The Dollhouse (17 page)

* * *

W
hen I threw open
the doors of the walk-in closet in my bedroom, it was obvious why Naomi had found my concern over finding something to wear so amusing.

Clothes for every occasion and season lined the walls on each side. A rack in the back held dozens of shoes from the most modest of flats to the highest of heels. It was a fashionista's wet dream.

Not that I knew even the first thing about fashion.

My hands moved over the shimmering fabric of a cocktail dress, gliding gently over the soft material. I checked the tag at the back — my size. Another dress was just the same — my size. I flipped through the clothing, checking labels.

And all of it was in my size.

"Jesus," I whispered.

Some of the clothing was new. I noticed a few price tags still attached, but most of it clearly wasn't new. A few pieces, like a blazer with 80s-style shoulder pads, were clearly several years old.

"Weird."

I didn't want to hazard a guess as to why Julian had a closet full of clothes in his love nest, and all in the same size. Maybe he had very particular taste in women that he cheated on his wife with.

A floor-length gown had been pulled out and turned so it hung facing out from the rest. It was the color of fizzing champagne and shimmered gently underneath the light. I touched the fabric and gasped a little at the softness of the silk against my fingers.

This dress was obviously my size as well but it seemed different than the rest. The bodice was more modest, its cut classic and refined like something out of a period romance. But the back dipped low enough to expose the hollow at the bottom of my spine. And the slit up the side would barely cover the curve of my backside.

I considered putting it back but couldn't stop my hands from slipping the thin straps off of the satin-padded hanger so the fabric slithered into my arms like something alive. I gently pulled it over my head and down, inhaling deeply when the fabric caught at my hips until it fell down to kiss the floor at my bare feet.

When I turned to face the mirror on the opposite wall, I was greeted by a stranger. The woman in my reflection would not have been out of place draped in diamonds and holding the leash of a full-grown tiger as it curled at her side. I felt elegant and worldly.

This wasn't me. I was the scrubby girl from the South side who only washed her hair once a week because there was never enough hot water to go around. I was the girl who felt more comfortable in her dad's old sweatshirt than a pair of heels.

But in this dress, I was breathtaking.

I pushed my hair up on top of my head and turned to the side so I could see where the open back of the dress dipped dangerously low. My eyes seemed overly round as I stared at my own reflection, especially juxtaposed against the erotic display. I looked like some pagan offering of a virgin to placate the gods — all unwitting beauty and corrupted virtue.

Julian was going to eat me alive.

J
ulian was waiting
for me at the bottom of the stairs. I descended slowly and my hand gripped the railing as I fought to remain steady on the heels that I wore.

His expression did not change and he said nothing as he watched me come slowly towards him. If he was upset to be kept waiting, I couldn't tell. His face gave nothing away.

When I reached the bottom, we stood there for a moment with only an arms-length separating us. I was desperate to break the awful silence, but knew better than to give in to the urge.

The look in his eyes as he focused on me was as intense as it had ever been, but now there was an edge to his regard that I'd never seen before. The silence lengthened until it was nearly too much to bear.

"Dinner," Naomi called from the kitchen.

Julian looked away, momentarily distracted, and the tense moment was gone. When he turned back, his face had returned to the carefully neutral mask that he normally wore. Whatever emotion that simmered beneath the surface had been carefully hidden.

"Lovely dress." He took my arm and led us toward the dining room. "Where did you find it?"

"U-upstairs in the closet." His proximity sent shudders of awareness through me and it was difficult to think — much less speak — without stammering.

"I see."

"Do you like it?"

He paused and gave me an appreciative once-over, roving over the fitted lines of the dress and coming to rest on the generous plunge it made at my back. "What little of it there is."

Naomi had already laid out our settings when we entered the dining room. The heavy oak table was practically large enough to accommodate an army. The two lone place settings seemed like a tiny island in a sea of wood and candlelight.

Julian seated me in the chair to the right of the one at the head of the table. His hands slipped up my shoulders, stroking lightly across the skin in a way that was simultaneously soothing and stimulating. The hairs on my arms stood on end in reaction.

"Will you be needing anything else, sir?" Naomi asked, the diffident words not at all matched by her informal tone.

"That will be all for the night, Naomi."

She spared me the smallest of glances and hesitated for a moment as if she wanted to say something. But whatever that thought may have been died on her lips. The housekeeper gave a sharp nod before leaving the room, leaving us completely alone.

My heart beat faster as Julian passed behind me. I felt the feather-light brush of his fingers against the back of my neck. His presence filled the room. It was as if I could feel his will bearing down on me even when he was silent.

Julian seated himself at the head of the table. He was far enough away that I could breathe, but so close that all I could think was how little distance separated us.

He picked up his fork and held it in fingers that were long and tapered.

"Eat."

I picked up my own fork and half-heartedly pushed at the food. As good as the pink salmon on my plate looked, I couldn't eat it. The anticipation had completely overcome my appetite. What was he going to do to me? What was he going to ask me to do?

When I looked up he was watching me. My gaze immediately dropped and I heard him chuckle.

There was still a smile in his voice when he spoke. "Tell me more about yourself."

The mundane question surprised me out of my preoccupation. "You already know everything."

"I wouldn't say that. Where did you go to school?"

"UIC, but I dropped out in my third semester."

"To take care of your mother?"

"My brother and sister too, but yeah.” Saying it out loud made the situation sound even more pathetic than it actually was. "My mom had just been diagnosed and she couldn't work. I wouldn't have been able to concentrate in school anyway, thinking about them."

"You don't resent not being able to finish school?"

"I don't know. I don't really like to think about it. It is what it is."

"How very zen," Julian murmured. "Though I wonder if you're making enough of a distinction between acceptance and fatalism."

"I don't know what that means."

His gaze was speculative as it moved over me. He brought the fork to his lips and bit off the end of a piece of asparagus. "It means that I'm not sure if you're simply being stoic or laying down and letting life roll over you."

The words were too calmly delivered to be intentionally cruel, but it still stung. "You don't know me."

Julian leaned forward, his focused attention making me feel like I was under a spotlight. The air between us was electrically charged and so thick that I could barely breathe through it. His gaze never broke from mine as we stared at each other.

"You're not eating."

I looked down at my plate, still nearly full as I had done little more than push the food around on it.

He stood so suddenly that I gasped aloud before I could stop myself. He came behind my chair, still holding the long cloth napkin that had rested in his lap.

I held perfectly still, unable to move as his hand slid down one of my arms. He draped the napkin over my wrist and wrapped it around the chair arm before tying it tightly enough that the cloth was taut against my skin.

Julian continued to speak as he picked up my discarded napkin and repeated his actions on my other wrist.

"I'd like to tell you what I do know."

"What—“

"Hush." He tightened the second napkin around my wrist and I made a sound of surprise.

When he moved away, it felt like a physical loss. Julian returned to his chair at the head of the table and regarded me thoughtfully over the table. I tentatively pulled at the restraints binding my wrists but they were tight and gave me less than an inch of free movement.

I was effectively bound to the chair.

"I know that you've had to be very strong in the face of true adversity," he said softly. "I know you've carried a weight heavier than most people twice your age could bear."

A flutter of emotion stirred inside of me, like a fragile bird beating its wings against a gilded cage. I didn't know what to say so I simply stared in his eyes, which had gone dark and unreadable.

He reached over and speared a small piece of salmon with his fork then brought it to my mouth.

"Open," he commanded.

I let him place the morsel of food on my tongue and then chewed slowly. The idea of being fed by him was unbelievably erotic. I had to close my eyes against the wave of pleasure that threatened to overtake me.

He continued to speak as he slowly fed me one bite after another, his voice lapping over my senses like the gentle crests of ocean waves. "I also know that you are more uniquely suited to submission than any woman that I have ever met."

Even your wife?
The rebellious thought came and fled.

The warmth of his regard was like a balm to my soul. I still wanted to know about the other women he had known, but didn't have the courage to ask.

"How do you know?" My voice was whisper-soft.

His fingers stroked down the side of my neck and I shivered. "How could I not?"

I wanted to touch him, to excite him to feel the way that I felt — desperate and out of control. But the cloth binding my wrists held me tight to the chair, a physical reminder that I was helpless against him.

Julian watched me closely, the small smile on his lips indicating that he was perfectly aware of my internal struggle.

"What about you?" I asked softly. "What do you get out of this?"

His head cocked to the side and he regarded me thoughtfully, his expression carefully neutral. For a moment I thought he wasn't going to answer but then he spoke.

"The emotional need you have, the desire to be instructed and controlled — to submit," he paused. "I have a
need
as well, equal to yours in its power over me."

"I don't understand what you mean."

He stood and moved behind me. I forced myself to ignore the rapid beat of my heart as he slid one hand up the fragile skin of my neck. I swallowed hard and felt the pressure of his palm against my throat.

Gentle pressure tipped my head back until I could see him staring down at me. Emotion swirled in his eyes like storm clouds over a dark ocean.

"Just like you need this." His voice was rough with barely concealed desire. "I need it, too."

Julian kissed me hard, pressing down so his teeth bit into my lips. He ate at my mouth, bearing down like he would crawl inside of me or devour me alive.

When he pulled away, I tried to follow him but was stopped by the restraints on each arm.

"So impetuous," he said with dark chuckle. "Patience is a virtue, darling."

Reaching over my shoulder, he picked up one of the tall candles that sat at the center of the table. He held it up in front of me, the tiny flame flickering with his slow movement.

"Have you ever been waxed?" he asked in a tone that was almost conversational.

I swallowed the protest that automatically rose in my throat. I so desperately wanted to please him that it felt like I could do anything if he asked it of me. The realization of how far I would let him push me was terrifying.

"N-no," I stuttered, balling my hands into fists on the chair arms.

"The most important thing is to remain completely still. It would be a shame to ruin that lovely dress," he murmured, moving back behind me until he was out of sight. "The wax is going to feel very hot on your skin, but it won’t burn."

I heard the rustling sound of his movements at almost the same moment that a hot flash from the first drops of candle wax hit my shoulder. The heat of it was nearly overwhelming, but not quite enough to be truly painful.

"Good girl," he praised and I thrilled at the words. "Tilt your head back against the chair."

I complied and he rewarded me with a trail of fire across the skin of my throat. I hissed through my teeth but managed to remain still.

Julian carefully lifted the straps of my dress over my shoulders and down, one at a time. Gravity did the rest of the work and the silk bodice slipped down my chest and pooled at my waist. The cloth dipped low enough that the cleft where my belly met the curve of my thigh was just barely revealed.

"What kind of girl comes to dinner with a man and doesn't wear a bra or panties?"

My eyes closed against the erotic image that his words evoked. "I-I don't know."

Wax slid between my breasts, creating a trail of heat that went lower. "You don't know, what?"

I gasped. ”I don't know, sir."

He squeezed my nipple between his fingers, sending shivers of reaction through me. "But I think that you do, Dalea. Tell me. Tell me what kind of girl you are."

"A slut," I sobbed the words.

"Arch your back."

My chest thrust forward as my head fell back against the chair-back. Liquid wax hit my nipple, sending a shot of fire rocking through me. I moaned, fingers digging into the wood under my hands.

"Just like that," he murmured, before decorating the other side.

He painted me with the wax, decorating my chest, breasts and upper arms until nearly all of the exposed skin was completely covered. I loved how the wax felt as it coated my skin, the erotic heat of it and the fact that I had his complete and undivided attention.

"Stay still."

The line of wax dripped between my breasts and poured down my chest to settle at the slight curve of my belly, halting mere inches from the fabric of the dress that pooled at my hips.

"You look very lovely painted, pet," he said, his voice a caress. Julian moved around me to survey his handiwork. "The only shame is that I can't put you on display for the world to see."

An answering heat bloomed between my thighs at the thought of what that would mean. Would we ever do this in front of other people, did he want that?

I craned my neck down to look. He had decorated my entire upper body, the wax like icing on a cupcake just waiting to be eaten.

The thickness of the wax kept the heat against my skin from dissipating so I was burning from the outside as well as the inside. Light from the remaining candles flickered against the wax, simulating movement.

He untied to the napkins at my wrist and lifted me gently out of the chair. He held me closely to his chest and when he spoke the words rumbled against my ear.

"My most prized possession."

* * *

I
drifted
between waking and sleeping, but even in my dreams I could hear his voice, whispering erotic commands in my ear.

"Roll onto your stomach — yes, just like that."

I obeyed the fantasy instruction instinctively, the need to obey him so strong that it didn't require conscious thought or intent. Everything always came back to him. His presence surrounded and supported me. Phantom hands smoothed along my skin, both relaxing and arousing.

I opened my eyes at the same moment that I realized it wasn't a dream.
He
was there, kneeling over me as I lay on my stomach on the bed. His hands coasted down my back and to my flanks, massaging away the tiny hurts and aches that I didn't even realize were there.