DOLLY Read online

  All this time, and stupid ideas still pop into my head.

  He kicks the cot, and it’s enough to get me moving. My stomach will be next.

  I push myself up, and before I can blink my eyes open, he pulls me to my feet. I shuffle behind him. He’s turned on all the lights in the hall. The brightness blinds me, so I keep my head down. It’s a small thing, protecting my eyes, but it’s all I can do.

  The wooden stairs aren’t level. Some of them tilt to the side, and a few are loose. I trip twice going up them. Beardman doesn’t break stride even as my knees scrape on the last step.

  Even more light cascades over my face as we emerge from the cellar. It’s real light—sunlight. Black dots my vision as I scramble to keep up with him.

  “Ah, there’s my girl. There’s my pretty doll,” Bossman welcomes me. The thick scent of stale cigars fills the room. “Put your hand down so I can see you.” His tone is light, almost happy, but I’m getting smarter. He’s only putting on a show. The cameras must be on already.

  “She needs a dress, and her hair needs to be brushed,” Beardman criticizes, like he doesn’t like me being in here yet.

  “No, no, I’ll dress her. It’s fine.” Bossman takes my hand. “You can go now.”

  As soon as the door shuts quietly from behind me, I lift my gaze from the floor, and my heart pulses. A full-sized bed with white and pink lace blankets and a baby pink canopy rests against the far wall, and to the left is a white bookcase filled with books and toys next to a full-length mirror. My gaze settles on my reflection.

  My hair is longer. The flat stomach I’ve always wanted, spent hours doing crunches in my bedroom to achieve, shows how much I haven’t been eating.

  “Such a pretty little dolly,” Bossman says. No one ever uses names around me. Bossman, Beardman,—they are characteristics I want to remember. Because when I get out of here—if I get out of here—I’ll need to describe them. I will need to remember this was real, it actually happened, and I wasn’t imagining the nightmare. If I forget, if I blend it all into the background, I’ll feel too safe, and I could end up here again—and I won’t let that happen.

  Cameras are mounted in two corners, facing downward, and one stands on a tripod facing the entire room. The red lights glow.

  We’re live.

  A laptop sits on the nightstand beside the bed. The screen flickers. He’s taking live comments and suggestions.

  I catch the sob before it escapes me. If I cry, he’ll accuse me of being ungrateful and a brat—and brats get punished.

  He brings me to the closet and pulls out a white cotton dress with frilly lace around the sleeves and a thick pink satin belt that ties around my waist.

  “Here you go. Let’s get you dressed.”

  My body goes on autopilot as he maneuvers me into the dress. It’s what’s expected. I’m not to help or stop him. Just let him do it. He brings out two pink ribbons and gathers my hair into pigtails, tying them off behind my ear so my hair drapes over my chest. There’s a spot on the wall, a small speck of something, I focus on. My body’s moved like the good dolly they built, but they aren’t inside my head. I can hide here.

  “There. That’s better.” He smiles at me, and my stomach lurches, ready to expel the hotdog from earlier.

  “Let’s see what the viewers have to say. Why don’t you sit here?” He puts me on the bed, bending my legs and fixing the skirt of my dress until it’s situated properly. He pulls my hands to my lap and folds them.

  It’s in these moments, when I’m not supposed to be anything other than what he makes me, I can almost tolerate this. Here, I’m just a thing. Not a person. Not alive. No feelings or thoughts. Here, I escape into myself and hide while the rest of me gets moved and touched…and hurt.

  “Oooh.” Bossman laughs with glee. Whatever the suggestion was, he’s happy about it. The bed dips as he sits beside me. I curl my toes as a way to keep from looking at him.

  His pudgy fingers fumble with the buttons on the front of my dress. After working the long line of them open, he pulls the fabric apart, exposing my bare breasts to the camera facing me. Can they see my face? Will someone see me and recognize me? Know I don’t belong here and send help?

  I want to scream into the camera, beg someone to help me, to turn off the feed and call the police, but I’ve been warned about what happens to dolls who talk. They showed me, made me watch when one of the girls before me tried. Sally. That was her name.

  Sally screamed for help, begged and pleaded so much, the viewers were annoyed. They made sure she never did it again. After they removed her tongue, they took her away from me in the cellar. I don’t know where Sally went, but she wasn’t with me anymore, and I was alone.

  I stare at the blinking red light.

  Will I go away now that Ken is here? Will he find my cell empty and be all alone here like I was after Sally?

  Cold fingers pinch my nipples, and my attention jerks back to Bossman. He doesn’t relent, no matter how quiet I stay, how stoic I remain.

  He pinches harder, and I squeak.

  He laughs.

  It’s a game. It’s always a game with him.

  “Such a good dolly.” He kneads my breasts in his fat hands while he looks back over the monitor. “Ah, that’s a great idea.” He gets up from the bed. The shift of weight jostles the mattress. I press my hands against it to keep still.

  Bossman turns the computer toward me and put his hands on his hips. “They want to see your little asshole. Turn around and spread your cheeks for the cameras.” He gives his directions with a steel tone. He must have turned the microphone off. He likes to keep things light on his end while we’re live. It’s just him, playing with his doll. Nothing horrifying to see here…except everything is horrifying—and people pay for it. I’ve heard Bossman talk about money, about how some viewers will pay top dollar for special scenarios. The more degrading, the more violent and humiliating, the better. For him.

  “Dolly.” His voice grates over my ears. I can’t hesitate, yet lead fills my veins, turning my muscles to stone. It’s no worse than anything he’s made me do before, but my heart races, my lungs won’t fill. Bend over and open my cheeks. Show strangers everything. It’s not for them to see.

  I shake my head. A fog rolls in. My thoughts are disjointed.

  “Now, dammit,” he growls low.

  There’s a ding from the computer. Then another. And another.

  “Ah, seems our dolly is being disobedient tonight,” he says, and I throw my body into action. I know that word. It comes with punishment, and that means unbearable pain.

  I shove off the bed and whip around, pressing my face into the mattress. Gripping the hem of my dress in both hands, I pull it up until my bare ass faces the cameras.

  More dings, faster.

  His chuckle shoots ice through my bloodstream.

  “Okay, okay. You win.” He moves to the closet again. “Demontail47 will be charged one-thousand-and-fifty-dollars tonight.”

  No! No, no, no, no.

  I look over my shoulder.

  He has the rope.

  Someone bid to have me hang.

  I clench my teeth. Why didn’t I move faster? Hesitation doesn’t work! I know this!

  He fists my hair and yanks me backward until I’m on my feet. “Don’t drop that dress. Keep it up nice and high so everyone can see your ass,” he hisses into my ear.

  The burn in my scalp is nothing compared to what’s coming.

  He shoves me backward until I’m in the right spot, then goes to work with his rope. Around my armpits, my waist, between my thighs. He tugs upward, making sure the coarse material rubs against my labia. I cry out as he pulls the rope back and forth, working it into the right spot. He’s making a swing of sorts, and as my body adjusts to the burn in my groin, he hoists me up.

  I’m tethered to the hoops in the ceiling. One ankle, then the other, is knotted, and the line is thrown into another hook. Spread wide, my pussy, my ass, my breasts—ever
ything is exposed and open to Bossman.

  “There,” he says, out of breath from all the trouble of getting me trussed up like a prized pig. A little innocent dolly on her swing, like a child on a playground of horrors. My hands are wound in their own bondage and pulled over my head. Just to prove how big of an idiot I am, I tug. Useless.

  The door opens.

  “Ready for me?” Beardman's voice crawls over my skin.

  “You want her mouth or her cunt?” Bossman asks, his jolly tone back in full force.

  My body goes rigid.

  “I’ll take her pussy. Is it nice and wet?”

  Bossman laughs. “Doubt it.”

  “Perfect.”

  His belt jangles, and his zipper lowers.

  I fist my hands and clench my eyes shut. It’s all I have.

  Screaming will only make the bidding go higher for more punishment. At first, my body resists, not understanding it needs to stop fighting. It only makes it worse. He thrusts, but only pierces my sex for a brief moment before he stops and pulls back. It’s a momentary reprieve before Beardman plows harder. Bursting past my entrance, he lodges his cock inside me. Electric bolts of pain ricochet through me.

  “Fuck,” he groans. It’s a sickening groan. The sort that paints a layer of filth over my skin.

  Bossman stands behind me, pulling on the ropes. He’s made me into his own marionette. A puppet on strings. Pliable. He drags my legs open, until my muscles strain. A burn ripples through my thighs, and I cry out, but it doesn’t stop him. With another yank, he bends my legs at the knee until my feet are near my ass. I’m spread so wide, every muscle in my legs burn. He’s going to tear them out of the socket if he keeps it up.

  Beardman rocks over me, his cock bruising, tearing into me with each thrust. Tears burn my eyes as I become wet, my body creating enough lubrication to ease some of the pain.

  “Fuck. That’s right, Dolly. Get your pussy good and wet for me. You like this, don’t you, you dirty dolly,” Beardman says between grunts. My body is trying to protect me, to make the pain stop, but Beardman knows how to make it hurt deep in my chest.

  “A good, slutty, dirty dolly for me.” He buries himself deep into me, grinding his hips into my body.

  Hide. Hide. I try to fall back into the dark corner of my mind, but the sound of my juices on his cock while he continues his twisted dance won’t let me run away.

  I’d make my cunt dry if I could. No matter the pain, I’d rather keep him from getting this satisfaction. He shouldn’t get to have this part of me.

  The computer dings again, and I bite down hard on my lip.

  “On those pretty tits,” Bossman says, and he starts playing with the ropes again.

  “Now. Fuck yeah, now,” Beardman cries out. He never takes long. It’s my only reprieve with him.

  The ropes creak as they twist and dig into my wrists. The room spins. Down becomes up. It blurs my vision, and my skin burns. My legs are jerked again. I press my lips together, stifling my cry.

  I try to turn away, but Bossman digs his fat fingers into my hair, forcing me to watch Beardman jerk his cock over my chest. Hot ropes of cum land on my breasts, searing me with his demented pleasure. The thick white liquid slides over my skin, making me the dirty dolly they call me. By the time his last grunt passes his lips, I’m painted in his scent. A musky stench I won’t be able to cleanse from my mind as easily as my body.

  “Fuck, her cunt is good.” He tucks his dick back in his pants.

  Bossman lets go of my hair and checks the monitor again.

  “They’re happy,” he announces, and finally, I can breathe. It’s the end. It’s over. I can go back to my cell, ease my aching muscles on the cot, and try to forget.

  Bossman maneuvers me out of the ropes, but he doesn’t give Beardman the order to take me back. The cameras are still on. Why are they still blinking?

  He forces me to the corner near the bed and shoves a stuffed rabbit in my hands. “You stand here like the naughty girl you were today. You think about the ways in which you’ll be better next time. Don’t move a muscle, Dolly. Not a single muscle.” He pats my shoulder and disappears.

  My nose is in the corner. My joints are on fire.

  Stand here?

  For how long?

  My legs wobble.

  “Don’t be naughty, Dolly.” Bossman’s voice echoes in my head as the door closes with a soft click.

  Silence fills the room, making the air thick.

  My knees buckle, but I keep myself upright.

  Maybe I can move a little.

  The computer pings.

  I choke back a sob.

  Five

  KENDOLL

  The girl is still sleeping in her cell. Hanging limp over the shoulder of one of the goons, he’d dumped her on the floor, dropped a metal bucket next to her, and slammed the door on his way out.

  I grab hold of the bars and pull myself to my feet. Every muscle in my back rages, but I force myself through it. The pain breaks through the heavy fog in my head, giving me a moment of clarity.

  Rubbing my hands over my eyes, I chase down a blip of a memory. I stretch my body, letting the ache work itself out, but the pain in my ass isn’t going to go away with a little yoga pose.

  The full memory floods me, chasing the blood from my face. I press my forehead against the cool bars of my cell. My thoughts start breaking up, coming in flashes. They must have given me something.

  She stirs on the floor, a groan followed by aimless reaching of her arms until she finds the bucket. She hauls herself up enough to vomit into it. Over and over, she wretches. My own stomach twists as her body tightens with the force of it all.

  When she’s done, she shoves the bucket away from her and collapses back to the floor. Blood streaks the back of her dress. There are more splatters on the skirt and tears on the sleeves.

  “Hey…hey…” I call to her. She doesn’t move. “Hey,” I try, louder.

  She pushes herself back up, like a rubber doll wiggling to get upright. Fumbling with her hand, she finds the cot and maneuvers herself to sit against it. Her skirt hikes up. There’s more blood on her legs. My fingers curl around the bars until my knuckles go white.

  “Are you okay?” asks the dumbest man alive. Of course she’s not.

  She pushes her hair, most of which is loose from the pale pink ribbons, behind her ears, and raises her chin.

  Her lips are painted in dark red lipstick smeared in every direction, and her thick black eyelashes are bent awkwardly from her eyelids.

  “You shouldn’t talk,” she whispers, then rubs her hands over her lips. Pulling her hand in front of her, she sees the lipstick and frantically swipes at her face.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “They don’t want us to talk.” She picks up the hem of her dirty dress and wipes her cheeks. More makeup comes off.

  “Who?” I ask, looking as best I can down the corridor to the door. “There’s no one here.”

  “They can see us.”

  A camera points down at us from over the doorframe. The LED lights are too predominant to be infrared, and the plastic dome cover is cheap. It’s not a live camera.

  “It’s a dummy camera,” I say. “Just a prop. Not real.” Her eyes flash up to meet mine.

  Large, clear blue eyes. Beneath all the paint and false lashes, innocence lingers there.

  “They can’t see?”

  I smile at the tinge of excitement in her voice, like I just gave her a gift. Privacy, I suppose, is something she’s been lacking here. Among other things.

  “No, they can’t see or hear us.” I don’t know about that last part, but I’m not looking to wipe away the light in her expression just yet. “Do you know where we are?”

  Her shoulders fall. “No. I was hoping—” She blows out a puff of air.

  “I don’t remember much. I wasn’t here, and then I was.” I don’t go into detail of the pure panic and rage at waking up to find myself locked in this fucking cell.
She doesn’t need to know how close I came to sobbing like a little boy calling for his mommy.

  “Yeah.” She nods. The same must have happened with her. “Are you sore? Your back was bruised and your—” She looks back to the floor.

  She wants to know about my ass? It’s a ring of fire from that fat fuck forcing himself inside me, but she shouldn’t have to worry about that.

  “I’m fine. It’s okay. I’m okay.” I wait until she looks at me again. “Are you? There’s blood—”

  She pulls her skirt over her knees and hugs them to her chest. “I haven’t been okay since I got here.”

  “When was that?” How long has she been enduring these assholes? Playing to their tune?

  “I don’t know. What’s the date?”

  I open my mouth to tell her, but the memory slips away. “I don’t know. I can’t remember how long I’ve been here. I was upstairs until—” I press the heels of my hands into my temples, trying to force the memories to stop swirling. One lands, and pain ripples through my chest. Oh God.

  “Ken?” she whispers, like she’s testing the waters of an unknown pond.

  “Yeah.” I shake my head. “I don’t know how long it’s been since I was upstairs.” Memories, when provoked, don’t fade just because processing them hurts. They grab hold and blossom into full horror.

  “There has to be a way out of here.” I pace my cell again. If I can’t forget, I can at least ignore for a while longer. “A loose block…a window somewhere? Maybe we can overtake the assholes and run for the door?”

  She sniffles. I’ve made her upset.

  “There’s no way out, Ken. I don’t know where any windows or doors are. The rooms upstairs—there aren’t any windows.”

  “Okay, then we’ll have to watch, keep an eye out. There has to be a way.” I force a laugh. “I mean, we got in, right?”

  She swipes the back of her hand over her eyes.

  “We can’t just let them…” My words fade into the background. She doesn’t need a reminder of what happens when they take us upstairs.