Turn the Ey

Authors Note: This piece is part one of what seems to be growing into an erotic novella, but can be read as a standalone short story.

CW: Contains themes of hypnosis, CNC, doll play, anal sex, and body piercing. All characters are consenting adults.

"Turn the Key"

I run my fingers over the thick embossed envelope for the hundredth time, tracing each edge and noting how the corners are beginning to feel fuzzy from the repeat handling. I slide the heavy-weight stationary out and unfold it in my lap. I know what the letter says, each letter already burned into my brain.

Miss Beausoleil,

it reads in elegant calligraphy penned by hand,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been matched.

I glance out the tinted window and watch as the houses we are passing begin to space out over sprawling lawns and grow in size.

My eyes fall to the letter again.

As you have already reviewed and signed the completed contract, we will assume if we do not receive a written notice from you within three days of delivery of this letter, that you have accepted the match and the contract will become binding.

I glance at the date inked neatly in the upper right corner of the page. Six days have come and gone.

One week from the date of this letter's delivery, it continues, a car will pick you up and transport you to the location of your match.

My mind flashes back to that night at the club. I'd dressed to kill and sipped my gin and lemon soda lightly at the bar. A woman corseted within an inch of her life and stacked on a pair of Pleasers as high as my own had approached me. "Not collared?" she'd purred. I'd taken in her latex skirt, and flashed a smile.

"Not looking for casual play tonight," I'd said, although her ass had been tempting. I'd imagined folding her over the bar for just a moment. The woman had laughed and tucked a card into the waistband of my vegan leather pants before sauntering away. I'd returned home alone that night, no one in particular having caught my fancy, and as I'd peeled the pants down my thighs the card had drifted to the carpet.

It had flashed a single line of text, embossed in gold on the front of the card.

Live your fantasy

, it had teased. On the back had been a website and a number,

33742

. I'd been feeling restless for weeks. Going to the club alone had been reckless and I'd known I wouldn't find what I was looking for there. I'd been feeling like a caged animal, moving through the daily motions of my life. Curiosity had fanned the restless flames inside of me and I'd flopped onto the end of my bed and typed in the URL.

The number, as it had turned out, was an individualized password giving me access to the site. The contract had been available for download. The site, exclusive and accessed by invitation only, had been straightforward in stating its purpose.

Leave your life behind

, it had tempted,

and allow our matchmakers to make your fantasy a reality.

I'd gone down the rabbit hole. I'd answered questions about myself and uploaded photos. The quiz had confirmed what I'd already known. I'd be a strong match for an older gentleman wanting a Babygirl. I'd hoped my match would be a Daddy Dom. It was in my nature to be a good girl for a partner who wielded a gentler sort of dominance and cared for me with a firm but loving hand.

The contract had made things crystal clear. Upon finding a match, I would be notified by letter. I would have three days to respond if I did not accept the match, otherwise the transaction would be final. I would give notice at my job, notify my landlord that I wanted to break my lease, and get into the vehicle when it arrived at the end of the week. A box would arrive with the letter and I would dress only in the outfit contained in the box. I would enter the vehicle with my dog, but otherwise leave everything else behind. My match would assume all financial responsibility for my care and settle any outstanding debts such as student loans. In return, I would belong to him.

The transaction would be considered permanent and binding. While a contract granting ownership of a person wouldn't stand up in court, this one was drafted to look more like a prenuptial agreement. The match could at his discretion add a requirement of legal marriage, and any way one looked at it, the terms of terminating the relationship, would not be favorable.

I smooth the pale blue ruffled dress, which had arrived in an ornately wrapped pastel box, over my knees. It frames my small waist nicely, and hugs my full breasts and hips to display my hourglass figure. I pause to stroke my canine companion's big blocky head. Citrouille, my tricolored pitty mix, snuffles like a pig enjoying the attention and the chance to go for a ride in the back of the town car. My pink polka-spotted pig I often call him, lovingly referring to the patches of pink and black spots on his belly mixed in with his brown and white fur.

When I'd received the letter, now lying in my lap, panic had stolen my breath. It hadn't seemed real until I'd felt the thick paper in my trembling hands and read the text out loud. The letter which, had mostly read as standardized, had included only one personal element as a clue as to what lay ahead. It informed me that my match was quite pleased to welcome his forever good girl into his home, and that he would very much look forward to

playing doll

with me.

Something about the phrase had stuck with me. It may have been the seemingly grammatical error in an otherwise pristine text. Playing dolls would be a strange hobby for a grown man, but then again, who was I to judge. As the three days had passed along with my chance to bail, I'd imagined the possibility of release from the monotony of my current life. My concern about the wording of the letter had faded from my mind, and the panic had been replaced by resolve.

The car comes to a stop at the end of a long-gated driveway. The house at the end is very large, but the flowers in the garden and swing hanging from an ancient tree in the front yard give it an air of homeyness that dampens the pretention of its size. I can see the heavy vines running along the stone wall which encloses the property and gives the place a deep sense of stillness and privacy.

The divider has remained closed throughout the drive and the driver hasn't spoken a word to me, but I know what's expected. I bravely open the door, and having no baggage at all, take hold of Citrouille's leash and approach the front door. I don't have time to collect my thoughts or even ring the bell before it swings open. Outlined in the doorframe is an older man in gray linen pants and a coarse cotton white button-down, left open at the top. His bare feet look manicured and he gives an air with his attire of expensive nonchalance that would make him look at home on the deck of catamaran in Cannes.

Salt and pepper whisps of hair grace his temples and frame his cognac colored eyes, bright with excitement and just a hint of palpable hunger. "Welcome home," he says in a deep baritone voice, turning to allow me and my four-legged friend entrance. Citrouille runs his nose along the man's pants inhaling like a vacuum cleaner and seemingly satisfied with his findings, lopes off through a set of glass sliders into what appears to be a large garden. "Don't worry," the man says in a gentle but authoritative voice. "The entire property is secured by the wall and there's no chance of him getting free."

Still unable to find my voice, I find his hand when he offers it to me.

In for a penny, in for a pound

, I think to myself and take a deep breath. I manage to meet his gaze with my own green hued eyes.

"Take your time Honey," he says. "I imagine there is a lot to process." He begins a tour of his home, our home, while I look around with wide eyes and take in the scent of his body at my side. His fragrance is masculine with subtle note of spice, perhaps having taken a few sips of whiskey before greeting me.

"This is your forever home," he begins matter-of-factly, "and you belong to me now." "You may address me as Daddy," he continues, "and I will name my good girl once I have a sense of her personality." I'd not considered being given a new name, but given that this is a fresh start I feel that it will help me leave my old life behind.

As we reach the second floor, he opens a door at the end of one hallway leading to a master suite. The bedroom has an imposing four poster bed with luxe linens in tones of earth and forest green. The dark wood of the frame looks sturdy and I note the glint of brass rings set into the posts. Two remaining doorways open into a parlor of sorts and the master bath. I step towards the parlor for a closer look but am led by my hand into the bath instead.

I find it odd that there are no mirrors in the bathroom but am instantly drawn to the lovely cast iron soaking tub. Its little clawed feet look like flowers and I think to myself that it looks deep enough for me to soak in up to my chin. "Your new life starts today," he says softly pulling me closer. "Let's wash away the old one."

My new Daddy begins to fill the tub with water and allows me to choose from one of the lovely colored glass bottles on a shelf alongside of the tub. I choose a bottle that smells like bubblegum and he smiles as he tips the pink liquid into the tub and bubbles begin to form. He rolls up his sleeves and softly raises my arms above my head. I'm nervous, but I knew when I signed the contract that the nature of this arrangement would be intimate. I don't resist as he pulls the blue ruffles up over my head. I'm wearing nothing underneath as only the dress and a pair of slip-on white flats had been included in the box. He doesn't touch me as I expect and I kick my feet out of the shoes standing bared before him.

The man offers me his hand again to help me into the warm water and as I sit, he gathers my long ebony curls on top of my head with a decorative pin. I've already washed it this morning which he will know based on the preparation instructions outlined in the contract. My skin is smooth and hairless and I see him take notice. I've always felt my skin is meant to be bare and any traces of hair have been permanently removed. As I soak in the warmth I begin to relax and he begins to wash me with a large poofy sponge. I take note that while he cleans me quite thoroughly, he touches me only with the sponge and not with his bare hands.

As he stands me up to rinse away the suds, he asks me to turn around slowly for his inspection. He takes his time taking me in. I'm dried in a soft white towel and led across the hardwood of the bedroom floor until my toes touch a plush lavender carpet. It seems my curiosity will be sated as I glance around in a very feminine boudoir of sorts. "There's no bed because you will sleep with Daddy," says the man, "but this is your room Honey."

I take note of a long chaise couch in a much deeper shade of purple, a small vanity set stocked with high end lotions and cosmetics, and a matching white armoire. Across the room I find an odd little platform like the ones in a dress boutique before a free-standing full-length mirror. A lovely wooden box, sitting on the vanity, catches my gaze looking out of place with its masculine tones. It looks as though it belongs in the man's study and not in a such a girly room. "In time," he laughs out loud, following my gaze.

He sits me on the small bench accompanying the vanity and to my surprise faces me away from the mirror. My level of wonderment grows when he reaches for a brush and carefully detangles my curls, now hanging to my waist. The man pulls a few strands away from my face and secures them at the back of my head with a large bow, this time in a soft yellow.

He tilts my chin upwards and I meet his gaze for only a moment before I'm instructed to close my eyes. The towel keeps my skin from becoming chilled while I feel soft brushes trace over my face, ending with a slick one against my lips. The man brings me to stand in front of him and holds out his hand for my towel. I gather my courage and release it into his custody.

"Good girl," he soothes. "You're doing so well!" Still unable to see my reflection I watch him retrieve a matching yellow babydoll dress from the armoire which I can see is fully stocked with clothes and shoes. "You look so lovely bare," he says, "but it will be worth dressing you so that I can enjoy unwrapping you again." My feet are left bare as he leads me to the platform, blocking the long mirror from view with his body. He helps me up onto the platform and slips the dress over my head with practiced ease that avoids moving a single hair out of place. Finally, he allows me to turn and to take in my reflection.

What I see in the mirror steals the air from my lungs. My face is painted delicately giving the impression of my fair features being lightly rouged as if having gone for a walk on a brisk day. I can't help feeling like one of the pretty dolls I'd played with in my youth. "One last thing," the man says to me, as he approaches with the lovely box.

He opens it to reveal a unique locket of sorts. A blend of silver and gold, it looks to be antique, with a beautiful heart shaped charm at the center. "Trop jolie," I whisper.

Looking more closely I see that inlaid in the heart is a keyhole, the likes of which are seen in historical homes and require a skeleton key to open. "Daddy is a magician of sorts," he says calmly as if reporting the weather. I look at him in disbelief and he laughs again. "It's alright Honey," he coaxes. "Daddy isn't crazy and he knows that seeing is believing. This is Daddy's collar," he says solemnly. "If you put this on there is no going back. You will belong to me completely."

I meet his eyes again. I see hope there as he continues. "Once this collar goes on it will not come off again. Do you understand?" I nod. "I'll need to hear you say this out loud," the man says, "and address me properly when you do. Will you accept my collar?"

"Yes Daddy," I whisper knowing that if my nerve fails me now, I will never have this chance again. It's clear in the way his visage brightens that I have pleased him.

"This makes Daddy very happy!" he exclaims as he wraps the necklace around my throat and I feel the clasp snick closed. The heart comes to rest delicately in the hollow of my throat. "Spin slowly for my evaluation," he instructs as I rotate slowly on the podium until I come full circle. The man steps between me and the mirror gazing into my eyes and holding up an intricately crafted key.

"Look very closely at this key," he says softly. I follow it with my eyes as he presents it, holding it up to the light and twirling it between his fingers. "You are my good girl now," he continues as I watch the key, "but sometimes Daddy would also like for you to be his pretty doll." The words might normally raise alarm but I am distracted by the key glinting in the light and his words begin to wash over me like waves.

I like looking like a pretty doll

, I think to myself. "This is the bit that's magic," he says as the key continues its dancing between sun and shadow in his hand and his voice takes on an entrancing quality. "When I put it in the lock at your throat and turn it, you will cease to be a person, and you will simply be a lovely doll," he says. A trace of fear crosses my consciousness but is washed away by his voice. The key draws me in and it's the only thing in the room I can see now.

"You will still feel my touch as always but as my pretty doll you will not be able to move your limbs unless I pose them. You will see and hear everything that occurs within your range of vision but you will be unable to turn your head to look without my direction." The key moves closer and he continues to speak in melodic tones.

"As a doll you have a recorded voice box that makes only a few sounds. It can whimper, sigh, or cry out, but it cannot form complete words." He sinks the key into the lock at my throat.

His movements seem again to be carefully rehearsed and his speech flows from his lips with the fluidity of water. "From this moment forward the lock on this necklace will simply be a part of you that can never be removed whether you are a person or a doll. When I turn this key, you will be a doll as I have described and when I remove the key you will be my good girl again with all of your usual abilities returned to you."

My gaze is frozen on the key in his hand at my throat. "You belong to me completely as person or as doll, and I will do as I want with you. Even when you return to being my good girl, you will see this key hole in your throat and know what it is for." I hear a distinct click as the key turns in the lock.

My body hinges forward at the waist leaving my locks hanging about my inverted face. I try to right myself but find myself unable to move at all. I can feel that joints still exist in my limbs, but my body feels rigid in place. "Beautiful," I hear the man say breathless himself this time. "What a lovely doll."

I feel his hands on my waist as he lifts my upper body into a standing position. He turns my toes slightly inward and cocks one hip to the side, before raising my arms like a ballerina over my head. "Just perfect," he praises. The man changes my pose several times more and each time I find myself frozen in place. He takes photos. Finally, he turns my head to see my reflection in the mirror.

A quiet sense of horror creeps up my spine when I see that the necklace has vanished and the heart shaped lock is simply embedded in my throat, key still sticking out. It passes as quickly as it comes on when I hear his voice soothing me again. "You have no fear when you see the changes to your body," he whispers. "You are simply Daddy's pretty doll and he will play with you however he likes."

There is only Daddy and the key. He slowly lifts my dress over my head, baring my flesh to him again. He gently parts my legs so that they are wider than my shoulders and runs his hands over my breasts, pausing to play with each in turn. He reaches between my thighs and strokes me slowly. "My doll has a reservoir with fluid inside of her," he says, "and I always keep it full. When I touch you, it can make slick down here."

I feel that his fingers begin to glide with ease as slick pools between my thighs and he presses a single finger inside of my core. Daddy bends me forward at the waist. "All of my doll's holes are mine," he says. "I'll put things in them sometimes." He disappears from my view and returns with a glass object resembling an egg with a large flat heart on one end.

Daddy holds the egg close enough to be sure I can process what it is. I can see initials etched into the heart for just a moment before it vanishes from my view and I feel pressure and pain in my tightest opening. A whimper escapes my lips but I have no words. After a few moments I adjust to the object inside of me and he brings my body to standing again. "Almost perfect," he says, "but that can't stay in place forever, and I need to be sure that my doll is clearly marked as belonging to me."

Daddy pulls a small plastic package from his pocket and also a much smaller jewelry box. He bends my left arm at the elbow with my palm facing the ceiling as if carrying a serving tray. Daddy places the jewelry box in my hand. He makes another trip to the vanity and sprays my torso with something that stings my nostrils.

I wonder what he's put on my skin that makes my nose sting but he remains partially in my line of vision as he pulls on a pair of black nitrile gloves, shifting my attention. Daddy carefully pulls apart the package revealing something that glints in the light. As he shifts, I'm unable to look down and see what's occurring, but I feel his steady hands and pressure accompanied with a dull burning along the edge of my navel. Another small whine escapes me.