The time was almost right, how long had he waited for this chance, this perfect opportunity? Too long, by his own reckoning. He had wanted her, watched her, seen the scorn she had for those beneath her station, watched as she had shamelessly flirted and teased the men in her employ, only to cut them loose from their growing fantasies with razor sharp talons, setting them adrift, knowing she would never be theirs. Well, all that ended tonight.
The Master of the house was going on an extended tour of his holdings, and she had begged off, wanting to remain home and not accompany him on what she saw as another boring business trip. So she would stay, and he had already left, the limo was just now leaving the grounds and making its way to the airport. Leaving her alone in the house. It was perfect, he had here there for two entire weeks, limited staff, no staff but himself in the evenings, and now, now he would have his chance.
The revenge would be sweet. He had planned it out for months now, gathering all the things he needed, talking to the people who could help him make this happen, the Bocor in New York, the Priestess in New Orleans, he had spoken with countless others, but those were the two who had helped him the most. Now he sat, stripped of his shirt, the symbols carefully painted on his broad chest, the small shack hot, almost stifling as he say in the center of another symbol, his things spread carefully before him in a semi-circle.
The odd chanting came from his lips as his hands began to move over the pieces, the carefully sculpted doll being the first he picked up, the form busty, lithe and sleek like she was, and he held it in his hands reverently, staring down at it with a sadistic smile. Looking back to the other things, he began to work, the chant never ceasing, the heat seeming to increase with each passing minute as he carefully places the hair atop the head of the doll. He had gathered the hair from her brush, follicles still in place, and he attached it carefully, working the ends of the fine strands into the wax firmly. Next his hands moved to the small dress, made from a pair of her lace panties, her juices dried in the crotch, their scent musky and deep, and he paused, taking in the scent briefly before placing the dress over the doll with infinite care. His smile only growing, he picked up the next item, one that would add the most powerful of all touches to the doll. Though it had turned his stomach a bit to do this, he had known it was needed, known that this, alone, would make the doll different from others, and he reached forward, plucking up the small baggie and carefully extracting the bloody gauze.
She had cut herself in the garden, and he had preserved the gauze in the bag, keeping it moist, and he used it now to paint the lips of the doll, tracing the curves carefully, before moving it down and touching the tips of the waxen fingers, finally placing some on the toes of the doll, and lastly, and this he did with great relish, he raised the skirt of the doll and painted the waxen sex a soft red. Placing the gauze into the bowl before him, his chants grew louder, and he set the gauze, along with the left over hair and panties aflame in the bowl. He could have sworn as he did this the small shed shook, that the very foundation hummed with a secret and awesome power, but he tried to pay it no mind, the ritual was complete, the doll was perfection, and now was the time to test it out.
He rose, slipping on a shirt and left the heated shack, the cool caress of the night air striking like a physical blow after the searing heat and he paused, breathing deeply before making his way to the house. He crept inside, the doll held loosely so as not to melt the wax, and he made his way upstairs, where he knew she'd be. It was late, and her routine when the Master was gone was to sit on the bed, drinking champagne and watching old sappy movies, as she got progressively smashed.
Creeping into the room next to hers, he moves to the closet, where a well-concealed hole had been placed, and watched her through the small opening. Yes, there she was, sprawled out over the bed, her lush curved covered in a scant nightie of lace, the customary glass of champagne in her delicate hand, her deep brown eyes glued to the screen. Her legs were exposed, the nightie having ridden up as she shifted over the bed, letting her long toned thighs be seen almost up to the matching panties he knew she was wearing, and he grinned to himself, allowing her to finish most of the bottle before starting with his little experiment.
He knew it would work, it had to, he had put such care into every detail, and as her face began to take on the droopy lidded look of someone well into getting drunk, he began, at first a simple touch, the pad of one fingers sliding over the cheek of the doll and down across the slender neck. His smile broadening as he watched her eyes widen on the bed, one hand rising to her neck as though to shoo something away.
He grinned, his finger moving down now over the doll, caressing the waxen breasts slowly and she moaned in response, the sound surprising her, and she blinked, sitting up a bit unsteadily, letting off a nervous little laugh. His finger kept caressing the breasts, watching as her nipples hardened under the scant nightie now, her gaze shifting down to view them as though she might be able to see what was touching her. Of course, she saw nothing, but the odd sensation of having her tits played with continued, and she blinked and laid back on the bed, her back arched slightly as the sensations played over her.
