The Dollhouse (5 page)

There is nothing more erotic than when a woman offers her breasts to me, Dalea.” He blew gently over the sensitive skin. My nipples puckered and hardened in reaction. “Beg me to do what I want with them.”

My voice came in a breathy sigh. “Please do what you want with my breasts, sir.”

He clearly needed no further inducement. I saw his mouth descend before I felt the broad, raspy surface of his tongue flatten against my flesh.

His head moved to the side, laving the other nipple in turn with wicked strokes of his tongue. The hand holding my wrists pressed down hard, grinding the delicate bones together until I made a small sound of pain. Instead of balking, the sound seemed to excite him more. His lips closed over one nipple, sucking it in earnest.

The sensation, sharp and unrelenting, was so close to pain that I instinctively bucked against the iron grip he had on me, even as I knew my struggles were to no avail. His hand tightened around my wrists, unmoved by my struggles I might as well have been the wind trying to move a mountain.

He watched me as his lips bared, still pressed against the skin of my areola.
He wouldn’t,
came the desperate thought. I felt a flash of fear as his mouth closed over the sensitive flesh of one nipple.

That was when he bit down, teeth digging sharply into my skin.

The jolt of pain ran like live wire from the aching flesh of my nipple and straight to my molten core. His head moved to the other side, repeating the harsh attention.

Both of his hands moved to my chest, squeezing my breasts and pressing them hard together.

Now released, my hands fell to his head of their own volition and my fingers coiled in his dark hair. It was thick and soft as silk. My hands moved frantically through the strands, pulling and clenching into fists. The frenetic movements were the only way I knew to ask for what I didn’t know how to put into words.

I bucked against him, his erection hard against my thigh. The squirming contact wasn’t enough and I desperately wished there weren’t so much clothing between us, that I could feel his bare skin on mine.

He matched the movement, hips moving against me in a rhythm as old as time itself, even as he never ceased the unforgiving attention to my breasts.

We ground against each other. I didn’t care that the wool of his slacks was rough and scratchy against the sensitive skin of my inner thighs, it only added to the overwhelming sensation. The friction against the aching bead of my clitoris was overwhelming. My hips rose and fell against him in a frantic tempo.

His hands stayed in place, kneading at my breasts, but his mouth moved up my chest to my neck and nibbled a tantalizing trail to my ear. “Come for me, Dalea. Come now.”

He thrust his hips hard into me. The feel of him rubbing against me there — the abrasive fabric sliding harshly across my overly sensitized nerves — was more than I could bear.

I came with a screaming cry that pierced the air. The sound echoed in the room, still audible as I collapsed back against the bed.

But it wasn’t enough. The earth-shattering orgasm wasn’t a release but only served to whet my appetite. I wanted more. I wanted more of him. I wanted
all
of him.

My arms came up of their own volition to wrap around his neck, catching him off guard and pulling him down with me. Words spilled from my lips before I could stop them. “Please fuck me, sir.”

“Desperate little darling.” I felt his smile against the skin of my neck before I heard a dark chuckle. “I’m afraid you’ve had all that you’re going to get.”

I moved wantonly against him, the evidence of his unfulfilled desire more than apparent when it pressed against my leg. “But what about you, sir?”

“
I
am not your concern.”

I felt a keen sense of loss as he pulled away, rolling off of me to stand at the foot of the bed. Fearful that I had upset him, I scrambled quickly to my knees. “I’m sorry, sir.”

He regarded me steadily for a long moment, eyes traveling down my naked form and making me shiver. “I’m quite pleased with you, Dalea. You’ve exceeded my every expectation.”

A happy grin spread across my cheeks. The thought that I had made him happy meant more than anything else in that moment. “Thank you, sir.”

“Your breasts will be sore for a few days. You won’t be able to touch them without thinking of me.”

My hand brushed against the faint indent of his teeth in my left breast. A shock of pain shot through me with an answering throb of desire. “Oh.”

The smug smile that crossed his lips was like a ray of sunlight after a lifetime of darkness. “Think of me.”

His obvious pleasure made me bold. I asked the question — the one whose answer had plagued my restless nights. “Will you tell me your name, sir?”

His gaze sharpened as he regarded me. An emotion that I couldn’t identify crossed his face before it went blank and carefully neutral.

“Why?”

I hesitated, no ready explanation on the tip of my tongue. Unfathomable eyes watched me closely, nearly overwhelming in the intensity of their attention. Unable to lie to him, I finally just admitted to the truth.

“For my dreams.”

He was silent for long enough that my heart began to beat uncomfortably hard. His impenetrable gaze moved over me and I could feel it like the weight of his hand on my skin. His eyes lingered on my exposed breasts, skin reddened and sore from his attentions.

“Julian. You may call me Julian.”

* * *

“
J
ulian
.”

I tasted the name on my lips for the thousandth time as a silent Dollhouse bouncer drove me home. I hadn’t really expected him to give me a name, whether it was real or not. But I had felt something shift when he had.

My patron was no longer anonymous. Our interactions were no longer strictly within the realm of fantasy. He had a name and that made him so much more real.

The windows of our apartment were dark when the car pulled up to the curb. I was already pushing the door open when it rolled to a stop. I’d quickly figured out that waiting for it to be opened for me would just make me feel bad about myself.

It seemed strange to admit that being spanked and forced to call the man who did it
sir
made me feel like less of a whore than the fact that the Dollhouse driver couldn’t be bothered to open the door for me. But it was true just the same.

“Thanks for the ride,” I said sarcastically before slamming the door shut behind me.

It was still dark outside but wouldn’t be for long. I hurried up the creaking stairs of the old apartment building, wanting to be safely in bed before any of my family awoke for the day.

I turned the key slowly in the lock, trying to be as quiet as possible. Momma was snoring softly on the couch when I came in the door. I tiptoed softly past her, thankful that the breathing machine was actually doing her some good.

Her respirations remained steady and even. I breathed a sigh of relief.

A breath which I promptly exhaled sharply when I entered the kitchen and found my brother waiting for me.

“Jesus,” I said, gasping. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Luis stood, his skinny arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Where have you been?”

“Out.” I tried to sweep past him but he blocked my path.

“With who?”

“None of your business. Get out of the way, Luis.”

“My boy Niko saw you get in the back of some car with blacked up windows and drive away. That was like four hours ago.”

Heat suffused my cheeks as I stared into his belligerent face. Of all the people to see me get into that black sedan, why did it have to be someone who knew my brother.

“So what?”

“So what have you been doing?” He glared at me. “Where did the money for Mom’s meds and her new breathing machine come from? What have you been doing?”

I didn’t know what to tell him, there was no excuse I could give that would make any sense. I thought that I had been so careful, but it just seemed stupid in hindsight. Of course he would have questions when money just appeared out of nowhere.

“I told you the insurance money came in. That’s it.”

“You’re a fucking liar.”

He grabbed for the small purse that was slung over my shoulder, too quick for me to stop him. I tried to grab the strap before it slipped off but he was too fast.

“Stop it!”

Luis was already rifling through the bag, spilling its contents onto the floor. He immediately found the wad of cash at the bottom and held it up accusingly.

“What the fuck, Dalea?”

“Leave me alone.” I snatched the money back from him, balling it in my fist. “We needed money and I got it. How I did it doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter.” He watched me drop to the floor so I could pick up the spilled contents of my purse. “You don’t need to get it from strange men.”

A strange man,
I almost corrected him. “We need it.”

“Not like this.” Luis’s face was more earnest than I’d ever seen it and I felt a stab of emotion. It had been so rare lately to get any sign that he cared about anyone but himself. “I’ll start washing dishes at the diner, if I have to. You can’t do this anymore.

“Luis…”

“Promise.” He stared down at me, eyes round and sincere. “Promise me that you won’t do this anymore.”

I could suddenly see him as a baby, when Momma made me promise that I would always take care of him. My family had been all I had for as long as I could remember. They had always been the most important thing in my life.

But then I thought of my patron —
Julian —
the outlet for the dark desires that I never knew that I even had.

“I promise.” My heart wrenched painfully in my chest. “No more.”

Luis’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Okay. We’ll find money some other way.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the money that a waitress and a dishwasher could make wasn’t going to stretch very far. Or that there might not be a way to make it work.

Perhaps it was better this way. Julian was like a fire in my blood and it threatened to consume me. The Dollhouse asked too much of me — my time, my pride and, perhaps, my soul. A clean break might be just the thing that I needed.

But if it was, why did the thought fill me with me so much regret?

“
I
t came
!”

Luis burst into the kitchen. I was sitting at the table surrounded by last month’s unpaid bills with a calculator in my hand. Of course, no matter how many times that I added the numbers together, it still came up to more money than we had available.

“What came?” I ground the palms of my hands into my eyes in the hopes that would kill my splitting headache.

He held an envelope in his hand and waved it in front of my face. “I think it’s the check, from the disability people!”

“Did you open it?” I asked, hope springing in me. If Momma’s social security application had been approved, it would mean getting some of these bills paid and keeping food on the table for the rest of the month.

“No. Not yet.”

He was so excited that I had to grab his arm with one hand to keep it still long enough for me to seize the envelope with the other.

My heart pounded as I held it in my hands. It amazed me that something that could change our lives only needed a postage stamp to arrive. And it was definitely a check, the kind with lines and crosses in the back for security and the little perforations that needed to be folded back on each side.

I opened the envelope with trembling fingers. It seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to peel the paper open as numbers danced before my eyes.

When the check was finally revealed, I let out an involuntary squeal. Luis crowded over me as I sat in the chair, trying to see. “How much? How much?”

My eyes scanned the check quickly until I narrowed in on the little box to the side. It was just one little box that would determine exactly how far we could dig ourselves out of this hole.

My heart sank.
Oh no…

The number was tiny — significantly less than half of what I had made for one night in the Dollhouse. And this was what was supposed to last us for the entire month? I could maybe take care of the light bill and half of the rent, but what about the rest?

“Is it a lot?” Luis asked, pressing in close over my shoulder.

His face was so eager that I couldn’t bear to tell him the truth. Luis had been working so hard lately, showing up at the diner whenever I asked him to and doing his job like he was supposed to. Not to mention, keeping his attitude in check for the first time in years. He didn’t deserve to be burdened with the weight of our money troubles.

“It’s perfect.” I closed the envelope, hiding the check’s face.

“Awesome!” He snapped his fingers like he’d just had a great idea. “This means that I can quit working at the diner, right?”

“No.” I said a little too sharply. I started gathering the papers and envelopes up that were on the table into a neat stack. “We can still use the extra.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Watch your language,” I snapped. “Lucy might hear you.”

“Watch being a bitch.”

“Luis!”

“Whatever.” He slammed out of the kitchen before I could say anything else.

Damn it.
I pushed the papers back into the old shoebox that I kept for unpaid bills. My movements were too forceful and several of them spilled onto the floor.

“Shit,” I mumbled under my breath.

I bent down to clean the mess and the phone rang. The sound startled me enough that I reacted, the top of my head slamming into the table as I tried to stand.

“Fuck!”

“Dalea?” I heard Lucy’s voice from the living room and cursed under my breath. Today was obviously not my day.

“Everything’s fine, sweetheart,” I shouted to her. “Watch your cartoons.”

The prepaid cellphone that we had been using since the landline was cut off a few months ago sat on the tabletop, jittering across the surface with each ring.

I snatched up the phone, still kneeling on the floor. “Hello?”

The voice on the other end was female and clipped. “May I speak with Alvina Moreno, please?”

“She can’t come to the phone,” I said, thinking of Momma who was currently laying on the couch in the living room, passed out in a stupor from the pain medication. She had finally restarted chemotherapy last week and we had to decide between having her awake or in excruciating pain. It hadn’t been a difficult choice. “I’m her daughter, Dalea.”

I heard the shuffling of papers on the other end. “That’s fine, I see we’re allowed to provide you with information.”

“Uh, okay.”

“My name is Olivia Banks. I am the finance coordinator at the Downtown Cancer Clinic.”

I could feel the falling sensation in my stomach that meant something awful was about to happen. “What can I do for you, Ms. Banks?”

“I’ve been looking over your mother’s financial records and I’m afraid there is a problem.”

I swallowed hard. “What’s that?”

“The chemotherapy regimen that she is receiving is not approved by the FDA for use in advanced lung cancers. Unfortunately, Medicaid will not reimburse for unapproved treatments or medications.”

“But this is what the doctor prescribed.” I held the phone hard to my ear until it was almost painful. I wanted to make sure she heard every word. “He says it’s working.”

“I understand that, ma’am. Your mother will still be able to receive the treatment, however the cost will no longer be billed to her insurance. Going forward, the clinic will require cash payment
in advance
for all services provided.”

“Cash?” I tried to speak through the roaring in my head. “How much money are we talking about, exactly?”

“One moment.”

I waited, not breathing. The sound of keys clacking on a computer keyboard was audible over the line. The chemotherapy was medication, how much could it possibly cost?”

“Nine hundred and forty-three dollars, not including a small exam fee. That amount is per session and she is currently scheduled twice per week.”

“A thousand dollars!” I was nearly hyperventilating now and it was a struggle to remain upright. Lucky for me, I was already sitting on the floor. There wasn’t any further down to go. “What if we can’t pay?”

“I’m very sorry.” The woman’s voice was carefully neutral. “But I’m afraid, in the absence of payment, that your mother’s treatment will no longer continue.”

* * *

I
hurried
down the stairs of our apartment building, already late for the extra shift that I’d picked up at the diner. It would have to be a good night to put a dent in the outrageous medical bill we were going to have to pay for Momma’s chemotherapy.

Days off were a luxury that I could apparently no longer afford.

Not for the first time, I internally railed against the ruin that was my life. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. I didn’t deserve it.

Straight-A’s all through high school, plenty of extracurricular activities on top of my part-time job at the diner earned me a full-ride scholarship to the University of Illinois at Urbana. And then, before I even had a chance to see how far I could go, my future had come crashing down with Momma’s diagnosis.

Suddenly she couldn’t work — could barely leave her bed. I had to come back home to help her and take care of Lucy and Luis. Somebody had to do it and there was no one else. I’d never been raised to abandon my family.

But that didn’t mean that resentment hadn’t grown in me like a rosebush made only of thorns. I had done everything that I was supposed to do and still I had to struggle. Still, I had to fight.

It wasn’t fair.

But nobody ever said that life was supposed to be fair. Happily ever after was only ever a guarantee in storybooks. And unless there was a fairy godmother interested in making a trip to the south side of Chicago, I was pretty much out of luck.

I pushed open the door of the building, bracing myself against the heat and bright sunlight. There was nothing like a Chicago summer to make you appreciate not having the electrical service cut off.

I had to get these bills paid.

Once outside, the blazing sun momentarily blinded me. So much, that I didn’t notice the black sedan parked on the street out front until I nearly ran into it.

A tinted window, so dark it was nearly opaque, rolled down until the elegant and lined face of the Procurer was smiling up at me.

“No,” I said sharply, turning to walk down the sidewalk.

The car followed me and the Procurer spoke through the open window. “Still as pleasant as always, I see.”

“Please leave me alone.” I struggled to keep my tone even. I had promised my brother — and myself — that I wouldn’t go back. The Dollhouse created more problems than it solved.

When I risked a glance, the Procurer stared at me with eyebrows raised. “You might be the most changeable girl that I have ever encountered.”

I stopped suddenly and turned to face him. The sedan halted as well with a slight screeching of tires on the pavement.

“Look…” My voice faltered, unable to continue. I could feel the memory of my patron’s —
Julian’s!
—hands on my skin and took a shuddering breath. I needed the strength to end this. “I can’t do this anymore.”

The Procurer’s eyebrows shot up into his ever-so-slightly receding hairline. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” I nearly choked on the word. I had to lay waste to my chances of ever returning to the Dollhouse.

He watched me carefully, eyes sharp as a hawk’s. “Once done, these sorts of decisions are difficult to undo.”

“
These sorts of decisions…
” I repeated him, half-mocking and half in wonder. “Do you do this often? Cajole women into selling themselves to the highest bidder?”

“I don’t recall an auction for your favors, my dear.” His sardonic tone and the cold look in his eyes were clearly a warning, if I was able to heed it. “However that can likely be arranged, if you so desire. I can see it now:
entitled brat for sale, only fifty cents
.”

My hands balled into fists. I willed myself to calm before I said something that I would regret. “I’m done, thanks.”

“So you’ve said.” His gaze moved over me in a way that was not friendly. “I do tire of the repetition, dear Dalea.”

My name on his tongue was spit out like an insult. “You’re not the only one.”

“I cannot say that I will miss these charming exchanges but, of course, I am not compensated to fulfill my own desires.” He watched me steadily, expression thoughtful. “You may regret an impetuous decision. Or your mother will.”

I glared at him. “What do you know about it?”

“You might be surprised at what I know.” The Procurer smiled, revealing teeth that seemed sharp as fangs. “One last favor, for a girl in need, I will give you some time to
thoroughly
consider your options before accepting your refusal.”

I squared my shoulders, determination like a core of steel running down my spine. “The answer is no.”

“
He
does not respond well to being told no.”

My traitorous heart skipped a beat. I steeled myself against the curl of desire that coiled in the pit of my belly. “I guess it’s a good thing that I won’t ever see him again, then.”

“Let us hope, for your own sake.” The Procurer stared at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “You know what to do if you change your mind.”

The car pulled away from the curb before I had a chance to reply. The window rolled back up, obscuring the Procurer from view, just before the sedan turned at the corner and was gone.

I prayed it would be the last I ever saw of anyone associated with the Dollhouse. But a traitorous voice whispered through my thoughts,
what about Julian?

Snap out of it,
I commanded myself. I couldn’t think about Julian, or the blissful feel of his mouth and hands on my body. I had to keep my mind on Lucy and Luis, and on Momma. I had to think of the people who needed me.

The walk to work took longer than it should have, my thoughts consumed with worry. Even if I had the best night ever at the diner, those tips combined with the last of my Dollhouse money would barely be enough to cover the treatment that was scheduled for Momma later in the week.

But what about the rest of our bills – rent, electricity and money for food? That wasn’t going to come from nowhere.

The diner was nearly deserted when I entered, confirming all of my worst fears. Miranda was behind the counter and ringing up a customer. Her eyebrows shot up in surprise when she saw me.

“What are you doing here, girl?”

“Filling in for Rachel.” I walked behind her to grab an apron off the hook on the wall. “I think she’s sick.”

The customer took his change and walked away. Miranda turned toward me with a frown. “Rachel is a lazy slut.”

“Yeah, well, I need the money.”

Miranda’s gaze was knowing. “How’s your mom?”

“Better, for now.” Tears burned behind my eyes. I willed them away with an effort. “Insurance won’t pay for her chemo anymore.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Wow.” She rubbed my shoulder in a comforting gesture. “Do you have the money?”

“Yeah, barely, but only if I don’t pay for literally anything else, like rent and food.”

“Oh, honey.” She wrapped me in a hug. “If you need some help, I have a little extra tucked away.”