This is the fifth and final part of my erotic short story, ‘Audience for the Marionette’. When we last encountered her, she had performed a very special show for her voyeuristic client. Not only was her consciousness fully aware of her feelings, but her body had become alive, needy, offering herself up to a new Master. Desperate for the man who was watching her. And she wanted him. More than that: she wanted him to want her…
If you haven’t read the other parts to the story, you can find them all here. And if you’ve been following all of them, week by week, then thank you so much for sticking with the story. I hope you find the ending… fitting.
The bell rips through the air without warning; hurts my head; leaves his entire face in anguish. He is going to leave me any minute — he will have no choice — and I want him to stay, but I have no voice. I can’t ask, only look at him. That single teardrop I felt before paves the way for hundreds more. But they don’t fall from my eyes; they drown me inside instead. The echo of the old man’s footsteps gather momentum, clattering against the stone corridor beyond my home, my prison.
I don’t want another special client. And he… Oh, I see it in his face. Fleeting glimpses of a place where I roam free and let him watch me touch my perfect, smooth, impenetrable skin every moment of the day. Over breakfast: keeping contact with his eyes as I sip at my tea and roll a fingertip over my exposed flesh until he is straining beneath the table and I can get my morning sustenance from his cock. While he is working, and I sit on the corner of his desk, my knee bent high, my heel digging in the top of his book, as I show him how I have been working to make myself wet, sliding my fingers along my folds and burying myself into my work until he can’t resist carrying me to bed and exploring between the sheets.
And the secret inside me that the old man has not been watching for, not seeing, changes within me, filling my hard shell with every look of longing and…is it? Is it real desire? Real… love? Is this what it looks like? He can save me from the creature the old man has created. I feel it. My passion has risen. It consumes me, knows no bounds.
The key weighs heavily in the lock, fumbling. Instinct makes me mount the stage once more; ignore the pleading, “Wait…” All is well when my owner enters and finds me appearing in his service once more. Except that I am still naked. I feel the eyes boring into my form the second the wood creaks in the opening.
“What is this? Not in your cage yet, my little Marionette?” Even though his stare is hard, I remain at the edge of the stage, feeling gaze of the one who is bound travelling up my thigh to my glistening pussy, and replying merely with, “No, not yet.” Only at the old man’s twitching right eye and a scowl that could whip up a hurricane do I add, “Master.”
“Can I pay for another session? To run now?” My new darling’s body quivers within his bindings, his face a mass of sweat and heat.
“One session only. Did she please you, sir?” His stare flicks from my body to strike my client down with a wishful incantation, if only he had the power. “Satisfaction guaranteed, or the card isn’t charged.”
“I don’t know what to say. She’s the most amazing creature. I want to watch her all day and all night.”
This beautiful man’s eyes devoured me; they would eat my soul, I’m sure, if only I could be certain I had one. All I can do now is stand on display at the front of the stage, making his mouth open, his breath intake sharply, knowledge of me governing his responses now, as I return to twirling my hair and following his gaze and I stroke my permanently engorged nipple. Would it ever lay flat for him? I think not, even if it were able. But it can’t, and it will raise the cock of another special client when the old man commands it. I beg, voiceless, in the hope that the sight of my body will be enough: Please, desire me. Claim me. Name your price and own me. For I would do anything for you, let you see anything you please. Be anything. I can be, I feel it. I am me!
“I’m afraid that is quite impossible. One session only. Now, if you’ll be so good as to sit tight, you will be released from your bonds as soon as the machine clears your payment.” The old man flicks his eye over my lover. “That will leave ample time for your excitement to cool. I see now just how satisfactory she was. Your change of clothes is in the cloakroom. Locker 12.” To me he fires, “Marionette. Your dress. Now.”
The silence engulfs us all. My darling’s eyes are upon me, roaming every smooth curve, while the old man turns to the corner and the silence is punctured with the moans of the card machine. And my saviour mouths his first command to my waiting sex. “Sit. Open your legs. Fuck your cunt. Let me see your beauty.”
I am insatiable: I tilt my entire self to his gaze, and make him hard at the sight of me once more. Is he wet at his tip? Is he soaked with desire? I want to devour the sight of his arousal. Want to watch what only I can do for him. He wanted an encore; he has one. My fingers drip with a fluid I had never known I could create. Tasting it before his eyes is the most exquisite delight. Another surprise for him; another sign of life for me. How much more alive can he make me? Take me away. Pay whatever he asks.
Even the old man finishing his transaction doesn’t halt me now. He can’t; he stands, stupefied. I fuck and fuck, and my juices flow from me and hit the edge of the stage, rolling down the wood. Now he can see what he will miss, what his clients who stare with cold and impassive eyes of habit will miss, when my new love takes me to perform for him alone.
The sweetest agony rips through the strange new inner workings of my body, killing me, bringing me to life. And I want my new love to see. I offer him up my embryonic soul, drenched in my virgin passion. Will you be my Master? I am yours.
He is captured, won over. I see it in his eyes. I don’t need the old man’s furious silence, or the threat in his face. I have all I need, bound to me in the chair of tortures past. I can make no noise beyond the squelch of my release, but still his smile is rapturous. The sound of my need wraps around the room, piercing the ears of the man who has no idea what he has created.
Fighting the bonds that hold his gaze to me, my lover twists himself as best he can to my imprisoner, his breath a near moan. I’ve come to love the sounds that emanate from his lips. Ask him now.
“Your livelihood is made, sir. I want one. I must have it. So lifelike. Can you make me one just like it?”
How many words does it take to kill a mortal soul?
Now I know why I have nothing but a hard shell. It is too easy to break what’s inside, if you let it live. The feeling pulsing hard inside my chest withers. The old man is talking; I don’t hear the words. From my position, front of centre stage, I fall. Straight onto the wooden handle in front of me. It penetrates; he sees how it skewers me, consumes me. I cannot feel it. I feel only hope split in two, and the pain of that will forever haunt these walls. How it would kill me, if I had a soul. But I don’t. Do I?
I fall. To the floor, the handle coming with me, fucking my passion away. The trapdoor opens, and he falls, too, manacled to the chair of exquisite torture. He is gone; forgotten, like all the others. My eyes turn to the old man, cock in hand before me.
I am made to serve my Master. What did he see, when he created me? Marionette, woman — or monster?