Psychiatrist's Puppet (Loftry University Playthings 3)

“It’s your cook. Isn’t it?” His gaze shutters moments after I see the surprise in his eyes. I’m right. “I’ve only had a handful of meals so far, but he seems methodical, not rushed, a perfect chess companion. Queen takes knight. Checkmate.”

The heated look in his eyes as he tips his king to the table tells me all I need to know. I didn’t win. Not really. He led me here, corralled me. It’s as if, win or lose, I’m the prize. Am I really prepared for that?

He stands and extends his hand, and I take it, my grip shaky as he pulls me up. “How about we see to your prize?”

My body trembles as I stand next to him. Heat radiates off of his body as I’m flush against his chest, using his steady heartbeat to settle my own. Have I made a mistake in asking for this? He seems far too happy with losing for me to feel safe. What have I done? He doesn’t wait for a verbal confirmation.

Instead, he pulls me along behind him, so sure I’m not going to bolt. His hand isn’t even firmly around mine. If I wanted to, I could yank out of his grasp. But I don’t. Like a lamb to the slaughter, I follow, arousal pulsing through my body with every step.

We come to his bedroom door, and I turn to go in, but we keep traveling down the hallway. Perhaps we’re going back to the room I was first in? I’m not sure why, but that idea fills me with anxiety. If we go back there, maybe that means he’ll leave me all alone in the wide-open space. We pass that door as well, and my anxiety starts to skyrocket. I never got a good look at the house. I was too busy either running or cleaning. I have no earthly clue where we’re going, and I don’t like it.

After what seems like an eternity, we stop. This room has a keypad and a scanner, way more high-tech than anything I’ve seen. As he stoops to punch in the code and scan his eye, my stomach plummets. What’s behind this door that no one can know about? Angela certainly has no problem engaging in his humiliating games, and security has already seen me naked. There’s no way they don’t know what’s going on under this roof.

The door opens, and the scene that greets me stops me cold. A cross rests against the back wall, with various pieces of equipment lining the sides. I don’t have names for most of them, but I surely remember each and every one. Before letting me slide into my drug haven, I’d been bent over every surface imaginable and had implements of all types used on me. They needed to test my endurance. I cracked every time. Perhaps that’s what ended up saving me the anguish of being coherent for too long. They didn’t want to break me. Not yet. That was the job of whoever purchased me.

My body sways as the scene swims in my vision. The grey creeps back, my brain doing everything in its power to shield me from the amount of fear flowing through my body. The surge of adrenaline makes me ill as bile climbs up my throat, burning an acid trail up from my stomach. I gag on it as Doctor Rayne pulls me further inside. He turns, a flit of concern lighting his eyes for a moment. Only a moment. Then, he composes himself as if he never had an ounce of feeling. Strong, immovable, implacable. He’s a tower of strength as he gathers me into his arms, hand stroking my hair.

“You will breathe with me. In. Out. In. Out. In, safe. Out, secured. In, owned. Look at me.” He snaps his fingers in front of my face a few times before I can actually focus on him. Even so, his movements look slow to me, blurred. “Chastity.”

That bark permeates my brain, bringing me more to the present. His face starts to focus as he peers down at me. One arm circles my shoulder, holding me in place, lodged firmly by his side. His other hand comes to rest on my breastbone. The weight, the heat, the feel of him. All of it fills me, consumes me.

“Breathe, sweetie. You got this.” His soft voice plunges through the thick fog of my brain, and something deep inside starts to loosen. “That’s my good girl. Just breathe with me. This room is just a room. These objects are just objects. Everything in the room is neutral - neither good nor evil. It’s all in how they’re used. Now, tell me, have I harmed you once since you’ve been in my care?”

“N-no, Sir.”

“Good girl. Do you trust me to not harm you while you’re in my care?”

I pause, mulling over his words. In all rights, I still don’t trust him. Not yet. “No, Sir.”

“Oh really? What makes you think that I would even want to?”

“You forced water up my ass to make me go to the bathroom!” The hysteria starts to rise in my voice, and I hear it, but I can’t stop it. I’m even vaguely aware that I’m cursing at him and will most likely be punished, but I can’t seem to stop that either. My brain needs to purge, needs to vomit onto him all of his misdeeds, let him know just how twisted he is.

He certainly doesn’t see anything wrong with his actions, which alone causes me to fear him. “You had your maid shave me bare. Everything!” I scream. “You treat me both like a child and a woman. Keeping me off balance so I’ll accept whatever you do to me. You - you’re using me. I don’t know how, but I know you are.”

To his credit, he doesn’t let go of me. He doesn’t chide me. He just stands there, a warm reminder of his presence. Tears flow down my cheeks as I start to heave. The pressure of his arm and hands build, steadying me as cleansing tears pour out of me.

“Yes, but when have you been harmed?”

I dig through my memories, trying to come up with something. Everything he’s doing is wrong. I know it in my core, but I can’t bring myself to state any examples. My brain and heart war with each other, the battle making its presence known deep in my body as I shake and tremble as memories flood my mind. None are of him. The word harm can only conjure them. The vile men that used me. Doctor Rayne has caused me hurt and pain, but never once has he made me feel like they did.

The very fact that I can’t come up with any examples shows just how insidious he is, worming his way into my core until I can’t even bring myself to hate what he does to me. This isn’t me. This was never me. Yes, I liked to defy my parents, choosing Billy over some missionary they picked out when I was younger, but even with him, things were tame. Kisses here, sex there. No pain, no humiliation. Boring. Fuck.

Memories that kept me from dying at the hands of those men resurface, but instead of bringing me comfort, they seem pale, shallow. For all his good points, Billy never made me burn. He never made me crave the forbidden. He was forbidden enough. Fresh tears spill down as I turn to look at Doctor Rayne, fear being replaced with anger. Anger at being made to feel, being forced to look at my life and want more, being forced to confront the watercolor that was my life instead of the vibrant acrylics that he paints on me with his pain.

Unbidden, memories of Melody sitting at her desk, painting while Mother and Father recited scripture, flows into my mind. Even she couldn’t escape. I saw how she and Jeremy interacted. Nothing about them being together was right. Just like this isn’t right. It’s so wrong, but oh so tantalizing. Instead of the drugs, I’m faced with the choice of allowing Doctor Rayne access to my heart and mind. If I give in, I know it will be better than any drug because I’ll be here, alive, awake, and choosing.

Just like that, the anger drains from me, leaving me weak in his arms. I want to hate him. I want so badly to tell him it’s done. But I can’t. He’s right. As much discomfort as he’s put me through, he’s never harmed me. I can’t even say that about my parents. It’s agonizing to know your life as you know it is slipping from you, but it’s even worse knowing it’s changing because of your actions and choices. I chose this. Not directly. But every step I took led me to this moment.

Defying my parents, leaving Billy for that brief period, just to get a better glimpse of the caged tigers, dropping his hand when I should have stayed. He was keeping me safe and protected, much like Doctor Rayne, but in vastly different ways. Did Billy even look for me? My gut tells me Doctor Rayne would tear the earth apart if I ever disappeared. Three years. Three wasted years.

He pulls me into his arms and brings me further into the room. I don’t even try to fight him. Besides, what’s the point? Every time I try to run, he just pulls me back and ties me even firmer to him. If I’m honest, it’s that quiet possession that scares me the most. If I run, he will find me. Always. He doesn’t even have to say it. I know it deep in my gut.

“Stay here.”

He doesn’t even bring up the fact that I swore, and somehow, that makes the ache even worse. Is this a sign that he’s becoming done with me? Does him not acknowledging my shortcomings mean he doesn’t care? I long to reach out to him, to beg him to punish me. I know it’s stupid. Who even wants punishment? But for some reason, I need it, crave it. As if he’s reading my mind, he turns, a smirk pulling up the corner of his lips.

“I do owe you a punishment, dear, but right now, I’m more concerned about your prize. Once we get that taken care of, I’ll be more than happy to oblige.”

Perhaps I just said it out loud again. When my mind fractures, I never really know what’s happening. That’s one thing I’m eternally grateful for; he seems to understand. He’s never out of control. In fact, the more I start to spiral, the more solid he becomes. I don’t have to fear my mind because he’s always there to keep me sane - well, as sane as this dark insanity will let me be. Music fills the space, and I look down to see him pressing the button of a small remote. Does he usually just keep that with him? Or did he plan this? There’s no way he could have known I’d ask to be tied up tonight. Right?

The beat of the music is alluring. My body sways with the hypnotic rhythm as it takes over. He walks over to a large trunk that’s standing vertically and opens it up, swinging the door out to reveal smaller drawers on the left and rows of hooks on the right. Ropes of varying colors and thicknesses hang down, their coils neat and orderly. Pristine. He grabs three or four before heading back over to me.

With a grin, he sets them on the ground before motioning for me to turn around. He doesn’t say a word as he begins to undress me. It’s unnerving hearing him breathe but not his voice. Everything feels thick and heavy as he smooths his hands over my skin, revealing inch by inch to his gaze. After the dress comes off, he kneels down behind me, his breath fanning the curves of my ass as he rolls down the stockings before sliding his hand up to grip my mound.

Once he steadies me, he lifts my foot up and removes the stocking before letting go to roll down the other, once again grabbing me so intimately before taking it off. His thumbs hook into the band of my panties, pulling them down with maddening slowness. Inch by inch, he reveals me even more.

Drifting his hands up, he removes the dilator he put in me earlier, and I feel an odd sensation of emptiness. For the first time since Billy, I ached to be filled. I’m not so far gone as to beg him, but arousal swirls through me at the thought of giving in and letting him have his way with me.

He lets me go, and I pitch forward, not realizing how much I was leaning into him. Standing, he grips my waist, letting me sway for just a moment, his body moving back and forth behind me, grinding up against me. The hard ridge of his erection fits between the crack of my ass as he forces my body to relax against him.

The moment is over far too soon. He bends back over to grab the rope and stands in front of me. Sliding his thumb through a small loop, he flicks the coil out, letting the rope uncurl in a snap. He ignores me as he tosses one end up and over a ring hanging from the ceiling. I hadn’t even noticed it. Pulling it through, he brings the ends together, making sure they’re even before doing some more manipulation until an elegant knot appears under the ring.

Fingering the two strands, he studies them then looks at me, as if deciding what to do first. With a nod, he pulls me closer to him and lifts my hand before wrapping it in the rope. This is different than last time. There’s a bite there, of course, but it’s softer somehow. My hand hangs limp in the tie, swaying like a broken marionette, mimicking exactly how I feel - shattered from the inside out.