Doll Ch 01

Hi all. I've been exploring a number of ideas including ones that I've written about in the past. This series is a reworking of a series that I wrote a few years ago. It may strike a chord with readers who enjoyed my very first effort here on Literotica, "A Thousand Ships." It has BDSM themes like most of my other work, with a bit of a mind control-y / psychological conditioning twist. It's a bit fairytale-esque and not as grounded in reality as some of my other work. I hope you will enjoy this chapter!

***

They were standing in the gazebo looking out over the water in the public park toward the end of their first day out together when James dropped down to one knee and held out a ring to Ava.

Though this wasn't something she'd been expecting, it wasn't altogether surprising. This was James Sutton in front of her, after all. A mysterious, reclusive billionaire who had already been married four times -- and divorced the same number. Rumor had it he was always on the lookout for his next conquest. When he'd reached out to Ava through her agent, she'd begun to suspect that he'd drawn her number. And that he'd call it, before long.

As it turned out, it hadn't taken him long at all. Though it still surprised her a little. The floaty white dress she was wearing bore a striking resemblance to a bedroom babydoll and left little to the imagination, but he hadn't gotten his hands on the assets she'd so carefully protected for eighteen years.

Of course, maybe he was tying her down so he could do exactly that -- because she wasn't the sort of girl who'd let a guy get some on the first date, or the second for that matter. She was a save-it-for-marriage kind of girl, which was probably half the reason he had picked her in the first place. He exclusively trucked with save-it-for-marriage kinds of girls. And then ruined them. It was his thing.

She was determined to have things end differently. The others probably had been, too. But who knew?

She smiled down at him. Things were going swimmingly.

"What's the catch?" she asked. "A prenup? I'll sign it."

"I'll take that as a yes, then." He slid the ring onto her finger. She wondered what a man like this thought about the significance of an engagement ring, after his four previous engagements. They returned to the gazebo rail, and she watched him look out across the water.

"The catch, my love, is that you will belong to me," he said.

She thought about teasing him. Asking him if he meant it metaphorically. But even then she knew that he meant it in every sense of the phrase. He wanted her physically, mentally, soulfully bound to him. Attuned to his every need and desire. Another piece of his extensive property. It sounded very eighteenth-century, but despite his many divorces, he was an old-fashioned man.

In that moment, she decided not to tease him. He wasn't the type of man who liked being teased. Instead, she pressed herself against him and laid a hand on his arm and watched the ring sparkle on her finger.

"I already belong to you,

m'amour

," she whispered, only to have him laugh.

"Oh, princess. You don't know the meaning of the phrase."

She would come to learn that he was right. He was also a gentleman. He proved that on their way back to her apartment in his limousine. He didn't feel her up, like so many dates had tried to in the past, and only gave her a kiss on the cheek when they arrived and told her that they wouldn't see each other for six months, but that she would receive a program in the meantime. A program meant to transform her into the perfect wife.

Hearing this come from a man who had discarded six previous wives, it was difficult to view it as anything other than a test and a challenge. And that was something he perhaps hadn't learned about her yet -- that she liked a challenge. He had wanted her from the moment they laid eyes on each other, and she wanted him too. For his money, to be sure, but also for a chance to understand the bee in the bonnet of this modern-day Bluebeard or Shahryar. What had caused him such internal strife that he needed to repeat this cycle of minimal courtship, distanced engagement, marriage, and divorce, rinse and repeat?

Answers were not forthcoming. And in the six months that separated them, Ava's days became a blur. Waking up to his voice in a recorded training video. Falling asleep to his voice in the same. Becoming attuned to his manner of speaking and his commands. Learning snap words one by one, conditioning herself to his desires.

Slut

to make her wet and dripping.

Present

to make her display for him, dropping to her knees with almost inhuman grace.

And her personal favorite, designed to render her completely helpless and compliant to whatever perverse desires he might heap on her.

Doll

.

***

The church ceremony and the reception in a gala hall that followed were more of an afterthought than anything else. Ava was only James Sutton's most recent conquest, and if the more than five hundred guests in attendance knew what was good for them, they were spending more time on betting how long the new union would last than they were celebrating it.

The real ceremony, of course, was always going to be a private affair, held in the solitude of the bridal suite in the most expensive hotel in the city. A sprawling complex of rooms fit for a king and a queen. Which Ava supposed she and James were, almost, although depending on the course of the next few weeks she might find herself ousted prematurely from her throne.

The training materials she had received from him had been extensive, but never had they discussed the sins of his previous wives. So she was doomed to approach their first night through an unknowing darkness.

In the bedroom, she watched James take off his suit jacket and lay it over the vanity chair before facing her. He had had a little to drink at the reception, and when he came nearer she could smell the pungent fragrance of some hard alcohol on his breath. For a moment, she stiffened. Her experience with drunk men went a long way back, back to her own father's drunken rampages about her childhood home long ago.

But when James tipped her chin up, it took her only a second to realize that he wasn't drunk, not in the slightest. Instead, his stormy gray eyes, holding hers, were completely lucid. Only his hand on her jaw stopped her from lowering her gaze out of instinct. When faced with a predator, it didn't seem right to look it in the eyes.

But right then, it seemed clear he wanted her to hold his gaze. So she looked straight back at him, wondering what he saw in her clear blue eyes.

"You're beautiful," he said, breaking the silence that had persisted between them all day. It didn't feel right to call vows conversation, especially when they were vows that he'd proven could be easily broken.

His fingers slid off her skin. She lowered her gaze, turning her head down and to the side.

"Thank you, sir."

"You're welcome." She could still feel the curious pressure of his eyes on her. "You're eighteen, am I right?"

"Yes, sir."

He walked around her in a slow circle. She listened to the soft thud of his footfalls.

Then a low laugh crept out of the back of his throat.

"Do you know how old I am,

doll

?"

At the word, she went completely still and made no answer. Behind her, he made an appreciative sound and swept her hair onto one shoulder and began to unzip her wedding gown, which he had chosen.

"Good girl," he said in a low voice. His lips brushed against her ear. "I'm thirty-five. It's about time a man settles down when he hits thirty-five, don't you think? So he gets himself a pretty little wife, turns her into a

slut

..." He paused, loosening the stays of the shapewear beneath the gown. "Are you wet for me, my darling?"

She let only a whisper of breath escape her mouth. No more. Nothing more. Yes, she was wet. She was dripping into her lacy thong.

"It's too bad you're in all of these clothes." He tugged hard on one of the stays, perhaps in an effort to unsettle her. "It'll take us a long time to break all this down and get to that dripping wet cunt of yours."

He pressed against her. For the first time she felt him and the full length of his hardness, insistent through his suit pants and her half-removed gown. With agonizing deliberation he slid the zipper the rest of the way down, and the dress slipped down to the floor into a pile of silk and tulle at her feet. Working his way back up, he loosed the corset with the tear of cloth and the snap of boning and tossed it away, never mind the expense it had taken to have it tailored to her body.

"Relax," he whispered in her ear, teasingly. "You seem so stiff. Tell me what you're thinking.

Speak

."

She blinked and cleared her throat. After an evening of single phrase pleasantries among the wedding guests, her voice came out hoarse.

"Do I please you, sir?" she asked.

"Oh, yes, you please me." He eyed the swell of her breasts beneath the lacy half-cups of the lingerie set he'd chosen for beneath her gown. Lowering himself onto the vanity chair, he stroked himself through his pants. "Step away from the dress, princess. Leave your heels on. Turn around for me and show me the little treasure you have on."

Instantly, she knew what he meant: the jeweled butt plug in her ass, which she had received a few weeks before the wedding. She had already been training with another set of plugs at that time, and this one was no different, save the fact that it came complete with a real, massive diamond. It was an engagement ring of a completely different kind. She stepped away from her dress, kicking it to the side, and turned around for him so that he could see the band of her thong pressed against the sparkling jewel.

"Beautiful," came his voice from behind her.

The heat of his breath crept along the curve of her ass. She felt him draw her thong to the side. Then, suddenly, he gave the plug a tug, eliciting a little cry of surprise from her mouth and an admonishing tsk from his, followed by a light slap to her backside. She became still once more. It was a first mistake, evidence that she was only human. Behind her, he was standing up and removing his belt, which he doubled over in one hand.

"Do you remember my guidelines about discipline?" he asked, his voice steely.

She pressed her gaze down to the floor.

"Yes, sir."

"Then are you ready?" he asked, experimentally snapping his belt through the air.

"Yes, sir," she whispered, though she had begun to tremble.

"It's all right, princess," he said with surprising tenderness in his voice. He put one hand around the back of her neck and began to steer her toward the edge of the bed. "It'll be over before you know it, and it'll please me. You do want to please me, don't you?"

"Yes, sir," she whispered again, allowing him to bend her over the foot of the bed and press her back into a perfect arch. She drew a breath as his belt caught the air again. It was only another experimental strike.

"Such a pretty backside. It's almost a shame to besmirch it," he said. She heard a little bit of a smile in his voice. "And do you remember why I discipline you, doll?"

There was no escape now. She froze in position.

"No, you don't remember, do you," he continued from somewhere behind her. "You're only a stupid little slut. That's all right, I'll explain it to you. You see, how would you know what is right without the help of my guiding hand? And even if you never did wrong, how would you know your place if I never exercised my guidance?" His hand pressed into the back of her neck, his tough dancing the line between rough and gentle. "In order to be truly good, a young woman like you needs to be taken in hand. Luckily for both of us, that's exactly what I intend to do."

She didn't understand what he got out of this antiquated rhetoric, but neither did she understand why it liquified the coils of heat in her core, making her burn for him. Suddenly she heard the snap of his belt, and the first strike fell, landing squarely across both cheeks. A shudder went through her, but she swallowed the cry that rose in her throat. She would be good for him. She would be his doll. She would be his slut.

She grew wetter, anticipating the sting of the leather and the curious warmth that spread across her skin in its wake. Suddenly his hand pressed more firmly, his fingers creeping from the nape of her neck up her scalp, and he brought the belt down on her again, a harder lash. This time, she stemmed her cry only by digging her teeth into her lower lip. The mineral brightness of blood exploded on her tongue.

"Only two," he whispered, leaning over her. The pressure of his hand was gone. He stroked her hair, his touch gentle, restrained. "One for you and one for me. What do you say, princess? Speak."

She turned her head to the side, her cheek incandescent, pressed into the silky sheets.

"Thank you, sir," she said.

"You're welcome." He stroked her hair and eased her up and into his encircling arms. She wondered if this half of the act, the comfort, meant as much to him as the pain preceding it. His tenderness seemed genuine. "I'll gag you next time, to keep your teeth occupied. Forgive my forgetfulness."

"I forgive you, sir," she said automatically. He had noticed her lip, then, bitten ragged. Most likely he meant the gag as a means of preserving her appearance for himself, not to allay her pain, but she still found herself moved by the gesture and pressed her head against his chest. A wave of his cologne and something more, his natural smell, wafted out of his shirt to her, and she drew a deep breath. He smelled, for lack of a better word, divine.

And he was, in many ways, divine. The earthly god who God above had sent to reign over her. She drew another breath. His hands were creeping down her arms, toward the lace-enrobed breasts between them. She shivered, his barest touch raising electricity on her virgin skin. A crackle of sparks and impulses, a conflagration of butterflies migrating from her stomach down to her core. Before she could stop it, a little mewl escaped her mouth. She stiffened, instantly remorseful.

His hands paused in their tracks.

"It's all right," he murmured in her ear. "I'd like to hear you now. Nothing sounds better than a virgin being touched for the first time. You've saved yourself so well for me. I love you for it."

And he inclined his head to brush his lips across the swell of her breasts, while she sank into something like paradise. A year of preparation, minimal release permitted, had left her aching for any touch, but mostly for his. She knew now why she'd been left neglected for so long. It had been in hope of this orgasmic responsiveness.

He seemed pleased with her, which pleased her in turn. While he slipped the straps of her bra off her shoulders, she wriggled in his arms, uninhibited by his attentions.

"Beautiful," he said softly. The bra he carefully discarded, leaving her breasts bare and shining in the lamplight. He lowered her down with the care of a man handling a delicate object and tweaked each nipple between thumb and forefinger. They were already hardened to sharp peaks. He leaned down and pressed his mouth to one and then the other.

The sensation of his tongue gliding across her skin was something completely new to her. She was a kissless virgin; what could she have been expected to do but writhe in the unfamiliar pleasure of it all? After a moment he drew back, looking almost smug. He didn't seem to mind when she, just for a moment, met his gaze. It was mostly to see his face.

"You like what you see?" he asked, his voice low.

A nervous giggle escaped her mouth. She felt like a schoolgirl about to be debauched.

"Yes, sir," she blurted out.

"No shame in that."

He had started to unbutton his shirt, slowly revealing the broad and well-muscled chest beneath. Three buttons remaining, he stopped and looked at her.

"Would like to do the honors?" he asked.

His face was still open and undisturbed. Nothing she had done so far had displeased him. She began reaching for the topmost button.

He swatted her hand away.

"No," he said, his eyes playful. "With your mouth."

She stared openly at him.

"Go on," he urged. "Show me what we're working with. I'd appreciate if my wife had a talented tongue, you know."

Heat spilling across her cheeks, she leaned over him, fully prepared to make a fool of herself. The button was cold and round in her mouth, and she made a study of its curves and edges and fine details and the roughness of the threat in the center. To her surprise, only a little bit of not-so-dexterous tongue fumbling slid it through its hole and free. Forgetting her training for a moment, she raised her head and met his eyes, triumphant.

"Good," he said, his gaze lazy. He pushed her head back down. "The next one. With enough practice, we might make this a nightly routine. Or a party trick."

Routine signified some duration of time. She relaxed into the afterglow of success and worked her mouth around the second button. Judging his tented pants, he was looking forward to having her mouth elsewhere. With a little suction, the next button popped free. She lay a hand against his chest and lowered her head to work on the third and final obstacle. But he jerked her up. His eyes had darkened.

"That's enough," he growled. "Now my pants. Use your hands, slut."

Slut. She gushed between her legs, sliding off the end of the bed to kneel at his feet. She had to force herself to go about the task of unwrapping his cock with care. However eager she was to lay eyes on it, she was still a lady, and ladies weren't meant to be hasty. When she had undone button and fly, she carefully slid his pants down to his ankles. He stepped out of them and pushed them aside with a foot. She stared at the sizable tent in his boxers.

"Yes, I'm blessed," he said in a low voice. "I know you've not seen others in the flesh to compare, but take my word for it. Don't be afraid, and don't pull the old 'How will it fit?' nonsense. I'm looking to experience a virgin, not a cliche."

"I wasn't going to say that, sir," she said. The heat in his voice had surprised her. From it, she chanced a tentative internal guess that one of his former wives had dared utter it from her very position.

"Two and four," he said. It took her a moment's thought to realize that he'd confirmed her suspicions. "A gorgeous redhead and a buxom blonde. I had high hopes for both. Well, what will be, will be."

What will be, will be.

He was right, though she was beginning to wonder if he suffered from his own unique brand of mental derangement.

"Well, get on with it!" he barked at her, looking down. "Let those big eyes feast on what they've been waiting for."

So, at the end of it all, she hadn't been hasty enough for his liking. She reached up and pulled on his boxers. His cock popped suddenly free, a solid eight inches and almost as thick as her forearm. He was well-endowed, and she didn't have to take his word for it. She could see it with her own eyes.

"Lust after it. Revere it. Fear it, I don't care." He rattled on above her like a man delivering a soliloquy. "But you'll come to love it, if you know what's good for you."

His cock bobbed above her, engorged, larger than it had been moments before. She stared up at it.

He grasped a handful of her hair.

"Lick my balls," he ordered, jerking her head into position.

She put her tongue out. There was little taste, only a distinct ridged texture, velvety soft skin. Above her, he made a sound in the back of his throat, and a delicious thrill went through her stomach. She lapped at him greedily, waiting for another affirmation of his pleasure.