The Dollhouse Society Volume I: Evelyn (Includes Indecent Proposal, Dreams in Black & White, Playing House, Freeze Frame, plus a bonus story!) (9 page)
Authors: Eden Myles
“Yes,” I said, holding his even gaze. I deliberately left off the “sir”. I rubbed myself against his pressed, black linen trousers. I made a kind of circular motion until I knew I had soaked them.
“Evelyn.” He narrowed his eyes behind the lenses of those glasses I loved so much on him. He moved his hand to the back of my head and took a great fistful of my loose, long hair and pulled back on it, hard, hard enough to arch my spine and yank my head back so I was offering him my throat, my breasts, my cunt, everything at once. His arm hummed with unspent power. I cried out, not from the pain but from the decidedly vulnerable position he’d put me in. “You’re acting inappropriately, Evelyn.”
“Yes,” I said.
He leaned forward and kissed my throat, mouthed it, sucking at the tender skin there until I whimpered. Then he moved his head down and took a nipple in his mouth, sucking at it so hard though the friction of the silk dress that I cried out at the soft pain. He was able to take a lot into his mouth, more than my ex-boyfriend Shawn ever could, and he used teeth, which Shawn never had. He made a slow groaning noise as he swallowed me all the way t
o the back of his throat, like h
e meant to consume me. He bit down, gently, and I cried out. Then he moved to lavish the same kind of rigid attention on my other nipple, the suction of his mouth so powerful I could feel it moving in a zinging line all the way to my clit.
He finally let me go and told me to open my mouth. He stuffed some of the pearls into my mouth, where they clinked against my teeth, tasting like the perfume I wore. Then he told me to bite down on them and to present myself. I climbed out of his lap and onto my hands and knees on the sofa. I leaned my arms and lower body against the cold pleather and obediently stuck my rump up in the air. He came up behind me and rested his hand on my hips. “I’ve been much too lenient on you, Evelyn. Obviously, you’re willing to take advantage of my good nature,” he growled in my ear even as his cock bumped me, then rubbed against the wetness of my slit. “A good courtesan knows her place is
beneath
her gentleman, not atop him. I haven’t shown you enough discipline, I think.”
My already labored breathing sped up as his fingers touched me, tracing the wetness of my slit up to my exposed ass. I started panting around the pearls in my teeth when he touched me there. He ventured a few inches inward and then stopped. This was the one place he couldn’t reach me with his cock. He was simply too big. And for all his rough play, he worried constantly about hurting me, really hurting me.
The not-quite-pain made me squirm and lift my rump higher. “There, my dove,” he said, sounding more satisfied. “Take me.” He pushed until I squealed. Then he withdrew his finger and moved his hand to my cunny. He thrust three fingers deep inside me, into the incredible wetness and heat there, making me groan with his sudden, sharp depth. He pushed his fingers hard into me until I rocked my hips against his finger fucking. He wet his fingers thoroughly before returning them to my ass. He pushed against my opening again, sliding in much deeper this time, almost all the way in. It hurt much less, but the sensation made me buck against him, spilling more of my wetness over the sofa. I bit down so hard on the pearls that my teeth ached all the way to my molars.
He stopped and waited to see if I would use our personal safe word, if I would end our play then. All I had to do was spit the pearls out and say it and everything would stop. But when I only groaned deep in my throat, he inserted a second finger. He pushed hard. He’d never put this much of himself into me there. I knew he was training me, teaching me to acclimate myself to new sensations, but this was so sudden and unexpected, I thrashed and felt myself coming.
“Hold, Evelyn, hold. You’ll come when I tell you to, my courtesan. You’ll afford your gentleman the respect of coming
after
he has come.”
It took every ounce of my strength to keep from convulsing around his fingers. My French manicure penetrated the pleather cushions of the sofa, and I couldn’t help but wonder what the owner would think in the morning.
Finally, he withdrew his fingers, spread my cunny wide, and started pounding into me hard. I was tight, and each upward thrust made me want to convulse around him. I anchored myself against the sofa and concentrated on not coming, not coming.
We had made the decision early on in our relationship that I would start using the pill, that we would be monogamous. That way, we could dispense with the use of condoms. He’d even sent me a copy of his medical records, as if I doubted his intentions. I discovered that the only thing of concern on them was, ironically enough, a rather persistent case of hives that he took medication for. So far, it had worked out well for us. I found I loved feeling the heat of him moving deep inside me like this, driving his seed into me. I loved knowing a small bit of him remained with me afterward.
Usually, he took his time with me, coaxing me to climax after climax first, preparing me. But tonight he was in a kind of frenzy. Tonight he was greedy and selfish. He grabbed my hair and yanked my head back and just pounded relentlessly into me, high up in me, almost bumping my cervix so I cried out at the impacts. It wasn’t pain, more of an uncomfortable fullness, but his power and subdued fury frightened me tonight. “Hold,” he commanded with a quick yank of my hair to prove his point. He held me down like some captured animal and continued to buck inside me like a male in heat, forcing me to take all of his cock at once.
I nearly sobbed in relief when he finally came fast and hard inside me. He shuddered and filled me, then shuddered again, locked deep inside my body. He finally let me come, and so sensitive was he to the little convulsions within me that it made him come a third time. When he finally withdrew, I could feel his warmth trickling down the insides of my thighs and staining the sofa beneath us further.
It was all over in minutes.
He pulled me back into his lap and grabbed me by the jaw and held my face as he kissed me both gently and fiercely, sliding his tongue over my teeth. He moved his tongue around my mouth, over the pearls. He licked me thoroughly as the violence slowly went out of his body, replaced by a more gentle playfulness. “Such a pretty girl,” he said, breathing hoarsely against my lips as he pushed me down against the sofa and climbed atop me, pinning my wrists over my head. “Such a very pretty girl. I wonder what would be prettier, my dove—the pearls in your mouth or stuffed up your sweet cunny.”
So we tried both.
***
Mr. Sterling was in good spirits when we finally arrived at the old, rambling stone colonial on Staten Island that the Society called the Dollhouse. The anteroom was brightly lit by candles, but otherwise almost empty. We’d arrived fashionably late, but not by design. Our excursion in the shop had simply taken longer than we’d expected. Only a few gentlemen mingled there tonight, mostly the new ones, those without courtesans yet. Mr. Sterling greeted them and shook their hands briefly. He got the safe
word from them for the night. Mostly, h
e made a point of showing me off, and I could tell he was enjoying the looks of envy in the other gentlemen’s eyes.
He kept his hand clamped over my hip at all times to keep me in line and to warn me to stop squirming around too much, which was difficult with the pearls still inside me, itching and mingling with his wetness and my own. “Would you like to see the Dollhouse tonight, Evelyn?” he asked after he’d availed himself of the open bar. “You didn’t get much of a tour last time.”
I groaned out an answer.
He walked me into the great room
where I had met the other courtesans last time. It was still all black and white—black and white furnishings, black and white checked floor, with lovingly framed black and white antique and modern erotica covering the walls. There was no bed occupying the main room this time. The night of my debutante ball, we had made love for the enjoyment of the others. The room was practically empty tonight, the other dolls off somewhere else, except for Mr. Sterling’s friend Malcolm, who was busily photographing his courtier Devon in various states of undress on a divan covered in white animal furs near the lighted hearth.
We stopped to watch them together. Devon had a beautiful body, the kind of tight, sm
ooth, blond body that men envy and women covet
. And he knew how to use it. He seemed very much used to these sessions. He smiled at me in greeting, naked and ridiculously perfect in the firelight. But I couldn’t hate him. He was as much a doll as I was. Malcolm, as always, ignored me, as was house rules. Gentlemen were not permitted to commune with or touch other men’s courtesan inside the Dollhouse.
“You’re late as usual, old thing,” Malcolm said, snapping off another careful shot.
“Yes, of course,” Mr. Sterling answered. I did not know Mr. Sterling to run on anyone’s clock but his own. He studied Devon, but not with the eye of a man taking sexual interest. It was more like someone admiring a fantastic piece of art—which, of course, Devon was.
“And now everyone has gone off scouting playrooms, and you’ll be left with the remains of the day.” Malcolm turned and photographed us with what seemed a very old-fashioned camera. He lowered the camera and smiled. “I dare say, she is quite lovely tonight, Ian,” he said, looking me over. “How is her training coming along?”
“Magnificently. She’s become a very obedient little courtesan. Though I must admit there are times she shows her impetuous streak.”
Malcolm tutted with disapproval over my impetuous streak. “Might I impose upon you sometime? I should like to borrow her some evening.”
I felt a chill. I did not know that the gentlemen “borrowed” each other’s courtesans.
Mr. Sterling’s hand tightened on my hip to reassure me. “Malcolm means a shoot, for the wall.” But I almost didn’t hear his voice. His grip had had the inadvertent affected of moving the pearls around inside me. They rubbed against my clit and the sensation almost brought me to my knees.
Malcolm was very interested in what Mr. Sterling had done to me. Mr. Sterling explained about the pearls in great and loving detail. I felt the burn of my much-hated blush. Devon, though, seemed fascinated, and he and his gentleman soon began discussing the many potential uses of pearls. Once Mr. Sterling realized how preoccupied they’d become, he walked me out into a corridor. “I don’t want to keep Malcolm from his courtier,” he explained. “It’s extremely rude to interrupt playtime between partners.”
I thought about Devon, who was almost like a big brother to the rest of us dolls. “Is Devon the only courtier here?”
“So far, yes. We’ve been somewhat old-fashioned in our attitudes toward same-sex partners, admittedly, but that’s changing now.” He kept his hand on my hip, squeezing occasionally to push the pearls around so my walk turned into more of a shuffling, staccato trot in my big platforms.
“Each of these is a playroom,” Mr. Sterling explained, pointing out a series of doorless, Turkish-style archways. “The Dollhouse has twenty in all.”
I didn’t know what to expect, of course. I thought perhaps they were like garish private rooms in casinos and strip bars, places where you could get a lapdance in private. Clarissa and the girls had dragged me to a horrifyingly embarrassing bachelorette party a few months back, and I had watched her go off to one such room with a giant, oiled stud
not
her boyfriend.
But the spacious rooms were nothing like that. They each seemed to have a motif of some kind—one looked like a library, complete with shelves and fainting couches and rolling ladders, and another an old fashioned schoolroom with a teacher’s desk, blackboard and spanking bench. But in each case, the furniture was polished and exquisite, the carpets Oriental imports, the accents antiques. I could smell the good oils used to preserve the woodworking. Nothing in the Dollhouse was a prop in the normal sense of the word. Instead, they were antiques being
used
as props. More erotica covered the walls in every room and trailed down the long hallway.
Gentlemen and their courtesans admired the photographs, or moved freely in and out of the rooms, whispering intimately to each other as if trying to make some monumental decision. I watched them brush past us, hands and arms entwined. “What are they doing, sir?” I asked.
“Deciding on their rooms for the night.” His hand moved to the juncture of my legs and pressed so I nearly came right then and there, in the hallway.
When I had recovered, I said, “They’re going to sleep here tonight?”
Mr. Sterling quirked a brief smile. “We don’t sleep here, my love. We make art.”
I was wondering if he’d misspoken when he’d said
my love
. I was almost ready to ask him when I saw him glancing in one of the rooms. “A gentleman and his courtesan may do anything they wish, so long as it is consensual, tasteful and entertaining.” He piloted me into the room. It was dressed up like an executive office suite, all shining leather and brass. A gentleman sat in a power chair, while his trained courtesan crawled across the floor, picking up a series of buttons with her teeth and carrying them back to him. She was very beautiful, very graceful, her body toned to near-perfection, like some white swan in human form. I wished I could be like that. The others watched the game avidly, with the same silent attention they had afforded Mr. Sterling and me on the night of my coming out. The thought still made me blush, even two weeks later.
