between us to let this side of me fully override my being.
Since I met Twyla, the part of me known as Seven hasn’t come out to play, not completely. Those sadistic urges that were once the entree of my sexual appetite have barely registered as an a la carte side dish for the past several years, a different craving—one focused on bringing overwhelming pleasure to the woman I love—taking over as the main meal.
But along with that, other parts of my domination have softened. Too much so. Everything I’ve heard and read and learned today has shown me that, loud and clear. And while I’ve enjoyed living in this gentler embodiment—so much I could live the rest of my life this way and never feel like it’s lacking—a larger, deeper part of me is making itself known. Unfurling. Stretching its legs. Cracking its stiff joints back into working order.
I can’t help but acknowledge that I feel more like myself in this moment than I have in years.
And it has nothing to do with sadism.
Gone are those urges. Possibly forever. Since sadism means one gains sexual pleasure from the act of inflicting pain on another person, I can say with complete certainty that I am no longer a sadist. I’m downright allergic to the idea of hurting my little doll.
But what I’ve been since becoming a husband and father was not Seven-minus-sadism. The Dominant I’ve been has lacked far more than that. I also haven’t been a disciplinarian. I haven’t been a teacher who pushes his pupil to excel rather than merely pass the course. I haven’t demanded… ruled… dominated my submissive. My commands have been more like suggestions. My orders more like requests.
But I’m not disappointed in myself when it comes to this change. When our relationship began, Twyla was a virgin. In fact, she was innocent in more ways than just being sexually untouched. BDSM was a whole new world to her, one that would’ve blown her mind to the point of refusing to understand it and running far, far away had she not been such an intelligent and adaptable person. And the second my soul recognized hers as its other half, my whole Seven persona had to become adaptable as well—something it had never needed to be before.
Because if Vanillas were in one hand and Kinksters in the other, Twyla would’ve been sitting up on the shoulder, looking down at everyone and asking what the fuck they were talking about. To my sheltered doll, vanilla was just an ice-cream flavor, and kink had something to do with curly hair.
So without doing it on purpose, and without much internal pushback, I slid down that scale from Dominant to Vanilla like my ass was on a three-story staircase banister, my balls slamming into a pineapple-shaped decorative finial somewhere around the halfway mark.
In other words, if my Dominant side were an HVAC system, I dialed the heat aaall the way back to Low, to the degree right before the cold air would kick on.
In other words, I was one step away from becoming just a dude who liked enthusiastic lovemaking that included teammates.
Teammates being toys. Because only insecure little fuckboys see toys as intimidating, instead of a way to bring their woman even more pleasure than one mere mortal can deliver on his own.
But this mere mortal has finally realized that my sweet, innocent submissive wife no longer needs a Level One Dom. In fact, after what she wrote in her card, she needs a far more advanced Dominant than even the kinkiest, most sadist motherfucker this lifestyle has ever seen.
She needs a Dom worthy of a sub with no limits.
She needs Seven.
The real Seven.
The one who’s not lacking past roles but who’s focusing on the ones his submissive needs most.
I’m not old Seven minus sadism.
I’m Seven—the old one, plus a heart.
And that heart stands inside a cardboard box only a foot away.
I smirk, reading over the words written on the right flap. “Seth’s Doll, hmm?” I purr, reaching up and using my pointer finger to trace an X over the name. “Well… I hope he doesn’t mind sharing his birthday present, because it’s my birthday too.”
A rebirth. A new and improved Seven just for you, doll.
I’m so close to her I can hear Twyla’s gulp, and I feel my cock come to life.
Without making her wait a second longer, I press my knuckles against the left side of the slit, which makes enough room for my fingers to then slide beneath the right, and slowly, I open my most precious gift as a Dom.
I hold my breath, the light from overhead spilling in, giving me my first look at the beautiful woman inside as I open the other flap. And for the second time tonight, I’m speechless.
Gone is my wife, the girl other people always describe as pretty and cute on most days, and lovely when she’s here at Club Alias. In her place stands a version of her I’ve never imagined. The fact that I’ve never felt the urge to imagine her as anything but her authentic self is besides the point, because I don’t think I could’ve pictured the woman before me even if I had.
And all woman, she is, even dressed as a sinful schoolgirl who would be sent straight to the headmaster’s office for every dress-code violation in the handbook. On top of all that, she holds perfectly still except for the movement of her breasts as she breathes and her throat as she swallows nervously. Her eyes are focused on my chest, which would be directly straight ahead if she were at her normal height, but in these shoes that are straight out of an anime nerd’s wet dream, it means her gaze is lowered.
My good little sub.
Her painted-red lips I’m already considering how to smear are slightly parted, but I can see her jaw is tightly clenched to keep her features from moving, and I’m impressed as hell by her commitment to this role she’s playing. She’s not normally one who can allow herself to dramatically portray some character, too worried she’ll look silly or isn’t doing it right. The only time none of that seems to enter her mind is when she’s playing pretend with our daughter.
But right now, I’ve been staring at her for quite some time, and she’s only blinked once, purposefully, a slow blink that made her cosmetically enhanced lashes appear just like a doll’s would as she kept that faraway look in her eyes.
My cock hardens further.
Trailing my gaze downward, I see she’s holding an index card, the thick paper slightly trembling between her fingers, and instead of my usual compulsion to soothe her nerves, I allow myself to latch on to that dark pleasure I always felt before I met my wife. The power one feels knowing your presence alone, the anticipation of what you might do next, without ever having touched them, makes them have an outward physical reaction.
I have to reach down and adjust my cock inside my boxer briefs, worried it might break through the fucking metal zipper of my jeans I’m so hard. And when I glance up at my doll’s face, the pink she added to her cheeks this morning with a brush has spread but through her blood vessels.
There’s my girl.
I lift my hand and use the side of my knuckle to gently caress her cheek, her lashes fluttering before she catches herself. “It even blushes? Wow. How lucky am I? That’s always been my favorite feature of my own doll,” I say, letting that hang in the air for a moment so she can absorb it fully. She hates that she has no control over her sensitive nervous system, but my God, I’ve always gotten off on it. “I never have to wonder if she’s hiding something inside her. I can always tell just by that pretty blush she can’t control.”
I lean in like I’m telling her a secret, when I whisper, “You see, she seems to believe it’s all me, that I’m just that good at reading anyone’s microreactions. And while I’m admittedly pretty damn talented when it comes to that, it’s actually her that makes it easy for me.” I lean even closer, inhaling deeply as I run the tip of my nose from her collarbone to her ear, making her shiver. “If it weren’t for my doll’s involuntary responses, I wouldn’t be nearly as good at overwhelming her with pleasure.”
My tongue slips out to toy with just her huggy-hoop-impaled earlobe, and I hear her small whimper just before I feel a sharp jab against my abs. I grin but hide it before pulling back and looking down, seeing she’s holding the card out toward me, her finger still pointed after poking me, and when I lift my eyes to hers, they’re back to the faraway stare.
Again, I’m so fucking impressed with her refusal to break character.
“Oh, what’s this?” I ask like I hadn’t noticed the index card before. I take it, once more pulling my glasses from my collar, and read the first note.
“Hi, I’m your brand-new intimacy companion! I’ve been updated and much improved since the model before me, and I hope you enjoy my new features.” I swallow the lump that wants to form in my throat at the idea my wife felt she wasn’t good enough exactly as she’s always been. There’s no room for that here, in this moment, so I shove that part of me back down and give Seven extra strength to keep it at bay. “If you push the pink button on my remote, it will activate Test Mode One. This mode is a safety feature to make sure all my parts are in working order BEFORE you play with me. Please do not skip this step. Watch carefully but from a distance of at least four feet. If you notice any of my body parts not bending or moving in a natural way or if you see or smell something burning, the red button is the emergency stop. Contact the number on my box for troubleshooting help. Sorry, no refunds.”
I chuckle as I take my glasses back off and hook them in their usual spot at my throat when I’m not wearing them. As if I weren’t impressed enough, the thought and wit she put into the note brings my pride to a whole new level, and I find myself looking forward to not only what she’s going to do with each press of a different button, but also what the next index card will say.
“I don’t know how I feel about taking orders, especially from an inanimate object,” I speak coolly. “But I’m curious enough about what you’ll do once you’re no longer inanimate to put those unidentified feelings aside.”
I make a show of looking over the black remote, which is a simple thing, about the size and shape of our smart TV’s, only it has a single line of different-colored buttons down the center. I recognize it as a universal remote you can set up much like voice commands and routines on an Alexa, each button doing whatever you’ve programmed it to do.
So fucking brilliant, my girl is. The perfect tool to help keep up the sex-doll fa?ade.
“Pink for Test Mode One,” I repeat the instructions, and without further ado, my finger presses the button at the top.
My head whips around toward the new stripper pole as a disco ball lowers from the ceiling near it, a bright light coming on to shine direct at it as the rest of the lights in the playroom dim. I’m taking everything in, the shimmers produced from reflecting off the mosaic of mirrors mesmerizing, so I miss her stepping out of the box, but I feel her nails through my shirt as she lightly drags her fingers from my right shoulder across my back to my left as she passes behind me.
I don’t move, frozen to the spot, the remote still lifted while I watch slack-jawed as this woman I hardly recognize sashays toward the pole. Her hips move in a way that’s nearly hypnotic as she takes long strides that had to have been practiced in those shoes. The skin between her thigh-high socks and the pleated skirt peeks out more with each step, and it’s the perfect level of tantalizing, making me crave to peep underneath.
She comes to a stop next to the new leather chair, her back still to me, one leg locking while the other snaps against it, slightly bent as the heel of the shoe hovers an inch off the floor. Her left hand props on her left hip, and suddenly her right arm lifts straight up in the air, her finger pointing skyward. And like magic… or impeccably planned timing on her part… music begins to thump around us, and I immediately recognize it as “Lick” by Joi featuring Sleepy Brown, a song off the XXX soundtrack Twyla added to her playlist when we had a Vin Diesel movie marathon a couple of years ago.
My eyebrow cocks when her position holds but her finger that had been pointing straight up suddenly snaps downward on beat with the bass. She turns just enough to peek at me over her shoulder, and I follow her silent command, but only because I’m allowing my wife to give me her gift. When I start to head toward the chair she pointed me to, she faces forward once again and continues on her way to the pole.
My eyes never leave her as I lower into the buttery leather seat, holding my breath as she steps from solid floor to the black mat surrounding the base of the pole like a tree skirt, but she manages it flawlessly. And the air then leaves my lungs in a long exhale through pursed lips as she grasps the golden apparatus in her right hand, hooks her right ankle at the bottom, leans all the way out from it, then seems to fall forward. But because the whole thing spins on its own, the movement is nothing but sensual grace as she swings around to the front, now facing me, before letting go and putting her back against the metal.
Then Joi starts to sing. “I lose all control…”
My doll cups her breasts, then slides her hands up her chest, her neck, into her hair…
And just as the words “when you grab ahold…” are heard, she lifts her arms to grasp the pole above her head with both hands, making me wish it was my cock instead. Or my own hands around her throat.
“And you do your trick…”
She holds herself up with her two-handed grip, and in a precisely equal move, her legs part wide.
“I love it when you…”
At the exact moment Joi sings the final word of the stanza—“lick.”—my doll slides straight down the pole, and if I didn’t have such a tight rein on each of my personalities, I would’ve probably whimpered the effect is so fucking sexy.
She knew damn well while she was creating it that I’d read into every second of this performance. And with her legs now spread obscenely wide, her thighs completely exposed as her tiny skirt hides nothing but her pussy in this half-squatted pose, that repeated word—lick—hits me right in the dick. Because all I’m thinking about now is doing exactly that.
I don’t hear it over the music, but I can feel the plastic remote groan in my hand as my grip tightens unconsciously. Not wanting to ruin the surprises in store for me or the work she put into them, I reach over without peeling my eyes away from my little dancer and set the remote on a rolling tray table I know is next to me.
It’s a good thing too, because that’s when she starts rolling her hips to the sensual beat, and I feel my cock jerk, surely soaking the front of my boxer briefs with precum.
She stands back up in one fluid motion, her legs sliding back together, then takes one hand off the pole above her head to trail it from one side of her throat to the other beneath her black-and-pink collar as Joi sings, “You’ve got lock and key…” Replacing her hand where it was, spinning to give me her back, and lowering her grip down the pole as she steps away from it enough to bend all the way forward until her upper half is perfectly flat, she hits this pose just as “Every part of me…” fills my ears.
Meaning I own everything she’s showing me.
The part of her body I can finally see beneath that black-and-pink-plaid miniskirt.
The rotating disco ball reflects the spotlight just right for me to catch a glimpse of the pink thong she’s wearing, and she’s bent so far forward it’s not just lace disappearing between her cheeks. It’s all of that thin material that’s visible, the part that’s usually concealed by the rounded globes of her ass, plus the other few inches that has her perfect pussy hidden behind it.
Somehow, the fact that I can see that little pink thong all the way from back to front is more arousing than if she’d bent over and revealed she was pantiless.
If there’s hidden meaning to decode between the rest of the chorus and her movements, it’s lost on me, because my mind focuses solely on the erotic vision she creates as she continues to dance for me.
By the time she turns to face me once again, I’m so aroused I can barely stand it. And that’s when it dawns on me, I’m not in some strip club with rules to follow. I’m in my own goddamn sex club, with my own tiny dancer who wants nothing more than to please me.
So, I stand up from the chair at a gradual speed, as not to startle her and make her stop her performance. I’m rewarded for the forethought, because instead of faltering, her eyes focus on my hands as she keeps going, the reflected light exposing the flush taking over her beautiful face while she watches me undo my belt, then slide it slowly from its loops. Unconsciously, my movements as I fold the leather, grip it in one hand, and unbutton my jeans match the beat of the music along with her, and the tension building in the space between us makes my heart pick up its pace. Especially when her extra-long lashes make it obvious when her gaze follows my fingers as I lower my zipper.
I don’t take off my pants, because she might have a plan for getting me out of them, so I pull my phone and wallet from my pockets and take a seat once again, placing the items on the tray next to the remote. Resting the belt across my lap, my eyes never leave her once in the time between bending forward to untie my shoes and tossing them and my socks beneath the rolling tray table. And thank God for that, because it’s in those moments she lets go of the pole to untie the knot of her shirt just beneath her breasts.
I’m vaguely aware of the lyrics saying something about not making her wait much longer, as the shirt disappears from her body, and a bra remains that I’d bet every dollar to my name perfectly matches the little pink thong beneath her skirt.
A smirk on my doll’s red lips draws my attention away from her pretty tits, making me realize my arm is still outstretching in midair from when I tossed my shoes. My eyebrow lifts at her expression, and I know she spots the warning when I see her gulp before schooling her features back to her doll-like appearance. If she hadn’t, I’m sure my hand slowly coming back to my lap to grip my doubled leather belt would’ve straightened her out.
The next thing to go is the pleated skirt, which leaves her curvy hips mid-spin as she hooks her right leg around the pole while gripping the metal with her right hand, using the left to release the Velcroed strap at her waistband. When she remains in nothing but her matching set, thigh-high socks, and those sinful Mary Janes, it takes everything in me not to charge forward out of my chair and detach her from the pole to make her ride mine instead. But at the same time, I’m frozen in place, enchanted by the confidence pouring off my doll as her left hand joins her right, her body turning as she unhooks her leg and repositions so that both thighs come up and cross to clamp around the golden pole.
She pulls herself closer as she continues to spin, arching and throwing her head back, which causes her ass to become the main focus of the show until it vanishes from view for half the rotation, making me a salivating and panting fiend inside as I anticipate its reappearance.
I’m watching that ass so closely, then making my own plans inside my head for that part of her, that she’s already stepping in my direction before I even realize she’s come down off the pole. And then I get to watch that sensual walk from earlier, only this time from the front, made even more erotic as my eyes train on the redness along her inner thighs as she approaches.
Can’t say I’ve ever been jealous of a stripper pole before.
I want to be the one to cause her flesh to turn red.
And not just from making her blush.
Her eyes are focused on the floor between us as she takes her careful but graceful steps, but the moment she’s directly in front of me, so close I can feel her body heat along my spread knees, her expression shifts back into its doll-like state. It makes me wonder if concentrating on keeping that countenance is helping keep her nerves at bay, if that’s the practice she’s using to accomplish this goal of hers, this exceptional gift she’s giving me. If so, I could use that—we could use that—to aid in her quest to become the sub she wants to be.
I’m pulled out of my thoughts as my doll bends forward and picks my belt up off my lap, obviously thinking on her feet as she gently places it behind my neck and pulls the ends over my shoulders like a scarf. I allow it, since my taking it off wasn’t part of her carefully laid plan, and there’s no way for her to ask permission without breaking character.
I can actually see it in the miniscule nods of her head and tiny twitches of her lips that she’s counting the beat of the music, trying to quickly figure out where in her choreography she should be, since I messed it up. But before the feeling of guilt can sneak up on me, it’s deflected with that earlier sense of pride as my doll picks up her dance flawlessly, her next movement placing her at my right side until she lifts her leg over my lap, then slowly takes a seat.
I can feel how hot her pussy is through the material between us, letting me know she hasn’t compartmentalized so thoroughly that this scene isn’t having an effect on her. The knowledge that it is thrills me to no end. But I hold perfectly still so I don’t disrupt her again. There will come a time in the future when I’ll allow myself to enjoy purposely fucking with her to see how she handles it. When I’ll have fun coming up with rewards and punishments for her reactions to the wrenches I throw her. Right now though, the best and most important thing I could possibly do is stick with her plan. Do all I can to make sure everything goes according to what she’s designed for this evening.
She places her hands on my shoulders and begins a lap dance so erotic I’m thrown back in time, feelings coming over me I haven’t felt since I was in college. I was so many years younger than my peers but living in the same dorm, exposed to partying and sex, the walls practically drenched in hormones. But it’s not the anger and hurt that came after all of it that my memory is conjuring. It’s the excitement and adrenaline rush from experiencing something so fucking new and delicious you believe it’ll never get old.
This dance is so fucking hot it’s like experiencing my first lap dance all over again.
Which is saying something, because I was barely past puberty at that point and could’ve come in my pants just by someone even glancing in the direction of my dick.
And the excitement only grows from there as my doll removes her bra, then veers from her original choreography—since she grasps hold of my leather belt on either side of my neck, which technically shouldn’t be there—and stands so that my face is level with her bare breasts. And then she tugs me toward her, her elbows pressing her small tits together to cushion the impact, and I swear to God I nearly drool right down between them as my mouth lands in her cleavage.
It has me questioning if I’ll be making fun of Brian for being a switch ever again.
She sits back down on my thighs, stealing her softness from where I’d happily suffocate, but keeps hold of her leather reins, and I tense the muscles of my neck and back to give her the stability she needs in order to complete her next gloriously erotic move. She throws her head back, her spine arching until her hardened nipples are pointed at the ceiling, and then dips even farther, to where all I can see from this angle is the underside of her chin, past and between her breasts.
I can’t help it then. I cannot and will not control the overwhelming need I feel in that moment to taste my little doll. And so I slide my arm beneath her arched back to hold her right above her hips, keeping her steady as I lean forward, her grip on the belt no longer needed as I take her weight and—right as the singers groan “Lick” once more—swipe my tongue from her belly button all the way up to the center of her chest.
She shudders, her upper arms squeezing her tits together once again, and I devour the flesh of her cleavage, sucking the soft skin and firm meat beneath it into my mouth to the point I get what I wanted. I’m now the one causing the red marks along her pale flesh, and her whimper and corresponding tug on the belt around the back of my neck only makes me suck harder.
See, little doll? I’m not a psychic. It’s your body that tells me exactly what it wants, I think but don’t say, because I’ve already deviated from her plan enough. I need to take back control over my own desires so she can see this night through the way she wanted it.
I unlatch from her breast, my pulse now thumping inside my cock while I take in the angry marks I’ve left behind as I sit up. I wait for the feeling of regret I normally get on the rare occasion I bruise my wife’s flawless skin, but it never comes. Especially as she stays in this position draped over my arm, her ribs making faint appearances with each deep inhale as she catches her breath. It wasn’t the exertion of her dancing that caused her to start panting like she just ran a marathon. Her breaths were mostly even when she first perched her soft ass just beneath my cock. No, this is all me.
This is all thanks to the Dom she now needs and craves—one who will handle her like a beloved fuck toy instead of a porcelain baby doll or fragile figurine.