Puppet

I feel dizzy.

I clutch my hands to my head, grimacing, blinking hard. The pain is shallow but nauseating. I see blurs of black, of white, of green, of moonlight spilling through the window. Nothing is clear; the room is spinning.

The room. I focus on my surroundings, now, on making something out. I frown, blinking away the fog. Nothing is spinning, now. The room is still.

That’s when I realize: This isn’t my room.

No, I remember vaguely. My room isn’t this white, and I certainly don’t have this many plants…or beds. I look closer, my eyes adjusting to the dim moonlight. There are three other beds in the room. Two occupied, and one empty. I can’t make out any of the occupants; it’s much too dark. The sheets are the same on all of the beds, though. Plain, white, and crisp.

Making as little noise as possible, I roll out of my bed and walk to what I assume is the bathroom. It’s just as white as the room, but fortunately less dark once I find the light switch. I take a moment to look at myself in the mirror. I look like myself, thank god, but myself would never wear this plain nightgown. Myself would be in my room. Where I know where I am. Where I am safe.

Fuck, I whisper to myself. I’ve never set foot in this room…I’ve never met these people. I am lost.

As I stumble out of the bathroom, the door gapes as if to taunt me. A lonely tear escapes from my eye and I crawl through the dark back to my bed. Maybe, if I sleep, it will all go away. It will be normal, like before. Like what I imagine it was before.

I sleep, I wake.

It feels like only ten minutes later. Nothing has changed. It is still dark outside, but the girls…my roommates are awake now. I’m exhausted and confused. But maybe they will know better than me.

I take a moment to study Girl #1’s features. Her hair is short, swooping gently over her eyebrows to almost rest on her eyelashes. Her eyes are deep brown, and her lips are full and pink. She looks like an athlete. A soccer player. Perhaps, in another situation, I would flirt with her.

But not now; now, I have to find out where I am. Girl #1 is closest to me. I’ll ask her.

“Hello?” I croak. I don’t mean to sound so afraid.

She turns to me. “Lana?” she asks.

Lana. My name is Lana. That, I remember. But if that’s true, why is everything else so unclear?

She smiles at me. It is a lopsided, dopey smile that would normally make me swoon. Now, here, it upsets me. It makes certain that she is sure. She knows, and I don’t.

“You must have slept good,” she says. “I’m jealous.”

I don’t know what to say to that. Instead, I try to meet her smile.

“Well, good morning, sleepyhead,” she chuckles. “Don’t forget that Marissa is moving in today.”

My unknowing stare must be obvious. More obvious than I’d wanted. Girl #1 is heaving a sigh.

“Marissa,” she groans. Oh, Lana. Always so forgetful. “Our new roommate?”

“Right.”

Crossing my hands nervously in my lap, I frown. There seem to be so many things that I should know. That I forgot. Everything is unnatural in the way that television is. Where everyone knows their lines, but I have forgotten my script. I don’t even know where I left it.

Sighing, I turn my attention to the other girl in the room. This one, Girl #2, is more eccentric. Her hair is dyed green at the ends. She is out of place among the plain, white sheets and standard-issue nightgowns. She’s not what I would consider attractive, but I know that she shares something in common with me. Maybe, it is the many unfilled piercings dotting her face. Maybe it is her forest-green hair. Perhaps we all became roommates due to our shared sexuality.

Catching my stare, #2 frowns. I know she’s wondering why I’m staring. After all, we live together. What reason do I have to stare? A knock sounds at the door, interrupting her question before it can escape her lips.

“I’ll get it,” she announces, walking briskly to the front of the room.

Framed by the open door is a short blonde. She looks familiar, but I can’t place her face. I use my critical thinking skills and determine that this must be Marissa.

“Hey, Marissa,” #2 smiles. “You can put your toiletries and things in the bathroom. Your school supplies are already in the bag on your bed.”

This is a school. That is something at least.

“Thank you, Allison.” Allison. “I’m so excited to finally move in. Sorry it took me so long. My mom got sick last minute.”

#1 shrugs, the same dopey smile on her lips, as she exits the bathroom. Drowning in the depths of my thoughts, I never even noticed that she left.

“That’s no big deal,” she grins. “We’re excited to have you anyway.”

“Hi, Sam!” Marissa exclaims, dropping her bags to hug the brunette. Sam returns the embrace, chuckling softly.

“Hi, Lana. I almost didn’t notice you, you’re so quiet. I’m finally moving in!”

“Hi, Marissa,” I smile shallowly. Maybe I know Marissa, too.

“Sorry about her,” Allison apologizes for me, shooting me with a strange look. “She just woke up.”

I nod. “That’s true.” The room is silent for a moment before Sam’s voice penetrates the fog.

“Alright,” she pipes up, facing Marissa. “Start unpacking your things, and I’ll tell you our schedule for the day. Our first class is at nine o’clock and our second is at eleven-thirty. I would eat something beforehand so that you don’t get hungry.”

Marissa nods, placing a box of tissues on her nightstand. She doesn’t seem to have any clothes with her, and it leads me to assume that all of our clothing is determined for us here. Everyone’s wardrobe seems to resemble my own.

Sam continues, “Fridays are kind of easy days, so we don’t have much to do after that. There are some ‘mandatory group activities’ this evening, but they won’t miss us.”

“Why? Why aren’t we going?” Marissa asks innocently.

“Well, first of all, Lana won’t be here, and actually that’s the second reason too. We get special privileges–so-to-speak–thanks to Lana’s…thing with the headmistress.”

I smile, temporarily distracted from my predicament. Finally, the first thing that makes sense. I hope that whatever version of me’s body I am in has comparable taste in women. The headmistress. Maybe she can make my time, my confusion, worth the trouble.

“We’ll probably order in tonight. Maybe before Lana leaves?” Allison questions, now facing me.

“Sure.”

One last glare.

 

—

 

The classes are a blur.

This school is normal–for the most part–aside from the ugly uniforms and the strict rules. Luckily, I don’t have to know where to go, Sam is in my group, and we share a schedule. Allison is with Marissa. The lectures are on subjects which interest me–calculus, philosophy, et cetera. In my school, I have studied the same. I take notes and I feel confident that by next Friday, I will blend in. All I will have to do is get through the weekend. That is simple enough.

After class, we have dinner. Allison orders two pizzas and we share and discuss our day. I am starting to like these girls. Sam and Marissa are kind, and Allison is warming up to me. Maybe I can adjust, if I can’t remember.

Sam pulls me aside.

“Tomorrow, we’re having a welcome-home dinner for Marissa. Try to make it, if you can get away?” she winks.

I smile. “Will do.”

Sam frowns. “Something’s really going on, huh?”

I furrow my brow.

“It’s nothing. Just…try to make it through the weekend, alright? Come back to us, Lana.”

“…Yeah.”

Come back to us.

Her words linger in my mind until long after she speaks them. Why wouldn’t I come back? Why is that something she has to warn me about? I have little time to think before a soft knock sounds on the door. It is followed by three heads turning to face me. This must be the headmistress.

I slowly stand and make my way to the door. My feet fight through vines, slowly approaching my fate. Hesitantly, I open it, afraid of what, of who I might find on the other side.

A woman is there, dressed in a silk button-down and an A-line skirt. Her blond hair is draped over her shoulders neatly, her eyes grey and vacant.

Though sharp, her features are attractive. Her cool grey gaze drags up and down my body under my school uniform, eyebrows furrowed in appreciation. Then, she smiles at me lasciviously, almost predatorily. Her teeth reveal themselves slowly in a way I can only describe as primal. I would call her pretty, if she weren’t so unnerving.

“Hi,” she husks in a suiting deep voice. The sound sends chills down my spine. The word is breathy, heady with a dark…something. I can see her chest rise and fall with every breath.

“Hello, ladies.” The woman bares her teeth at the rest of the inhabitants of the room. They all wave their hellos. Silent. Maybe this woman is just as unnerving to them as she is to me.

Again, she looks to me. Her hand reaches up to graze my arm. I want to move but I am glued in place. “Are you ready, my toy?” she asks.

“Yes, ma’am,” I respond. The name seems appropriate, somehow, and her smile affirms my sentiment.

Resting a hand on the small of my back, the woman leads me out, down the hall and down the stairs.

Fortunately, there is no one here to witness the way she’s touching me so unabashedly. I wonder if they’d notice me with this woman’s hand on my back. I wonder if they’d notice me at all. A black sports car is waiting in front of my building. She opens my door and settles me in before striding to the driver’s side.

In the car, I am immediately overwhelmed by the smell of her perfume. It’s dark, almost like cologne. Otherwise, the space is neat, much unlike my car at home. My Honda…No, Hyundai. I catch her looking at me from the corner of her eye. She is careful with the wheel, but every chance she gets, her eyes find some part of me. When she speaks, I am so focused on her that it surprises me.

“I don’t know if I can wait to get you home,” she sighs, her excitement barely concealed. I don’t know how to respond. Clearly, this woman has one or more activities planned for us once we arrive at our destination. I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I glance over at her, to look at her silhouette while she drives. Her nose is perfectly straight, nails perfectly trimmed, clothes perfectly tailored. It won’t be so bad.

She clears her throat, looking at me over her crisp shoulder. “You’re awfully quiet today, Puppet,” she chuckles. “You’ve missed me.”

I don’t have the heart to tell her that I don’t know who she is. Instead, I think about what she called me…Puppet. Somehow, the peculiar name is in alignment with everything that has happened so far. And somehow, it is comforting. I don’t know where I am, who I am with, but to this woman, I am Puppet. She, at least, knows me.

At the next light, her cold hand is on my thigh. I flinch, almost imperceptibly, but I feel her hand tighten around my skin. Her index finger taps twice on my leg before her deep voice fills the silence, “And how was your week?”

Despite the new feeling of her hand on my bare skin, I quickly formulate a response. I don’t know why, but I don’t want to blow my cover.

“It could be better.” It’s not a lie.

Her laugh startles me. It’s a deep, slow chuckle that sends a cold shiver creeping up my neck. Suddenly, I am not so happy that she knows me. Her next words are not any better.

“Oh dear,” she gasps. “Well, don’t fret, Puppet. Mistress will make it better.”

I do not know how to respond to this at all. I settle for looking out of the passenger side window, trying to ignore the fingers massaging my thigh. Pressing the flesh harder than it needs to be pressed, claiming the thigh as her own. Her fingers move higher, just under the hem of the dark fabric of my skirt, but I sense they won’t move any farther. Not now. I savor this moment while it lasts. Something is telling me I won’t have the luxury of her restraint for long.

We arrive at a beautiful, old house. It’s three stories high and perched on a green hill. Grey bricks make its face, with sweeping black roofs for hair. It looks familiar, like something I’d seen on TV…I can’t remember when. I can almost imagine smoke billowing from the chimney, a fire roaring in the living room. But that would make this a home. And I know this isn’t a home, so much as a residence. A residence for just her…Somehow, I know it’s just her.

“Come, doll,” she speaks, extending a hand to help me out of the car. At some point, she has left the car to walk to my door. I accept her hand, allowing her to help me. She is chivalrous, closing my door once I’ve exited. Then, she leads me by the hand to the door of the house.

With a smooth motion, her key is in the lock, and soon after, she has me inside. She stands three feet away from me, watching, waiting. Her presence is suffocating. When my silence becomes too loud, she interrupts.

“Are you hungry?” she smiles. It doesn’t reach her eyes. They’re dark with arousal…with need. I don’t think it matters if I am hungry or not. She is hungrier.

“No, ma’am.”

“Good. Come here.” She’s looking at me intently, her gaze strong. Her eyes are blown black, terrifying, and she wants me to approach her. Her expression is almost playful, and like everything else, it unsettles me.

Hesitantly, I inch toward her, my footsteps slow and uncertain.

Her smile widens. “Naughty toy,” she chides. “I know when you’re being flirty.”

Two strong hands grasp my waist, then. Touch me with a familiarity, a comfort that I don’t share. Almost as if she knows my body better than I do. One hand is at the hem of my skirt, teasing and pulling, and despite myself, I feel my heart rate quicken. After all, an attractive woman has her hands on me. I am only human. She pulls me closer to her, nuzzling her nose into the soft curls next to my ear. Her arms wrap around me, tight, so I can hardly move. Teeth nip at the skin next to my ear and I can hear her heavy breaths deepen each second.

“Won’t you kiss me, Puppet?”

I pause. She’s taken over my space entirely. I can’t move an inch without her following. I realize, I couldn’t kiss her if I tried.

“Can’t–can’t reach–”

“Oh,” she gasps, pulling back with the same blank expression. Her teeth expose themselves in a smile. She’s smiling.

“Now, Puppet. I’m sorry. Now, you can kiss me.”

I look at her lips. They’re incredibly pink, stretched over her teeth. Just as perfect as the rest of her. She could be an actress…and I hope she is. That would make this easier. If she’s an actress, she’ll understand that I forgot my lines. My focus returns to her waiting lips, upturned and patient. This close, I can see her age clearer. She has the features of a woman twenty years older than me. There are dimples on the sides of her mouth, lines on her forehead, but no crow’s feet to dance at the sides of her eyes. I can’t fathom why she wouldn’t have any…unless she never smiled.

Hesitantly, I lean in to kiss her. Her eyes are closed before I can even make it halfway to her lips. As soon as our lips touch, her hands wrap around me. They are possessive, needy. They grope me of their own accord. Her lips are just as soft as they look, but exponentially more intense. She’s kissing me hard. The way I’d expect a wife to greet her soldier when he comes back from deployment. Desperate.

Over and over again, her lips press into mine until she’s had enough. She hums, sighs contentedly, licking her lips. Now, her tongue is at mine. I open them without thinking, and she makes her entrance. Her breath is sharp with mint, just as I would expect it to be. Her tongue plunges deep into my mouth, claiming every inch as her own. Her grunts vibrate into my lips, her hands pawing at my flesh. Her grip is so tight it almost hurts. Teeth sink into me, nipping my tongue until I all but pull away. I whimper and she moans, deep.

She knows my limits.

Her lips pull away from mine, and before I can react, she is snatching me to herself. Her teeth are biting at my neck. Her nails, digging into the sensitive skin of my back. My jawbone is between her teeth, and she’s moaning, louder than before. With her teeth, she kisses up to my ear, tracing the contours of my jaw with her tongue. My ear fills with her hot breaths, her cheek grinding into the side of my face.

“Did you miss me?” she heaves. “Because I missed you.”

I’m thrust from my trance as my heart catches in my throat. I’ve never heard these words spoken like this…so desperate…so sinister. It doesn’t matter that I don’t know where I’ll go, I have to get out of here. Her hands are shaky, her breaths almost gusts in my ear. I wonder why she told me she missed me. It’s as clear as day.

Like a spider with her prey, now, she is delicate. Her hands trail under my school skirt and up to my plain cotton panties. With one finger at a time, she displaces my skirt, probes my flesh until I forget my worry. She has me already, deep in her web. I’m enamored by the careful way she moves, her eight legs twisting like branches. They are so beautiful that I want to watch them forever. So distracted am I that I start to think her web is comfortable.

She speaks then, her words still directly in my ear, “And, how is our pussy? Are we wet tonight, my toy?” Her voice is sultry, harrowing in its timbre. Deep like wine.

One of her hands trails over my ass. It slithers up my middle, taking my skirt with it. Slowly, it makes its way into the hair at the nape of my neck. Heaving a deep sigh, she tightens her grip in my hair and on my ass. She leans in, placing deep, open-mouthed kisses on the skin behind my ear. Her lips trail lower, then, becoming rougher as they continue down to my shoulder. If she is any more intense, her lips will bruise me.

Whatever version of me this is, whoever she is, this woman practically owns her. That’s the only thing that can explain this, how violently she is clasping my skin. She swaddles me, spins me into her trap. And she is so beautiful that I’m almost blind to her intentions, that is until her pincers open to devour me. She bites me. Hard. I jump, shudder, whimper. I don’t know if it’s from fear or from pleasure.

I tune in to her. Her breathing is heavier than mine and she moans deeply every time her lips touch my body. Her breaths are ragged. They are unnerving. I step back. I need some distance from her…I don’t want to let her possess me.

“I’m sorry,” I gasp. She’s watching me, her chest heaving.

“Sorry,” she repeats slowly, her gaze still fixed on my lips. She looks as if she wants to bite them as well. I shift uncomfortably.

“Sorry, Puppet,” she almost sounds out the word, like it’s foreign.

What does that even mean?

“Yes, I’m sorry,” I reiterate. I take another step back. “I’m thirsty. Can I have a glass of water?”

“Water. Yes.” Her eyes regard me curiously, as if she would’ve never considered that I would need water. She gestures to what I assume is the direction of the kitchen. “You know where it is. Then come meet me upstairs.”

I smile as best I can, before hurrying to the direction she pointed. I find the kitchen almost immediately. It’s just as immaculate as the rest of the house. Just as silent and dark. I find a light switch that controls the light over the stove. It is a beacon in the darkness of my fear. I find the glasses in the second cabinet I try. I take one and fill it from the tap. As the cool liquid reaches my tongue, I sigh. My mouth was incredibly dry. I am halfway through my second glass when I feel that I’ve had enough. I don’t want to go upstairs, but I feel I have to. Who knows what will happen if I run?

Run. It must be the first time I’ve considered running. It’s certainly not too late, and my captor is upstairs. There is a door in the back of the kitchen, and I try the handle. It’s locked. There’s a keyhole on the interior.

A glance to the foyer points to the same in the front door. How hadn’t I noticed that before?

A feeling of discomfort washes over me. If I can’t escape, what does that mean for me? What if she makes a request I can’t meet?

As I make my way up the stairs, I notice a door, darker than the rest. It’s cracked open, and I’m curious to know what’s inside. Before I can explore, though, rhythmic tapping catches my attention…like heels against a wood floor. The eerie room will have to wait. I follow the sound to an open door.

She is pacing in the bedroom. Looking off into the distance with an unintelligible stare. She is just as beautiful as she was an hour ago, though her fair hair is now tied back into a neat bun. There is not a hair out of place…there shouldn’t be.

I watch her expression. It’s devoid of emotion, only deliberative. She is planning her intentions with me. I notice that the only emotion of hers I have seen is the hunger I saw earlier. The carnivorous hunger for the honeybee in her trap…for me, the puppet on her strings. I knock and she freezes.

“Puppet,” she smiles, turning to face me.

Trying to meet her smile, I enter the room. She can’t know that I’m afraid. I won’t let her.

“You were gone for so long, dear, that Mistress thought you might have forgotten about her,” she muses. Her smile falls into a frown almost instantaneously, fog washes over the grey of her eyes.

“You must never forget me, toy.” Her tone is serious now, her cold gaze lifting to mine. My breaths grow uncertain. What if I already have?

She approaches me, her slender legs slinking, her eyes narrowed. “You’ve worried me, and you’ll have to fix it now, Puppet.”

I’m suddenly very aware of my position. I’m in a sadistic woman’s bedroom, and she is upset with me. I’m disillusioned. I don’t know what to say or do. I just hope she won’t hurt me. What she’s done so far, I can take. Tensing, I begin to close my eyes. But then, she stops.

“I know,” she smiles. “You’ll have to dance for us.”

I shake my head in confusion, and her smile widens.

“Dance, Puppet, like before. Come on.”

I have never been much of a dancer, but I will try. I recall what little I remember, from parties and from videos. Something, some part of me doesn’t want to upset her again. I do not know what she will do. I do not know what she is capable of and I do not want to find out, not if it’s unnecessary. For now, I’ll let her play with her food…with her toy while I figure out how to escape. For now, I can dance. I can find it in me to dance.

I lift my right wrist in the air, slowly, like the fire from a hot air balloon. And like the balloon, my body follows, twisting and fluttering in the air of her focus, the wind of her audible breaths. I spin, lifting my chest in the air, my eyes pointed toward the heavens. My hips dip and gyrate, her eyes trained on the movement of my body. With one final turn, my movements come to a stop. And then I’m facing her, my arms hugged around my body. I finish, my heart racing, my arms, still wrapped. Rapt, she watches me breathe, assessing my performance. I can only hear my heartbeat and her deep breaths. Her eyebrows are soft, unyielding, so I assume she is satisfied.

“Good,” she murmurs. “That’s good, doll. Short and sweet; Mistress enjoyed that.”

I blush, realizing what I’ve done. I danced for a stranger, and I knew that she wanted me. I wonder if it was worth my effort. But I remember her strength…that she can hurt me if she wants to, and I am no longer embarrassed.

“Very good,” she continues after a moment. She has calmed significantly, her tone now almost kind. Under it, though, I recognize her arousal.

“Come, my dear. Come sit on your Mistress’s lap.”

Still in shock, I hesitantly approach her. Her gaze hardens.

“Not again. You’re being flirty. Good toys follow directions. They are quiet and prompt. Quiet and prompt.”

Short and sweet. Quiet and prompt.

I finally make it to her lap, sitting as gently as I can with my back to her chest. Almost as soon as I sit, she turns me to my side, so that I can see her. She looks upset.

“Well?” She questions. I don’t know what to say. Her hand pulls back and smacks me hard on my thigh. I don’t know why it surprises me, but it does.

My yelp is quiet. This is the first time she has deliberately hurt me.

“Say it,” she grits, digging her long nails into the skin near my knee.

“I’m sorry,” I offer, shivering with fear. The pain only worsens. I whimper out in my pain, trying to hold back my tears. “Sorry.”

“Naughty toy,” she frowns, fortunately dropping the subject. Her claws retract from my flesh, opting to run up and down my thigh. The movement is robotic, a means to an end. I can’t feel her passion, and it scares me.

“Well,” she murmurs. “That’s alright. Maybe you need to be played with.”

The fingers on my thigh trail higher. I expected this, but it still catches me off guard. My gasp is full of her perfume, and I am reminded of how close we are like this. Wrapped together like a serpent and her mouse.

“Now, we will check our panties,” she smiles. Maybe this means that her tantrum is over. She reaches my underwear and plays with the band, pulling them back to snap against my skin. The sharp pain isn’t enough to faze me.

“Lacy panties. Remind us, Puppet. Tomorrow. Mistress wants to dress you in lacy panties next time.”

Tomorrow. I was so caught up in pleasing her that I managed to forget that this is only the beginning. I know that I can stay strong. I must.

I nod my head in assent. She continues, so it must be enough. Next, she hooks her fingers into the top of my panties, pulling down. I lift myself from her lap, giving her more room to take them off. Once they’re on the floor, her hand resumes its place under my skirt, slithering up my thigh for the umpteenth time. Finally, she finds what she’s looking for.

“Ah,” she smiles. “My doll…she does wet herself. That is good.” I assume it’s a joke.

Her left hand slides up to my neck, and she pulls my lips to hers. Her fingers twiddle in my wetness for a moment while she breathes into my open mouth. She ghosts kisses over my lips, her breaths starting to heave again. She is not bothered that I don’t kiss her back. Her fingers trail from my clitoris to my center, and she spreads the moisture around. I close my eyes. How can what she’s doing feel so good?

Groaning, she roughly forces her tongue between my parted lips, at the same time that she stabs two fingers into my wetness. I can’t help the strangled moan that escapes from deep in my throat. The pleasure is extraordinary. As she touches me, her mouth remains a vacuum against mine. I wonder if she even heard my moan.

Her long, slender fingers plunge in and out of me, and I feel myself losing control of my surroundings…what little control I had. The intensity grows with each second until she stops unexpectedly with her fingers still nestled inside of me. I try to take a breath, but before I can finish, the pads of her fingers are pressing hard against the sensitive flesh at the top of my canal. Over and over again, she presses. I tense every time as if she’s resetting me, violently writhing on her lap. I can no longer hold myself up.

She leans us back onto the bed. Now, my body is nestled between her legs as she continues her assault. I am squealing now, high-pitched whimpers escaping my throat. My throat that her hand is now gripping tightly. My whimpers become caught in my chest.

“Puppet,” she groans. I feel myself struggling to breathe, and I hear her grunts of pleasure in my ear. I’m crying now, the lack of oxygen forcing tears from my eyes. My legs have locked, and I settle for a mouthed ‘Please, please,’ that I hope she won’t ignore. I can’t breathe, and all I can focus on is the excruciating, unwelcome pleasure from between my thighs.

It hits me all at once. Suddenly, I’m convulsing, writhing on the bed, and contracting on her fingers. It may be the lack of oxygen, but I’m certain that I see stars. A stream of air hisses from my throat…it would be my scream. My eyes find hers and she seems to be orgasming as well. She’s humping my thigh roughly, groaning with pleasure. She is so beautiful, I almost forget I’m being strangled. Almost. Right before my vision goes black, I reach down to grasp at her thigh.

Automatically, she lets go. My vision fades from black into color as I regain consciousness. Her silhouette is blurry, but I recognize her smile. That damned smile. Heaving to catch my breath, I look up at her. She almost killed me a second ago, and now she’s smiling a sweet, gentle smile. I’m trapped under her body, I can’t move. I have to move, I have to escape. Stroking my face, she speaks,

“When you twitch like that, Puppet,” she muses. “When you struggle to breathe, it excites me.”

My eyes widen in terror.

“You’re a sadist,” I seethe. The venom drips off of my tongue as I chastise her. I still haven’t regained my breath, and my throat hurts as if it’s bruised.

She smiles brightly. “Of course.” Her fingers tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “That’s why you love me, Puppet. You told me yourself.”

My eyes are wide open, then. No, I didn’t. I would never say something so…fucked up. The thought that I might, that I did is haunting. I can’t even flinch as she places a soft kiss to my lips.

“Why so frowny today, toy?” She pouts. “Mistress doesn’t want to hurt you.”

That’s reassuring…maybe, though I feel that she already has. For a while, we stay like this, her hand poised on my cheek and my eyes staring scared into hers. I feel like a mouse, staring into the eyes of my feline captor.

She props herself up on her elbow over my body. “Again?” she asks. “Or are we too tired?”

Finally, I’m being given a choice. I recount the time we’ve spent. The pleasure she has brought me, and the life she almost took. I cannot risk my life.

“Tired,” I gasp, finally able to breathe somewhat normally. “I’m too tired.”

She frowns, stroking my face as she hovers over me. Her eyebrows knit in thought. “Maybe Mistress missed her Puppet…too much,” she sighs with a smile. “She’s not tired.”

I frown. I don’t trust her.

“If you missed me, then why did you hurt me?” I whisper.

She pouts. “But, Mistress doesn’t like hurting her Puppet. She wouldn’t hurt her Puppet.”

I back away from her, sitting up. “You did hurt me,” I seethe, holding my neck protectively. “You hurt me, and I couldn’t breathe.”

Her lip twitches, and her eyes flash through an emotion I can’t place. She tries to touch me, but I back away further. She frowns, murmurs, “Bruises fade, my doll. They fade.”

I shake my head no. What does is it matter that they fade if they happened? If I’ll remember that they happened at all?

“Yes, they do, Puppet,” she asserts, growing irate. “Bruises fade. And then you’re as good as new. Don’t you remember?”

No. I set my jaw. “Not tonight; I’m too tired tonight.”

I can see her jaw clench as she scowls. I can tell she’s regretting giving me a choice. After all, she is a predator, and no type of predator would allow their prey to choose. Though I imagine that my double…her real puppet may have chosen differently.

“Well,” she grits, before balking at her own tone. “Well,” she says more nicely. “Puppet should lay down, if she doesn’t want to play.”

She lifts the edge of the sheet, beckoning me beneath it. Her tone is sickeningly sweet. I feel that on some level, she is concerned. Not for me, but maybe for my allegiance.

Resolving to join her, I begin to slide off my shoes. With the many events of the day, I must have forgotten to remove them. I leave them at the foot of the bed, next to hers.

As I slip under the sheets, she smiles. She is not far behind me, then behind me literally. Her arms wrap around my middle under my shirt, and her lips press to my neck.

“Good toy. We’ll shower in the morning.”

 

—

 

I wake up to an empty bed. I don’t know where she is, but I don’t question it. Instead, I head to the bathroom for the shower she promised me.

This mirror reveals the bruises on my neck, from where she choked me. They’re deep blue, purple marks like the ocean. I’ve never seen myself like this before, in pain. I want to cry. Somehow, someway, I must escape her. In the bathroom, there is only a small window. Much too small to escape out of. Too far from the ground, anyway. I resolve to shower, to clear my head. Then, I will determine how to escape.

The water is hot, cascading over my battered body. At first, it hurts, but I become accustomed. I wonder if this is how she feels…my double, in the clutches of this woman. Every day bringing pain that she must adjust to instead of fight. I lather my body, careful not to hurt myself more than I’ve been hurt already. Then, I think about her, the beautiful spider swaddling me, spinning me into her silk. I cannot stay in her web long enough for her to open her pincers to devour me.

At this, I exit the shower with my breaths shallow from the steam. I swing the door to the bathroom, gasping in the clear air of the bedroom. With it, brings the musky smell of her perfume, a reminder that I am still a guest in her trap, until I escape.

I find a towel hanging from the door and use it to gently dry my body. I help myself to her toiletries, rubbing lotion into my skin until it is soft. I massage around my bruises so that they might go away faster. I have a vague memory of this working before, but I can’t remember when.

My clothes are soiled from the day and night before. Instead of stealing from her closet, I wrap myself in the towel from the bathroom door, walking to the windows in her room. Like the bathroom window, these have no latches. And from this angle, I see the drop that will face me if I try to jump. Before I can contemplate further, I smell her perfume in the doorway.

“Puppet!” her chipper voice calls. “Darling. Today is a new day.” She smiles as genuinely as I’ve seen her do.

“Your Mistress has been thinking about your lacy panties, Puppet. From yesterday? She wants to see them, doll. Today, we’ll play dress-up.”

I turn my body to face her, furrow my brow. “You’re serious?” I ask.

Her smile widens. “Of course, Mistress is serious. Puppet is beautiful and clean, and Mistress wants to dress her. It’s good that you bathed.

“Come. Into your closet, and we can play.”

Her hand is at my back, leading me as she did through my building the day before. We leave the bedroom and enter another. We approach a large closet with double doors. She opens them and the inside is vast. Bright silks and tulles of every color line the walls. It is a department store consolidated into one room. I’m in awe.

“Do you like them?” she smiles at my expression. “Mistress thought that since her toy has been so good, she should reward her. This is much better than your school clothes, yes? Mistress worked for a long time and now, Puppet has more dresses to choose from.”

Still silent, and still wrapped in my towel, I finally turn to face her. She’s watching me curiously, a smile flittering on her lips. She turns to the dresses, plucking a forest green from the rung. She holds it in front of me, allowing me to admire it before she hangs it from a shelf.

“Try this green, Puppet. Mistress thinks it will suit you nicely.”

She can’t mean that she wants me to dress in front of her. I stare her in the eye for a moment, futilely searching for answers to my unspoken questions. As suspected, only her nothingness comes as a response.

“Do we need Mistress to help?” she questions. I shake my head no quickly. Her help is the opposite of what I need. If I can avoid her hands on me, by all means, I will.

“Well then. What are we waiting for?” she frowns. “Don’t you want to play?”

My silence must not be enough, because her eyes narrow, her nostrils flare and her mouth hardens into a straight line. I tense. I should have said something. To my surprise, though, she smiles.

“Of course,” she laughs. “Of course. Your panties, Puppet. Mistress almost forgot, and her doll was too embarrassed to remind her.”

Still smiling to herself, she walks over to a chest of drawers. She removes a pair of white, silk panties with a lace panel in the front and lace lining. She returns to me, and before I can take them from her, she is on her knees.

She holds the panties on the floor for me to step into. I decide that I will, because this way, she won’t see my body. I know the effect it has on her. She slides them up my legs efficiently.

“There. All better,” she hums, standing to her feet. “Silly puppet. Good toys don’t get embarrassed.”

I nod my head timidly, and her eyes soften. Gently, she removes the towel from my body. I refrain from covering up; she must have seen my double naked. She reaches for the dress. I guess that she will help me. I raise my arms to receive the fabric from above my head.

Once it is on, she watches me closely in the mirror. She trails her finger up my side, breathing onto my neck from behind. Then, her hands rest on my hips; her lips upturn in a smile.

“Beautiful,” she murmurs. “Puppet should never feel shy in front of Mistress. Spin for us.”

Slipping out of her grasp, I hesitantly spin. Immediately, the dress flares up into a spiral around my body. It dances in the air with every flutter of my movement, beautiful and deep and perfect. For a fleeting second, I forget where I am, who I am with. Mid-rotation, I’m reminded of a spinning room I’ve seen before. I reach out to the memory and it evades me. Frowning, I come to a finish. The vertigo has clouded my thoughts again.

When I turn back, she has gone, retrieved another dress from the shelf. It is made of tulle; light with puffy shoulders, like I’ve seen in movies. Something I think a younger me would die to have on her body. I love it immediately.

“Puppet,” she smiles. “Try this one. It’s white to match your panties.”

Reaching down, I lift the green dress up and over my body. She takes it from my hand, handing the white dress to me with her other. Closer, it is even more beautiful. Swirls of embroidery adorn the thin material, and the fabric feels soft and expensive. Once she has hung the green dress, she takes the white one from my observant hands.

In the same manner, she slips the dress over my shoulders, zips it in the back, and smooths it down over my thighs. In the mirror, our eyes meet. The dress is beautiful. Perfectly tailored to me; perfect for whatever she has planned, I can tell.

“Makeup?” she whispers. “Would Puppet like makeup, to go with her dress?”

I nod my head. Her hands come to hold me around my waist. Maybe doing my makeup will distract her from whatever else she has planned.

“Would you like to do it yourself, toy?” she continues. “Puppet is so independent, sometimes.”

“Yes,” I say. “I can do it myself.”

On the vanity is an assortment of eye shadows and blushes and mascaras. I’m hesitant to make a decision. I do not remember wearing makeup excessively, but the movements come naturally. Perhaps it is my double…sending me her knowledge of how to please her Mistress. Whatever it is, I am grateful.

I bring the mascara’s brush to my lashes, the lip gloss’s to my lips. I dust eyeshadow on my eyelids, making myself as pretty as my dress suggests. Her grip on my middle only hinders my movements slightly.

“Blush, please,” she asks, only slightly eager.

I find the blush resting with the eye shadow. With the largest, softest brush, I dust pink onto my cheeks. I make them rosy because still, in the clutches of my captor, I struggle to smile.

I see the arousal start to creep up her spine. It shows in the subtleties of her movements. The darkening of her grey eyes, her gentle breaths growing ragged. She draws me closer than before, resting her hands on the tops of my thighs. Her chin rests on my shoulder.

“Yes, beautiful, doll,” she compliments. Her fingers are spider’s legs against the thin material of the dress, the thin material of my flesh. They creep lower, slower than before. “Puppet looks…like a princess.”

One of her hands begins to slip under the skirt, and I flinch away. I’m not ready to have her hands on me again. I turn around to face her, slowly backing away. I remember what she did to me last night–the way that she hurt me and expected me to accept it as normal–and I can’t let her do it again.

Arousal turns to annoyance. “Again, you are flirty, Puppet. Mistress doesn’t like flirty toys. Stop.”

I back into the vanity and she frowns. Again, until I can’t move anymore, and she scowls. Her jaw flexes, her lip twitching. Her fists start to clench and unclench, hungry for a limb or neck to fill the gap. She steps in closer.

“Wait,” I hurry out before she hurts me. I try to find a suitable explanation.

The bathroom. I realize I haven’t gone since earlier in the morning; last night, as far as she knows.

“The bathroom,” I speak quickly. “I need the bathroom.”

She frowns deeper, though her hands settle at her sides. “So needy. Yes, you can use the bathroom, toy. You don’t have to ask.”

Smiling quickly, I rush out of the room, careful not to let my skirt catch on the door. I hear her start to pace before I have even left.

The bathroom is in her room, I know, but it’s not where I’m headed. I want to investigate. I have to know what’s in the room I saw yesterday. I know that curiosity kills, but I can’t fight the urge. I need to know, badly.

With a loud creak, the heavy door slides open. Whatever renovations were done on this home excluded this room. Time has not. There are cobwebs in the dark corners, dust on the floor. It looks as if it’s usually locked away.

The first thing to catch my attention is a stage. It’s dark, but the red curtains are so out of place that my attention is immediately drawn to them. The ceilings are incredibly high in this room. It’s where the two halves of the roof meet in the center. The stage is directly under the intersection, at the end of the room. Dangling from the beams overhead are puppets. Hundreds of puppets dressed in vibrant colors. All hanging limply from the ceiling beams. I wonder if she made the dresses…if she made mine.

Lifting my skirt far above the dust, I slowly approach the wood platform of the stage. And as I go closer, they come into view. There are cables hanging from the contraptions on the beams behind the curtains. Five of them, dangling down, like puppet strings without their puppet. There is an eerie quality to them, like they’ve been in use in the past. But no matter how I search around the room, I can’t find a puppet big enough to fit on those strings.

Disconcerted, I back away from the stage to explore the rest of the room. On the left side are tables, adorned with many metal tools, that are lined perfectly on the wood. On the side of the tables are stacks of wooden cubes, waiting to be carved into the next creation. Beside them are rolls of fabric, waiting to be sewn into dresses. I imagine that this is where she works. Puppet making–puppetry–is a strange habit, but I’ve heard of worse.

On the right side of the room, there are frames on the wall from the floor all the way to where the roof starts. They are images, maybe of her puppets performing on the stage. I walk closer to get a better look. The images are of the stage…but not of what I imagined performing.

I gasp in horror, my hands clutched to my chest. Hanging on the wall is image after image of girls strung up in precarious positions…hanging from the cables on the stage. I look closer at the images. The figures are limp, unmoving save for the strings holding them up. This is her personal torture chamber, and this wall, her personal gallery.

My heart is beating wildly in my chest as I look closer at the images. There are girls of all different types, though they all have the same vacant stare, the same perfect quality about their bodies. I look from picture to picture, frantically, searching for something, something that will make this more normal.

That’s when I find it. There, in the picture frame, suspended from the cables…is me. The next picture too, and the next. I, my double, has her own section in this woman’s gallery–the only repeat subject. In all of them, I’m in different positions, different dresses, and looking just as vacant, as un-alive. The inhuman way that my limbs are lifted above my head, one could say I was…dancing.

Backing away, terrified, I run to the door of the room. Remembering my situation, I slow down to make less noise. Still shaking, I exit the room just as quietly as I entered, though I won’t be returning where I came from. I’m going to run. I have to. I can’t believe I let her dress me…let her touch me, now that I know what she has done. I’ll find a window or break out of the doors. I have to save myself.

Before I make it to the stairs, the woman exits her room. Just my luck.

“Puppet,” she smiles. The name has taken on an entirely new meaning. I fight the urge to shiver. Somehow, I have to escape.

“You worried your Mistress, Puppet. She thought you’d left. It’s good that you haven’t. Come, toy, let’s rest. And then we will play again.”

Her hand extends to me. I know that this a good chance to escape, but what if I can make it easier. Desperately, I search for an excuse…a reason to leave. Something that she won’t challenge. Marissa. I remember the dinner my roommates are having for Marissa tonight. It’s my only chance.

“Actually,”

Her eyes snap to me, an eyebrow crooking slowly. I know…she’s daring me to defy her.

I take a deep breath, clearing my throat before continuing. “Sam invited me to dinner today, and I was hoping to join her. She and Allison are taking Marissa out tonight. For a welcome-home dinner.”

Her brow furrows. “Mistress doesn’t understand,” she says slow. The words ooze out of her mouth like poison.

“A welcome-home dinner. For Marissa?”

Her head shakes slowly back and forth. Her eyes fill with something I can’t pinpoint. Something dark, like denial.

“No. No, no, no,” she murmurs. I almost don’t recognize the words, she speaks them so gently. I don’t like how gently; it can’t mean anything good.

“No, Puppet. That won’t do. That simply won’t do. You spend your weekends here, remember?”

No matter how hard I try (and I have), I cannot for the life of me remember her. I do not remember her house, not really, the girls in my room, or anything. I remember being somewhere else. Exactly where is evading me, but I know it is not here. It can’t be.

I shake my head no. Her eyes widen in disbelief. Something wild surfaces in them.

“Don’t you remember, Puppet? You spend your weekends with your Mistress. With me.”

I shake my head again, backing away from her. She follows me.

“No. I’m sorry, but I don’t remember you. I don’t know you.”

Confusion flashes across her face before it’s replaced with a frown. Her hands are on my face, gentle. She leans in to kiss me, softly on my lips, and I pull back almost as soon. She frowns deeper.

“You do know me, doll. It’s me, your Mistress. You are my Puppet and I am your Mistress. We played dress-up and you danced for me. I didn’t forget.”

“But I’m not your Puppet. I’m a girl. A girl.”

She rears back like an animal. As if I burned her. “No, Puppet. Quiet. You are and you forgot. Mistress is going to help you remember.”

“I can’t remember. I won’t be quiet, and I won’t dance for you. I’m not who you think I am. My name is Lana Douglas. Please let me go.”

She cringes, clutching her hands to her head. She staggers back, as if I hit her.

“Stop, Puppet. You have to stop. You’re hurting me. Mistress does not want to hurt you.”

I take a step toward her. For a moment, it feels like I have the upper hand. I reach out to her humanity and speak in the most helpless voice I can muster.

“Please, just let me go.”

“Shhhh,” she hisses then, a finger placed to her lips dramatically. Her back straightens vertebra by vertebra as she stalks over to me. The predator has returned.

“Quiet,” she hisses. “Every weekend. Mistress plays with her toy and then she lets her go. And then. But that’s when she hasn’t upset me,” she frowns.

This information would have been nice to know before I tried to escape her. Two days, I might even be able to survive. But, I remember what I saw in that room, and suddenly I don’t know if they would be worth it.

“What to do?” she gasps, moving ever closer. “You’ve upset me, Puppet. What will we do?”

And in one disturbing motion, her scowl phases through nothingness to a slow smile. A smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. She takes a step closer, and I fight every nerve of my body willing me to move away. I know I can’t run. She backs me into the corner of the hall and lifts her hand to my cheek. Her lips pout in mock sympathy, but her eyes are as vacant as always.

“Oh,” she whines. “Oh, Puppet. Don’t worry, my toy. Your Mistress knows. She always knows. You’ll have to dance for us, Puppet. Yes, dance, like you did before.”

I stare blankly at her. She can’t be serious.

“It doesn’t have to be this way. You can make it better. If you dance?”

“I don’t want to dance.”

She sighs. Her hand travels to rest on my face in what I would call sympathy…if l could discern any kindness in her eyes. Her thumb wipes a tear from my eye, and her eyes linger on the dampness for a while.

“Your Mistress doesn’t understand, Puppet. You’re crying. Why? Why won’t you dance for us?”

She takes my face into her hands, a pleading stare on her face. In one fluid motion, she slips down to her knees, her hands trail down my form to tug on my skirt. To beg me.

“Dance, my doll, and we can make it better. You don’t have to cry. You only have to dance.”

I’m indignant. I can’t. I won’t.

I shake my head no and she frowns.

“But Mistress doesn’t want to hurt you, Puppet. You like it here. You told us?”

This part is a question.

Again, I shake my head no. Every time I deny her, her face becomes more contorted. Now, her eyes plead up at me. She approaches me closer on her knees, clasping the back of my thighs and pressing her lips to my stomach. In one swift motion, she lifts the fabric above my panties so that she can make contact with my skin. Again and again, she kisses me. Her mouth is hot and persistent. Desperate.

“This is not right. You said that you would never change. You weren’t supposed to forget. You’re my favorite toy, Puppet. My favorite of all. Please dance.”

Her mouth touches my stomach again. The tenderness sends a chill up my body. Insistent, her kisses press into my skin. They’re becoming too much. I back away, the skirt falls back down, and her mouth opens in a frustrated grimace. She’s angry that I’ve denied her kindness. Denied her mercy.

Standing slowly to her feet, she approaches me.

“Well?” She furrows her brow in earnest. “Go on, Puppet. Dance.”

I won’t.

“Puppet,” she demands. “Dance, Puppet.”

I feel the first tear wet my cheek. I know what I saw…what she’ll do. I can’t dance for her.

She raises her voice…maybe I haven’t heard her. “Dance, Puppet,” she seethes, firmly grasping my arm. I try to yank it back, but she doesn’t budge.

“No,” I whisper.

Her grip tightens. “Dance.”

By now, the tears are streaming down my face.

“No.”

She whips her hand across my face and I feel her ring slice through my lip. The movement is so fast that the pain is delayed. I feel the blood seep into my mouth before I can discern what happened.

“You will dance for us,” she states, matter-of-factly. The blood is metallic on my tongue.

“No!”

This time, with her palm. The sound resounds in the hallway. Her breaths are angry, through her teeth.

“I won’t!” I scream at her. Her nostrils flare and her teeth bare in a grimace.

“Quiet, Puppet. I told you, quiet. You leave your Mistress no choice. No, no choice.

“You know the rules. If Puppet is a good toy, Mistress won’t have to make her one.”

Make me one? I don’t want to know what that means. I back away, and she follows me. This seems to be a common theme. I can’t escape her. The veil is back. The desperation I saw just moments ago has transformed into emptiness and sadism.

I make one last lunge toward the door, make it halfway before she fists my hair and throws me to the ground. I don’t know what else I expected. Her hand buried in my hair, she starts to lead me on my knees. I don’t know where, but I have an idea.

To my dismay, it’s the room I discovered earlier. Once we’re inside, she shuts the door behind us.

She roughly releases my hair, grabs me by my jaw. She tilts my head so she can see me. My lip still stings from where she cut me, and she notices. She frowns, pouts dramatically, and I swear I can see a tear form in her eye.

“Look at you. You’re bleeding,” she complains, wildly. Her hands wave frantically in the air, accusingly, as if she isn’t the culprit.

“Look at you, Puppet. You made your Mistress hit you. You’re damaged,” she spits. “Blemished. Never the same.”

There is a mirror in the room, and in it, I see my reflection. I look down and don’t see any of the scars that should be on my knees from running around as a child. I think hard, search deep and I find no memory of ever being a child. I don’t know what I am anymore. Her voice rings in my mind like a distant bell. I feel as if I have heard it before…that perhaps my double was me, all along. I am harrowed.

On my skin, there are no moles, no birthmarks, not even any hair aside from on my head. It’s unnatural. Why haven’t I noticed it before? And how? She’s right, I’m completely immaculate except for where she has hurt me. I look closer, and I think I can make out two faded pinpoint marks on the tops of my feet. Somehow, that is more unsettling.

“Naughty toy,” she admonishes. “Now we’ll have to fix you before we can play again.”

I dread whatever will follow these words.

Her hand is in my hair again, thrusting me to the ground and leading me like a bitch by her collar. She’s much stronger than I would have assumed. She leads me to the tables, and I remember all of the tools I saw. Something flashes through my heart. What if she wants to kill me.

Her hand lifts me up to my feet, and my scalp screams for mercy. Finally on my feet, I reach out to punch her in the stomach. I want her to know how I feel about her…that she’s a monster. I have to defend myself. I won’t let her have me, not without a fight.

Hands wrench around my wrists, pinning them to one of the large wooden tables. “Puppet,” she sighs. “Why are you trying to hurt me?”

Something in me snaps and I break into sobs, tears pouring down my face. “Why am I trying to hurt you?” I cry. “All you’ve done since I’ve been here is hurt me, and you want to know why I want to hurt you?”

“Hush, toy,” she speaks, leaning in to kiss me. I try to pull away, but she’s insistent. Her hands abandon my wrists in favor of my face. Her hips pin mine to the table. Despite myself, I find her mouth comforting, familiar. Her lips are soft like flower petals, but I must remember the knives hanging on the wall behind her are not. I break the kiss.

“Come. Lay down, Puppet. It will be over soon.”

Why should I do anything she says? I wipe a tear from my eye, but I don’t move. I stare at her defiantly in her grey eyes. I wish I had more fight in me, but I am too afraid.

She sighs. “Lay down, now, Puppet. Don’t make this harder.”

“No,” I whisper. “Not until you tell me what you’re going to do to me. Tell me. Are you going to kill me? What did you do to those other girls in the pictures?”

Her eyes darken for a moment, black and irritated, before she relaxes to sigh again. “Please, Puppet. Please be quiet. Why are you doing this to me?”

Now, I’m silent. If she won’t answer my questions, why should I answer hers?

“Last time, you promised me. Promised me you wouldn’t forget again. And, Mistress doesn’t want to hurt you, Puppet, but she warned you. Now, lay down.”

Last time…I frown. Last time I forgot? Then, how often am I forgetting? And why? Last time must be when my pictures are from. But still, I wonder about the others. The other girls like me. I wonder what became of them?

I look up, and I’m too late to notice her hands pushing down on my shoulders, pressing me into the table. I try to struggle, but she straps a metal band over my torso and arms. My eyes are wide with terror.

“What are you doing? What are going to do to me?”

She gestures to the tables, covered in her utensils. I look closer. They are not just whittling tools. There are scalpels, knives, random contraptions…everything she needs to kill me.

“You’re a murderer!” I exclaim. I can’t help myself. “You’re sick!”

She sighs, stroking my cheek. I want to bite her, but I know it won’t do any good. I settle for flinching away.

“Yes,” she murmurs. “Sick, that’s it. Puppet is sick. But Mistress is going to make her better. Hush now. You’ll get better. Mistress is going to fix you.” She moves closer to the items positioned on the counter. Terribly precise, she plucks three items from the tables. I can’t see what she’s holding, but I know not to be optimistic.

Her footsteps become feet and then legs in my line of vision. I can finally see what’s in her hand, and it’s a knife. A knife.

I scream.

She comes closer and I scream louder, my legs thrashing on the table as if I can swim away. Her eyes darken in annoyance.

“Puppet,” she complains. “Why? Why are you screaming in my ear?”

I must be dreaming.

“Mistress is going to fix your lip, Puppet. You mustn’t scream.”

Now, I notice the suture in her other hand. She comes closer, and I still try to flinch away. Her hand clasps my hair, her patience growing thin. The knife is millimeters from my face and I freeze. Before I can blink, the needle is in my lip. Fixing me. I begin to relax. Watching my expression carefully, she slowly releases my hair, placing the knife down on the table.

“Be still,” she whispers, moving her now-empty hand to meet the other. She works swiftly, placing two stitches where she hurt me. She is so precise that I’m amazed she isn’t a doctor. I wonder…how many times does a seamstress get to do stitches on a living subject? Only when she is lucky.

In less than a minute, she is finished, and she hums at her work. I’m quiet, watching her intently. The blood has slowed to a trickle from my lip, and I know I’ll heal quickly. I have a fleeting thought that I should thank her.

She steps closer, maybe to release me.

Another metal rung locks around my left wrist. Immediately after, my ankle. I start to thrash again, but she easily overpowers me. I was stupid to think she was finished. Her surgery was only a distraction. To calm me while she planned her next move. She finishes restraining all of my limbs, ending with a rung around my neck.

My breaths are shaky, my head full of worries and fears. The tear that skips from my eye mixes with my blood. “Aren’t you done?” I whimper.

She travels down my body, her nails tracing my flesh, her knife dangling from her other hand. “Done?” she asks incredulously. “Puppet,” she frowns. “Mistress hasn’t even started.”

I feel the knife-point at my left foot, digging excruciatingly slowly into my flesh. I scream again and again, and again. She does not stop; the knife digs deeper with every scream. I’m in a nightmare. She breaks the skin and I can’t help the sob that empties my throat, followed by another, and then three more.