Previous Chapter (17) - Sarah | First Chapter - Camila
The first thing Dolly registered was not sight, nor sound, but the profound, crushing weight of stillness.
Consciousness returned to her in slow, viscous waves, like oil rising through water. It was not a sudden waking, but a gradual realization of existence. She was not a person waking up in a bed; she was an object returning to online status within a void.
Darkness. Absolute, heavy, and silent. It pressed against her eyes, not just from the lack of light, but from the thick, padded blindfold that was secured tightly around her head. It was a comfortable pressure, familiar, like the hand of a possessive lover covering her eyes.
Then came the body map. As her mind cleared the fog of sleep she began to take inventory of her physical self. It was a routine she performed every time she woke up, a necessary calibration of her reality.
She could not move. That was the first and most important truth.
Her world was defined by the rigidity of her restraints. She knew this position. She knew it intimately. Her Master called it "The Display." It was his favorite way to view her, his favorite way to keep her when she wasn't being actively used but needed to remain accessible.
Her perspective was disjointed, fragmented by the structure around her. Her torso was hidden, encased completely behind a specialized false wall. She could feel the padded surface pressing against her back, keeping her hidden. Her spine was unnaturally curved, bent forward at the waist so that her upper body remained behind the partition, while her head and groin were thrust through specific openings, presented to the room.
Her arms were pulled back and up behind the wall, her elbows bent at acute angles, her wrists secured in heavy, leather cuffs that felt like iron bands against her skin. They were locked tight, immobilizing her upper body completely in the hidden space.
Her face was the center of the visible display, held in place by a rigid chin cup and a headrest that locked her neck, forcing her to face forward into the darkness. And framing her face, just at the edge of her peripheral sensations, positioned perfectly beside her ears, were her own feet.
Her legs were bent at the knees, pulled up high and wide in a severe frog-like posture behind the wall, allowing only her feet to emerge through smaller, designated ports on either side of her head. Her ankles were secured in thick, padded shackles that bolted them to the structure. She wiggled her toes instinctively—a small rebellion. Even that was controlled. Individual leather loops were cinched around each toe, pulling them back, splaying them wide, exposing the delicate, vulnerable expanse of her soles and the soft, taut webbing between them. They were offered up like delicacies on a platter, defenseless against even the slightest breath of air.
And below her chin…
She focused her awareness downward. Below the line of her jaw, through a larger central opening, her hips were pressed flush against the wall's padding. Her groin was completely exposed, positioned directly beneath her face. She felt the slight draft on the soft, inner skin of her thighs. She could feel the vulnerability of her own sex, opened and presented to the darkness like a flower waiting to be plucked, while her breasts and stomach remained concealed.
I am in the Display.
The thought didn't bring fear. Fear belonged to the painful place, the place she wasn't allowed to go anymore. Instead, the thought brought a sense of singular purpose. A clarity.
I am Dolly.
The name was a mantra. It was a shield. Dolly didn't have a past. Dolly didn't have parents or a job or a favorite color. Dolly had a Master. And Dolly had rules.
A sudden, cold spike of anxiety pierced her calm. She was awake. Master could be here. Master could be watching.
She froze her breathing, straining her ears against the silence. Was he there? Was he standing in the dark, watching her? Admiring his arrangement? The thought sent a shiver through her, causing the metal clasp of her chin cup to click softly against her jaw.
She quickly checked her internal diagnostics.
Rule Number One: Obedience. (Check. She was still.)
Rule Number Two: Silence. (Check. She had not made a sound.)
Rule Number Three: Readiness.
Her mind stumbled. Readiness.
For Dolly, readiness meant one thing. It was the most important rule of the Display. Because the Display wasn't just for looking. It was for using. Master had been very clear during the training sessions. When a doll is taken off the shelf, it must be ready to play. Dry dolls are broken dolls. Broken dolls get fixed.
And fixing hurt.
She focused her attention on the apex of her thighs. She searched for the telltale wetness, the slick heat that Master demanded.
She felt nothing. Dry. Friction. Cold.
Panic, sharp and blinding, flared in her chest. She was dry. She had woken up defective. If Master walked in right now—if the lights snapped on and his hand reached for her—he would find her wanting. He would frown. He would sigh that heavy, disappointed sigh that hurt worse than the strap.
No. No, please. I have to be good. I have to contain this.
She needed to force it. She needed to make her body obey. But her mind was blank, a white static of anxiety. She couldn't force arousal through will alone. She needed fuel. She needed a trigger.
She squeezed her eyes shut beneath the blindfold, pushing past the persona of Dolly. She had to go back. She had to go to the forbidden library of memories that she kept locked behind a mental door marked 'Pain'. It was dangerous. Master didn't like it when she went there. But she had no choice.
She drifted backward through the fog. Past the arrival, past the plane journey.
Further.
She was looking for a specific sensation. A specific moment of humiliation that she could weaponize against her own biology.
She found it. It wasn't a visual memory; those had blurred over time. It was a tactical one. A memory of the skin.
The Print Works.
The name floated up from the deep. The Giggle Room.
She was back on the table. The lights were blindingly bright, searing through her eyelids even when she squeezed them shut. The smell of ozone and fear-sweat. The sound of duct tape tearing.
She remembered the tools. The way they were laid out on the metal tray with a terrifying, clinical precision. The clink of metal on metal.
But it wasn't the pain she needed right now. Pain made her clench, made her dry up. She needed the shame.
She focused on him. The sadist. The one with the… with the… she couldn’t remember his face, only his hands. She remembered the way he would pause, leaving her waiting, breathless and terrified, before extending a single finger.
A finger tipped with a long, sharp, obsidian nail.
She remembered the sensation of the sharp point in the dead center of her arch. It hadn't hurt. It wasn't sharp enough to cut. It was a ghost touch. A phantom caress.
She remembered him tracing a slow, agonizingly deliberate figure-eight on the ball of her foot.
Round and round. Softly. Barely there.
The sensation in the memory was electric. It was maddening. It bypassed the pain receptors and went straight to the deepest, most primal wires of her nervous system. It was an itch she couldn't scratch, a demand she couldn't answer. She remembered squirming against the leather straps, biting through her gag to stifle the humiliating, involuntary noises that were bubbling up in her throat.
And then, the betrayal.
She remembered the feeling of heat blooming in her belly. The treacherous rush of blood. The way her body, confused and overwhelmed by the sensory overload, had interpreted the overstimulation as arousal.
She remembered glancing down, past the heave of her own chest, to see him watching her. Not watching her feet. Watching her crotch. Watching the dark, damp stain spreading across the white fabric of her panties.
He hadn't laughed. He hadn't mocked her. He had just nodded, a clinical confirmation of her degradation. See? his eyes had said. Your body loves this. Your body longs for this.
The shame of that memory was a physical heat. It burned hotter than any branding iron. It was the shame of being helpless, of being exposed, of being betrayed by her own body.
Dolly latched onto that shame. She drank it in. She let the phantom sensation of that nail tracing her sole overlay the reality of the cool air in the room. She imagined the sharp point dancing over her skin right now.
It tickles. It burns. It humiliates... it stimulates
The response was immediate.
Deep inside, a muscle clenched. A heavy, rhythmic pulse started in her womb. The shame transmuted into a desperate, needy heat. She felt the change happen—a subtle shift in pH, a slickness emerging.
A drop of moisture formed at the entrance of her vagina. Then another. The dryness vanished, replaced by a thick, welcoming heat.
She let out a long, shaky breath, her chest rising and falling against the hidden restraints. She had done it. She had hacked her own biology.
A small, beatific smile touched her lips beneath the blindfold.
Good, she thought, the praise echoing in her own head. Good Dolly. You fixed it. You are ready.
She relaxed into the bonds, letting her weight hang in the harness. She was perfect now. A perfect object, waiting for its owner.
Tick-tock.
Seconds stretched into minutes. She waited in the velvet darkness, floating in a trance of obedience.
Then—a sound.
It was faint, but in the sensory deprivation of the blindfold, it sounded like a thunderclap.
The heavy, metallic click of a deadbolt sliding back.
Dolly’s heart hammered against her ribs, a trapped bird desperate to escape. the soft snick of a handle being depressed.
He opened the door.
He was here.
She froze. Every muscle locked into place. She remembered the rule.
Silence. Absolute silence. Until He speaks.
She heard the footsteps. They were slow. Deliberate. These weren't the hurried steps of a busy man. These were the measured strides of a connoisseur entering his gallery. She could feel the vibration of them through the floor, traveling up through the wall, vibrating in her bones.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
then the heavy rustle of fabric, like a large curtain or sheet being moved.
cool air passed over her exposed body parts. The darkness behind the blindfold lessened slightly, the smallest hint of light brown joined the blackness.
She visualized him in the darkness. Tall. Immaculate. His eyes sweeping over the curves of her body, checking the tightness of the straps, inspecting the angle of her legs. making sure she was ready for him.
He was silently grading her.
Was she symmetrical? Was she still? Was she beautiful? Was she wet?
She could smell him—a crisp, clean scent of expensive soap and faint cologne. The scent of authority.
The air in front of her face seemed to grow warmer. He was leaning in. She could feel his breath, a ghost of warmth on her cheek. He was inspecting her face, checking for tears, checking for rebellion.
She held her breath.
The silence stretched, agonizing and exquisite.
Then, his voice. It was a low, resonant baritone, void of anger, void of praise. It was the voice of God in her small universe.
"Dolly. Master's back."
The spell shattered. The rule of silence was lifted. Permission was granted.
"MASTER!"
The word tore from her throat, a breathless, desperate cry of worship. It wasn't just a greeting; it was a confession of total dependence. It was the sound of a drowning woman seeing a lifeline.
Then, she felt it.
Contact.
Fingers. Warm, dry, and impossibly gentle. They landed softly on the soles of her feet, on the taut ball, one hand on the left, one on the right. They weren't grabbing. They were brushing. Feather-light. Testing the texture of the skin. Gauging the sensitivity.
A jolt of electricity shot up her legs, making her thighs quiver.
"Ooooh Master, yes," she whimpered, the words tumbling out in a rush. "Dolly is here. Dolly is your little tickle slave. Dolly is wet and ready for you, Master. A good Dolly. A perfect Dolly."
His fingers began to move.
They didn't grab. They didn't tickle, not yet. They traced. He drew slow, hypnotic circles in the center of her arches.
Round and round. Softly. Endlessly.
It was a specific pattern. A code.
In the early days, during the training, this pattern had been paired with rewards. With release. He had wired her brain to associate this specific, circular motion with the permission to let go. It was a trigger he had installed deep in her psyche, a button he could press to bypass her will completely.
The sensation was excruciatingly pleasurable. It was a phantom tickle that vibrated in her bones. It sent signals shooting up her nerves that got crossed and amplified on their way to her brain, turning a light touch into a blinding, white-hot need.
Her body betrayed her instantly. Her hips began to buck and writhe against the restraints, an involuntary, desperate rhythm. She was grinding against the empty air, chasing a friction that wasn't there.
The circles grew slightly wider. Slightly firmer.
"M-Master…" she gasped, air hitching in her throat. She could feel the pressure building in her lower belly, a tight, coiling spring that was about to snap. It was too fast. It was too intense. She hadn't earned it yet. But her body didn't care about rules. Her body only knew the trigger.
"May… may Dolly… please…?"
The plea hung in the air, pathetic and needy. Please let me come. Please release me.
His fingers didn't stop. They kept tracing. Kept building the charge. But his voice came from the darkness, calm and absolute. A judge pronouncing a sentence.
"No."
The word hit her like a bucket of ice water.
"Dolly is not allowed." the voice added.
Dolly let out a fractured whimper, a sound of pure, frustrated agony. The finality of his tone. She tried. God, she tried. She clenched her thighs, straining against the ankle cuffs. She bit her lip until she tasted copper. She screamed silently at her own traitorous body to stop, to obey, to hold it back.
But the circles continued. Round and round. A relentless, mechanical stimulation that ignored her desperation.
The dam broke.
It wasn't a choice. It was a biological failure.
With a high-pitched, strangled cry, her body convulsed. Her back arched off the pads. Her legs seized, straining against the leather.
A hot, powerful gush of fluid erupted from her. It sprayed upward and outward, soaking her own chin and anything in the line of fire.
The pleasure was blinding for a split second—a whiteout of the senses.
And then, as the spasms faded and the reality of what she had done crashed down on her, the pleasure vanished. It was replaced instantly by a cold, crushing terror.
She had disobeyed a direct order. She had made a mess. She had failed the Display.
"DOLLY IS SORRY, MASTER!" she shrieked, her voice cracking, hysterical tears instantly soaking the blindfold. "DOLLY WAS BAD! SORRY, MASTER! I TRIED! I PROMISE I TRIED!"
The mesmerizing circles on her feet stopped. The sudden stillness was terrifying.
She hung there, panting, weeping, waiting for the blow. Waiting for the shouting.
But Master didn't shout. He never shouted. Shouting was for people who had lost control. Master never lost control.
"Dolly," he said. His voice was soft. Disappointed. "You know the rules. You know what happens to bad dolls who make a mess."
Dolly squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could disappear into the wall. "Yes, Master," she whispered, trembling.
"This means punishment."
The sound that followed was small, but in the silence, it was deafening.
ZZZZZZIP.
The sharp, metallic rasp of a zipper being lowered.
Dolly’s breath caught in her throat. A new kind of anticipation—dark, heavy, and laced with dread—coiled in her stomach.
She felt him move closer. She felt the heat of his body pressing against her exposed legs.
He didn't hesitate. He didn't prepare her. He didn't need to. She was already wet, slick with the evidence of her failure.
He entered her from the front. One hard, punishing thrust that filled her completely, stretching her, claiming her.
At the exact moment of invasion, she felt something else on her feet.
Not fingers. Not skin.
Something cold. Hard. Sharp.
Metal.
The tools. The ones Master uses when punishing his Dolly. The ones he kept on the tray for special occasions.
He began to move inside her, a steady, brutal rhythm that rocked her entire body against the restraints. And in perfect, agonizing sync with his thrusts, the metal instruments began to dance on her soles.
They bit into her arches. They scraped along the sensitive ridges of her toes. They traced sharp, agonizingly ticklish lines down the center of her feet.
The sensory overload was catastrophic. The heavy, grounding sensation of his cock inside her was warring with the high-pitched, electric, frantic torment on her feet. Her brain couldn't process the signals. Pain and pleasure, arousal and agony, submission and panic—they all fused into a single, blinding white noise.
Her mind shattered.
The sound that ripped from her throat wasn't a scream. It wasn't a laugh. It was a jagged, broken fusion of both.
"DOLLY WILL BE GOOD!"
She shrieked the words, tossing her head back against the brace, her body convulsing with every thrust, every scrape.
"DOLLY WILL BE GOOD!!!!"
Laughter bubbled up, hysterical and terrifying, mixing with her sobs.
"AAAHA-HA-HA-PLEASE-DOLLY WILL BE GOOD FOR MASTER!!!! I PROMISE! I'LL BE GOOD!!!!"
The sensation was too much, the overstimulation pushing her right back to the edge she had just fallen off, her body desperate for the relief of an orgasm that might numb the tickling.
Oh no…
The realization hit her like a physical blow. She was climbing again.
"PLEASE MASTER!!! PLEASE CAN I CUM!!!! MAAAAHA-HA-HA-STER!!!"
The rhythm didn't change. The metal points didn't stop their dancing.
"No, Dolly," his voice answered in that calm, no-nonsense timbre, drifting out of the darkness. "This is punishment time."
She screamed into the darkness, over and over, hanging in her beautiful prison, a perfect, broken thing, praying that if she just willed it enough, if she just promised hard enough, she might finally, truly, become the doll he wanted her to be.
Next Chapter (19) - Piotr
The first thing Dolly registered was not sight, nor sound, but the profound, crushing weight of stillness.
Consciousness returned to her in slow, viscous waves, like oil rising through water. It was not a sudden waking, but a gradual realization of existence. She was not a person waking up in a bed; she was an object returning to online status within a void.
Darkness. Absolute, heavy, and silent. It pressed against her eyes, not just from the lack of light, but from the thick, padded blindfold that was secured tightly around her head. It was a comfortable pressure, familiar, like the hand of a possessive lover covering her eyes.
Then came the body map. As her mind cleared the fog of sleep she began to take inventory of her physical self. It was a routine she performed every time she woke up, a necessary calibration of her reality.
She could not move. That was the first and most important truth.
Her world was defined by the rigidity of her restraints. She knew this position. She knew it intimately. Her Master called it "The Display." It was his favorite way to view her, his favorite way to keep her when she wasn't being actively used but needed to remain accessible.
Her perspective was disjointed, fragmented by the structure around her. Her torso was hidden, encased completely behind a specialized false wall. She could feel the padded surface pressing against her back, keeping her hidden. Her spine was unnaturally curved, bent forward at the waist so that her upper body remained behind the partition, while her head and groin were thrust through specific openings, presented to the room.
Her arms were pulled back and up behind the wall, her elbows bent at acute angles, her wrists secured in heavy, leather cuffs that felt like iron bands against her skin. They were locked tight, immobilizing her upper body completely in the hidden space.
Her face was the center of the visible display, held in place by a rigid chin cup and a headrest that locked her neck, forcing her to face forward into the darkness. And framing her face, just at the edge of her peripheral sensations, positioned perfectly beside her ears, were her own feet.
Her legs were bent at the knees, pulled up high and wide in a severe frog-like posture behind the wall, allowing only her feet to emerge through smaller, designated ports on either side of her head. Her ankles were secured in thick, padded shackles that bolted them to the structure. She wiggled her toes instinctively—a small rebellion. Even that was controlled. Individual leather loops were cinched around each toe, pulling them back, splaying them wide, exposing the delicate, vulnerable expanse of her soles and the soft, taut webbing between them. They were offered up like delicacies on a platter, defenseless against even the slightest breath of air.
And below her chin…
She focused her awareness downward. Below the line of her jaw, through a larger central opening, her hips were pressed flush against the wall's padding. Her groin was completely exposed, positioned directly beneath her face. She felt the slight draft on the soft, inner skin of her thighs. She could feel the vulnerability of her own sex, opened and presented to the darkness like a flower waiting to be plucked, while her breasts and stomach remained concealed.
I am in the Display.
The thought didn't bring fear. Fear belonged to the painful place, the place she wasn't allowed to go anymore. Instead, the thought brought a sense of singular purpose. A clarity.
I am Dolly.
The name was a mantra. It was a shield. Dolly didn't have a past. Dolly didn't have parents or a job or a favorite color. Dolly had a Master. And Dolly had rules.
A sudden, cold spike of anxiety pierced her calm. She was awake. Master could be here. Master could be watching.
She froze her breathing, straining her ears against the silence. Was he there? Was he standing in the dark, watching her? Admiring his arrangement? The thought sent a shiver through her, causing the metal clasp of her chin cup to click softly against her jaw.
She quickly checked her internal diagnostics.
Rule Number One: Obedience. (Check. She was still.)
Rule Number Two: Silence. (Check. She had not made a sound.)
Rule Number Three: Readiness.
Her mind stumbled. Readiness.
For Dolly, readiness meant one thing. It was the most important rule of the Display. Because the Display wasn't just for looking. It was for using. Master had been very clear during the training sessions. When a doll is taken off the shelf, it must be ready to play. Dry dolls are broken dolls. Broken dolls get fixed.
And fixing hurt.
She focused her attention on the apex of her thighs. She searched for the telltale wetness, the slick heat that Master demanded.
She felt nothing. Dry. Friction. Cold.
Panic, sharp and blinding, flared in her chest. She was dry. She had woken up defective. If Master walked in right now—if the lights snapped on and his hand reached for her—he would find her wanting. He would frown. He would sigh that heavy, disappointed sigh that hurt worse than the strap.
No. No, please. I have to be good. I have to contain this.
She needed to force it. She needed to make her body obey. But her mind was blank, a white static of anxiety. She couldn't force arousal through will alone. She needed fuel. She needed a trigger.
She squeezed her eyes shut beneath the blindfold, pushing past the persona of Dolly. She had to go back. She had to go to the forbidden library of memories that she kept locked behind a mental door marked 'Pain'. It was dangerous. Master didn't like it when she went there. But she had no choice.
She drifted backward through the fog. Past the arrival, past the plane journey.
Further.
She was looking for a specific sensation. A specific moment of humiliation that she could weaponize against her own biology.
She found it. It wasn't a visual memory; those had blurred over time. It was a tactical one. A memory of the skin.
The Print Works.
The name floated up from the deep. The Giggle Room.
She was back on the table. The lights were blindingly bright, searing through her eyelids even when she squeezed them shut. The smell of ozone and fear-sweat. The sound of duct tape tearing.
She remembered the tools. The way they were laid out on the metal tray with a terrifying, clinical precision. The clink of metal on metal.
But it wasn't the pain she needed right now. Pain made her clench, made her dry up. She needed the shame.
She focused on him. The sadist. The one with the… with the… she couldn’t remember his face, only his hands. She remembered the way he would pause, leaving her waiting, breathless and terrified, before extending a single finger.
A finger tipped with a long, sharp, obsidian nail.
She remembered the sensation of the sharp point in the dead center of her arch. It hadn't hurt. It wasn't sharp enough to cut. It was a ghost touch. A phantom caress.
She remembered him tracing a slow, agonizingly deliberate figure-eight on the ball of her foot.
Round and round. Softly. Barely there.
The sensation in the memory was electric. It was maddening. It bypassed the pain receptors and went straight to the deepest, most primal wires of her nervous system. It was an itch she couldn't scratch, a demand she couldn't answer. She remembered squirming against the leather straps, biting through her gag to stifle the humiliating, involuntary noises that were bubbling up in her throat.
And then, the betrayal.
She remembered the feeling of heat blooming in her belly. The treacherous rush of blood. The way her body, confused and overwhelmed by the sensory overload, had interpreted the overstimulation as arousal.
She remembered glancing down, past the heave of her own chest, to see him watching her. Not watching her feet. Watching her crotch. Watching the dark, damp stain spreading across the white fabric of her panties.
He hadn't laughed. He hadn't mocked her. He had just nodded, a clinical confirmation of her degradation. See? his eyes had said. Your body loves this. Your body longs for this.
The shame of that memory was a physical heat. It burned hotter than any branding iron. It was the shame of being helpless, of being exposed, of being betrayed by her own body.
Dolly latched onto that shame. She drank it in. She let the phantom sensation of that nail tracing her sole overlay the reality of the cool air in the room. She imagined the sharp point dancing over her skin right now.
It tickles. It burns. It humiliates... it stimulates
The response was immediate.
Deep inside, a muscle clenched. A heavy, rhythmic pulse started in her womb. The shame transmuted into a desperate, needy heat. She felt the change happen—a subtle shift in pH, a slickness emerging.
A drop of moisture formed at the entrance of her vagina. Then another. The dryness vanished, replaced by a thick, welcoming heat.
She let out a long, shaky breath, her chest rising and falling against the hidden restraints. She had done it. She had hacked her own biology.
A small, beatific smile touched her lips beneath the blindfold.
Good, she thought, the praise echoing in her own head. Good Dolly. You fixed it. You are ready.
She relaxed into the bonds, letting her weight hang in the harness. She was perfect now. A perfect object, waiting for its owner.
Tick-tock.
Seconds stretched into minutes. She waited in the velvet darkness, floating in a trance of obedience.
Then—a sound.
It was faint, but in the sensory deprivation of the blindfold, it sounded like a thunderclap.
The heavy, metallic click of a deadbolt sliding back.
Dolly’s heart hammered against her ribs, a trapped bird desperate to escape. the soft snick of a handle being depressed.
He opened the door.
He was here.
She froze. Every muscle locked into place. She remembered the rule.
Silence. Absolute silence. Until He speaks.
She heard the footsteps. They were slow. Deliberate. These weren't the hurried steps of a busy man. These were the measured strides of a connoisseur entering his gallery. She could feel the vibration of them through the floor, traveling up through the wall, vibrating in her bones.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
then the heavy rustle of fabric, like a large curtain or sheet being moved.
cool air passed over her exposed body parts. The darkness behind the blindfold lessened slightly, the smallest hint of light brown joined the blackness.
She visualized him in the darkness. Tall. Immaculate. His eyes sweeping over the curves of her body, checking the tightness of the straps, inspecting the angle of her legs. making sure she was ready for him.
He was silently grading her.
Was she symmetrical? Was she still? Was she beautiful? Was she wet?
She could smell him—a crisp, clean scent of expensive soap and faint cologne. The scent of authority.
The air in front of her face seemed to grow warmer. He was leaning in. She could feel his breath, a ghost of warmth on her cheek. He was inspecting her face, checking for tears, checking for rebellion.
She held her breath.
The silence stretched, agonizing and exquisite.
Then, his voice. It was a low, resonant baritone, void of anger, void of praise. It was the voice of God in her small universe.
"Dolly. Master's back."
The spell shattered. The rule of silence was lifted. Permission was granted.
"MASTER!"
The word tore from her throat, a breathless, desperate cry of worship. It wasn't just a greeting; it was a confession of total dependence. It was the sound of a drowning woman seeing a lifeline.
Then, she felt it.
Contact.
Fingers. Warm, dry, and impossibly gentle. They landed softly on the soles of her feet, on the taut ball, one hand on the left, one on the right. They weren't grabbing. They were brushing. Feather-light. Testing the texture of the skin. Gauging the sensitivity.
A jolt of electricity shot up her legs, making her thighs quiver.
"Ooooh Master, yes," she whimpered, the words tumbling out in a rush. "Dolly is here. Dolly is your little tickle slave. Dolly is wet and ready for you, Master. A good Dolly. A perfect Dolly."
His fingers began to move.
They didn't grab. They didn't tickle, not yet. They traced. He drew slow, hypnotic circles in the center of her arches.
Round and round. Softly. Endlessly.
It was a specific pattern. A code.
In the early days, during the training, this pattern had been paired with rewards. With release. He had wired her brain to associate this specific, circular motion with the permission to let go. It was a trigger he had installed deep in her psyche, a button he could press to bypass her will completely.
The sensation was excruciatingly pleasurable. It was a phantom tickle that vibrated in her bones. It sent signals shooting up her nerves that got crossed and amplified on their way to her brain, turning a light touch into a blinding, white-hot need.
Her body betrayed her instantly. Her hips began to buck and writhe against the restraints, an involuntary, desperate rhythm. She was grinding against the empty air, chasing a friction that wasn't there.
The circles grew slightly wider. Slightly firmer.
"M-Master…" she gasped, air hitching in her throat. She could feel the pressure building in her lower belly, a tight, coiling spring that was about to snap. It was too fast. It was too intense. She hadn't earned it yet. But her body didn't care about rules. Her body only knew the trigger.
"May… may Dolly… please…?"
The plea hung in the air, pathetic and needy. Please let me come. Please release me.
His fingers didn't stop. They kept tracing. Kept building the charge. But his voice came from the darkness, calm and absolute. A judge pronouncing a sentence.
"No."
The word hit her like a bucket of ice water.
"Dolly is not allowed." the voice added.
Dolly let out a fractured whimper, a sound of pure, frustrated agony. The finality of his tone. She tried. God, she tried. She clenched her thighs, straining against the ankle cuffs. She bit her lip until she tasted copper. She screamed silently at her own traitorous body to stop, to obey, to hold it back.
But the circles continued. Round and round. A relentless, mechanical stimulation that ignored her desperation.
The dam broke.
It wasn't a choice. It was a biological failure.
With a high-pitched, strangled cry, her body convulsed. Her back arched off the pads. Her legs seized, straining against the leather.
A hot, powerful gush of fluid erupted from her. It sprayed upward and outward, soaking her own chin and anything in the line of fire.
The pleasure was blinding for a split second—a whiteout of the senses.
And then, as the spasms faded and the reality of what she had done crashed down on her, the pleasure vanished. It was replaced instantly by a cold, crushing terror.
She had disobeyed a direct order. She had made a mess. She had failed the Display.
"DOLLY IS SORRY, MASTER!" she shrieked, her voice cracking, hysterical tears instantly soaking the blindfold. "DOLLY WAS BAD! SORRY, MASTER! I TRIED! I PROMISE I TRIED!"
The mesmerizing circles on her feet stopped. The sudden stillness was terrifying.
She hung there, panting, weeping, waiting for the blow. Waiting for the shouting.
But Master didn't shout. He never shouted. Shouting was for people who had lost control. Master never lost control.
"Dolly," he said. His voice was soft. Disappointed. "You know the rules. You know what happens to bad dolls who make a mess."
Dolly squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could disappear into the wall. "Yes, Master," she whispered, trembling.
"This means punishment."
The sound that followed was small, but in the silence, it was deafening.
ZZZZZZIP.
The sharp, metallic rasp of a zipper being lowered.
Dolly’s breath caught in her throat. A new kind of anticipation—dark, heavy, and laced with dread—coiled in her stomach.
She felt him move closer. She felt the heat of his body pressing against her exposed legs.
He didn't hesitate. He didn't prepare her. He didn't need to. She was already wet, slick with the evidence of her failure.
He entered her from the front. One hard, punishing thrust that filled her completely, stretching her, claiming her.
At the exact moment of invasion, she felt something else on her feet.
Not fingers. Not skin.
Something cold. Hard. Sharp.
Metal.
The tools. The ones Master uses when punishing his Dolly. The ones he kept on the tray for special occasions.
He began to move inside her, a steady, brutal rhythm that rocked her entire body against the restraints. And in perfect, agonizing sync with his thrusts, the metal instruments began to dance on her soles.
They bit into her arches. They scraped along the sensitive ridges of her toes. They traced sharp, agonizingly ticklish lines down the center of her feet.
The sensory overload was catastrophic. The heavy, grounding sensation of his cock inside her was warring with the high-pitched, electric, frantic torment on her feet. Her brain couldn't process the signals. Pain and pleasure, arousal and agony, submission and panic—they all fused into a single, blinding white noise.
Her mind shattered.
The sound that ripped from her throat wasn't a scream. It wasn't a laugh. It was a jagged, broken fusion of both.
"DOLLY WILL BE GOOD!"
She shrieked the words, tossing her head back against the brace, her body convulsing with every thrust, every scrape.
"DOLLY WILL BE GOOD!!!!"
Laughter bubbled up, hysterical and terrifying, mixing with her sobs.
"AAAHA-HA-HA-PLEASE-DOLLY WILL BE GOOD FOR MASTER!!!! I PROMISE! I'LL BE GOOD!!!!"
The sensation was too much, the overstimulation pushing her right back to the edge she had just fallen off, her body desperate for the relief of an orgasm that might numb the tickling.
Oh no…
The realization hit her like a physical blow. She was climbing again.
"PLEASE MASTER!!! PLEASE CAN I CUM!!!! MAAAAHA-HA-HA-STER!!!"
The rhythm didn't change. The metal points didn't stop their dancing.
"No, Dolly," his voice answered in that calm, no-nonsense timbre, drifting out of the darkness. "This is punishment time."
She screamed into the darkness, over and over, hanging in her beautiful prison, a perfect, broken thing, praying that if she just willed it enough, if she just promised hard enough, she might finally, truly, become the doll he wanted her to be.
Next Chapter (19) - Piotr
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