Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 63282 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63282 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
But my rule exists for a reason—a good one. It’s saved me a lot of pain and frustration—not to mention money. When my parents got divorced, I saw how ugly a marriage could turn. It’s true what they say: the opposite of love is not hate; it’s indifference.
Another great thing about my rule? I savor the moment. Knowing this is a once-in-a-lifetime thing, it’s easier for me to push my loud thoughts down and just be present. When a strong, dominant man ties me up, blindfolds me, and gags me, it’s like he’s done the same to the annoying chatter in my head.
Everything goes quiet when I’m under the control of a powerful man, a man who knows how to treat a woman like me—not by giving me sweetness and light, but by depriving me of those things, until every cell in my body becomes one, unified by the same purpose: to please my master.
“Now you're ready to go, doll.” I hear PuppetMaster—my master for the night—take a step back, probably to admire his own handiwork.
I gasp as he pulls on the rope that's binding my hands together, the rough fibers cutting into my flesh. I wonder if it’ll leave marks on my skin. I hope it will.
I’m going to have to cover it up when the animal clinic reopens on Monday, but that's easy enough. I’ll just wear gloves all day. It’ll be sweaty and uncomfortable, but it'll also remind me of tonight, of PuppetMaster.
“Where are we going?” I ask softly as he nudges me from behind. He's so close I can feel the heat emanating from his body. I wonder what he looks like.
“Shhh . . . Dolls don't make a sound,” he whispers.
As PuppetMaster deposits me in a car, I notice a familiar scent, like berries and musk. And not for the first time, I wonder if I know this guy.
Is he a local? Does he live in Ashbourne, too? Does he know which magazines I subscribe to? Has he been following me? Has he seen me buying apples at the grocery store? Is he a stalker?
With every question, my heart rate grows more frantic. I know I’m playing with fire, but who cares? Life's too short.
In fact, the more dangerous it is, the stronger my body reacts. As my heart races, my whole body pulses to the same frenzied rhythm. The tingles between my legs grow stronger.
I prick up my ears to listen as the car glides over unseen streets.
PuppetMaster doesn't make a sound aside from his regular breathing. The stereo is off. The windows must be shut because I don't sense any wind; only the cooling blast from the air conditioner.
Aside from the soft purr of the car engine, there's nothing. By the time PuppetMaster stops the car and turns off the ignition, I still have no clue who he is, or where we are.
PuppetMaster wordlessly adjusts the black strip of fabric over my eyes. He drapes something over my shoulders and arranges it so it falls over my back—no doubt to hide my restraints.
Then, he guides me out of the car and into an air-conditioned indoor space.
I’m surprised to hear voices all around us. It seems like he's taken me to a public place—with my eyes blindfolded. Aren't we attracting too much attention? Has he taken me to a costume party, maybe? Or some kind of a club?
I hear mechanical doors closing, shutting out the voices. It's just us here, and there's carpeting on the floor.
It sounds like we're alone again, but PuppetMaster still says nothing.
The floor moves.
I instinctively reach out my hand to hold on to something, forgetting that my hands are tied. I lose my balance and almost fall face-first onto the floor of what I realize must be an elevator.
A pair of strong hands grip me by the arms. I expect him to fondle me, grab my breasts, maybe even shove me down onto the floor, or smash the emergency button to stop the elevator and have his way with me. Do something, you know? I’ve given him free reign over my body, after all.
But he simply steadies me until I can stand on my own two feet.
It occurs to me that he could've switched places with someone else, pimping me out for cash. But his musky scent lingers.
This could still be a kidnapping, though, or even sex trafficking.
My pulse thickens as I imagine all the treacherous possibilities. What would it feel like to be treated like a commodity, to be used, lent out, and traded? In the back of my mind, I’ve always wanted to find out for myself.
Luca
“It feels weird to me that you hang out with my brother all the time now,” she said all those years ago, back when Peter and I had just agreed to work on our first collaboration piece.