This is the second part of my dark, erotic voyeurism story about a beautiful marionette who has discovered she is becoming sentient of body as well as of mind. If you have read Part 1, you will remember that the aroused yet unfulfilled Marionette has been brought a ‘special client’ by her creator and Master. The client is an experienced voyeur and Marionette has been told she must remove her clothes for him, but must not leave the stage where she performs. She has been told to remain in her cage until her Master returns with his paying customer.
And so, for #TeaserTuesday, here is what happens when the client arrives…
I lay back on my bed, create the pose of a sleeping doll. The key clanks heavily in the lock, and the footsteps thud, then vanish into the distance.
Silence surrounds me, like a living force: it breathes from the grey, stone walls; it oozes from the black wooden floor. The ancient chair whispers the history of bodies of old, tortured and screaming. I’m used to the breaths of the dying. They’re my companions. Can I not die? I suppose I can’t. Is that a good thing?
My cheek is wet. A solitary tear.
The thick cloak of silence wraps itself around me, provides my comfort. But its strange tenderness is interrupted by voices, one replete with artifice and annunciation, crowing — my Master — and the other, clipped, deeper, urgent. I like this one better. I feel my protective cloak wither away with the key in the lock and a flaming mass of shame at my rogue thought ignites, lapping at my feet, burning higher.
The voices, and the men, enter and continue just inside the heavy ash wood door. As I look at that solid, heavy, flat mass of wood, a reflection of the shape of my own cage, their sounds mock my own voicelessness. Why did he not give me a voice, my Master? Merely inarticulate noises. Base, indistinct.
I watch, as the man hands over his card and his PIN number on a piece of paper. My Master grips it as the man extends his hand and his financial lifeline; he grips until his knuckles turn white, smiling, gaps where extractions have taken place by someone’s fist leaving apparently endless black holes.
“If all goes as we would like it, I will return the card later, sir.” The Master releases him by force, ripping the card and the written digits from the man’s fingers. He places them on the table in the corner, then ascends the three steps to centre stage. “Please sit down, sir.”
The client is in a suit; his shoes click against the wood as he moves towards the chair indicated by the Master’s upturned, gesturing palm. From my position on top of the sheets, I inhale the combined scent of soap and mint and musk — is the latter aftershave or excitement? My excitement, perhaps. The wetness pools unbidden between my clenched thighs and it startles me to feel it so wet.
I expect the client to demand the return of his card. I wait for that, and for a hand around his throat and the thud of his body against the wall, so deep underground that no one would ever hear. So the Master says. An intense pressure builds, filling me between my legs, carried and converging with full force onto that bulb the Master has told me is my clit. I want to run my fingers over it so badly, waiting for this man to say something, to do something. I want the Master provoked, just as I want him inside me, every day.
The client’s face is calm as he sits, but I already notice his chest heaving. Can he sense the people who have been in that chair, too? He rubs his hands along the elaborate, carved arms, battered and scraped into an enforced curvature by chains of past centuries.
“This is a real piece of work. It must have some history.”
With the unexpected agility of a sprite, my Master is down from the stage and in front of the chair. “It belongs to the time of the Spanish Inquisition. Those who were expected to sit and reveal everything about themselves were bound like this…” My Master is fast: he clunks the arm braces into place, binding the special client between metal and wood. The man swallows hard. His shirt collar goes up and down; it makes my eyes widen as his shoulders throw out an instinctive shudder. His face flushes as he attempts futile squirms inside the manacles. I know why. He hasn’t paid his dues yet.
“Hey, what are you doing? I can’t move.”
The Master smiles. “That, sir, is the whole point. Satisfaction is my primary concern. If you are satisfied — when — your card will be processed. Once the payment is complete, you will be released.” The men’s eyes lock; a strange sensation creeps into my core, and I break my pose, crawling off the bed and to the bars to see more closely.
“What is that?” The client frowns, nodding towards the long wooden lever that sticks up out of the floor.
“Look below your legs, sir.”
The man peers down at the square wooden section beneath the chair. Again I see his chest heave, accompanied by a rasp in his throat.
“Your credit card is good for payment, sir, isn’t it?”
A strangulated “Yes” comes from the client’s lips as his eyes return to the front of centre stage, trying to bypass my Master, who, slowly, like a taunting cat, positions himself back under the spotlight. He controls everything. Everyone.
“Then you don’t need to worry about anything, sir. Your show will begin once I leave. It will finish when you hear the bell. And then you will pay.” The Master smiles; the flinch of the new special client is unmistakable. He still looks unnerved as the cage door unlocks and clangs open and the spotlight becomes several, lighting a pathway from my bed to the stage in front of the special client. My special client.
The ash wood door closes; the lock grates. My time has come.
From the shadows of the cage I rise amid the dolls, bears, wooden soldiers and spinning tops, a marionette playing at Victorian burlesque, watching the watcher. I stretch my limbs, linger over the dalliance of my fingers against my shins, my thighs, taking my place for his eyes to feast on beneath the burning light.
What will make his mouth open, the little gasp release from between his lips? The feather boa slipping from around my neck and trailing between my breasts? The sight of my silky smooth shoulder as I lower my dress over it, titling my head back towards him in the spotlight, giving him a wide-eyed, O-mouth glance? Maybe my legs in their black stockings, pink bows at the top, as I raise my dress, inch by time-slowed inch, for him to see the tops of my thighs uncovered? Oh, that provokes a reaction. There, in his trousers. His cock jumps, already hard and straining against the fabric. I want more of that. That hardness.
You can find the other parts to this story here:
You can read more about my darkly erotic voyeurism collection here.