It's a humbling experience to be inside a suitcase.
Humid darkness fills all available space, of which there is very little, to the extent that it almost begins to feel tangible. The intricate, origami-like folding of my body required to accommodate my containment produced an intimate awareness of both space and boundaries. It felt all at once familiar and foreign, disturbing and comforting. Rarely in my adult life have I experienced such comprehensive bondage, moving about the world with full autonomy, lacking actual spatial limits. The sacrifice of those freedoms simplified my existence in a way that erased time and pressures. My choice was made for me; I could conform to my vessel and only move as much as it (and whoever chose to put me within it) allowed. I felt my mind relax, freed from the burden of deciding if, when, and how to move. My restrictions carried me to a meditative state where every sensation was amplified.
I knew I was in a car because I could feel the rumble below me and hear the other cars around. Sometimes the car would slow and stop, or turn, shifting me minutely within my luggage womb. The radio was playing. I could also hear the familiar sounds of the Dollmaker, sitting in the driver's seat; the pattern of His breathing was easy for my mind to latch on to and my own breathing effortlessly fell into step with His. Occasionally He would clear His throat, a gruff noise that momentarily disrupted the pattern. I craved His every breath.
I was His doll.
My only indicator of time's passing was the radio and the building ache in the back of my neck. After four songs, the car came to a final stop. The radio, then the engine, turned off. A seatbelt was released with a dull click. I felt the vehicle rock slightly as a door opened and the Dollmaker exited. The door was thrown closed with a finality. For thirty seconds of complete silence and solitude, my heartbeat built up into a frenzy. I had no autonomy to free myself from the suitcase, let alone the car. I tried to relax myself. I reminded myself of my mantras. A good doll doesn't worry. A good doll doesn't think. A good doll doesn't make choices. A good doll obeys. A good doll trusts. A good doll-
The door, the other door, opened. Fear melted away. The Dollmaker. Pressure on two sides of the suitcase indicated I was being held, then picked up. My head felt like it was swirling. I felt safe in His arms, in His bondage.
Based on the sounds I could vaguely sense from inside the suitcase, we entered the house and went into a room, probably the bedroom. I was set down on the floor.
I swallowed in anticipation. I was so excited to see the Dollmaker! But I had to be a good doll.
I heard and felt the zipper begin to move. I closed my eyes to ensure the light didn't disrupt my perfect stillness. The whoosh of fresh air entering the suitcase to replace the warm, humid air I had been breathing sent goosebumps up my arms and neck, but I remained still. I could see the light from behind my eyelids, but I could not see even a shadow of Him. I kept my face angelic and relaxed, careful not to betray any emotion despite my disappointment and eagerness. A good doll was always attractive to her Dollmaker.
He spent a few seconds looking at me, I assume, and then I felt His strong hand gently slide between the left side of my face and the spot on the suitcase it had been lying against; His other hand crept to the soft skin behind my knees until He had a sturdy hold in both locations and could lift me up. I surrendered my weight to His hands, resisting any urge to tense up or hold awkward posture. I hoped He noticed how I yielded entirely to Him.
He cradled me to His chest for an all-too-short moment while He walked to the bed and softly laid me down, as if He might break me otherwise. No, not yet - if the Dollmaker wished to break His doll, He wouldn't do it until after examination.
Being in the Dollmaker's presence was exhilarating and reduced me to exactly how He wanted me. Entirely submissive. Unquestioningly obedient. Powerless. Exposed. And dripping.
The Dollmaker's large, rough hands gently rolled me onto my back and my limp body complied, my head rolling slightly over my shoulder, my knees above my chest. He began to carefully adjust me. First, He tilted my head so that it would be straight above my shoulders again, then tilting my chin this way and that as if testing the joint to see what needed work. I felt His fingertips press against the sides of my neck and knew He could wrap His strong hand around my slight neck, and I longed for the feeling. The Dollmaker found nothing wrong, apparently, because He set about moving hair away from my serene face, smoothing the soft hairs of my eyebrows into place, and running His thumb over the soft skin of my lips. He opened my mouth and I allowed my jaw to fall open as He examined me. His fingers in my mouth made me acutely aware of the pulsing in my white panties and the pressure of my aching nipples against my bra, the only articles of clothing I was wearing.
Satisfied with His probing, He moved down my neck and unfolded my arms out on the bed. He rotated my delicate wrists, checked the range of motion of my elbows and shoulders. He carefully traced the tip of His fingers over the sensitive skin on my inner wrist and elbow to see the goosebumps He left behind. A pleased hum reached my ears that made me glow with pride and longing.
His powerful hands moved down the front of my chest and bra to undo the front clasp of my innocent lace, white bra. The feeling of cold air on my nipples caused them to harden and jut out into the air all the more. He rewarded this by cupping my tender breasts with His rough hands and giving them a warm massage, and I resisted the urge to thrust my chest into
His hands and moan in gratitude. Though He had barely touched me, I was entirely ready to be taken, deeply and roughly. I lived in perpetual state of arousal and silent yearning, which felt like I were hypnotizing myself into being a perfect Doll for Him just by constant anticipation and daydreaming about being used by Him. I recited my mantras: A doll's enjoyment of the Dollmaker's use is a gift; it is never more important than her obedience. A good doll does not think. A good doll does not react. A good doll is used. I am a good doll.
He roughly pinched my nipples between His thumb and forefinger and pulled them slightly, and the pleasurable pain challenged my resolve. But I had no choice - I must be a good doll. Good dolls get to feel good. Bad dolls get broken. I stayed emotionless, yielding.
"Lovely," He murmured dreamily, His voice like dark chocolate. His hands slid down my chest to cup my sides at the base of my floating ribs. His thumb stroked my stomach as He held me. "Just lovely."
I felt the flush creep up my cheeks and spread onto my chest. He chuckled under His breath, squeezed lightly, and slid His hands to my hips. There, He released and then put His hands on my knees to straighten my legs and pull them apart, exposing my very wet panties. I guessed the wet spot was very visible by the position of my body, but He gave me no indication that He saw it. I wished I could peek to see if He was smiling, but a good doll exists to be used; her body and how she uses it belongs to her Dollmaker.
Knowing that I was so exposed and vulnerable, and powerless, only made me wetter and more desperate for His touch.
