Psychiatrist's Puppet (Loftry University Playthings 3)

Chapter 1

Andrew

“Letme rephrase it in a simpler way. Did they rape you?”

Chelsea turns away, her eyes shimmering in the fading glow of the sun outside of the sitting room. We’ve been at this for hours and nothing. She’s either being stubborn or just doesn’t want to talk about it. In normal practice, I’d have all the time in the world. Most clients pay by the hour or half-hour. So, if they didn’t want to talk to me, I’d just take their money and doodle on my notepad.

Instead of the typical, abstract scribblings, my brain keeps drawing that girl a few rooms over in very provocative ways. I want to tell Grigori that all this is a waste of time. I can’t help Chelsea if she doesn’t talk. Sighing, I set the pad on my knee, giving one last glance at the sketch of Jane Doe dangling from a high beam by her wrists.

“You’re not my submissive. I can’t force you to talk to me or punish you if you don’t.”

A smile eases over my lips as I plan out how I’m going to manipulate her. I’m not the only one fixated on the stranger in the large bed. Even as we sit here talking, her eyes dart to the door, her fingers clenching as if she wants to grab the arms of the chair and stand, but then she settles before starting the whole process over again.

“The longer you stay silent, the more time you’re taking away from me tending to Jane Doe. I knew you were selfish, Chelsea, but I didn’t think you’d want to torture an innocent.” Especially not when that’s my job. “Is there something about Jane Doe that makes you want to punish her this way?”

Face red, she finally stands up, frame vibrating with her anger. Good. This is much better than morose apathy. I can’t work with someone when they’re feeling nothing. I can’t manipulate emotions that aren’t there.

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

Sliding my reading glasses down just a touch, I spear her with a disappointed glare. I shake my head, tsking softly under my breath before picking up my pad again and scribbling some things down. Her eyes grow wary as she watches me, not knowing I’m making my grocery list for next week. She cranes her neck in an attempt to see what I’m writing, but I pull it away, making a big show of writing even faster.

With a sigh that borders on a huff, she plops back down into the chair, her arms creeping around to clutch her waist. That sad, pitiful look is back. Fuck. That’s not what I wanted. Where is the Chelsea that manipulated Jeremy? Where’s the girl that openly defied Grigori during her punishment, making him rape her ass in front of the whole assembly? I shift about in the chair, crossing my legs to hide my burgeoning erection. I’m not stupid enough to let her know I’m aroused. There’s nothing stopping her from telling Grigori, and that’s not a fight I want to lose.

A soft knock sounds at the door, bringing Chelsea up into a half-crouch from the chair. When neither of us says a word, it opens, revealing a maid. Her curly hair is swept back into a soft bun, just enough to keep it out of her face, but not tight and severe like most I’ve seen. The simple outfit hugs her curves, promising many nights lost between her thighs. She’s not a mystery though.

Just watching how she moves about, how she scuttles in as if not to disturb us, even though she clearly has, tells me more than I need to know. She’s not an enigma - not a puzzle to be solved. She’s not Jane Doe. Sliding my gaze back over at Chelsea, I let her see just a touch of my rising irritation. I can’t physically do anything to her, but if she keeps me away from my puzzle much longer, I’m going to fuck with her mind so hard she won’t even know who to turn to for comfort.

As the maid wheels the cart into the room, I reach out, grabbing her wrist, stopping her in her tracks. Standing, I motion for her to move a bit more to the center before shifting behind. I slide my palms around her waist, watching her pulse quicken in the side of her neck. She doesn’t say a word, but then, why would she? The help is used to people taking advantage of their station. Grigori did say to use whatever methods I deem necessary, as long as I don’t lay a finger on Chelsea. He really should have been more specific.

“Don’t move,” I whisper to the maid, smirking as her breath stills.

For now, I can’t tell if she’s frightened, aroused, or both, but she’s not the object of my attention at the moment. Instead, I’m focused on Chelsea, noting the widening of her eyes, the rapid gasps as she struggles for air. I fist the bun in my hand, pulling the maid’s head back. Her soft squeak of surprise zips down my spine and into my balls. Her hair is even softer than it looks, and I allow myself a moment to luxuriate in it.

“Let’s start from the beginning, Chelsea. What did they do to you?”

Her fingers drift over her lips, but nothing slips out.

“My patience grows thin.”

Reaching around, I grab one of the maid’s hands and place it on the cart handle, then the other. In one swift motion, I thrust her head forward, bending her at the waist.

“Lay your head against your hands, my dear. Chelsea,” I intone, hunching down. “Are you familiar with the term ‘whipping boy’?”

The maid flies up, her spine ramrod. In a fluid motion, I stand as well. Without saying a word, I position her hands again, but I reach into my pocket this time. Pulling out a small hank of rope, I slide my thumb into the hole that will end up being my bight and let it unwind in a mesmerizing twisty-turny dance until it’s completely uncoiled. Chelsea stares at it, her eyes following each jerky movement until it hangs flat.

Pulling it between both hands, I make a small loop by pulling the ends through and sliding that over her bun. With one jerk, the loop cinches tight, leaving me with the doubled-over strands. Since I’m not playing with the girl, I don’t take my time to make intricate designs. I simply tie it to the cart handle, preventing her head from coming up.

“I do believe I said not to move. Perhaps this will help constrain you.”

Her pulse kicks up a notch, the artery throbbing in a frantic staccato that matches the blood pumping into my shaft. I ache as I stand there, watching this woman writhe about. I let her until her hands reach up to loosen the knot. Shaking my head, I take what’s left of the rope, wind it about her wrists, and tie it off to the cart. I slide my middle finger into each restraint, satisfied that her circulation will not suffer through this game.

Chelsea stares at me, eyes like saucers. Pulling back, I step to the side and make a great show of rubbing my cock through my pants. Perhaps it will trigger her, force her into action. I expected her to crouch down and cower away. What I didn’t expect was for the hellion to burst forth as she charges at me.

Tears streaming down her face, she lunges for me, fingers outstretched, looking every inch a harpy from the Greek tragedies. Smiling wide, I sidestep her, watching as she spawls about on the floor. The maid is wailing, adding an auditory cacophony to the mix that pounds the inside of my brain. Enough is enough. Gripping Chelsea about the waist, I slide my hand into my other pocket and pull out a syringe. A blood-curdling scream rips from her throat as I press the needle into her arm, feeling that pop as the metal perforates her skin. Depressing the plunger just a touch, I wait until she stops struggling to pull it out.

I don’t want her to claim damage where there is none. Pulling her limp form to my chest, I haul her into my arms and walk her back over to the chair. I don’t place her against the cushions as if she’s a dainty doll that needs to be protected. No. I toss her onto it, only aiding her when her head tilts forward towards the arm.

Just as I get her positioned, the door flings open, revealing Grigori. His black eyes glitter like obsidian and are just as sharp. Though I’ve never really seen him smile, the frown he’s sporting is intense, bordering murderous. He takes one look at Chelsea before storming over to me, a spark flashing in his eyes. I don’t know him very well, and he sure as hell doesn’t know me. Nothing is keeping him from snapping me in two over the woman he thinks he loves. Holding up my hands, I show him the syringe, and with slow, controlled movements, I slide the needle cap back on and drop it into my pocket.

“She was hysterical. I had to give her a moment's reprieve before she hurt herself or me.”

“Has she told you anything?”

Interesting that he hasn’t mentioned the maid, despite her ass being only inches away from his cock. I guess he is smitten with the girl. Why, I cannot fathom, but that’s not my job. I’m not here to be a love counselor.

“Not yet, but I feel I’m making progress. I would say for you to stay and watch, but I fear that would give Chelsea a feeling of safety that’s counterproductive to what I’m trying to get from her.”

A frown creases his forehead, but he nods, only then seeing the maid.

“What the hell are you doing with Rita?”