I’m extremely excited because my collection of erotic short stories on voyeurism is now published! Some of you may remember that I delayed this book because I wasn’t happy with it. I knew I could make it darker, more soulful — and way more erotic than it currently was. I think I’ve done that.
I thought I would share one entire story with you from Can You See Me?: Darkly erotic tales of voyeurism. It’s a kind of Teaser Tuesday, because it’s a long story, so I’m posting it in parts.
“Audience for the Marionette” is both dark and soulful, in fact, possibly one of the darkest stories in the collection and, I hope, very sexy. A marionette, created and used by her Master to please his voyeuristic clients, starts to become sentient. As she performs for her captive voyeur, and she watches him, too, she starts to believe that this very special client can make her live. As her obsession for life arouses her in ways she never knew existed, the consequences (no spoilers here) are life-changing!
Without further ado, here’s part 1!
AUDIENCE FOR THE MARIONETTE
I stir; the room is silent, watchful, my only company when I am left alone. But the steady thud beyond the grey stone walls ignites the smouldering ball of fire at my core. It’s him. The Master. His shoes; each step louder, each step sending burning tendrils weaving through my limbs, making me gasp. I feel it again — that warmth between my thighs, lubricating my senses. It keeps happening.
The key grates in the lock. Lying here on the sheets of the four-poster bed built especially for me, I pretend to be asleep. He likes to wake me in his own special way and I never fail to give him what he wants. But my pooling wetness draws my hand, my attention, my probing fingers, as my skirts fall away over my belly and I touch the fabric beneath. My fingertips glide over the silk, then press hard onto the dampness. What is happening to me? I can’t ask. I don’t have words. Don’t have the voice.
When he created me, he told me he is my Master and I am made to serve him. He still tells me even now, when he strips off my dress at the beginning of each day and stands me, naked, in front of him so that he can inspect me to his satisfaction. Every morning, his last mouthful of breakfast still hanging in crevices between his teeth, his shoes thud up the steps and he walks across the stage, and stares at me through the bars of my giant domed birdcage. He calls me softly: “Marionette. Open your eyes.” And I do, to find him looking into mine He lets himself in and takes care of me — polishes me, checks I’m intact, instructs me to perform the routine for standard clients, just in case he wants to tweak any part of it.
Sometimes he praises me after he’s watched, if I’ve bent over and pursed my lips at the invisible audience in a perfect diamond, or lifted my dress to the perfect height to show off my stocking tops. He doesn’t like me to get that wrong.
“The view higher up is reserved for the special clients, my dear,” he tells me. “And for me.” He comes right up to me then, kneels down in front of me, his voice husky, and croaks, “Show me your perfect pussy, Marionette. Let me watch you make it gleam.”He never touches, except to pull down my panties, letting them fall to my ankles and lifting just one foot free. Gives me the polish on my fingers and watches as I slide my fingers over my surface, following his instructions to circle the hard little ball at the front and dip my fingers back, following every fold until I can sink one inside my frame. I watch his mouth open, his hands clenching over the bulge that forms in his clothes. I see the agony as he unzips, then zips back up again, pausing, his breath blowing through his teeth until his eyes close and his moans rasp. Then he is still, and I wonder, always, if that last howling moan has done for him. If he has stopped being alive. Wonder if he knows what it’s like to be me.
But no; he opens his eyes, shuddering, his face red, and mutters, “Oh, you’re special. Look how wet you can make it seem.” I watch him get up, tugging at the front of his trousers. “Only for the best clients.”
The ‘best clients’ are the ones who want to watch the marionette come out of her cage among the clowns and dolls, and dance a coy kind of burlesque for them. They’re the ones who don’t want to see the other shows. They don’t want anything real. He began to take them at their word, and he gave them me. Now he takes their credit card first, then they sit and he locks down the manacles over their arms while they gasp and protest, but never move. Do they want to? Maybe at first. But they know they have to pay his price for their satisfaction. And once they’ve accepted that, their show begins. I perform: an empty shell, no heart, no soul. And the eyes, piggy and watering, or steely ice, watch…
The door opens. Here is my Master.
He is more eager than usual to inspect me today. His eyes absorb every part of my wooden frame; he doesn’t notice mine open wide, or my lips part in voiceless whimper. It’s happened again — the thought of his fingers create a feeling I can’t explain. I watch him feeling his way down, always an inch away, the cloth between his touch and my body, imitating my curves. The lower his fingertips move, the more I fill with this sensation. Waiting. Hoping for him to do what I can do to myself when he locks me away. Wanting more than his eyes upon me. His fingertip dips between the tops of my thighs and I am torn. The yearning inside me begs for his touch; my growing consciousness warns against it. You are a marionette. Only a marionette. Remember that. Horrid voice permeating the skull he has created. I shake it away. I want him to know that I can be wet on my own. That my body grows ever sentient to match my mind. Look, Master, Look what is happening to me. Look what you have created.
“You really are something else, my dear. The best I’ve ever made. Every detail is perfect.”
He stands there, and I feel, while he revels in self-indulgent congratulation. My pained delight spreads across my face, and the burning within wraps around my chest. What I wouldn’t do to have eyes upon me that create this strange feeling that unfurls inside, warms me. If only he would look at me, and not my shell. Can he not sense my growing presence, my desires, my needs, before him? If only I was real.
“You have a special client this evening, Marionette. He wants to see your perfect polished form. I’ve worked hard to bring him here to see you. You may remove your clothes for him. Indeed, I command you to. You may not leave the stage. He is a very experienced watcher, and he knows what to expect. If you do well… Well, our future is sealed. He’ll be here in a moment.” He grabs my wrist hard and stares into my face. “Remain in your cage until I have him seated.”
If you would like to read the other four parts of this story, you can find them here:
You can read more about my darkly erotic voyeurism collection here.